DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE
Chapter 24
by Donny Mumford
Stepping into the apartment, the door closes behind me on its own.
Standing in our small foyer I can tell that Rob's not back yet; there's a sense of emptiness in the silence that's broken only by the drip, drip, drip of raindrops off my rain slicker hitting the hardwood floor. Jeez, I'd never want to live alone. When Rob and I get married we need to buy a dog so we always get a welcoming greeting when we opened the front door. Dogs are awesome creatures! Well, not a huge dog because the bigger the dog the bigger the doodies I'd need to clean up. Maybe a twenty-pound dog, something like that. After hanging up my rain slicker, the first thing I need to do is get some tunes playing on the CD player to counteract this eerie silence. Hmmm, there's a CD by the geek-chic band, Weezer, already in the player. Okay, I can go for some nerd-rock. I get that going and hear the beginning lyrics, 'If you want to destroy my sweater...' from their song, 'Undone - The Sweater Song'. I wander around checking out everything, half expecting someone to jump out of the closet and yell, BOO!
To make good use of this free time on my hands I'll take a shower and try doing something with my hair before Rob gets here. I'd like to look my best for him. In the bathroom I get undressed and dump my dirty clothes in the hamper, then take a long hot shower. Afterward, while drying myself, I'm looking at my hair in the mirror above the sink. Great hair if I do say so myself, except of course for this fucked-up haircut. In the bedroom I put on boxer shorts, and again gawk at my hair; this time looking at my reflection from the mirror over the bureau. No change, my hair still looks the same... heh heh. Seriously though, what can I do with it to give it some style? The half-inch hair on the sides of my head are too short for a part. And right next to the half inch hair is the long hair on top of my head. Actually I've learned something about my hair that I never knew before: it's wavy.
I don't mean curly, but it's not straight either. Imagine that, I'm twenty-one years old and just now learning there's a natural wave to my hair. Of course, this is the first time in my life I've ever let it grow out. Truth is, my life would be simpler if I didn't give a shit about my hair, or hair in general!
Slowly shaking my head, I go through my bureau drawer looking for comfortable clothes. We don't out on Sundays, so comfortable clothes win out over stylish ones. Holding up a pair of baggy basketball shorts; they're obviously too large for me. Fuck it, I put the shorts on and the legs reach below my knees, but so what? These shorts are made from some kind of insanely smooth and soft miracle-fabric called Charged Cotton. It's an uber light and comfortable material. Same thing for the lightweight hoodie sweatshirt I put on. It almost feels like I'm wearing nothing. Then a pair of low ankle socks on my feet and I'm at the bureau mirror again still concerned about my hair. Putting my fingers in the wavy hair on top of my head and pulling the hairs up until I feel it tugging at the roots; I'd guess my hair is three inches long, and ain't that some hot shit! Ryan asked me what he could do with his hair after getting a regular haircut at SuperCuts. I smugly told him there's nothing he can do with it now; not after getting that dumb-ass haircut. Little did I know at the time I'd have the same dumb-ass haircut myself a few days later.
But wait a second! Ryan has a part on the left side of his head, so where's my part? Well I'll be God-dammed, I'm just realizing there's no part.
Yeah, but the bad haircuts Golden gave the guy before me all had a part, so why did he cut the part off during Rob's and my haircuts? Hmmm, I'd had my hoodie on most of the day and that messes up your hair a lot. So when I sat down for the haircut it didn't look like I had a part and Golden assumed I didn't want one. Rob had me jittery after yelling at me for criticizing the haircut so I was hesitant to ask Golden for a clarification and just mumbled, 'uh huh' when he asked, 'Just like your last haircut?'. Shit!
Frustrated and more than a little pissed-off, I comb my hair straight back, but it won't stay like that. Goddammit! Getting hair gel and rubbing it in my hair, I comb it straight back again and it stays combed back with the gel. Then, feeling behind my head, the long hairs from the top back of my head hangs over the half inch hairs in a big clump. Well that's not cool at all! In the bathroom I'm using a handheld mirror to look at the back of my head in the bathroom mirror and, yeah, it looks just as goofy as it felt.
Balls!! I've seen professional sports guys with wicked short hair on the sides, but their hair stylist razored an imitation part in a straight line down the left side of the guy's head. Frankly, that doesn't look too cool either, but at least there's some style to the hairdo.
Fuck it! I shampoo the gel out of my hair at the bathroom sink, then rinse
the shampoo out using the spray attachment on the end of the short hose, determined to stop thinking about my hair! Done rubbing my hair with a towel, I'm just about to turn on the hairdryer when I hear the front door close. "Dylan, where are you, babe?" I come out of the bathroom, smiling like crazy. He smiles too, opening his arms wide, saying, "There you are," and he walks down the hall as I walk towards him and we wrap our arms around each other for a tight hug, then a sweet kiss on the lips. Hugs are very underrated! I forget about my hair and snuggle in against Rob's awesome body. His week old scraggily beard feels as soft as the hair on his head. A strong loving sensation flows over me and I can't remember ever feeling so, um, so something. I don't know how to explain it, but Rob is so sexy and he looks so cutely handsome, and his teeth are so shiny white and he smells so good.
Jesus! I need to caution myself not to overdo how happy I am to see him.
Overdoing even a good thing can sometimes be bad. I don't want to come off seeming like some needy dork.
Robby gives me another kiss; then, while grinning, asks, "Are you trying to crack one of my ribs, babe?" I let up a little on my hug, and we move our
heads back to look at one another, as I mumble, "Sorry about hugging too tightly, Rob, but I'm really glad your back." He rubs his fingers through my damp hair, saying, "No, I like your hugs about as much as I like anything I can think of. Hug away, and I feel the same way about you, babe." Another goofy too-tight hug, and Rob slides his fingers in my damp hair again, asking, "Um, did you just got out of the shower?" I go, "No. Well yeah, fifteen minutes ago. Just now though I was trying to do something with my hair.
I tried doing something with it dry, then used hair gel but that didn't work either, nothing works with this haircut. So I just washed the gel out and I was about to use the hairdryer when you came in, and...." Maybe it was my tone of voice that makes Rob get a serious expression on his face. Is he annoyed with me all of a sudden? With his fingers on the back of my neck, he rubs his thumb across my cheek, staring at me a second.
It's like he's trying to keep his cool, as he says, "You're not, um, back to bitching about Golden's haircut, are you? Is that what you're subtly throwing back in my face?" I go, "No, Rob! I'm not throwing anything back in your face. Just mentioned my hair troubles, for no particular reason." He nods, "Good because we've been over this a couple of times already. It's a haircut you see on guys all the time. Nobody else seems to mind it, so what the fuck..?" I shrug, "I just told you, I wasn't bitching about the haircut!
It should have a part on the side, but fuck it..." He lets go of me and steps back to pick up the satchel he dropped when I got my arms around him. He mutters, "Jesus Christ, Dylan, I don't even know what you mean when you say you can't do anything with your hair. What the fuck do you wanna do with it?" He's holding his hand out to the side, palms up, like it should be obvious, saying, "Comb your hair like I do; like everyone does." Carrying the satchel into the bedroom, he mumbles, "For chrissakes, I don't know anyone who fixates on a haircut like you do." I shake my head slowly because he just doesn't get it. He doesn't even notice we're missing a fucking part. It went right over his head when I tactfully mentioned it just now. I say, "Ya know what I hate? When you, you of all people, patronize me. If you can't realize these haircuts suck, then you can't. I can however, and I'll mention it if I feel like it. Okay?" I'm a little hot under the collar.
Then, maybe realizing he came on too strong, Rob tries acting like he's not actually annoyed. He grins, squeezing my shoulder and telling me, "I know
you're the haircut expert, but hell, Dylan, it's not rocket science, babe. Comb the bangs over and comb the hair on top back or over to the side." I mumble, "Oh, I hadn't thought of that." Catching the sarcasm in my voice, Rob raises his eyebrows and says, "Okay, point taken. I'm sorry I patronized you, although I didn't realize I did." As he goes by me I see the back of his head. It looks like mine when I combed my hair back with the gel ten minutes ago, which is to say... it looks goofy. The long hair from the top just lays on the buzzed hair on the back of his head. Doesn't anyone realize that that's a wrong 'look'? Is it just me? I nod my head, saying to his back, "No problem, Rob." He turns around with a strained grin on his face, then musses my hair, saying, "And your hair has a wave in it, Dylan. Trust me, it looks really good!" He's mocking my hair concerns because, what...
nobody in the world cares about their hair except me; is that it? Dumping his dirty clothes from the weekend in the hamper on top of mine, he asks, "We need do a wash-load sometime over the next couple of days? Who's turn is it?" I shrug, "What difference does it make?" He takes two dress shirts back out of the hamper, saying, "Ya know what, Dylan? We should start taking our dress shirts to the dry-cleaners. Professionally pressed shirts look, well they look professional. Plus, it'll save us the pain in the ass of ironing them. Whaddaya think?" I shrug again, muttering, "I guess." Rob does an exaggerated deep-breathy exhale, then puts his arm across my shoulders, "Dylan, Dylan. Dylan, um, you're still upset about the fucking haircut, huh? It's so crazy. I mean all the buzz cuts and other crazy haircuts you've gotten over the past three years and you make a mountain out of a mole hole out of this haircut? Jesus, um, well, frankly those wicked short haircuts you've had like forever are for kids. We're young adults now and you'll be working in a business office next weekend, and working full-time after we graduate. We're all grown up, babe, and you need to start looking the part; you know, like you're a serious individual and not some airhead rocking weird haircuts. Not that I think you are because you're not! I'm just saying next weekend you'll wear a dress shirt and tie looking clean-cut and eager to conquer the business world." I shrug, mumbling, "Whatever! And I'm not still upset about anything! Please don't project you're anger back on me." He shakes his head, grinning and saying, "What the fuck does that even mean, babe?" I go, "Just saying..." In the living room, he tries to make-up some more, asking, "Can I get you a Coke or something?" I mutter, "No thanks," then, to say something that won't start an argument, I smile and ask, "How'd everything work-out this weekend for you?" and he goes, "Well, it was good, ya know... overall. I guess Dad wasn't too thrilled with my beard, ya might say. You and I think the three-day beard 'look' is cool, but Dad wants everyone clean shaven. I went the whole weekend feeling some strange vibes from him. Then today at coffee
break, Phil Birdy, he's the CFO, told me about the clean-shave policy.
Dad wouldn't tell me for some reason." I go, "So you need to shave for work?" He shrugs, "Apparently. I didn't know because I'm not at most meetings." I mutter, "That's stupid," and Rob goes, "Fucking company rules often are stupid. Anyway..." and he goes into details about this past working-weekend.
It sounds vaguely like it was a success, although my mind's wondering and I'm not listening very closely. He's explaining, in some detail, something about projections for staffing next spring, which I'm somehow a part of I guess. I'm nodding every now and then and slightly smiling as though what he's telling me is very interesting, when actually I'm again thinking about my fucked-up hair! And did he say something about wearing a tie? Finished his dissertation about staffing, Rob takes a slip of paper from his pocket, holding it out to me, saying, "Look, Dylan, I've listed a half a
dozen toiletry item that we need to buy in travel-sizes for our weekend trips home. Ya know, this coming weekend is just the first of seven or eight weekends we'll need to work between now and next spring. Mostly after the first of the year." I take the slip of paper and look at it as he's saying, "Why pack large containers of toothpaste, after shave, shave cream, and these other items. We'll get the small travel size for trips home." Nodding my head, I ask, "Yeah, okay, Um, you want me to buy these things?" He says, "Well yeah, you do most of the food shopping. All those things you can buy at Stop & shop, or the drugstore, um, the Rite Aid drugstore for sure. Both places sell them, and obviously I mean you should buy them out of our joint household fund." I make a face, and he gets sarcastic, saying, "Oh, you don't want to do it? Too much trouble, huh? That's okay, no problem!! I'll buy these things myself. You don't need to do it, I just thought..." I mutter, "Don't get your knickers in a knot, Rob. I'll drop off the dry cleaning tomorrow and stop at Rite Aid on the way back." He's like, "Are you sure you don't mind?" Putting a little firmness in my words, I go, "I'll take care of it!" He shrugs, "Okay, but take our khaki slacks to the dry-cleaners too," and he pulls two pairs of khakis pants from the hamper, and asks me, "Do you have spiffy looking khakis, Dylan. Newish looking khakis?" I go, "Yeah, of course," and he says, "Well, take those to the dry-cleaners too, along with your dress shirts." Not wanting to start another argument, I bite my tongue and mutter, "Sure." Fact is, I don't want to screw-up this work thingie because I want the extra money I'll make working next weekend. Twenty dollars an hour ain't nothing to sneeze at. So I'll go along with the dress code.
Drinking his Coke, Rob's full of more glowing things to say about his business weekend. I'm sitting on a kitchen bar stool listening because, in reality, I truly do think it is an awesome thing that he's into his work to the degree he is. I mean he'll be supporting us when I'm home with the babies and Fido the dog, although that's not something I care to think about too deeply now. Instead, when he's catching his breath, I ask, "What would you like for dinner, Rob?" We decide to have lamb chops, scalloped potatoes and a garden salad. Robby helps by peeling the potatoes. We've got the Sunday afternoon NFL football game on the TV in the living room. Thinking back to when Rob first came in, I guess I put a damper on the atmosphere of our mini-reunion by mentioning my hair. Rob takes any comment from me about this sucky haircut as a personal affront to him, or to him and Golden. He doesn't realize that even I don't think this embarrassment of a haircut is important enough to cause a rift between Rob and me. Fuck the haircut! What I'm enjoying presently is this squirmy feeling in my groin from just standing next to my hunky boyfriend in the kitchen. Smelling the back of my hand, I find myself holding the mandolin slicer staring at Rob as he peels Yukon Gold potatoes. He's so desirable and sexy I feel weak in the knees.
Rob looks up and sees me staring at him. He smiles, asking, "What..?" and I go, "Oh, um, just waiting for a peeled potato to slice on the mandolin." He chuckles, "Is that what that slicer thing you're holding is called?" I nod, fixated on how sexy he looks. Rob asks, "Isn't there a musical instrument with the same name?" I nod again, "Uh huh, but the mandoline slicer is spelled with an 'e' at the end. The musical instrument doesn't have an 'e'." He goes, "I'm impressed with what you know about food preparation in general, babe. I don't know squat about it, except what you've taught me. I'd be fucked without you. I'd need to eat out all the time, heh heh." I actually blush from his little compliment. Then mumble, "Chub and I learned how to cook together. There's a lot of cooking instructions available online too.
Plus, I like to cook." He gives me a one arm hug across my shoulders holding the paring knife safely away. I want to tell him I'll happily cook for him, serve him breakfast in bed, do wherever he wants. I'd do anything for him, anything he wants if he'll love me like I love him.
I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but there's been a seismic shift upwards in my feeling for Rob. My love for him is now full-blown unconditional love. A dedicated love; one I'll need to try much harder to convey to him and work at being be good enough to deserve his love in return. Loving someone doesn't mean you never have a disagreement, so we argue a little once in a while. It doesn't last long though. Glancing over at him again, seeing him concentrating on peeling the potatoes as he's cutting off too much of the potato meat along with the skin, I quietly say, "We make a good team in the kitchen, Rob." He looks over and grins, asking, "What was that, Dylan? Sorry, but I was just thinking about what Dad said at the end our meeting today. He said that all of us in the room have gotten this incredible project off the ground. Now it's up to all of us to make sure we hire the right kind of employees to finish the job. People we hire will either make a success of this opportunity, or fuck it up." I'm like, "Your Dad said, 'fuck'?" Rob's eyes are shining, "Yes, he's passionate about this project, but what I was thinking of... is you. You're my first hire, although only as a part-timer on weekends for starters, and I know you won't fuck it up. You'll only be an off-the-books office boy for now, but it'll give you a taste of what office work is like. You know, for when you work for me after we graduate. It's more intense in the office than outdoor work as a laborer, like on the lawn cutting crew." I nod my head too fast, "Sure thing, Rob! I'm not fucking-up anything." Then I'm thinking, Office boy? Oh, I don't give a shit! Rob was thinking of me, that's the important part. I put my arm around his waist thinking he's already a big-deal business man, and I love him for that. He's so fucking mature and responsible. Kissing the side of his face, I murmur, "I'm so proud of you, Rob, and I love you so much I could pee my pants. I swear to God, you're my idol." He puts both arms around me now as I glance down and notice he's not cutting the 'eyes' from the potatoes. He says, "I know you're proud of me, babe, and I want you to make me proud of you next Saturday and Sunday. There's gonna be six or seven managers in the office both days, including my Dad, so don't let me down." Did he say Saturday and Sunday? The dinner is awesome! The lamb chops, cooked on the grill until rosy pink in the center, are served with a little mint jelly, and the scalloped potatoes, eyes and all, are creamy and delicious. After dinner we clean up the kitchen and then lie together on the sofa, sort of watching the Sunday night NFL game in between kisses and whispered words of praise and love. I enjoy a fairly hard boner in my shorts for a half hour before we fuck with me on my stomach, my shorts pulled down below my buttocks. It's a hard fast fucking, from necessity mostly. Neither of us has had sex since way back sometime on Friday. Our orgasms are fierce and we get our cum smeared on us as we kiss in a fury after climaxing. Calming down and laughing at our horny selves, we clean the cum off our bodies, and the sofa as best we can, then snuggle together on the sofa again, but with a beach towel covering the cushions that are damp were we cleaned off cum. I feel so safe and contended with Rob. It's like I knows he'll always make the right choices for us, and I trust him with my life. He almost is my life anyway because without him I'm not sure I'd have a life worth living. I've never felt so fulfilled and happy. It has a lot to do with just the two of us in the apartment this year. It's a precursor of our life after marriage and current results bode very well for our married life together.
In bed before midnight, we're quietly talking about our yet-to-be-built condo. The one Robby's putting a big down payment on this spring to insure pre-construction pricing. We talk about choosing furniture and the colors we'll have the walls painted, and all kinds of shit like that. Then we slip into a gentle lover's make-out and finally a slow fuck with us both on our sides, Rob's arm over my side with his fingers playing with my nip-ring as his hard fat boner fucks my ass slow and steady. It's so dreamy and seems to go on for a long time before we both start feeling our orgasms percolating and our balls moving up in their sack, our cocks throbbingly hard. We climax at the same time and there's heavy breathing and whining sounds of desire from both of us as though we can hardly believe the incredible sensations leading to the earth-shaking climaxes that explode out of us. Actually it was almost scary. Coming down off the highest sexual experience there is takes a couple of minutes. Satisfied and lovingly contended, without a word we nestle together and go to sleep. I wish I could remember my dreams because I'll bet they'd be really sexy.
Then we're up Monday morning acting like everything's awesome, and it is too. Then the week, Monday through Thursday, fly by familiarly; nothing bad or out of the ordinary happens. It's life in our junior year at college: hot lover's sex with Rob, going to classes and doing homework, then for me the three mile runs with Daryl and our workouts at the fitness center, then a hard spanking and fucking of Pony's ass on Tuesdays and Thursdays in his dorm room. Pony being my one and only side sex buddy. Hell, I don't even really need the side sex because Rob's and my sex-life together is extraordinarily fabulous. Later I usually hook up with Rob, often with Beth, Frankie, and Golden. We see a late afternoon movie on Wednesday, I had lunch with Chubby twice this week, plus he and John Beverly have dinner at the apartment one night and then hang-out with us a few other nights drinking a couple of beers and swapping tales of our classes and professors. Nice, fairly stress-free collage days.
As I said, sex with Rob has never been better. My love for him continues to grow unabated. He's so awesome and such a perfect head of the household I
don't have words to describe it, other than: he's perfect. After saying that, I'm still being very conscious about not acting intoxicated with love for him, or being too clingy. I watch myself to be sure I'm not acting overly devoted, or overly mushy with affectionate sentiments every two seconds.
I wouldn't like it if he were doing those things to me. God knows I don't want to be like his mother who is too-overboard about everything. That can turn a person off, or at least make them feel uncomfortable. I keep myself in check, but inside I love me some Rob Dickers!
Friday morning, I ride over to the campus with Rob, but don't go to Ryan's dorm like I've been doing. Instead I kill time inside the Quad. It's a cold rainy day so I need to be inside somewhere, and the Quad's convenient.
Ten minutes before class, with the hood of my rain slicker up, I meet Ryan outside the lecture hall. Our greeting is smilingly cordial, although not kissing cordial. I feel okay about how Ryan's acting, and we have a laugh together during class when he leans over and cracks a joke contradicting something the Professor just said. I don't quite get the joke, maybe because I wasn't paying attention to what the professor said, but I chuckled along with Ryan anyway. After class there's no discussion about me coming back to his dorm with him. A pat on the shoulder and a casual question from Ryan, "What's up for you this weekend, Dylan?" I tell him I'm working for Rob this weekend, "I can use some extra spending money." He goes, "Good luck with that. I'll see you next week," and we walk our separate ways in the rain.
Earlier Rob told me he's going to be at Frankie's dorm with six other guys and girls continuing their XBOX tournament until two o'clock. So, without a better option, I start slowly walking back to the apartment thinking about Ryan's and my new relationship, and trying to figure out if I'm good with it or if I miss the sub/dom sex we used to have together. Well obviously I miss it, but it's the degree I'm missing it that interests me. It's like, in my present frame of mind, I'm not sure sub/dom sex with him is even worth the trouble anymore. That's assuming he wanted to do it, which apparently he doesn't. I'm neutral on the topic now; I can take it or leave it.
Without any apparent desire from medicated-Ryan, I guess I'm leaning way over to the 'leave it' side... ha ha. This is so astonishingly different from my feelings during Freshman year though. Holy shit, in those days I'd jump through hoops like a trained seal to have sub/dom sex with him, and it's hard to believe how differently I feel now. Even though I wasn't jumping through hoops in Georgia, I did what I was told knowing the sex would make everything else worth the bother. Now, being neutral on the subject, I wonder if I should be worried about my frame of mind? I mean, is it mentally healthy to completely change one's mind about something as important as sex? Huh, it's not that I don't think sub/dom sex is hot, not at all! To me it is very hot, but it needs the right dominant sex partner who is in the correct frame of mind, and one who knows what he's doing...or it's a sick joke. When he felt like it, Ryan was the best dominant sex partner I've ever had. Willie was a star too. Then there were New York's John and Billie, especially Billie. He could push my buttons like beating a drum. Probably because John was pushing all Billie's submissive buttons which gave Billie a clue how that works. The trouble with those New York City boys was that neither of them knew when to stop. Like others, Billie made the fatal mistake of not knowing when enough was enough, so I had to escape New York City in the wee hours of a Sunday morning. Damn though, he was something! Billy was very cute to start with, and he did dominant sex on me because John ordered him to do it, not because it came naturally to him. He followed John's orders to the letter though, showing me no mercy while apologizing for doing the dominant shit. That made it all the hotter, but the idea of returning to either of those two is laughably ridiculous. As of now I've no real interest in reenacting it with Ryan either, and forget about Willie, his ship has sailed. It's gotta be my elevated feelings for Rob that make the others seem like sex shadows to me now.
By the time I get to the apartment in this pouring rain I feel like a drowned rat, walking inside the front door. Shaking the rain off my slicker I go upstairs to our apartment expecting it will be empty, and it is. Rob said we'll be leaving around three o'clock for the drive home; to his home that is. I won't get a chance to see mom as I'll be working and staying with the Dickers so, with that in mind, I didn't even mention to her I'd be back this weekend. Monday I took Rob's and my best khakis along with two dress shirts for each of us to the dry-cleaners. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to tell Rob we'll need to pick that stuff up on our way to Framingham. I should have picked everything up yesterday, but I procrastinated and the cleaners was closed by the time I got there. Heh heh, actually I should have got the dry-cleaning on Tuesday. That's when Rob assumes I got our dry-cleaning, as well as the toiletry travel items from his list. When I didn't do either errand Tuesday, I had every good intention of doing both after my workout with Daryl on Wednesday, then I put it off till yesterday. Shit happens, ya know, and I didn't get the stuff yesterday either. I kept forgetting about it.
In the bedroom I'm gawking at my only two ties; a red and blue striped one, and a solid maroon one. Huh, I have no idea where that one came from. I'm sure I didn't buy a maroon tie, so maybe it's Chubby's. There's a big grease stain on the blue and red striped tie and little dots of something dark on the maroon one. Looks like someone maybe opened a can of beer and the spray from the beer landed on the maroon tie, but why would I be wearing that tie in the first place? More likely I used the tie to wipe up a spray of something. Damn, I think the last time I wore the blue and red striped tie was the funeral for Connor's benefactor a couple of years ago. Yeah, we got something to eat later and I had a Five Guys cheeseburger, and those bad boys are greasy.
Shrugging, I drop both ties in the trash can that's next to the desk, figuring it won't be a big deal to stop at the mall and buy a couple of new ones. Ya know, for work. Yeah, I really should have a few ties for, um, whatever. While going through my stuff in the closet, I'm positive I don't have a sport jacket here. To be sure though I'm checking. Nope, not here, but I do have a Navy blue sport jacket that's on the floor of my closet back home; anyway that's where it was the last time I remember seeing it. Mom bought that sport jacket for me because of something to do with eighth grade.
Maybe graduating middle school. Yeah, I think that was it. Probably doesn't fit me now, and anyway it'll be wrinkled laying on the floor of my closet for what, six or seven years now? Guess I should've thought of this sooner and bought a sport jacket on sale at Macy's. Everything is always on sale at Macy's. Come to think of it though, Rob didn't say anything about wearing a suit or sports jacket to work. Just a dress shirt and tie, which is bad enough!
I pack pajamas too, not that I ever wear them here. I'm not getting caught by Mrs. Dickers in the hall going to the bathroom in my jockey shorts. Rob
doesn't have his own bathroom, so we'll need to use the hall bathroom.
Thankfully his parents do have their own bathroom making the chance of me running into one of them going to the bathroom significantly reduced. I don't want to stay at the Dickers' house, although I have no problem at all with the concept of making some money working for Rob. When I've finished packing everything I might need, my satchel is as big as the one Rob brought back with him last Sunday. It's like I need to pack two sets of clothes for each day: ones I'll wear to the office and then the clothes I'll change into after work. And I hope to hell Rob is planning on us getting out of the house after dinner.
I'm in the bathroom fiddling around with my hair again when I hear Rob come in. Okay, I remind myself... do not fuckin' mention anything about anybody's hair! That's rule number one. With that in mind, I hustle through the bedroom to the hall and see a less than happy expression on Rob's face as he drops his backpack on the coffee table. "What's wrong, Rob?" He looks up and gives me half a smile, mumbling, "Aah, nothing important. Its just that one of the wise-ass sophomore's in the XBOX competition almost lost some of his front teeth just before I left." I frown, "Did he fall?" Rob makes a face, "No, I was gonna knock his teeth out for him. The asshole accused me of cheating and everybody knows it's impossible to cheat...." and I tune him out as he describes the esoteric functioning of the XBOX game they're playing. The words don't make a lot of sense anyway. Mostly I'm looking at his mouth as he talks. His impossibly bright white teeth shine behind those sexy bright pink lips of his.
Finally I'm like, "Why don't you quit the game, Rob. From what you've told me the last couple of weeks you don't especially like most of the players." He nods, "It's just a couple of them I don't like, and it's friggin' crowded in that dorm room too. There's this one bullet-headed numb-nuts who apparently has something against showering. The B. O. king of Merrimack." I mutter, "Ewww." Then, as he's taking his laptop out of his backpack, he mutters, "You're probably right, I should quit. All of a sudden it's starting to seem childish to me, all the bickering over who's next to play against whoever. It's like middle school shit!" I go, "Yeah? Huh!" It is middle school shit, and it's about time Rob's realized that. I'm liking the drift of this conversation too, so I say, "You know I've never been into those games myself." He comes over to give me a hug. Then grinning, he mumbles, "You're too serious-minded a person for games, huh?" I shrug, "Not hardly. It's more like Chub and I couldn't afford Play Station, or later XBOX, and if you don't get started as a kid... forget about it. We've played computer games but they're child's play compared to XBOX I hear." He goes, "Fuck it. I'm quitting, and Frankie can kiss my ass if she don't like it." YES! Music to my ears! But I'm too clever to say anything to that, so I shrug, like...
whatever.
Rob looks around, "Where'd you put the clothes from the dry-cleaners, babe?" I go, "Oh, those clothes. Yeah, well we can pick them up on the way home. The store was closed when I went yesterday. Oh, and can we stop at the mall too?" He frowns, "The dry-cleaners was closed? You said you'd get the stuff on Tuesday, then yesterday I find out you didn't get it but promised to get it yesterday. I gave you the truck's keys around three o'clock and you're telling me the cleaners was closed? How's that possible? And, no, we're not stopping at the fucking mall." Ignoring the Tuesday comment and the one about the mall, I concentrate on the Thursday one, saying, "Yes, that exactly right, you did give me the keys early yesterday afternoon, but Daryl needed a ride to Radio Shack for a computer cable, and we stopped in at Market Basket so he could buy some snacks for his dorm room. Ya know, sodas and whatnot. Then I hung around shooting the shit with him and his roommate, and when I got to the cleaners the assholes had just closed. Just like ten seconds before I got there and the bitch wouldn't open when I knocked on the door. She'd just pulled the shade down!" He lets out a big breath, then mutters, "Fuck! Why the hell did you wait till the last day, then the last minute of the last day? We need those shirts and slacks for work." I do an elaborate shrug, mumbling, "Like I said, we'll get then on our way home." He shakes his head, then shouts, "Goddammit," and takes another deep exasperated breath, and says, "No! You pick up the stuff now while I'm packing." I make a face, whining, "It's pouring rain out there! Why should I get soaked twice?" He tosses me the keys, "You'll only get soaked once. Please, Dylan!" Which didn't sound like 'Please' so much as it sounded like do what you're told. Funny how I only appreciate the bossiness when I feel like it.
Other times, like now, I'm less than cooperative, raising my voice, "Oh for fuck sake! Okay, I'm going already." Rob mutters, "Good," and walks back to the bedroom. 'Its a fucking good thing I'm getting paid well for this weekend or he could shove this weekend where the sun don't shine!' That's what I'm thinking putting on my rain slicker again.
Before I get out the door, Rob's back out of the bedroom, asking, "Where are the travel-size toiletry items?" He's holding up a slip of paper, saying, "This is the list I gave you last Sunday. I found it on the closet floor." Oh fuck! I go, "I was looking for a sports jacket and..." Rob quietly mumbles, "You never bought these things, did you? I told you I'd get this stuff if you didn't want to; that was last Sunday." Puffing out my cheeks and exhaling a long noisy breath, I go, "Rob, we've had a lot of homework and..." He interrupts, "Here's the list. Get these things after you pick up the dry-cleaning. I guess you're gonna get soaked twice after all." and he's holding his list out to me. I shrug, and he yells, "Take the fucking list!" I grab it out of his hand and stalk out of the apartment. Going out the back door I snort out a laugh. Then say out loud, "Shape up, Dylan! You'll be getting a spanking if you don't." Hee hee, if only Rob had it in him, that'd be so fucking sexy-hot. I can't get too pissed-off at Rob because I've had all week to do these two things, and he did say he'd do them if I didn't want to. I insisted though because I want to do things for him. Okay then, wanting to do things for him is part one, promising I'll do the things is part two, then part three is actually doing the things. That's the part, part three, that I need to work on.
Then in the pickup, driving out of the parking lot it becomes apparent, and I've known this bizarre fact from past experiences, that when it rains drivers forget how to drive. Fucking over-cautious idiots! I get past the route 114 intersection with some horns blowing behind me. For spite, I'm not getting these travel-size toiletry item after I get the dry cleaning, like I was told. To be defiant I'm getting them before the dry cleaning. The trouble with that is it's a very hairy left turn through oncoming traffic to get to Rite Aid from this side of route 114. I make it with the pickup's back tires squealing and a chorus of horns blowing in my wake. Stick those horns up your ass!
Getting out of the pick up, I yell, "Can it rain any fucking harder?!" It's raining harder than it was driving back to college last Sunday. With rain literally running off my face, I go in through Rite Aid's automatic door and right away notice that drugstore smell. What is that smell? I think it's the ladies' make-up aisle. Walking up and down the other aisles I'm looking for travel size toiletry items when a hatched-faced clerk with acne scars on his cheeks intercedes. He appears to be in his middle twenties, as he asks, "What are you looking for?" He's taller than I am so I'm looking up at his extremely curly dark hair that's pulled back into a tight ponytail that looks painful. The curls are so tight they have to be held together with what must be a very strong elastic. I go, "If you must know, I'm looking for travel size toiletry items." He's wearing large horned-rimmed glasses tinted yellow, and his big teeth are the same shade as the lenses of his glasses. Tall as he is, there's no extra weight on him. He's as lean as a canoe paddle and almost as sexy. Hatched face says, "I don't know what you're referring to. We don't allow loitering, you know." I give him one of my best hard looks, and say, "No loitering, huh? I'll remember that, Hatchet." He points to his name tad, "It's Harry," and he walks off muttering, "Retard," under his breath. That's so preposterous I laugh out loud drawing the attention of the pharmacist, who bears a striking resemblance to Harry, except the pharmacist is wearing clear glasses. I can't see his teeth from here, but I'm assuming they're not clear too. I wave at the pharmacist, who waves back and then pretends to be busy doing something behind the counter no one can see.
The third row I wander down I catch Hatchet peaking around the corner. Is he trying to catch me shoplifting? The next aisle he again appears, saying, "I found the section with travel size items. I didn't even know we carried them. This is my first day." Well I'll be dammed, he wasn't spying on me, he was helping. I go, "Thank you, Harry," and following him to the front of
the store where a circular display case has all kinds of overpriced small toiletry items. Checking the list, with hatchet looking over my shoulder, together we find two of each item on Rob's list. Harry says, "These are rip-off prices, huh?" I ask, "Is your dad the pharmacist, Harry?" He goes to answer, but gets overwhelmed with a sneeze. It's a really loud screaming-sneeze that he does against his skinny bicep. His arm blocks approximately half the spray of tiny mucus balls that accompany most sneezes. Have you ever seen the picture of a sneeze in your middle school health book? Oh my God!
I'm frowning at the travel size item in his hand that were directly in the path of his mucus bath. I go, "Gesundheit!" and he sneezes again turning his head away from me this time. Then he goes, "Fuck!" with that expectant look on his face like maybe a third sneeze is eminent, but it doesn't materialize. He asks, "Can you spell that?" I ask, you mean, gesundheit?" He nods and I go, "No, I don't speak German." He carries his share of the items to the register and lays them on the counter, asking me, "Did you find everything you need today?" and the girl at the register says, "I'm suppose to ask that, Harry." He adjusts his yellow tinted glasses and walks away. If he could have held off that sneeze for one more minute, I wouldn't despise him like I do.
Shaking my rain slicker hood to get the rain off it, then letting it fall backward, I'm pointing at the items Harry sneezed on, saying to the register girl, "Um, that's a separate order for my roommate. Could you ring those up first and bag them? Maybe put a couple of staples at the front of the bag so nothing can get out." She gives me a strange look, then does as I ask.
I'm holding onto the un-sneezed-on items. I'll give the others a good washing at the apartment. The register girl, Loretta, points at my hands, asking, "Did you want those items too?" I go, "Huh, oh yeah," and drop them on the counter and give her a little smile. She says, "I like your cool haircut. Did you get it at Sal's?" What the fuck? I almost look around to see if Rob put her up to that, then say, "Thank you. Yes, Sal's." Wherever the fuck that is. She's ringing up the items I was holding, saying, "I thought it was a Sal's haircut. He's my father." I go, "Really? No! I'll tell Sal I saw you the next time I'm in there." She nods, then says, "You're cute," then, "With tax that'll be $23.89." All these little containers cost about a third what the regular size items cost, while containing about one tenth, or less, of the product. I tell her thanks for her sweet compliment, put my hood up and face the heavy rain again getting to the car. When I drop both bags on the passenger seat I see she stapled the top of both bags and now I can't tell which one is which. Balls!
Now for the dry-cleaning. When I get to the strip mall up the street from Rite Aid, there's no parking spots in front. I park in front of Fuddruckers three stores down from the cleaners. Technically I could have picked the clothes up on Tuesday because on Monday, when I dropped off the clothes, I asked for the twenty-four- hour service. Had to pay ten percent extra for the one day turn around too. Shit happens though and I forgot about the cleaners until a just a little while ago, and ditto for the travel size toiletry shit. Rob could have reminded me about both things except he was too busy playing XBOX games, or maybe he thought I'd already done what I said I'd do. Walking towards the cleaners I'm thinking: well what the fuck, now it's not only raining but it's windy as hell too and the rain's blowing in my face and inside my hoodie rendering the hoodie worse than useless. Inside, as I shake the rain off me, I see a woman in front of me with the world's largest armful of clothes that she's dropping off.
This pudgy woman is also very chatty with the Asian lady who's typing each item into a computer, stopping to respond to Ms. Chatty after each of the nine hundred items is logged in. It's slow going and because of her heavy accented English I can't understand most of what the clerk is saying anyway. Finally, after an agonizing wait, they're done and Ms. Pudgy brushes past me on her way out. Blowing out an exasperated breath, I give the woman behind the counter my receipt for our dry-cleaning and shirts. She hits a button and millions of clothes on hangers begin moving on a conveyor railing past her. Hundreds of plastic covered dry cleaning and laundered shirts on hangers go by her as she checks the receipt and then the matching receipts stapled to all those plastic covers. When she hits the button again the conveyor stops abruptly with all the dry cleaning swaying to and fro on the railing. The woman begins looking closely at the receipts and then magically pulls out Rob's and my shirts. She hangs then on a bar next to the counter, and turns to begin looking for our khaki slacks pushing other sets of plastic covered clothes out of the way. She's muttering to herself, checking everything twice, then turns around to tell me, "Missing," and puts the receipt for the khakis on the counter in front of me. I'm like, "Whaddaya mean, missing?" She says, "Missing. Maybe Lawrence store," sounding like 'rarrance'. I'm speechless. She rings up the receipt for the shirts, and says, "Ten dolla." Still speechless, all I can do is stare at her with my mouth slightly open. She looks at me, saying again, "Ten dolla." Then I'm like, "No, no, no, no. Look again! Not missing!" as I'm pointing at the conveyor system. She gives me a cold stare, then picks up the receipt for the khakis and shakes it in my face, saying, "Missing." Imagining how badly Rob will take this 'missing' news, I walk past her and start looking at the dry cleaning on the hangers myself as the woman, yells, "No! Missing," pointing in front of the counter she's emphatically saying, "You go, you go!" Then I see what I'm positive is our four khakis on four hangers inside a plastic bag hanging next to someone's suit. The two recipes are stuck together. The woman's on her cellphone now. I turn to her and point at our four khakis, saying, "Not missing." She chatters very fast into the phone, then puts her hands on her hips looking at me with a look that says, 'Now you're gonna get it.' A very old Asian man, Korean or maybe Chinese, comes out from the back of the store with a stern expression on his face. He's walking quickly taking shorts fast steps waving his arms telling me the same message the woman had
for me, "You go! You go!" I reach over and get the receipt off the counter and hold it next to the one on our dry-cleaning. He repeats, "Go, you go," as he continues pointing to the other side of the counter. I'm doing the 'come here' wiggle with my fingers at the woman while holding the receipt against the one on our clothes innocently hanging right next to me. She says something to the man in what sounds like Chinese, but what do I know. He grabs the receipt from my hand and matches it to the one I'm pointing at. He tells me, like it's my fault, "Stuck, it stuck!" and peals my dry-cleaning receipt off the dry-cleaning next to mine. Then lifts the hanger off the conveyor and hangs my stuff next to my shirts, and gives me a look like he fixed everything. He points to the other side of the counter and says, "You go!" I'm so relieved the pants are found I don't tell him to, 'you go, and fuck yourself as you go!' Instead I go to the customer side of the counter as the woman rings up the cost of the khaki dry-cleaning and instead of saying, 'ten dolla', she says, "Thirty-six dolla." Nodding my head, I give her my debit card and she processes it, and says, "Thank you. You go now." Fucking
dry cleaners! Taking the two plastic covered bundles by the coat hanger hooks, I go. Then outside I fold the dry cleaning so the rain hits the plastic. In the pickup the thought of what might have been hits me and I'm cursing to myself, 'Mother-fucker! 'Missing', my ass!' That was almost a disaster.
Calming down, I drive back and park in the no parking zone close to the door so we don't get drenched going from the back door to the truck. Going up
the steps I shudder again at what might have been. I'm so relieved that disaster was averted I laugh a nervous laugh out loud. With a finger under the hooks of the coat hangers I've got the dry-cleaning hanging over my shoulder walking into the apartment. Rob's agitated again, asking, "Where the hell ya been? Have some responsibility. I've got to be at the office before five fucking-o'clock." I go, "Where the fuck do you think I've been?" He goes, "We're behind schedule. Where are the toiletry things?" Oh fuck, I left them in the truck. I say, "In the pickup." He says, "Go get them. I wanna see what you bought. I'm not going to be home just before work and find out I have no deodorant." I mutter, "You're being unreasonable," and he yells, "If you got the fucking dry cleaning when I told you to..." Then he stops, shakes his head, and says, "Shape up, Dylan." I go, "I am shaped-up! You're being an asshole." He's flustered and he shrugs, mumbling, 'Sorry, but don't screw up when we get to the office, we're not...." and I shout, "Shut the fuck up, Rob!" His eyebrows go up and his mouth makes the letter 'O', as I say, "I love you more than anyone else ever will, and I'm happy you're in-charge, the head of the household and all that shit, but there's a right way and a wrong way to be that person. When you disrespect me, when you treat me like some incompetent underling you're doing it the wrong fucking way, and too much of that will bring our entire relationship crumbling down on top of us because I won't put up with that shit! If you want the toiletry shit that badly, get your ass down there and get it out of the pickup truck yourself! It's all there and there's no good reason you need to see it right now." I have tears in my eyes by the time I'm done shouting because I'm so totally bullshit-mad I can't help myself.
Rob's expression is very similar to mine when the lady said, 'Missing. Ten
dolla' and she incongruously thought that was the end of that. Two seconds of red-faced silence from Rob with us staring at each other, hearts thumping. Then Rob's entire posture changes from stiff as a board, ready to fight, to slumped shoulder and a soft expression on his face as he mumbles, "You're right. You're so fucking right, and I'm so sorry," and he comes to me and takes the dry cleaning from my finger and hangs it on the front door knob. He's hugging me, my arms at my sides, as he murmurs, "I'm so sorry, Dylan. I don't want to ever disrespect the one person in the world I respect the most. Oh my God, I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me. I'm so tense about everything to do with this weekend, and that stupid asshole at Frankie's, and this goddamn rain never stops. And none of it matters one tiny bit; not when compared to how much you matter to me. Forgive me, please." I'm feeling slightly nauseous from the hit of adrenaline that happens during significant stress, and I definitely was feeling significant stress yelling at Rob. It's mostly a fight or flight thingie when hormones secreted by
adrenal glands increase the heart rate and lung function, blood circulation, breathing, and who knows what the fuck else. It's carbohydrate metabolism preparing muscles for exertion. But the reason for significant stress has passed and no muscle exertion is necessary, although the hormones don't care. They're in my system and I feel a little ill. I'd like to be magnanimous and tell Rob everything's okay, okay now that we've agreed he was acting like an asshole, but all I can do is stand here feeling like I might throw up. I finally manage to interrupt Robby's long apology to mumble, "Okay, okay but I need to sit down for a second." We both sit on the sofa and I lay my head back as my heart rate and breathing calm down. Rob's asking, "Are you alright, Dylan? You look pale." He's lightly rubbing my shoulder as I take a last deep breath, then look at him and say, "You gonna be a good head of the household from now on?" He grins, "I'm going to try, yes. If I go off the tracks though I know you'll gently mention that fact to me." I'm grinning a little, mumbling, "Goddamn right I will," and I lean against him.
Rob puts his arm across my shoulders and we snuggle like this for awhile.
I almost fall asleep. Jesus, that little outburst of mine took a lot out of
me. I thought the top of my head was gonna blow off, and I can't even remember what I said. Mostly I remember Rob admitting he was wrong. That's a very good thing; being able to admit you're wrong is a good character trait, especially when you are wrong. Good thing I'm always right... heh heh.
Actually I was the underlying cause of Rob getting upset. I should have picked up the toiletry things Monday when I dropped off the dry cleaning and then picked that up on Tuesday like I said I would. Rob's so intent on being good at his job, looking the part for Dickers and Son and trying hard to impress his father, and maybe impress me too. And maybe he didn't tell me the whole reason that he came home upset after the XBOX playing; there could be something else that upset him and I'll learn about it later. Plus it's pouring raining, and then he finds out I don't have our business clothes back from the cleaners when he assumed they were here since Tuesday, and so forth and so on... so he lost his shit for a little bit.
Feeling better, I ask, "Shouldn't we be getting on our way, Rob?" He squeezes my shoulder, "Yes, I guess so," and he kisses my cheek, murmuring, "Do you forgive me, Dylan?" I nod, "We'll forgive each other and it'll be like it never fuckin' happened." Rob gets up, holding out his hand. I take it and we shake hands with him saying, "Good deal, babe. Thank you for understanding." Taking a deep breath, I get up and we go on about our business of getting our satchels zipped up and stacked next to the dry cleaning that's hanging on the front door knob. Looking out the window, Rob mutters, "Fucking raining cats and dogs, huh?" I nod my head, thinking, 'Jesus, I hope the last hour isn't a precursor for the weekend...'
to be continued... Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com
donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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