DANCING ON THE TUNDRA by Bert McKenzie Copyright 2010
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real person alive or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
CHAPTER VI
Terry's problem eventually vanished without his having to do much of anything. By mid-semester Gary had gone to the house mother, the dean of student affairs and the campus housing office and finally obtained permission to move off campus. It was a policy that all freshmen were required to live in the dorms, but the policy wasn't as strictly enforced for male students as it was for females. In this particular case it was finally decided that it would be in Gary's best interest that he find other accommodations. Rumors of what had happened in Terry's room circulated throughout the floor and finally the entire dorm in just two days. No one knew who the other sex partner was, but Gary was instantly identified. When graffiti like "Kill the Queer," started appearing in the elevators and dorm bathrooms Mother Barry finally got involved and called Gary in for a conference.
From his attitude it was obvious that Gary suspected Terry of being the originator of the rumors. In the next couple of weeks that followed Gary stopped talking to Terry and everyone else on the floor for that matter. He visited his room less and less, coming in only to change clothes or books. Apparently he had already located another place to sleep. After the initial shock wore off Terry wanted to talk with Gary. He realized the treatment his roommate was receiving from the others, from a cold shoulder or a reproachful glance to outright hostility, was essentially his fault. But Gary went out of his way to avoid Terry.
The real source of the rumors had to be Brent. Terry had told no one else of the incident except Mother Barry and he was pretty sure she wouldn't start circulating such stories. Terry felt guilty over the entire mess. If he could take it all back he would. To this end he visited with Brent. Surprisingly enough, the boy seemed somewhat sympathetic to Gary's plight. He assumed it was Terry who had caused the rumors to be spread. Brent assured Terry that he could not be the source. After he suggested that Terry talk with their house mother, he told no one else about the incident, except perhaps Stewart, his roommate. But Brent had extracted Stewart's solemn promise not to tell anyone else.
Terry wondered if another roommate would be assigned to him when Gary finally vacated in late October. He had the entire room to himself and although the autonomy was nice, he found that he really missed the company. Consequently, he began spending more and more time in Brent's room, visiting with his friend. Eventually, Brent had to gently but firmly explain that he needed his space.
Around this same time Terry began to get involved with the theatre department. As a major he was required to put in a certain number of extra hours working on the productions, so he elected to volunteer his free time in staffing the box office. It was a fairly easy job and one he enjoyed. He delighted in being able to reserve the seats and sell the tickets. It gave him a sense of power to know that he was the one responsible for bringing the audience and performers together.
One afternoon while he sat in the tiny cubicle a friendly voice hailed him. Terry looked up from his freshman comp. text to see Father Schmidt standing at the window. The priest smiled warmly. "Well, for gunny sacks," he said jovially. "I didn't know you worked here."
Terry was surprised that Father Schmidt was even aware of him. Although he attended Mass regularly, so did about three hundred other students. "I'm a theatre major," he explained.
"I'm sorry. What's your name again?" the priest asked. "I never forget a face once I learn a name."
"Terry Michaelson," Terry said.
"Yes, of course. You're the boy from Bishop Benton over in Springfield."
"Yes," Terry said, surprised that the priest would know this.
"Father Joe told me to keep an eye out for you," the man said with a grin. Perhaps he didn't mean anything by the remark, but Terry immediately tensed. He thought he had left all of his high school troubles behind. Now he wondered what it was that Father Joseph had told this priest. Of course it made sense that his high school principal had known what college he had chosen. It also made sense that these two priests might know each other. But why should they discuss him? Terry wondered if Coach McPherson had told Father Joseph that he was a pervert. He wondered if Father Joseph knew about prom night, or if he had relayed any of this to the campus pastor.
"I need two for Friday night," the priest said, jerking him out of his speculation and back to the business at hand. The house for Friday was already pretty full so the choice of seats wasn't the best, but Terry did what he could. Father Schmidt handed him the money, then said, "I'd like to leave them here if I could. I'm afraid I might lose them between now and Friday."
"Sure, Father," Terry replied as he slid the tickets into a small envelope and dropped them in the paid reservations slot. "We'll have them here for you. Curtain is at eight."
When he got back to the dorm that afternoon a letter was waiting for him. It was from Paula. Terry hurried to his room, closed the door, quickly tore open the envelope and scanned the contents. He had invited the girl down for the play, assuring her that he would get tickets. They were doing "Man of La Mancha" and he was sure it would be a spectacular production. In fact, Terry was disappointed that he didn't get to try out for the show, but auditions were held the second week of school and he was still new enough at the time that he didn't know about them, or even where to look to find out such information.
Paula said she would love to come down but could only make it for the Sunday matinee. She had a club meeting on Saturday for a new organization that she had just joined. Although it wasn't exactly what he had hoped for, still Terry was excited. He ran down the hall to tell Brent about Paula. The door to the room was open and loud twangs from an electric guitar could be heard. Terry knocked on the metal frame and peeked his head in to see Stewart sitting on his bed, playing at his guitar.
Stewart fancied himself a musician although his major was undeclared, and he was eternally looking for a rock group to join. Unfortunately he wasn't really good enough to be accepted by any real bands. The only thing he really knew how to play was "Louie, Louie." Whenever he was in the room one could hear the loud, buzzing chords of the refrain. As Terry looked in, Stewart began to strum the same sounds once more. His eyes were closed in concentration and for the moment Terry was able to observe him unaware. The boy was extremely thin with long, bony fingers that reached around, gripping the thin guitar's neck in a strangle hold. His arms, legs and chest all matched to give a gaunt, starving musician appearance. At the moment he was propped up on his bed, leaning against the wall, the guitar in his lap. From the angle at which Terry saw him, he appeared nude, and Terry could easily count each rib in his thin torso.
Terry stood quietly in the doorway, not wanting to be rude and interrupt the boy as he struggled so hard over the simple chords. But then he shook his long, shoulder length locks and began to sing, never opening his eyes. "Louie, Louie, oh baby. Me gotta go. Oh oh oh oh oh yeah." The off-key moaning was all that Terry could take.
"Excuse me. Excuse me, hey, Stewart." He had to raise his voice to be heard.
The discordant sounds came to an abrupt end as the long haired singer opened his eyes and looked at Terry. "Shit, man. Did I leave the door open?"
"Yeah," Terry said. "I didn't mean to bother you. I was just . . ."
"It's cool," Steward replied as he sat the instrument gently aside and scooted to the edge of his bunk to jump down to the floor. Terry stifled a gasp as he realized Stewart really was nude, his phallus partly erect. "Man, I meant to close the door. Some chick might walk by and come in to rape me if she sees my wang like this. Pull it shut, will you?" Stewart reached over and snapped off the amplifier sitting on the floor by the desk, then he began to rummage through a desk drawer.
Terry pulled the door shut behind him, then leaned against it, staring openly at the naked figure in front of him. "I . . . I was just . . ." he stammered.
"Sit down, guy," Steward said as he pulled out a plastic bag of what looked like dried parsley and a package of cigarette papers. He then dropped back on Brent's bed, his legs spread wide and his penis standing up as he began to roll a joint. "Sit down and share a toke or two."
"I didn't mean to interrupt," Terry said again, his eyes drawn to Stewart's genitals.
The musician looked up and noticed Terry's stare. He laughed as he reached down to fondle himself. "Oh, it's cool, man. I always like to play my guitar in the nude. The vibrations feel good on my dick." He smiled a conspiratorial grin. "I guess you seen lots of hard dick from that queer roommate you had. I bet he was always hot for you."
"What?" Terry said in stunned surprise.
"You're a good looking guy. You know those queers are always on the lookout for good looking guys like us." He lit the foul smelling roach and took a deep drag, then leaned back on the bed and began to stroke himself. "But you know, sometimes I think I might let one of them queers suck on me if I couldn't find pussy. After all, a mouth's better than a hand any day."
"I've gotta go," Terry said as he quickly opened the door and slipped out. He rushed back to his own room, closing and locking the door behind him, then fell face down on the bed. He could feel his body responding to the image of Stewart that was still burning into his mind. "I'm not queer," he said to himself. "I just get turned on easily. It has nothing to do with guys. I'm not queer."
A couple of days later Terry volunteered to work in the box office on the nights of performance. He had purchased tickets for Paula to join him at Sunday's matinee, but he would work the ticket window on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Betsy, the box office manager was grateful for the help. Terry had managed to do such a competent job that she allowed him to help close out the books and make deposits, jobs that should have remained her responsibility. On Wednesday morning she even asked him if he would be willing to take over the office on Saturday night so she could go out on a date. "Sure. I'd be glad to," Terry told her. He was bursting with pride that he had some authority and responsibility in the department.
Wednesday afternoon brought torrential rains. Terry's one o'clock class was canceled so he went back to the dorm and sat in his room, trying to study. The rain beat on the window with a staccato rattle, amazing in that anything so wet could make such a dry sound. Terry tried to concentrate on his biology text as he lay on the lower bunk and listened to the sound. Suddenly he was aware of another tone, a deeper rhythm to the rain. It was as if there was a full bass line underscoring the snare drum on his closed windows. It resounded in a continual pattern of five beats: three tones, a pause, then two tones, a pause, then the pattern repeated itself. After a while the continual sound worked its way into his subconscious so that Terry could no longer concentrate on the book. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything else, but the insistent rhythm kept grabbing his attention. Finally Terry could stand it no more, so he rose from the bed and decided to go investigate.
He opened his door and listened. The sound seemed louder in the hall. Terry stepped out and began walking down the corridor. He was halfway to the stairs when he finally identified the rhythm. It was the driving bass line of "Louie, Louie" coming from behind Brent's closed door. Stewart must be in, again playing on his guitar.
Terry decided to quickly return to his room. He picked up his biology book and sat at the desk. His eyes read the page, but his brain didn't comprehend the words. It kept returning to the steady beat, worrying it like a tongue on a sore tooth. He wished Stewart would cut out the music. How could anyone concentrate with that eternal pulse beating so insistently down the hall? He had half a mind to go ask the would-be musician to knock it off. He even stood up, but then he thought of catching Stewart as he did the preceding week. He didn't want to walk in on the naked young man getting off on the vibrations of his guitar. Yet he had to do something to get his mind off the infernal cadence.
Terry grabbed a towel and decided to go take a shower. He was sure the sound of the water would drown out the electric guitar. Then too, this time of day was an excellent time to use the communal bathroom, as it was always deserted in the afternoons. He slipped off his shoes and socks and walked barefoot down the hall to the bathroom door. Sure enough, the tile covered room was empty. He stepped to one of the narrow shower stalls and turned on the hot water, then began to disrobe, hanging his clothes and towel on a nearby hook.
Inside the tiny cubicle the warm water splashed on his skin, refreshing and reviving him. He let its force massage him as it sprayed with stinging intensity against his tense muscles. Terry stuck his head under the jet and allowed the water to soak his thick blond hair, running into his eyes and ears. He delighted in the sound as well as the feel of the shower. For a moment he strained his ears but could hear no hint of the pulse that had driven him to the shower room in the first place. Terry decided that when he was finished he would take his books and go up to the meditation room on six and study.
He thought about how rude Stewart was to play an amplified guitar while others were trying to study. True, he didn't play it during quiet hours from seven till nine each night, but still he was inconsiderate. Terry figured he was probably just trying to stimulate his body with the vibrations. The image of Stewart, sitting naked on Brent's bunk jumped unbidden to Terry's mind. He thought about how the boy looked and what he had said. He would let a queer suck him if he couldn't get pussy. Terry thought about that statement and he started to tremble. Looking down he saw that he was becoming aroused. "It's just the thought of pussy," he told himself. He wondered how it would feel. Would it feel as good as his hand when he masturbated? Would it feel as good as a mouth? He had never been sucked, but he knew from experience that others sure enjoyed it. He wondered what it felt like.
"I've got to stop this," Terry said to himself as he turned off the water. "It's a sin."
"What is?" a voice asked from behind one of the stall doors to the toilets. Terry had spoken aloud as he opened the shower curtain and reached for his towel. Now he jumped in surprise at the voice, and turned quickly, his towel held in front of his erection. "What's a sin, man?" the voice spoke again.
Terry saw two bare feet below the stall door. "Nothing," he replied as he tried to quickly wipe off the excess water.
"Don't bullshit me, man," the voice said. "You been beating off in the shower, ain't you?"
"No," Terry protested as he grabbed for his underwear hanging on the hook.
"It's cool. I came in here to do the same," the voice said. The stall door suddenly swung open and there sat Stewart, playing with himself in full view. "I thought that might be you, man." Terry couldn't help but stare, watching as the skinny boy continued to manipulate himself. "I know we ain't supposed to, but when a guy gets so horny what else can he do?"
"Yeah," was all Terry could manage as his throat seemed to close.
"So what ever became of your roommate?" Stewart asked, never stopping his movements.
"I don't know," Terry said quietly.
"Too bad. You and me could have had lots of fun with him. You ever let him go down on you?"
"No."
"Too bad. Bet it would have felt good. You ever go down on him?"
The question seemed to snap the spell that Stewart had cast. "No," Terry said angrily and quickly began to dress. So the insinuations were finally starting. Just because his roommate was queer, people were thinking the same about Terry. This guy was probably only trying to get Terry to volunteer sex with him. But he wasn't as clever, or as good looking as Jim had been in high school. Terry pulled on his jeans and almost ran back to his room.
Friday evening in the box office Betsy allowed Terry to handle all of the paperwork and fill out the deposit slips. Everything balanced perfectly with the exception of two paid but unclaimed tickets. She double checked his work and showed him where to place the deposit in the main theatre office over the auditorium. He was ready to take over for her on Saturday. She handed him her keys and told him she would pick them up before the show on Sunday. Terry was excited by the prospect of being totally in charge. He had finally been given some responsibility. His life was subtly changing.
Saturday Terry slept late, then he and Brent went to the park, taking their books so they could study. It was unseasonably warm for November, so they were able to dress in shorts. Terry wore a tank top that set off his well proportioned chest, shoulders and arms. Brent opted for a long sleeve sweat shirt in an attempt to hide his body. The two boys stretched out on the tops of two picnic tables that were placed close together.
Terry tried to concentrate on his studies, but he kept getting distracted by nature. It was such a beautiful day, the air soft and warm like the false promise of spring. He glanced over to see Brent staring at him, also obviously having trouble keeping his mind on schoolwork. "What's wrong?" Terry asked as he noticed the odd expression on his friend's face.
"What? Oh nothing," Brent said, his mind obviously having been lost in thought. "I was just thinking what a good build you've got." Terry blushed in surprise. "I mean I wish I looked as good as you do. I wouldn't have any trouble getting girls then."
"It's a combination of dance class and cafeteria food," Terry joked. He had enrolled in advanced jazz dance as one of his P.E. requirements. "And besides," he continued as he looked critically at his friend, "you're looking better. I bet you've lost twenty pounds since the semester started."
"You think so?" Brent asked, suddenly enthusiastic. "I guess you're right about the food here. You know I do think my clothes are getting too loose. Maybe next semester I'll take a dance class. I should never have let my advisor talk me into co- ed badminton. It's boring and I'm awful at it." They sat in silence for a bit, then Brent spoke up again. "You shouldn't have any trouble finding a girlfriend with your looks. Even Stewart was saying what a good looking body you have."
Terry instantly felt a chill go through him at the mention of that name. "How well do you know Stewart?" he asked.
"Pretty well, why?" Brent asked.
"He said some things to me that bothered me," Terry said hesitantly.
"Like what?"
"You know about Gary?"
"You mean him being a queer? So what's that got to do with anything?"
Terry thought for a moment before responding. "I think Stewart may be that way too."
"No, he's not," Brent said quickly and angrily. "Just because he walks around in the nude all the time doesn't mean he's queer."
"He was asking me about blow jobs," Terry argued.
"Well maybe he thinks you're one," Brent lashed out. "After all, you're a good looking guy without a girlfriend and you lived with one for half a semester." Terry slammed his book shut and jumped off the table, breaking into a run back toward the dorm. "Terry . . . Terry, wait. I'm sorry," Brent yelled after him.
The lobby was filling up fast with men in suits and women in long dresses. And then there was a generous number of college students in the typical student uniforms of bell bottom jeans. Terry sold quite a few tickets and the rack grew empty as his seating chart filled. There was a long line of people at the window picking up reservations that had been made previously. The house opened and the theatre-goers slowly began to filter into the auditorium, clearing out the lobby crowds.
"Well snakes alive, Tommy," a friendly voice said at the window.
"Terry," he corrected. It was Father Schmidt. "Can I help you, Father?"
"I'm here to pick up my tickets. Remember, I left them on reserve so I wouldn't lose them."
Terry blushed and looked down. He did remember all too well. Those tickets had been for the Friday night performance. The previous night he and Betsy had discussed how odd it was that the priest had paid for his seats and didn't show up. "We had those for last night," Terry explained uncomfortably.
"No, they were tonight. I said Saturday. I told you Saturday," the man said angrily.
Terry quickly apologized. "I'm awfully sorry, Father. I must have misunderstood you." He lied and took the blame in the old tradition that the customer is always right.
"Well what are you going to do about it?" the priest asked.
Terry quickly grabbed the seating chart and the envelope marked "House." A small number of prime seats were held back for just such occasions. They were to be used for visiting dignitaries or to correct mistakes. If not needed they were sold to anyone at the window immediately before curtain. "I have two seats here I can give you," Terry said as he held out the tickets and indicated their location on the seating chart.
The priest scowled. "These aren't the seats I chose."
"Actually these are much better. They're in the center section on the aisle."
"Where are my seats?"
"We held them for Friday," Terry explained again. "But they were over here on the side."
The priest stared at the chart, then looked up to glare at the boy. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "I'm not at all happy about this," the man finally said.
"I'm awfully sorry for the mix up, but these are better seats." Finally the priest reached out, took the tickets and walked away still scowling. Quite a line had accumulated behind him and Terry had to work furiously to get them all served in time for the curtain. At last the ushers closed the doors and the show began. Terry sat back on his high stool and breathed a deep sigh.
"Way to go, Terry," one of the ushers said as she stopped by the window to hand him her badge before she left the building. "I had to seat that priest you pissed off. He kept bitching all the way down the aisle to the woman he was with about how you screwed up their seats."
"I gave him house seats," Terry explained.
"I know but he was still mad." She smiled at him. "You going to the cast party after the show?"
"I don't think so," he responded.
"Well then I guess I won't see you later." She then turned to leave.
He was uncomfortable over the scene Father Schmidt had made. Terry had apologized, accepting the blame for a mistake that he knew was not his, and the man had received better seats than he had originally reserved. What else could be done? Yet the priest treated Terry like a criminal, as if he had deliberately sabotaged the man's pleasant evening. It certainly didn't fit with the Christian philosophy that the man continually preached in the lecture hall every Sunday morning. Terry began to realize that perhaps this man was only a human after all and really no better than anyone else.