I am truly sorry to have left the story hanging. I will finish it. I hope those of you who've enjoyed the story so far haven't given up.
Old friends re-unite. New friends are made, or at least met. There's some sex but not a lot.
Thanks to LarryInSeattle once more for his help with the editing.
Enjoy, comment (helpful comments appreciated the most, even if negative).
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I've just finished applying stain on the floor when the phone rings. I can't ignore it. I don't have caller ID. My phone service includes voicemail but I've never bothered to set it up. I don't get enough calls. Telemarketers aren't even interested in my demographic. I suppose I ought to find that depressing. Whatever. If I want to know who is calling I do it the old-school way; I pick up the fucking phone and say 'hello'.
"Dad, don't freak out," Liam babbles before I can say 'hello'. He says something about being in an ER, but I have a hard time processing the information; there is nothing that causes a parent to freak out faster than being told not to freak out. I manage to calm myself enough to make some sense of what he is trying to tell me. He stresses that Matt is moving his legs but all I take away from the conversation is that Matt was sent to Pittsburgh because of a possible spine injury.
Liam convinces me that driving straight to Pittsburgh won't help anything. Now I'm stuck. In this humidity, it will take the stain hours to dry. I'd planned to drive downtown and take some street photos. I decide I might as well. Liam has my cell phone number. And if I sit here, I'll go nuts.
Parking in downtown Cleveland on a work day isn't the brightest idea I've have lately. I find a parking lot that's only insanely expensive as opposed to obscenely expensive. I wander. I'm not looking for people, necessarily, though I do take a few shots. I'm looking for interesting windows, interesting reflections and shapes. The time passes. I grab a dog and a Coke from a street vendor and find a bit of shade. As soon as I take the first bite, my phone rings. It's good news. Matt will spend the night but his spinal cord looks okay. I finish the hot dog. I sit in the shade and look through the photos. I've learned to be ruthless, most go in the trash. Of the couple of dozen on the camera, I keep only five.
I walk back to my truck and head home. The stain is still tacky. I settle in at the kitchen table and take a closer look at the photos I left on the camera. Two more disappear, tossed into electronic purgatory. The other three or not bad. I play with them, make a few adjustments and then stop, pondering how I want to proceed. Do I want to stop here or do some serious post-processing? That's the cool thing about digital.
I pick the one I like the most, make a copy and start to work. The time passes. Liam calls. Matt is in his room. Liam is heading back to the resort with the owners. Apparently, they followed the boys to the hospital. I need to remember to thank them for that. I kneel in the doorway, touch a finger near the wall, where the baseboard will hide any fingerprints. The stain is dry. I inspect the living room, hall and bedrooms for any spots I've missed, or places where the stain hasn't taken. It looks good. The work occupies my mind. I start in my bedroom and as the minutes click by the first coat of varnish creeps across the floor as if by magic. It's dark when I finish, painting my way back into the kitchen. The varnish will take much longer to dry than the stain. I'm trapped in the kitchen and the half bath.
I'm not hungry but I force down a bowl of cereal. I strip by the half bath and wash up in the sink, in what my mom used to call a "whore's bath". It's the smell of varnish that convinces me that I'm not going to be able to sleep anyway. I rummage through the laundry basket of clean clothes, throw a few things into a grocery bag, because my suitcase lies, inaccessible, atop the shelf in the bedroom closet.
It takes me a little more than two hours to drive to Pittsburgh. I find a hotel close to the hospital, decide to forgo a real shower until morning and fall into bed.
If I had any dreams, I don't remember them. I get cleaned up, check the time, and avail myself of the free breakfast buffet. The buffet consists of pre-packaged snack cakes, a large plastic silo of corn flakes, glass pitchers of lukewarm milk, and coffee, also lukewarm. It's free, or at least its cost is hidden in the room charge. You get what you pay for. It's a cliché but it's still the hard-assed truth of the matter. I kill a little more time with one of the copies of USA Today scattered in the lobby. The crossword is decent. I don't mess with Sudoku; numbers make my head hurt.
When I can no longer pretend that I'm not simply stalling, I force myself to get up and go outside. The hospital is a block away, which explains the high price for such a dumpy hotel. I'm afraid I'll be asked if I'm family. I've work myself up to lie but there's no need. A nice lady gives me Matt's room number and directions. I restrain myself from explaining to her that her blue hair rinse totally clashes with her pink vest. I don't pretend my restraint means I'm not a dick; I'm a dick for thinking it in the first place.
I find the elevator and only make two wrong turns before finding his room. He's getting ready to have breakfast. My heart kicks up a notch. He looks beat. His gorgeous hair is a total mess. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look almost goth. I'm about to turn, let him rest, let him eat but most of all make sure he doesn't feel I'm pressuring him, when he looks up.
He smiles. My heart kicks up another notch at the sight. The aide, or nurse, helping with his breakfast looks up as well.
"Should I come back?" I ask.
"No, not unless Matt wants to send you out for real coffee," the man, a nurse, I can see "RN" on the bottom of his ID, answers.
"You want a coffee, Matt?" I ask, hoping he will. Running out for coffee will give me time to catch my breath and get my feet back underneath me.
"Naw, that's too much trouble," he replies but the way he looks down as he speaks and the tone of his voice make it clear he'd be happy for me to override his concern.
"Not at all," I reassure him. "I saw a Starbucks in the lobby. What do you want?"
"A double chocolate Frappuccino would be great."
I look at the nurse. "Can he have that?"
The nurse - I squint at his name tag, Kent - shrugs. "He has a regular diet ordered." He looks at Matt. "I feel obliged, since I'm the one that will need to help you, that if that thing gives you explosive diarrhea, rolling out of that bed and into the john won't be happening with the haste you may expect. In other words, you sure it won't cause you to crap the bed?"
My experience with hospitals has been confined to ERs and rehab facilities. Kent isn't blunt. ER nurses are blunt. But I can't say he's acting like most nurses I've meet. I find it refreshing. I realize I'm smiling.
So is Matt.
"I won't shit the bed unless I have a sack of White Castles to go along with the Frappuccino."
"Okay then," Kent says with a nod.
"You want anything to eat?"
Matt smiles at me. "No, Kent has me set up with General Hospital's finest powdered eggs and paper thin bacon. I'm good.
I stand there feeling increasingly stupid. I could turn around, go to the lobby and get coffee. Or, I could do what I want to do, if I wasn't such a coward, and walk over and give Matt a kiss. I stall.
"Kent, you want a coffee or anything?"
"Medium dark roast, about a quarter-inch of half-n-half and three packets of raw sugar," he responds without hesitation. "Oh, and if they have any of the ginger molasses cookies this morning I'll take one of those." He smiles at me. "Should I write it down?"
"No, I think I got it."
Kent's unabashed forwardness forces my hand. I might be a coward but I don't care to have everyone in the world know it. I cross to Matt's bed. When I bend over, he tilts his head. His lips are dry but I don't care.
"See you in a few minutes." I brush at his hair and turn to Kent. "Can he take a shower? I think there's still mud in his hair."
"I'll check. Don't forget, three sugars but the raw not the white."
"Sure," I say as I roll my eyes at him. Matt notices and chuckles. Kent smiles.
***
"So, I'm guessing that's not your dad?" Kent asks after Randy disappears down the hall.
"No. He's a - I'm not sure. He's a friend for sure." Matt's voice trails off.
Kent settles for a nod. "Let me see if a shower is in your future."
***
My face feels like it's on fire. Kent appears to be fine with the kiss. If he's not, he's enough of a professional to keep his thoughts off his face.
I order, feeling a strange compulsion to explain it's not all for me. The young lady finds me a drink carrier, though it is obvious she views the recycled pressed cardboard in the same light she would a spent nuclear fuel rod. I, and my drink carrier, are planet killers.
