True As It Can Be - 18. Chapter 18

Thanksgiving Day began with Brad giving me a cold shoulder. I couldn’t feel Brad’s warm body or chest hair against my skin, so my eye opened wide. My morning erection was nonexistent due to concerns over Brad. I looked around the room and quickly found him under a bundle of blankets with his hands around a throbbing erection and a small puddle of drying cum. He was watching me with his blue sapphire eyes, which seemed a bit cooler than normal. He seemed to be conflicted between fear and desire. I wanted to reach out to him. As my naked body approached him, he shook his head and made gestures to halt.

Brad frowns at me, “Don’t come near me, Beau. I’m holding myself back right now. I jacked off maybe 2 times already by just watching you sleep. I know it’s not normal, I’m so sorry for being a creep. I thought I could control myself today.”

I calmly ask Brad, “What happened? You were fine when we went to bed last night.”

Brad shakes his head, “Yes, but I woke up at 1 AM, then couldn’t fall asleep again. That’s a sign of methadone withdrawal, so I pulled myself away from you. I thought I could just sit in this corner and maybe the feeling will pass. It almost did pass for a while, but an hour ago, I got horny just looking at you sleeping and started jacking off. I’m so sorry, Beau.”

It wasn’t creepy to know that Brad was watching me sleep and jacking; even though, it probably should be. I knew he left the bed to keep his distance from me, so he didn’t want to do this.

I got dressed in my clothes from yesterday, except for my underwear. I noticed my underwear was torn up on the floor next to Brad’s own. Remembering the scene from last week of this room, I recognized the pattern as I finished dressing.

I glance at the torn underwear and pose a question to Brad, “Why tear up your underwear? Or mine for that matter?”

His face flared in embarrassment, “Sorry…” he stares down and his erection appears to soften, “When they were torturing me in the cabin, they stuffed my mouth with dirty underwear. When memories from that time flood my mind, I just can’t help tearing up underwear. Those memories and the angry feelings only come up when the withdrawal hits. I can’t control it. I’m sorry I tore yours up, too.”

Knowing the horrible reason behind this act, I wanted to tell Brad that I don’t mind going commando every day of my life if it made him happy. Every detail I’ve learned from him regarding Gary Gaston’s torture has made me angrier at that bastard. If I were in Brad’s shoes, I would have beaten that guy senseless, but it was a testament to Brad’s innate goodness that Gary Gaston still breathed.

The door of Brad’s room opens, Cook walks in with dark bags under his eyes, “Beau, I could use some of your help this morning to make some fresh turkey sausages for breakfast. I’ve been busy setting up for today’s meal preps. It might only be 6:30 AM, but thanksgiving is quite a production in any household,” he smiles without judgment at Brad, “Brad, once you are cleaned up, you can join us in the kitchen.”

I followed Cook to the kitchen, where he showed me how to dice onions and peppers, then mix them into ground turkey for a sausage casing. I wasn’t that great at it initially, but after several footlong failures, I eventually got a hang of stuffing sausages into casings. We started quietly for Thanksgiving morning meal prep. Cook had deboned a Turkey and was busy working on a chicken. I knew there was a conversation between us about Brad.

It occurred to me that there was something odd in my current situation, based on what I’ve learned from introductory psychology.

As I stuffed another sausage full of ground turkey mix, I comment to Cook, “You know what I am doing is sort of weird, don’t you think? Stuffing meat into casing.”

Cook, showing genuine concern, asks me, “Beau, is there an issue with what I have asked you to do? You appear to be stuffing the sausages properly full of the meat mix and sealing the casings.”

I offer a grin with my response, “It’s not the process of creating sausage, but the fact that as a gay man I am stuffing meat into a phallic-shaped object, which other people enjoy consuming.”

Cook broke down in open laughter at my commentary on the homoerotic nature of sausage making. He was coughing and heaving with the intensity of his laugh.

When he composes himself, he replies, “I can imagine a few colleagues who will swear off sausages for that very observation. It’s a great joke and interesting point, so many people enjoy sausages but only subconsciously associate they are physically endorsing a phallic food fixation.”

Seeing an opening, I ask Cook, “Why do people subconsciously associate objects with other objects or concepts?”

Cook ponders my question for a few minutes before answering, “Association is how human minds work to relate concepts, individuals, and language into coherent reality,” he pauses, “I assume you are asking in regards to Brad. I was watching him when the motion sensors in the room detected his movement. While I do understand you and him need your privacy, he is still my patient. Usually, I keep the video feed streaming on Wednesday night in his room with or without his permission.”

I scowl at his words, “He’s not crazy and I know he won’t hurt me. He was just broken by Gary.”

Cook concedes, “He’s perfectly sane and capable of making logical judgments up to a certain point during his withdrawal period. However, his hyper aggression and sexual libido mean I have to keep him under surveillance during those times. You may not have noticed this last week, but Brad also has a GPS tracker and audio streaming active on his smartwatch, which he doesn’t know has those features.”

I didn’t notice the smartwatch as anything more than a fashion accessory.

Knowing that Brad may have revealed his secrets, I ask Cook, “Did you know about Brad’s insecurities?”

Cook nods and sighs, “Yes, I gather as much even before he revealed it to you. Beau, I am a trained professional and I’ve had years of experience with abuse and assault victims. Some resurfacing traumatic memories were to be expected as his dosage of Methadone has been gradually reduced in recent weeks,” he smiles at me, “Brad’s aggressive behavior and self-isolation were growing more troubling until he met you.”

I shake my head in disagreement, “Brad was always a good person; even before meeting me. Gary messed up his mind and made it hard for him to relate with others. All I did was just show him the world and people around him, I didn’t change him. He was always a blue rose by any other name.”

Cook chuckles at my reference, “Brad is a very empathetic young man, what Gary Gaston took away from him due to what he went through was his ability to relate. It’s like a painter losing the use of his arms or a singer losing their voice. You helped him and several members of Keller Hall remember that they are still themselves. You’re an anchor for their reality, Beau.”

I finished making breakfast sausages by the time everyone gathered into the dining room, including Brad. He seemed more like his usually non-withdrawal symptom self. He affectionately kissed my hand as I placed a plate of turkey sausages on the table. I returned it with a kiss on his cheek. Cook brought out 2 other plates, one filled with poached eggs and one filled with toasted English muffins. He went back in the kitchen and announced that he’d be finished with his preparation on the Turducken and ready for those of us, who wanted to help him in the kitchen, at noontime.

Everyone appeared to be in high spirits, except for Chip who was wearing the same University hoodie I saw him in yesterday. Several people gave Chip glances, Paki tried to cheer him up by making Chip a “happy face” plate with 2 poached eggs, a triangular English muffin nose, and curved turkey sausage. I think if Paki worked at Denny’s or IHOP, he’d be drowning in tips. However, with Chip’s sour mood and lack of emotion, all that came out was a curt “thank you”.

After breakfast as everyone departed to their activities, I followed Chip to his room. Brad tagged along with me.

When we enter the quiet room, I clear my voice to speak to Chip, “Hey Chip, what’s wrong?”

Chip turns to me, tears pouring down his face, “I talk too much and I dress funny, it’s why you guys want me to move out, why Robbie called me a freak, and why he joined in with mean boys to tease me and tore my outfit, yesterday. Maybe my dad was right, I’m a loser.”

I recognized Chip was going through something similar to what I had a few days ago. Something at school must have triggered him yesterday and the fact that he was leaving Keller Hall didn't help matters. Feeling dislocated and under emotional stress should never be things kids had to deal with, I could barely deal with it at 18, I can't imagine Chip dealing with it at 12. Glancing at his trash bin, I saw a lot of used Kleenex tissues in there. I knew this was not his first crying fit. He's been suffering alone.

I wrap Chip in my arms, muttering in soft tones, “Chip, you’re not a loser,” I glance back at Brad, “No one here thinks you are here at least.”

Brad approached us with some noticeable hesitation, but he bent down eventually and rubbed his fingers across Chip’s brown hair like he did to calm me down Saturday night. His bright blue sapphire eye gleam with tender emotions as he did so.

Brad softly tells Chip, “No one here thinks you’re a loser or a freak. You’re the most amazing twelve-year-old I’ve ever met, don’t change who you are because of other people,” Brad’s tone lightens to a whisper, “I know how it feels to love someone who hurts you in the end.”

We didn’t talk, we just hugged for a while until Chip’s sobs subsided. Brad never experienced an episode, when he was wrapped up with me and Chip. I knew Paki and Francis had done this for Chip on Tuesday night, but the enormity of Min’s loss had overshadowed any comforting words they could have offered. Brad’s words though spoken out of experience and conviction struck a deep chord with Chip. The only time I’ve ever seen Brad be tender was towards me. He can be friendly and kind, but this was his first demonstration of tenderness to a person he did not have a romantic or sexual interest in. I told Cook that Brad is naturally empathetic and kind to others. I hope he can see this as confirmation.

With Chip settling down, I offer, “Chip, why don’t we play some video games? You can show me and Brad how to catch Pokémon properly.”

Chip looks at me and Brad, then suggests, “Most Pokémon games only operate with single-player options during the main journey, but the Let’s Go Pikachu and Eevee games have a Co-Op mode. Do you want to play with me?”

We both nodded. That was how we spent most of the morning in Chip’s room, learning how to play a Pokémon game, which was a novelty to me. I’ve played the older games with friends as a kid when they allowed me to borrow their handheld Nintendo gaming systems. I’ve seen people use their smartphones to “catch” Pokémon for Pokémon Go, too. The game that Chip showed us resembled the smartphone mechanics of Pokémon Go. We learned that, in this game, the ability to catch these creatures was tied to experience points and leveling that was traditionally reserved for battling mechanics. It was a cute game concept and the ability to interact was cool. A partner Pokémon can be given belly rubs, pats, and treats. I was enjoying everything and Brad seemed like he was too.

Amid everything, I received a text message from Morris on my smartphone. As I was sharing one controller with Brad, I let him play out the journey as I answered.

Morris: Can I come over tonight? I need a place to crash

That message was a little odd, since Morris usually never requested anything from me. I told Brad quickly what Morris asked and he agreed readily, having met and enjoyed Morris’ company from yesterday. Keller Hall had 6 rooms on the 1^st floor and 4 rooms on the second floor. There was still one empty bedroom on the second floor adjacent to Mrs. Potter and mine.

Me: Yeah, we’ve got room for you

Morris: Thanks, it will be late at night. Some stuff happened. Do you have keys to Keller Hall you can leave outside for me to come in?

I didn’t have keys to Keller Hall, so I asked Brad, who said he had a spare set of keys in his drawers to the front door. Despite security being tight and the imposition of hospitality, Brad said that Morris must be in some kind of bind if he were reaching out to me like this. He didn’t mind being charitable and told me to leave his spare key for the front door in his blue rose bush.

Me: I’ll leave you a set of keys for the front door in the blue rose bush behind the house. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs near mine and a nice woman named Mrs. Potter.

Morris: 😊 Thank you, Beau, you won’t regret having me

There was something off about that exchange and the request from Morris to come by late at night after everyone was asleep. However, it was almost noontime and we had a lot of work ahead of us to create a Thanksgiving Day feast at Keller Hall. I went downstairs to find the spare keys and left them outside in the blue rose bush adjacent to Brad’s room. At some point, Brad and Chip turned off the Nintendo gaming system, then joined me downstairs. In the kitchen, Paki, Francis, Warren, and Min were all busy with their cooking tasks.

Francis helped Paki to create his South African stuffed fried cakes, Amagwinya, filling dough balls with red curry, peppers, onions, and ground pork. Warren helped Min to create his Japanese Croquette, Korokke, peeling potatoes, and boiling water. Brad sent me and Chip to work for his creation, a duet of souffle, one of the most infamous French food items ever. I diced vegetables and fruits into fine cubes. Chip whisked egg whites to a firm consistency with a mixer while adding two cups of sugar into the mixture at various intervals. Brad buttered up two dozen ramekins and prepared two types of sauces: a sweet passion fruit chutney and a creamy cheddar and chive sauce.

By 3 PM, all the residents of Keller Hall had several trays of appetizers for everyone to share, along with a platter of fruits placed out by Mrs. Potter, who warned us to pace ourselves with eating and to keep a balanced diet. I can honestly say that this was the most multicultural that I’ve ever felt during a major holiday. We had food from Africa, Asia, and Europe on display with people from all over the world. It’s an irony to know that we were embodying a fantasy by celebrating a traditional Thanksgiving. Revisionists and cultural conformists have pretended that Native American people and the Pilgrims, a conservative Christian sect, were sharing a similar feast four centuries ago, despite no historical evidence for such a feast. Everyone knew the story of Thanksgiving was a lie, but we still wanted to believe in the message of people coming together and sharing resources for the greater good. It was only at this gathering that I could truly see a glimmer of such comradery and brotherhood among humanity as we truly shared and embraced each other’s customs through a meal. The food was delicious, but the smells in the kitchen were getting even more intoxicating as Cook prepared the main event of a Thanksgiving feast.

By 6 PM, we were all seated at the table. Having made a round of thanks to everyone for their contributions, we were devouring the masterful Cajun cuisine of Cook. The fried turducken was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted and sides were seasoned to perfection. Within an hour, we had all filled our stomachs to the point of bursting. We began succumbing to drowsiness as a result. If I was still at home, my parents and I would be arguing about the drowsiness being a result of Tryptophan from turkey, which is just a popular myth. Excessive consumption of Carbohydrates, not turkey meat, was the reason why people get drowsy.

As we settle down, a know could be heard at our front door. It was peculiar, but Cook pulled out his cell phone, indicating, showing me the picture of Morris at our front door. He had come earlier than I thought he would, which was odd as he could have texted me of his earlier arrival. I explained the earlier text messages to Cook and went to greet my friend.

As I escort him in, Morris’s appearance seems grim, “Sorry for not calling ahead, my day has been insane. I didn’t even go home after the news I got this morning.”

Knowing my friend is in distress, I try to assure him, “Morris it’s fine, do you want to eat something, we got plenty of leftovers, I can make you a plate.”

He shakes his head indicating no, “Thanks, I don’t feel like eating anything. Do you mind going to the Hangar Pub with me right now? I know it’s Thanksgiving and stuff, but I need to talk to someone and I’m not sure if I want to face my parents, yet.”

I nod, sensing his anxiety, “I’ll grab a jacket and go out with you.”

I told the rest of my friends what was happening and we left for the Hangar Pub. The bar was a hotspot for all the students at the University, they rarely asked for IDs during the holidays and tap beer was dirt cheap if you don’t mind Natural Ice or as many students call it “fermented piss”. Being thanksgiving with so many of the students went home, it was mostly townies and a few international kids enjoying chicken wings and fries for their thanksgiving meals. We sat at the bar, where a familiar face greeted me. I knew Sammy from our college was bartending here, but I didn’t know he would still be around during the holidays. Morris ordered 2 bottles of Sam Adams.

As Sammy gives us our drinks, he asks us, “Why are you guys here on Thanksgiving?”

Morris unseals his beer, takes a big gulp, and answers, “I knocked a girl up and she wants me to take responsibility for a baby. I can’t face my family,” he points to me, “This guy is being a super friend right now and letting me drag him away from his boyfriend and new family.”

My eyes bulge out with that revelation, “What? You were always safe, weren’t you?”

Morris frowns, “I thought I was always safe, but hell, I don’t know, “he sighs and takes another drink from his bottle, “Beau, you remember Robin; the girl I hooked up with 2 months ago. We were trading some hard apple cider that you and I bought from that farm with her for premium grey goose vodka. Well after we traded a few shots of alcohol, things got fuzzy. I knew I had sex with her and in the morning, she left our dorm room without saying a word. I don’t think I wore a condom.”

I nod, trying to concentrate on my memory of her, “I remembered her. She was pretty, but she was way too serious and religious.”

Sammy acknowledges my statement, “Those are bad combinations for any kind of hook-up. I assume, she’s trying to get you to own up to being her man and everything.”

Morris snorts, “I don’t want a kid. I’m too young for one. I’ve seen enough young black fathers with rotten jobs and horrible lives. I don’t want to be another statistic. I’m worried about telling my folks what happened, too. My dad will be pissed off at me for not wearing a condom, my mom will up in my case about not treating this girl right. I screwed up, guys.”

Sammy considers Morris’ plight, “Being bi, I can relate to what you are going through. One of my previous girlfriends gave me a huge scare about being pregnant, too. It was just a bad pregnancy test though, but I swore always to have condoms near me at all times. I don’t mind having kids with the right partner with me, but I want to make sure I can support them. Beyond that, working here I’ve heard a lot of sad stories like yours, too. The college has a lot of freedom and a lot of growing up shit that not everyone can deal with.”

We spent the next couple of hours talking first about Morris’ issues, then Sammy redirected his questions towards me and my relationship with Brad. It wasn’t weird at all to confide in Sammy, who was a natural listener. After 8 bottles of Sam Adam’s beer, all finished by Morris, I looked down at my phone to see it was getting close to 11 PM.

I offer to Morris, “Hey, since you are staying over at Keller Hall, why don’t we just leave your car here and pick it up tomorrow morning. I don’t think you are in any shape to drive right now.”

Morris garbled a response, “No, I’ve taken up way too much of your hospitality, Beau. I don’t want to interrupt you and brad’s life.”

Frowning, I insist, “Morris, it’s fine. I’ve already asked Brad if you could this morning when you messaged me.”

Morris laughs at my response, “Ha, how could I have sent you a message this morning, I lost my phone last night. I think that chick I was hooking up with probably stole my crappy cell.”

My blood froze at the revelations and an icy tingle went over my body at the ramifications. If the text messages did not come from Morris, then who had asked to come over tonight? Who had asked for me to leave a spare key outside…My mind races with sudden realization? I frantically called Brad, but there was no response. I called Cook, but there was no response. I called all the residents of Keller Hall, but there was no response from any of them.

I stare at Sammy, “Dude, I think my friends are in trouble. I think that asshole Gary Gaston is in the house…”