This story is fiction. The city of Clifton, and the University of Clifton, exist only in my imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. These stories have as their main character a sexually active gay college student. If this is offensive to you, or if it is illegal in your area, or if you are under age, please leave now.
This story involves a search for personal acceptance, worth, and meaning. There is a religious element in these stories. If you don't like that, maybe now is a good time to leave.
My stories develop slowly. If you're in a hurry, this is probably not for you.
Thanks to Colin for editing.
Constructive criticism is welcome on my e-mail at perti@live.com.
Bryce, Chapter 9 - The First Weekend
Bryce endured another tormented night, with little sleep. As he had Wednesday night, he tossed and turned and moaned. He argued with himself, and imagined every possible scenario. Once, about 3:30, he got up and crept through the bathroom to check on Damon. To his disgust, the black lad seemed to be sleeping like a baby. His scariest thoughts had to do with the possibility of rejection. The scene described by Maddy was played over and over in his head, but with his family now in the script, and him in the starring role. It was always a tragedy, never a comedy. He could not envision a happy ending.
There was a significant difference between Friday night and Wednesday night. On Wednesday, his recurring theme had been, No, it can't be! I can't be gay! Two nights later, what ran through his head repeatedly was, I can't let them find out. They'll hate me if they find out. Bryce was not consciously aware of this shift. Not yet.
As he had two days before, by the time the first hints of dawn streaked the skies, Bryce gave up the idea of sleeping. He gathered his stuff, and headed out to the gym to work out his frustrations. Maybe if he wore himself out at the gym he'd be able to get some sleep when he got back. Arriving just as the gym opened at 6:30, he was, for a few minutes at least, the only one there except for the sleepy student worker who opened up.
He was again flat on his back pumping iron when a hand reached out to help him lift. "You shouldn't keep trying this without someone to spot you," Curtis said.
"I know," Bryce agreed without an argument.
"That was pretty shitty last night." Curtis did not need to specify what he meant.
"I know," Bryce again agreed.
"Maddy needed someone," Curtis elaborated the indictment.
"I went to find you."
"Maddy was lucky. You found me right away. It might not have turned out that way."
"I thought she was hysterical. I panicked."
"She was just very unhappy. She thought she saw something in you, but you went off and left her alone and vulnerable."
"I was wrong. I'll apologize when I see her in class on Tuesday."
"No. Wounds need immediate attention. You will apologize this evening. You will take Maddy and me out to dinner, and will apologize for acting like a total jerk."
"You're right. I need to do it this evening. Where? When?"
"I'll leave that up to you. You have my number. Let me know when you have it arranged."
"Okay," Bryce again agreed without argument.
As he lay on his back, still pumping with Curtis spotting, he had a flashback. The time he went to confession after the first time he fucked a girl when he was fifteen. It was a visiting priest, not Father Flannigan. He had been nervous. 'Did you force the girl?' the priest had asked. 'No, Father.' 'Did you impregnate her?' 'No, Father.' 'Do either of you have any sexually transmitted diseases?' 'No, Father.' 'Very well, say three Hail Marys. Now say a good Act of Contrition. ... and by the power invested in me I absolve you of all your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace.'
Bryce could not help it. He smiled at the memory.
"What's so funny?" Curtis asked.
"I was just thinking. You remind me of a priest in confession. Confess your sins, do penance, receive forgiveness."
"Damn Papist," Curtis said, but his tone of voice indicated he appreciated the analogy.
Curtis left before Bryce was ready to call it quits, saying he had to check up on Maddy. After another half hour, Bryce completed his work-out, and started across campus. As he was walking towards his dorm, he encountered Jack Datillo, the guy who was in his History class.
"Up early," Jack commented.
"Restless. Don't know why," Bryce lied.
"I see you've been to the gym."
"Yeah. Ran into Curtis there. I guess he couldn't sleep either."
"His girl's giving him fits. Something happened over the summer. Don't know what," Jack related.
"I noticed that last night. I mean, I noticed she seemed upset about something. Maybe if somebody took her out to dinner ...."
"Don't. Curtis and Maddy are tight."
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of horning in. Curtis has been really great to me. Helping me along, and inviting me to pledge SAT. No, I was just thinking it might be nice to invite them both to dinner some time," Bryce nervously extemporized.
Jack looked at him. "If you're being up front, try that nice Mexican place. Maddy's crazy about Mexican. What's it called? El something Latina. Nice, but not cheap."
"Sounds like just what I need," Bryce said. "Thanks."
Jack gripped his arm. "I hope you're telling me the truth. Curtis is a friend of mine."
"Believe me, I have no intention of coming between Curtis and Maddy. Like I said, he's been really great to me," Bryce insisted.
"Okay. See you around. I've got to get to my fucking job in the cafeteria," Jack complained. "I'm late already."
"See you," Bryce replied.
The mention of the cafeteria reminded Bryce that he had not eaten. But, considering, he decided he was not hungry yet. He'd return to the dorm and clean up first. He was beginning to feel lethargic after his work-out. He made his way across campus to Clay Hall, threw his gym bag in a corner, and pulled out a local telephone book. He checked under "Restaurants" in the yellow pages. There were quite a number, and more than a few had what looked like Spanish names. Then he saw the advertisement: El Rincon Latino. There was something about the ad which fit Jack's description: 'nice, but not cheap.' Bryce called, but found that the place was not open yet, so he jotted down the number on a pad next to the phone. Suddenly, he felt completely drained of energy. The combination of a sleepless night and a vigorous work-out caught up to him. Thinking he would just rest for a few minutes before showering, he lay down on his bed. He was out as soon as he closed his eyes.
It was past noon when Bryce again joined the waking world. Groggy, he looked around, surprised at the hour. He showered and got himself ready to go eat. Now he was hungry. But, thinking of eating, he remembered Curtis's demand. He checked the number he had written, and called El Rincon Latino, making reservations for three for seven o'clock. He then called the number Curtis had given him. Receiving no answer, he left a message for Curtis that he would pick up Maddy and him at the fraternity house at quarter to seven. He then made his way alone to the student cafeteria for some lunch, not finding Damon in. After that, he immured himself in the library with his computer for the afternoon, getting busy on Milton, and giving some thought to his paper for Dr. Dickinson as well. There would also be one in French, and a "research project" in both Psychology and Biology, although he was not certain what either of those would involve as yet. The afternoon passed quickly.
Returning to his room, Bryce encountered Damon in the bathroom when he went in for another shower. He explained that he had plans for dinner, so Damon said he would hook up with some of the brothers.
"Do I remember you touching my privates last night?" Damon asked.
"You were pretty far gone. Couldn't stand up on your own. You needed to piss," Bryce defended himself, blushing furiously.
"That's okay. Just, next time, I hope I'm able to enjoy it, too," Damon said, as he slipped into his own room and closed the door before Bryce could respond.
He kept doing that. Leaving Bryce hanging in one way or another. Always hinting, always teasing. The guy was outrageous. Bryce called after him, "You better watch it!" Damon was heard to laugh through the closed door.
Dressing nicely, Bryce checked himself in the mirror. Passable, he decided. He got out his Mustang, having ascertained that the restaurant was over a mile away from campus. He drove over to the Sigma Alpha Tau house, and went in to get Curtis and Maddy. They were waiting in an alcove off to one side. She did not look happy about the whole situation.
Sizing up her mood, Bryce said, "After the way I acted last night, you probably don't look forward to spending the evening with me, Maddy. I apologize for that. I acted abominably. Please, let me make it up, just a little. I understand you like Mexican, so I have reservations at El Rincon Latino. I think it'll do."
Maddy brightened. "I've been there. Definitely, it'll do. And, well, I guess last night was not all your fault. My memory is a little hazy, so I guess I had too much to drink."
"We can talk about all that over dinner if you want, or not," Bryce said. "Ready?"
"Ready," Maddy and Curtis both confirmed.
After Curtis crawled into the rear, Bryce held the door on the passenger side for Maddy. They made their way to the restaurant, and were soon seated. The maitre d' informed them that their waiter would be Miguel, and left them with menus. They were busy studying the offerings when a familiar voice said, "Buenos tardes, se¤orita y se¤ores. My name is Miguel, and I will be your waiter this evening. What can I get you to drink?"
At the first words, Bryce's head came up. Seeing who it was, he grinned from ear to ear. "So, it's Miguel this evening, is it?" he asked Mike Sandoval.
"Professional name," Mike replied grinning back.
"You know this dude?" Curtis asked Bryce.
"Yep, and so should Maddy. He's in our Milton class. He was also at your party last night. But then he wasn't Miguel, he was Mike. In fact, I seem to recall being reamed out for commenting on that fact," Bryce teased their waiter.
"It's part of the atmosphere here," Mike said. "See that guy over there? As far as I know, he hasn't a drop of Spanish blood, and his name is Henry, but if you were at his table he would be introduced as Enrique. And that waiter over there," he said, pointing in another direction, "is my little brother Kyle, so we had to invent a Spanish name for him. Here in the restaurant, Kyle is Carlos. Now, Diego, what do you want to drink?"
"Ice tea," Bryce replied. Maddy and Curtis gave their drink orders. Mike departed.
"What's the Diego bit?" Curtis asked.
"Oh, it's Mike's way of putting me in my place. He noticed that my first name is actually James, so he's giving me the Spanish equivalent," Bryce replied.
Maddy chuckled. "I seem to recall from the roll call the other day that he was Juan Miguel. Should we start calling him John?"
That gave them something to laugh about, breaking the ice, and allowing Bryce and Maddy to interact more comfortably. From that point on, the three enjoyed the meal, and Mike proved to be both a good waiter and an interesting commentator when he threw in something not directly part of his job this evening. Maddy accepted Bryce's apology for abandoning her, and he accepted hers for dumping her personal woes on him at a party. He expressed sympathy for her loss. She teared up, but retained control of herself. Curtis expressed anger that anyone would treat another person, much less a son, the way Maddy's parents had treated Bobby.
"Bobby was a great guy," Curtis said. "I met him on a couple of occasions. He would have been a freshman this year, like you. I was hoping to recruit him for the fraternity."
Bryce found that very interesting. Curtis obviously knew Bobby Moore was gay, yet he was hoping to recruit him for the fraternity. Not now, with Maddy present, but sometime soon he'd have to talk to Curtis about that. They left the topic of Bobby, and wandered about a bit, but before the dinner was over, they came back to Bobby. Maddy mentioned that she had not spoken with her parents since the morning they found Bobby, and she had moved out of the house later that day. By their narrow mindedness, they lost both children at once. Again, Bryce expressed deep sympathy for Maddy's loss. Moving on, Curtis was again encouraging Bryce to pledge Sigma Alpha Tau. Evidently, he had redeemed himself this evening.
"Work on that neighbor of yours, too," Curtis requested. "I talked to him last night. I think he'd make a great addition to the house. And we can teach him how to play soccer," he laughed.
"I think the problem is financial," Bryce informed him.
"Well, think of something. Maybe a loan. It's not all that much," Curtis said.
To emphasize his financial situation, about that time Mike appeared with the bill for the dinner. "Together or separate?" he asked.
"Together. My treat," Bryce immediately said, handing Mike his credit card.
Mike returned a couple of minutes later with the statement. With a grin, Bryce asked, "Would you be insulted accepting a tip from a mere freshman?"
"Hell no!" Mike stated emphatically.
They all laughed. As they were leaving, Bryce noticed a line under the name of the restaurant on the front door: "Pedro Sandoval, Prop." He considered that the Sandovals had done pretty well for themselves.
Saturday night Bryce for once had a peaceful rest. He awoke refreshed. Checking the information he had received at registration, he noted the times of Masses at the Newman Center. There was one at eight, and one at eleven. Eight was too soon, so he took a leisurely shower, checked on Damon and found him sound asleep, decided to let Damon sleep, and went to the student cafeteria for breakfast. Even they shouldn't be able to ruin scrambled eggs and bacon; after eating he was not so sure. Both were soggy.
The Newman Center was a modern building on the edge of campus, not actually part of the University property. One side of the building seemed to be the church part, as it had a steeple and what appeared from the outside to be high ceilings. The other side was some sort of meeting hall and office, he assumed. Bryce entered the church side, and found everything very modern. The seats were in a semicircle, like an ancient theater, with the altar more or less in the middle. There were no recognizable statues or stained glass windows, but various abstract designs. He did find a holy water font, crossed himself, but did not genuflect, as he could not locate the tabernacle where the Eucharist was reserved. He found a place and knelt for a moment, saying his regular prayers upon entering a church. He had to kneel on the floor, as there were no kneelers. Then he sat back to survey his surroundings.
Bryce had dressed nicely, much the same as the evening before for the restaurant. About half the others there had done the same, but the other half almost seemed to be purposely grungy or at least super-casual, with ripped jeans, shorts, sandals, and washed out tees, some with very inappropriate logos or mottos. Many of the guys were unshaven. Some of the congregation almost seemed purposely disrespectful. They talked loudly to each other, and the few fragments of conversation which Bryce picked up did not seem appropriate to a place of worship. Although Bryce regarded himself as flexible and moderate when it came to the Church, he found this atmosphere very distasteful. When Mass began, the priest entered wearing only an alb and stole, with a server dressed in casual street clothes carrying a processional cross, and another similarly attired student carrying the lectionary. The music was provided by three guitarists, a keyboard player, and a girl with triangles. They were not very good, seemingly never having practiced the hymns, and having trouble keeping together. The hymns - really just songs - themselves were completely innocuous, about as bland and nonreligious as possible. A group of purely secular nature lovers could have sung them with no qualms of conscience. At communion time, only Bryce and a handful of others bowed before receiving. Some of the recipients looked like they were chowing down, or maybe chewing tobacco or bubble gum. All in all, it was not a pleasant experience, except for one thing.
When it came time for the sermon, which Bryce was certain they would call a homily, the priest said some interesting things. He welcomed everyone to the new academic year and all that, but then he went into why they were there. "St. Paul writes in his First Epistle to the Corinthians, 'when I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.' You are university students. Your understanding of many facets of reality is expanding, becoming that of an adult. If you leave your spiritual development back at the level of a child, incongruities and tensions will inevitably develop. When you began to learn mathematics, you had to learn to count, and to add and subtract, before you could advance to higher levels of understanding. In like manner, in matters of the Faith, in the beginning it's a matter of simply memorizing rules. Do this. Don't do that. You should be beyond that level now, and your understanding of the Faith should keep pace with your development in every other sphere, if you are to be a well-rounded, informed, adult Catholic."
If anything would bring him back to the Newman Center, it would be that sermon, Bryce thought, as he walked away after Mass. He did not want to stop and talk. He wanted to think about things. He found the priest's sermon intriguing, but the rest of the experience a real turn- off. Yet, he knew if he did not attend, sooner or later his mother would find out. It was not that she would brow-beat him or anything, but she would be so disappointed. Besides, he had been attending Mass every Sunday for as long as he could remember, and it would seem odd to do anything else.
By the time he returned to his room, Damon was up. He heard him in the bathroom, and so stuck his head in and greeted his neighbor.
"Lunch?" Bryce asked.
"Yeah, but off campus. I'm already tired of campus fare," Damon responded.
"No argument," Bryce agreed.
Damon had obviously done more checking out the neighborhood than Bryce, so they went to a little family owned place several blocks from campus that he knew about. They had an excellent lunch, well prepared and nicely served. Over lunch, Damon asked, "Where were you earlier this morning?"
"In church," Bryce replied, as though that were the most obvious thing in the world. "I told you I was Catholic."
"Oh, yeah. I guess I'm nothing. Never belonged to a church. Been to some. Lots of shouting and hand clapping and like that. Gets the old blood pumping, I guess."
"Catholic services are not usually like that," Bryce responded, "but I didn't particularly like the way they did things at the Newman Center. Don't know yet what I'll do about that. Anyway, what's on your schedule for the afternoon?"
"Not much til about three o'clock," Damon answered.
"What's at three o'clock?"
"You remember I told you there's a soup kitchen in the black section of town, right? Well, they need volunteers to serve folks, so I'm going over there. I'll be gone about four or five hours. After that, maybe we can go get a beer or something."
Bryce considered that. Damon did not go to church, but he volunteered at a soup kitchen. Unbidden, a quotation from the Epistle of St. James, studied last year in his Religion class, popped into his head: "Show me thy faith without works, and from my works I will show thee my faith." He wondered how many of the kids he had seen at Mass that morning knew about the soup kitchen.
"If they need volunteers, how about if I go with you this afternoon?" Bryce offered. "Isn't three early for supper, though."
Damon looked at him. He seemed to make up his mind about something. "Yeah, that'll work," he grinned. "They actually start setting up at four."
Returning to the dorm, Bryce called his mother. He had not actually spoken with her since Monday evening, although he had sent off several e-mails. Naturally, he had to listen to her complain about him not calling as often as she would like. Eventually, they got around to his experiences at Mass that morning. Bryce described the chapel and the congregation in some detail. His mother sympathized with his reaction, but insisted, "You find some place where they do things the way you like. There's bound to be several parishes in a city the size of Clifton, and you have your car. Now don't you start getting lax, Bryce."
"Yes, ma'am."
Bryce spent a couple of hours reading for pleasure and surfing the web. About three o'clock, Damon stuck his head in the door.
"You ready to go over to the soup kitchen?"
Bryce consulted his watch. "It's only three. You said they actually start at four. What's your rush?"
"It's about two miles. Takes that long to walk it."
"No need. I do have my car, remember?" Bryce reminded Damon.
"Oh, yeah. I forgot you're a plutocrat."
Instead of disappearing, however, Damon remained in Bryce's room, where the two talked about classes and the fraternity. Bryce again noted a real longing on Damon's part to succeed where his bˆte noir, Mr. Aeropostale, had failed, and get admitted to Sigma Alpha Tau, while at the same time lamenting his financially limited circumstances. About a quarter til four they left, following Damon's directions. At the soup kitchen, Bryce parked behind the cinder block building, where he thought his vehicle would be safe. He noted that the facility was an outreach of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, and pointed this out to Damon. For the next three hours, the two volunteers helped set up, then served meals to a steady stream of clients, about two-thirds of whom were black. Some of them were very grateful. Some seemed resentful. Quite a few seemed numbed, showing no emotion as they passed down the line. About six-thirty, when there were few new customers, the hefty black man in charge told the helpers they could have their supper now. They helped themselves to the same meal as the poor folk, and sat at a long table with others to eat it. Bryce was touched when a large black woman with two small children grasped his arm and said, "God bless you boys."
As the two left the soup kitchen, Bryce noticed a young lad, about eight years old, leaning against his Mustang. He was about to say something to the boy when Damon spoke first.
"Everything okay, DeShawn?"
"Yep. Couple of guys came around, but I sent them off with no trouble," the boy answered.
"Here you go," Damon said, and handed the boy a twenty dollar bill. The boy grinned and ran off.
"What was that all about?" Bryce asked.
"You don't think you could leave a car like this unattended in this neighborhood for three hours or more without something being done to it, do you? DeShawn was keeping an eye on your wheels."
"For three hours?" Bryce asked, surprised.
"To quote him, yep," Damon kidded.
"I owe you. It's my car so I'm the one who should have paid DeShawn," Bryce said, reaching for his wallet. "Here's the twenty. Next time I'll pay him."
Damon looked at the proffered bill, then at Bryce. "Nah. Consider it repayment for the entrance fee at the party."
Bryce remembered how sensitive Damon was about being financially strapped.
The two friends returned to campus, then walked to the place Damon had discovered where they did not check IDs carefully, settled into a booth, and ordered two draft beers.
"You know, you kind of surprised me, working at the soup kitchen this evening," Damon admitted.
"Why? You think I'm really a callous capitalist?" Bryce asked.
"No. Not exactly. But not many white guys would do what you did."
"There were a couple of white guys from the St. Vincent de Paul Society there," Bryce reminded Damon.
"Yeah," he cautiously admitted, "but they're older, and kind of religious. How many rich white students would do what you did?"
"I honestly don't know, but I sure hope I'm not the only one. Maybe you just haven't run across them," Bryce defended his peer group.
From there, the two ranged in their conversation over many topics, coming back to the party on Friday night, and how Bryce had helped Damon get home and get settled. Bryce made light of it, relating in hilarious detail about Damon sliding down the restroom wall as he pissed on the floor. Their talk came around to the Sigma Alpha Tau fraternity itself. Again, Damon expressed a strong desire to pledge, but the impossibility of doing so on his budget. Bryce decided it was time to do something about that.
"I understand the fraternity has pretty high academic standards. Did you talk to Curtis about that?" Bryce asked.
"Yeah. I don't think that would be a problem. It's the fucking money," Damon responded.
Just to make sure, Bryce asked, "What's your overall SAT score?"
"2276," Damon replied.
"Damn!"
"What?"
"Beat me by one point!" Bryce explained.
Damon chortled, but then returned to his theme. "It could be ten thousand, or a million, and I still couldn't afford it."
"Damon, do you trust me not to be racist or patronizing?" Bryce asked.
Surprised by the question, Damon paused, realizing this was important. Then he grinned, "If you were willing to hold my cock while I pissed, and then clean up my piss off the floor, I guess you must be a real friend, so I'll have to accept you at face value," he conceded.
"Okay then. You know I have money. You mention it often enough. Will you accept a loan from me covering any and all expenses involved in joining Sigma Alpha Tau?"
"A loan?"
"Payable when you become that hot shot lawyer," Bryce expanded on his original offer.
"And meanwhile?"
"And meanwhile nothing. I know you well enough, I think, to know that you're not about to become an Uncle Tom, kowtowing to my every whim. I'm not looking for a dependent, I'm trying to help a friend."
Damon got a big grin across his face. "You're on!" he jubilantly exclaimed. Then, in more sober mood, he added, "But you put this in writing, and we'll get a witness, okay?"
Bryce smiled. "Okay."
They drank to that.