Invited

Chapter 28

( First Day )

As I'm parking on the grass at the high school, Billy adjusts his eyeglasses, exclaiming, "Oh Fuck! Would you look at that shit?"

I know he's referring to the girls that showed up. They're dressed like guys running around randomly on the football field, looking for attention from guys and getting it too. The guys are goofing with them as the girls try catching and throwing a football.

The girls fumble every pass thrown to them. Jerry Gilligan, acting as the quarterback, shouts out encouraging comments, snickering between throwing bullet passes. The girls can't catch them, of course, but grinning guys lurk around the girls, touching them or putting an arm around the girls' waists and offering tips about keeping their eyes on the ball.

Then Judy Myers screamed, "That ball broke my fucking fingernail!"

Shaking his head, Pat mumbles, "Straight guys make such asses of themselves around girls." Then, smiling, he adds, "You rarely see gay guys complaining about a broken fingernail."

We chuckle at that, then Billy says, "The number one way to fuck up a perfectly good two-hand-touch football game is having one or two girls on each team with guys falling all over themselves trying to touch a girl's tits or ass."

Shaking my head slightly, I'm like, "I don't get why the girls want to try playing football in the first place. Don't they have girlie things to do? Go shopping or something."

We get out of the car, and Billy lights a cigarette, offering one to me. I shake my head, "No thanks," but Pat takes one, mumbling, "I don't mind if I do. Thanks."

I see all the usual suspects here. My buddy, Dave Summerset, my enemy, Ron Smart, plus the always friendly Spike Nichols. There's Billy's friend, George Harkins, then Bobby Brown, as well as four or five other good guys from our neighborhood, like Jerry Gilligan acting as a quarterback, and then other less sparkling characters I've seen around but don't really know them.

There are also guys from our high school who lives on the other side of town and then the girls who usually hang out with our neighborhood boys. There's Sharon O'Neil, who will probably embarrass me by pretending she has a crush on me. Then, of course, Sara Donald, Judy Myers, and then Maggie Burns, plus a fat girl whose name I forget.

Dave jogs over, saying hello to Billy and me, then getting introduced to Pat Summers, "Hey, here's a coincidence, Pat. You're from Delaware, and I've got grandparents living in Delaware."

Pat grins, "Surprisingly, I didn't hang out much with old folks, so I don't think I know your grandparents."

Dave laughs, "Yeah, that is surprising. Hey, maybe we're related, though; our last names are similar."

Nodding at the field, I ask Billy, "Do we even want to get involved in this cluster fuck? Look at that asshole, Ron Smart rolling around on the grass with Judy."

Shrugging, Billy mumbles, "Let's see how the teams shake out before we give up on what was at one time a promising afternoon."

Dave and I talk about golf. Nodding at Pat, I go, "Our new neighbor here was on his high school golf team. We've hit some golf balls together, and he's way good."

Pat goes, "Gary exaggerates, but I hope the three of us can play some golf this spring."

We stopped talking to watch two cars drive up and park close to where I parked. Six younger guys get out, and Billy yells over, "Hey, Joey, where's your 'effing brother."

A redhead with a football under his arm, looking very young, shouts, "He's got Covid. When did you get glasses?" and then he throws the ball to an even younger-looking kid.

Billy ignores the kid's question and mutters to me, "You've got to be a numb nut to get Covid when there's vaccination and booster shots and all."

I shrug, "Variants, ya know?"

Pointing to the new arrivals, Dave's like, "Those guys are all high school juniors and seniors this year. After a shitty winter, it looks like everyone in the neighborhood is anxious to get out and play some ball."

I mumble, "We live in the Northeast; winter isn't over in March around here."

Dave mutters, "Unfortunately, so true."

Then we see two guys pulling a quarter keg of beer on a dolly from the parking lot. Older guys, like in their early twenties. One of them, the fat one, yells, "Alright, children, it's ten measly dollars a cup, and once you pay for a cup, it's free. All you can drink from then on is free."

He has a weirdly high-pitched voice and a seriously receding hairline. Gee, going bald in your early twenties. Talk about a traumatic situation. Wear an 'effing hat, dude. Jesus!

Counting us, there are almost thirty guys and girls here by now, most of whom are lining up to pay ten dollars for one of the sixteen-ounce red cups. Arrogant Ron Smart comes over to bump fists with Billy, saying, "Underwood, how they hanging?"

Billy rolls his eyes at that, and Ron nods at Pat, "Who's this?"

Then before anyone can tell him, he says to Pat, "Are you related to fag-boy here," indicating he means me.

I go, "Fuck you, Ron," and Pat says, "I just moved here from Delaware, and, no, we're not related. Why would you ask that?".

Ron snickers, "Because you both look like girls."

Then he continues without missing a beat, saying to Billy, "Don't get suckered into buying a cup for the keg of beer. I'll bet my left nut those assholes had a party with their buddies last night drinking from that keg, and it's probably half empty."

Dave nods, "Yeah, that happened last summer at Kent park."

We talk about that as the two keg guys sell about twenty cups at ten bucks each, and now they're drifting away with the dolly, heading back to their car in the upper parking lot.

Spike comes over with a full cup of beer, saying, "It's Miller Lite; and a little flat, but... Hey, didn't you guys buy a cup?"

Ron Smart says, "Why would I buy a cup? I've got a McDonald's cup in my car," and he walks off to, I assume, get it.

We watch Jerry Gilligan, a beer in one hand, organizing teams, assigning two of the girls as captains. With an arm around one of the captains, he coaches the girls on who to pick for their teams. Billy gives me a look, mumbling, "You're right; this isn't going to work out."

I didn't mention it, but one thing worked out for me. I'm happy to have avoided Sharon.

Dave says, "Let's not waste this decent weather; decent for March anyway. How about if we get a three-on-three half-court basketball game going? Fuck football and the keg... however much is left in it."

Spike goes, "Ah, shit. I'd rather do that with you guys, but I need to stay here to get my ten bucks worth of beer," and he goes over to see if he got picked by one of the captains to play the first game.

Dave says, "Those keg guys won't come back for the empty keg. On sale at Cosco, that quarter keg of Miller Lite costs about a hundred bucks plus a twenty-five-dollar deposit for the keg. There's probably not much beer left in it, so those two assholes made out pretty well. They got smashed last night, then collected almost two hundred dollars from our sucker friends today, and off they go. The hell with the deposit for the keg."

Pat mutters, "Pretty smooth deal. Ya gotta hand it to them."

Billy's uninterested in the money aspect, muttering, "One of them has to be an older brother to one of the guys here, or else how the 'eff would they know about this game today?"

Dave shrugs, "Well, fuck it. I've got a basketball in the car, and we've got four guys here. I'll recruit two more guys, and I'll meet you guys on the basketball court."

That's what we do. Dave's an organizer.

Billy puts his glasses in his pocket when we play basketball. Pat shines as the best player among the six of us. He's humble about it, though, so that's cool. After the first game is won by Pat, Billy, and Lee Baxter, we hear loud grumblings and expletives coming from the football crew.

Dave chuckles, "I guess the keg ran out already. Ten bucks for one cup of flat beer."

So, we feel good about not falling for that scam. We play two more games, and by then, the football game has deteriorated into tackling and feeling up the girls, or that's what it looks like from here.

Later, Pat, Billy, Dave, and I, used rented drivers to hit golf balls at the driving range. Then, that's pretty much the end of us pretending winter is over the third week in March. The weak sun goes behind clouds, and we've got another winter-type weather situation, getting much colder and gloomy at four-thirty.

As I'm driving to Billy's house, from the back seat, Pat asks, "So, what do you guys want to do tonight?"

This is so 'effing awkward; I don't have the balls to say anything to that. Billy does, though. He goes, "Sorry, Pat, but Gary and I have, um, plans for this evening."

To his credit, Pat goes, "Oh, of course; I understand. Maybe we can hang out Sunday, though."

I chirp right in, "Absolutely, Pat! I'm sorry, but as Billy said, um, you know, um, tonight, ah..."

Billy and Pat get out of the car, with Pat saying, "I wish the football game had worked out, but it was a good afternoon anyway. Right?"

Hoping to make him feel good, I'm like, "Yep, and you're the neighborhood star in one more sport, Pat. We can add basketball to the list."

He goes, "Hah-ha, no, that's not true, but thanks, Gary. See you, boys."

We bump fists, and Pat jogs across the street to his house as Billy tells me, "I'll have the SUV tonight. Be ready at seven-thirty, alright?"

I nod, mumbling, "Yep, seven-thirty. I can't wait."

It's true I can hardly wait to be in the back of the SUV with Billy, but I'm still feeling bad for Pat.

Driving the six blocks home, I think that maybe Dave and Pat could become sports friends or something. Too bad Dave's not gay. How can I fix Pat up with a gay guy? Maybe George, who is the only other gay guy I know.

In my bedroom, I get undressed, trying to shake the downer I have after seeing the look of disappointment on Pat's face. Hell, though, how many Saturday nights did I spend home alone and live through it? Plus, Pat's new in the neighborhood, so he must have expected a breaking-in period of making new friends and all that. Ya know?

While taking a shower, the thought of my new job makes me stop agonizing about Pat's situation. Holy crap, that's right; Monday, I start a new chapter in my life, and I've barely given it a thought. A full-time job is a humongous big deal, and I'm not at all good at dealing with new things.

Jesus, now I'm nervous! I need to read all the pamphlet material that the lady, Serenity, gave me a few weeks ago. And, dammit, what did she say I should wear for work?

Drying after the shower, I switch to what I should be thinking about; Billy and me on our date tonight. That's happening tonight, not next 'effing Monday! Fuck, though; there is always something for me to worry about in my life.

After dinner, all I'm thinking about is Billy. How in the hell did I exist before falling in love with him? It's mindboggling to think back to pre-Billy days. Yeah, how boring it was. it's a miracle I didn't shrivel up and become comatose.

You know what? I need to be more like Billy, more like he was today. Nothing bothered him very much. Sure, he didn't like that playing football didn't work out for us, but Billy shrugged it off and jumped into the next best offer of playing half-court basketball. Meanwhile, I was tense, hoping Billy wouldn't get upset about anything and hoping Pat would fit in and feel comfortable.

Now I'm back thinking about the awkwardness of Billy telling Pat he couldn't hang out with us tonight. Damn, that look of disappointment on Pat's face before faking his positive comment about how he understands, and blah, blah, blah. Considering the circumstances, of course, both Billy's and Pat's attitudes were the correct ones. It's me who had the wrong one by feeling bad, feeling guilty that Pat was being excluded.

I mean, Christ, what did I think would happen? What would Pat do while Billy and I were messing around? Stand outside the SUV in the cold smoking a cigarette? Hmm, I suppose the three of us could have hung out for a few hours, then dropped off Pat, and Billy and I could have messed around then.

Those are my thoughts while waiting outside my house, wearing my winter puffer coat and resort baseball cap, waiting for Billy to pick me up. I've become awfully fond of Pat; I guess that's what it is.

Yeah, Pat obviously wants me to be his friend, which is flattering. Especially considering I haven't had a million friends growing up, and I know why that is too. It's because I need to be invited to do stuff with the guys, and guys do not think like that, just me.

Deep in thought, I'm sitting on the front steps when a car's horn honks. I look up and see it's Billy in his mom's SUV. Gee, I still get momentarily startled seeing Billy with eyeglasses. Only for a second, though.

He's giving me a quizzical look, smiling too, so I smile back and hop up off the step. Getting in the van, I'm like, "Sorry, I was zoning out there for a minute. How are you doing?"

Billy says, "You had a wicked concerned expression on your cute face. What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing, um, well, I guess I was feeling sorry for Pat. I'll bet he's not used to staying in on a Saturday night. He was probably wicked popular before moving here."

Driving us away, Billy's like, "Oh? And here I thought you wanted me messing around with you tonight, which we couldn't do as a trio. Or put another way, which I wouldn't do as a trio."

That trio concept never entered my mind, but now that it has, my dick stiffens up. Omigod! How 'effing interesting!

Covering up my interest in that, I'm like, "No, um, do guys actually do that? Three gay guys, I mean."

Sounding exasperated, Billy says, "Oh, come on, Gary! You look at gay porn, so you know damn well three guys can mess around. What I'm saying is that I'm not interested in being one of the three. Hell, I'm still dealing with the fact I guess I'm gay for you. If I had a choice, I'd be best friends with you, both of us with girlfriends who we were screwing regularly."

Frowning, I mutter, "Eww, really? That hurts my feelings. I don't want a girlfriend, and I certainly don't want to mess around with one like that."

More calmly, he says, "Yes, I know, and the reality of it is, I've chosen you over anyone else, male or female. How many times have I said I like you better than anyone I've ever known?"

"That's wicked nice of you, but could you say the L-word once in a while?"

"You're hard to please. Um, you're the only person I might be in love with. Okay?"

Grinning, I shrug, "Might be? Yeah, okay, that's close enough for now."

As we're rolling onto the Sears parking lot, he mumbles, "Jesus H. Christ, the conversations you wrangle me into never cease to amaze me. You're so much in control of our situation that it's enough to blow my mind. I've never been this close to being wrapped around anyone's little finger the way I am with you."

Smiling, I mutter, "It's good to see you haven't lost your powers of rationalization. Saying you're wrapped around my little finger is a monster of a stretch of reality."

Parking behind the dumpster, he puts his glasses on the dashboard, then unbuckles his seatbelt, mumbling, "I have no idea what you just said 'effing means. Let's put the seats down in the back."

We get out to do that. Then, leaning against the back of the front driver's seat, Billy holds out his arm, inviting me to sit tight against him. When I do, he wraps his arm around me, and I ask, "Were we fighting?"

He takes a deep breath, chuckles, and says, "Nah, I can't argue with you; not for long anyway, because you're so, um, clueless or innocent or some Goddamn thing that it makes me want to take care of you, not fight with you. Now, shut the 'eff up and let me enjoy being idolized by you."

Snickering and snuggling in tighter, I put my arm across his stomach, mumbling, "Oh, hell, idolizing you is my favorite hobby."

Billy mutters, "Oh, yeah? What are your other hobbies?"

"Well, pleasing you is another one, um, but other than that, I guess I don't have any others. Being in love with you takes up most of my time, but that isn't a hobby so much as it's my reason for living."

We chuckle at that, then, smiling, I flatter the shit out of him for a minute more, ending by singing some of Bridge Over Troubled Water... "When you need a friend, I'm sailing right behind," then, louder, "Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind."

He was smirking the whole time, then, somehow, we're making out. I don't recall how or which one of us started it, but it's a doozy of an intense lover's make-out with a heaping dose of heated arousal thrown in. There's an almost wrestling quality to it as well, flouncing around the floor with quiet moans of constantly increasing sexual heat, hard dicks poking one another enclosed as they are in their clothing prisons.

Soft, luscious kissing mixed in with some sloppy saliva-filled ones, tongues tasting tongues and teeth scraping teeth, hands rubbing everywhere, until a gasping, "Get undressed" from Billy. That gets us anxiously pulling off our sneakers, shirts, and pants. Our boners are now free to stick up tightly against our bellies, drooling precum.

In our sexual heat, we refuse to take a mere thirty seconds to get a condom. After some squirming together naked, hands still rubbing all over one another, hips humping our twin boners together, precum wetness all around, Billy gets me on my stomach me pushing my ass up with anxious anticipation soaring high.

Lifting his hips, Billy's hand goes in between our bodies; he fumbles his hard cock's head across my left butt cheeks to my asshole and, with a breathy gasp, plugs it in as I stifle a scream.

Most of his natural lubricant, his precum, rubbed off on my buttocks, so it hurt opening me up like that. He murmurs, "I'm sorry I hurt you, Gary."

I grunt, "No, it's okay. Do it," and he pushes his chubby boner up inside me, feeling like a log with rough bark on it. My face is scrunched up as I clench my jaws, determined to make this happen for both of us, knowing relief is a mere minute or two away.

The gay porn star models never seem to experience this discomfort, so maybe Billy's wrong about me having a miracle rectum. It's probably just a run-of-the-mill, average rectum.

Withdrawing his bark-covered log of a boner, then pushing it immediately back in, some of the bark rubs off, or that's how it seems. Billy mutters, "Are you okay," and I grunt, "Never better. Keep going."

During the fourth trip of Billy's log going in and back, the hurt fades, and my face relaxes its scrunched-up condition. I blinked my eyes at the relief of feeling his normal skin-covered boner, bark-free, sliding tightly back up inside me. Ahh!

Then, brilliant light flashes in my head, "Ooh," as I recognize my favorite nerve endings sparkling with a dash of pleasure, then the pleasure comes roaring on like I knew it would; pleasure blossoming and blooming from my amazing prostate gland and all around my anus. All the colors of the rainbow glow as I hear Billy moan with sexual pleasure.

That's all I needed to hear; Billy in ecstasy. Both us lovers are now riding the pleasure train that is known as anal intercourse, sharing our bodies within the parameters of Nature's millions of years of evolution that, probably unintentionally, ended up with oddly placed nerve endings in the rectum. Ones that are capable of providing exhilarating amounts of pleasure. Nothing to do with ensuring a continuation of a species, of course, but we appreciate the mutation if that's what it is.

It's all good now as I'm obviously and seriously into this mutual love-making, pushing my ass up at each of his thrusts, my body reacting more positively to each one of his wickedly hard, smooth sex organ thrusts; me quietly murmuring, "Mm, mm, mm, Billy, feels so good."

My dick is a hard wooden shaft poking up tight against my belly as Billy's hands grip my hips, vigorously pulling them back into his faster, harder thrusting. By the time the sound of two males fucking begins ringing out in the SUV, the "Slap, slap, slapping" sounds, all memory of the rough-bark entry is forgotten, and the pleasure of a lifetime is all I can think about.

"Ah, yeah, Billy, I love you," but I don't think he heard me over the slapping sounds and his own moans of ecstatic sexual pleasure.

Perfection! Everything smoothly working the way we know from experience it would, a drifting surreal state of bliss that we also know is temporary because of the aforementioned evolutionary situation that's intended to result in the extreme pleasure of a lifetime, generally known as sexual climax which, among other things, will be sending tiny squiggly sperm bombs to fertilize an egg in a female.

Reproduction's not going to happen here, however. In our situation, the squiggly egg hunters are destined to be disappointed in their quest. Be that as it may, the extreme pleasure of a lifetime known as sexual climax is still going to happen. The vast number of squiggly egg hunters rarely find an egg anyway, so the vast majority won't know the difference.

None of that matters to Billy or me as our climax bell gets rung, and our attention involuntarily changes from the extreme awe-inspiring pleasure train ride, switching over to the irresistible thrill of experiencing the inevitable climax.

It's on both of us; the building climax is. There are little squeaky sounds from me as Billy makes desperate breathy sounds. Our breathing gets faster as our heartbeat increases to 175 beats per minute. Yep, our libidos have kicked in, anxious to experience the ultimate thrill ride.

Strong muscle contraction gets our fluids ready to fly, and now we're at the point of no return. We're fully on board with it, anticipating an explosive climax with bated breath until BOOM and the world turns upside down with mind-blowing streaking pleasure sensations lasting maybe 45 seconds, maybe longer, during which we hardly know the rest of the universe exists, not caring if it doesn't.

Almost simultaneously, Billy and I experience climaxes comparable to the Big Bang fourteen-some billion years ago, with the same measure of expansion. Ours is an almost unimaginable expansion of unique sensations so pleasurable as to be indescribable. The sensations are an odd type of pleasure spreading to our extremities, leaving us shaking in a state of euphoria. Then, too quickly, we're coming down from the stars to feel drowsy, shuddering, and feeling as if something spectacular just happened, and it did!

Sexual orgasmic climaxes are thrilling beyond anything else we humans experience, but, yeah, it is a unique type of paralyzing pleasure that's unlike any other pleasure in life. And then there is the shivering zipping last after-effect-pleasure making me shudder with contentment. I lie on the floor, cum squishing under me, embracing it all for a few moments, and then murmur, "Ooh, man, Billy. Whoa, bro..."

He chuckles, "Yeah, that sort of rocked my world too. We blew our loads together again; not too many people do that as often as you and I."

As I said, cum is squishy under me, and when Billy sighs and pulls his dick out, he lies next to me, smiling and saying mischievously, "You're lying in your spunk again, aren't you?"

I mutter, "Uh-huh. You are so 'effing perceptive. How'd you know that?"

Shrugging, he mumbles, "Brilliant mind. Ya know, shooting off a climax is free, so maybe that old saying that the best things in life are free is true. Plus, shipping and handling, of course."

I chuckle as he reaches into the pouch hanging off the back of the passenger seat and pulls out half a dozen packets of Handiwipes, adding, "Getting messy with jism is the curse of the bottom boy. There's nothing I can do as your primo top except sympathize with you."

Smirking at him, I take four packets from him, sitting up and mumbling, "Bottom boys like me are so grateful for superior top boys like you; we don't mind the mess."

He's wiping his dick, smirking, then muttering, "What an excellent attitude you have." Then he opens another packet, mumbling, "Lift your ass, and I'll help you clean up."

Together we get most of the mess cleaned off me, then work on the mess on the SUV's carpet. Satisfied we did the best we could, we're sitting as usual against the back of the front seat with a wipe under me, Billy's arm across my shoulders.

He says, "In all seriousness, on a scale of zero to ten, how much does the messing around without lubricant hurt you? Be honest because I'm not doing it if it hurts you above, um, say, a level five pain."

I'm like, "Okay, here's the deal. When I was four years old, my Mom inadvertently closed the car door on my index finger," and I hold it up for him to see, adding, "It's still a little bit bent as you can see. That hurt like an eight on your scale. When you humped your bark-covered pudgy hard boner inside me, it hurt like a, let's say, a three, and then, ninety seconds later, I was in a world of pleasure, the hurt number three already lost to my memory banks."

He nods his head, "Un-huh. You're so full of shit your big shiny pretty blue eyes are turning brown."

I say, "Okay, it was a number four pain," and we both chuckle.

He mutters, "Liar," and squeezes my shoulders, adding, "I still say that's a miracle ass you've got there. One in a generation."

"Yeah, mine and the other generational asses are on the gay porn models."

He mutters, "Fuck them," and I go, "You'd like to, wouldn't you?"

Billy goes, "Nope, just you. I went a couple of years without topping anybody until you came along."

I knew that, before doing it with me, Billy hadn't done fucking messing around since his junior year of high school. We talked about our messing around tonight, trying to figure out why it was so hot. Then, we talk about how Billy single-handedly expanded my musical taste exponentially by introducing me to Elvis.

I go, "You probably doubled my musical knowledge."

We joke around about that, then share a smoke with Billy chastising himself for forgetting to bring one of his stolen joints tonight.

I'm like, "We don't need artificial stimulants, Billy. Not when you're the best guy/guy top on the planet."

He snickered, then mumbled, "Well, yeah, there's that."

Later, we mess around fucking again. This time with Billy wearing a condom, me on my back, an arm around each leg, pulling them out of the way. It's slow and steady messing around, lasting ten or twelve minutes before I have a screeching-hot climax that pretty much matches the intensity of my earlier one. Still, the longer trip reaching orgasm was much dreamier, more of a making love messing around. Our first messing around was a rocket to outer space kind of thing.

Billy's climax followed thirty seconds after mine. I watched him closely, seeing in his expression his climax building and building, then exploding. From his expression, wow, it looked like it was as intense a climax as mine. He shook a little, his eyes fluttering before finally collapsing on me, his dick pulling out, then me hugging him as he came back down to Earth.

Quite a wonderful night, one in which I never gave a thought about our friend Pat being home alone, not until Billy, wearing his glasses, was driving me home. Then I wondered what Pat did tonight.

Before drifting off to sleep, it occurs to me that Billy has a birthday next week or the week after. I'm going to find out exactly when it is and buy him a birthday present. That makes me think of the redheaded guy from work, Mark, who I may be having lunch with on Monday. I thought of him because he and I had the same birthday last week, except he's one year older. Yeah, well, birthdays, when you're a kid, are a much bigger deal, ya know?

Sunday, it's not quite snowing, but the rain coming down is almost slush. Miserable day weather-wise, and no one invites me to do anything, so I'm content to stay in and watch a boring Phillies' Spring Training baseball game. Boring, but it's warm and sunny there.

Yeah, Florida's weather looks sunny and warm, while ours is still cold, wet, and windy here in Springfield, Pennsylvania. Everyone I know sensibly stays inside tonight. Billy texted that he's studying, and it's just as well because I'm kind of studying too. I'm reading the material Serenity gave me about United Paper Products. I'm also trying to psyche myself up for tomorrow, the first day at my full-time job.

Then, I wake up Monday morning and find that the first day of the rest of my life has arrived. I'm up at six-thirty showering and as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory. The unknown awaits me... I'm not good at dealing with unknowns.

Making matters worse, it's still raining, but happily, it's not slushy rain like yesterday. Somehow, I was smart enough to write on one of the pamphlets Serenity gave me what I was to wear to work... jeans and sneakers. That's a relief because I only have one suit, and wearing the same suit to work every day would not only have been uncomfortable but awkwardly embarrassing as well.

Dressed in my best jeans, sneakers, and high school sweatshirt, I go downstairs and put a K-cup in the coffee maker, my fingers shaking a little with nervousness. Mom says, "Oh my goodness, Gary, you're up early this morning."

Can I believe she doesn't know this is my first day on the job at United Paper Products? I'm like, "This is my first day at my full-time job in Philly. I'm not up early; I'm right on time."

She goes, "I thought that was next week, sweetheart. I'm sorry; what can I make you for breakfast?"

Hmm, perhaps what's happening in my life isn't the most important thing in Mom's life. I mumble, "Nothing, thanks. I'm too nervous to eat anything."

Then, to show I'm not a self-centered boob, for something to say, I ask, "Um, how are things with your job at Weis Market?"

She passes me the container of half and half, "Things are pretty much the same as usual, honey, except, like you, I'm starting a new position there today, and I'm a little nervous about it too. We'll both do very well, though. I'm sure of that."

Jesus, am I to believe there are still going to be things I'll be nervous about when I live into my 'effing forties? What's up with that? When is life going to be smooth sailing... age one hundred?

I commiserated with Mom about her new position, which I knew nothing about until a minute ago. Strangely, I feel better after we've mutually reinforced to one another that variations of our new jobs have been done successfully by many before us, and we're not dunces, so we can do the jobs as well or better than most.

Standing at the bus stop a half hour later, a light cold rain pinging off my resort baseball cap; I lose some of the confidence I felt a little while ago with Mom. We can reinforce the shit out of one another, but it's still an unknown new experience I'm facing involving random strangers, and I didn't all of a sudden get better at handling new things with random strangers. I'm still me, a person who doesn't handle new stuff very well.

And, where's the 'effing bus?

It arrived only three minutes late but seemed more like twenty minutes late. It stinks inside the crowded bus, wet clothes giving off a musty odor. Everyone is looking grouchy, including me. A rainy Monday morning going to work on public transportation; what could be worse? Well, doing that on your first day at a new job; that's worse.

Then, thank God the train is waiting when I get to the 69th Street Station, but there are hordes of people here, too, all of them subtly pushing and acting as if everybody is inconveniencing them! Is this what it's like every day? Jesus!

Getting on my train, I find it's even more crowded than the bus, with inconsiderate people wearing smelly wet backpacks pushing against me. I manage to fight my way to a seat next to a pole at an exit, the seat barely big enough for two slim size people like me. But, naturally, a large man with a large stomach hanging grotesquely over his belt sits next to me.

Jesus, if I hadn't slid over until I was squished against this pole, he would have sat on my right leg. He's talking too loudly on his cell phone as he gives me a dirty glance as if it's my fault the seat is this size. I look away as he says into his phone, "Do you mean Appleman's poems?" He pronounced it "pomes."

At my stop, I need to fight my way through aggressive people getting on the train at the Board Street Station, where I need to get off. Animals!

Just managing to get off before the doors close, I'm blowing out my cheeks, exasperated, then calming down when I realize I'm walking to the office with fifteen minutes to spare. Okay, it wasn't that bad, except my clothes are getting wetter because it's raining harder here in the city.

Hurrying along, I push through the front door and then step aside to allow other more aggressive people behind me to enter. I take a deep breath, trying to be blase about everything. Taking my coat off and straightening my clothes, I congratulate myself for achieving my first goal, which was getting to work on time. I accomplished that under the worst conditions possible. It'll be easier tomorrow.

When the group of employees following me inside the building gives me an opening, I step in line, take off my hat, and tell a bored-looking woman with large hoop earrings, "Hi, I'm Gary Wallingford. I'm, ah, a new employee. I'm supposed to work on the third floor for United Paper Products Inc., um, company."

She squints her eyes as if she finds what I said hard to believe, asking, "Really?"

I nod, and she says, "You say you're a new employee, so I'll need to see some ID, hon."

Well, I understand security and all that, so I nod again and show her my driver's license. Her name tag says, 'Florence.'

Florence looks at the picture on my license, looks at me, then smiles and says, "Cute picture, cute smile too, Gary. My driver's license pictures always look like they're police mug shots."

As I try to process that information, she ruffles through a bunch of laminated ID cards for new employees, finally coming up with my new official employee ID; she says, "Let me hook this on a manager's lanyard for you. The regular ones are basically string."

As people pile up behind me, she takes her time picking out a nice-looking lanyard, then hooks my ID card to it, smiling and mumbling, "Here you go, put this around your neck, young Gary Wallingford, heh-heh."

I do that as she grins, "Tomorrow morning, hon, all you'll need to do is flash your ID card at one of us here at reception and go on by. Good luck with the new job, Gary."

Nodding and trying to smile, I glance back, seeing her pretty much ignore the next person in line holding up his ID as say tells the plump lady working next to her, "He's adorable. Did you see him?"

The plump lady nods, "He looks like my grandson, Ricky."

The woman showing her ID to Florence clears her throat loudly, and Florence waves her hand, indicating that the woman should pass by.

Well, Florence was super nice, and she put me in a better mood as I stood at the bank of elevators fiddling with my ID card. Glancing around, I'm hoping to see my lunch buddy, Mark, but don't see him. Then, getting into the crowded elevator car, my heart started beating fast again.

On the third floor, three of us get off, and the other two walk in different directions, neither of them saying anything to anyone. I nervously grin at the woman manning the reception desk, and she asks, "Can I help you?"

Sort of holding up my ID, I tell her my story, and she sort of shrugs, then mutters, "Okay," but with an impatient edge to her voice. I stand here looking at her expectantly until she finally adds, "Um, well, ah, you say you're an employee, so you aren't required to check in with me. Don't you know who to report to?"

Feeling stupid, I blush, mumbling, "Yes, Maggie-something, in the mailroom/stock, um, room."

Raising her eyebrows, she nods her head, saying, "Maggie Dwyer, huh?"

Tapping my foot, I nod again, "Yep, that's her."

She shrugs again, showing me the palms of her hand like, 'What do you want from me?'

Faking a cough, I go, "Have a nice day," and take my lanyard and my red face into the bowels of the office, trying to remember how to get to the big busy room that's at the back of the third floor where Maggie Dwyer has her office.

Shaking my head, I'm thinking: nice going, asshole; maybe some notes taken some weeks ago would have allowed you to have a smoother entrance on your first day. At least I'm early!

Then I see Serenity in her cubicle, so I know where to go from here. Walking past her cubicle, our eyes meet, and she has this curious expression as if she's thinking, 'Who the hell is that kid, and what's he doing in here?'

Well, it was almost three weeks ago, and we spent only about twenty minutes together. The rest of the time, I was filling out the application or gazing out the windows, looking at the city view from that big conference room.

At the extreme back part of the third floor, just as it was when I interviewed, is the large, mostly glass-sectioned-off mailroom/stockroom. It's sectioned-off because it's noisy in there where people do the actual work that supports all the cubicle employees who are doing, um, I don't know what. Telephoning each other, maybe, or merely looking busy and making plans for lunch.

That's unfair of me. I don't know how a business operates. All these people are probably more important to the company than whatever I'll be doing.

Forgetting about all that. Taking a deep breath, at four minutes to eight, I open the door and go inside; then, without looking left or right, walk directly to Maggie Dwyer's office at the very end of this big area, where I knock on the door.

She looks pissed off, glancing up at my knock. Frowning slightly as if she's thinking the same thing Serenity was thinking, she uses two fingers to do a slight wave as an invitation for me to come into her office.

Isn't anyone in this 'effing company expecting me?

As I'm second-guessing myself that it was maybe last Monday or next Monday that's my official first day on the job, I go inside mumbling, "I'm..." and she snaps her fingers, standing up, saying, "My new temp, Grant something, right?"

I go, "No, I'm Gary Wallingford."

Still standing, she nods, "Oh, um, yes, of course," and begins quickly shuffling through a lot of papers on her desk, obviously with no clue why I'm here.

She's looking pissed off again, muttering, "Nobody ever gives me a heads-up about anything. I'm supposed to remember every damn thing on my own even though I've got twenty jobs going on at the same time back here."

Oh, that's right, I remember Maggie was kind of a negative thinker about everything when Serenity introduced me to her.

Pulling out the four-page stapled application I filled out weeks ago; Maggie sits down and motions for me to sit in a chair with a number of manila folders on it. Reading the front page of the application, without looking up, she mutters, "Take your wet hat off, put those folders on my desk, and sit down."

Putting my hat and coat on the floor next to the chair, I carefully put the folders from the chair on top of the other folders at the corner of her desk. Sitting, I ask, "This is the correct date for my first day, right? No one appears to be expecting..."

Still reading the front page, she interrupts, "Yes, yes! What? No, I was expecting you."

Looking up, she adds, "I was distracted because Emily called in sick again, and, well, that's not your problem. I assume you know how to operate a Pitney Bowes DL2000 letter opener, and I hope to hell your answer is yes."

She's back on the temp thing. This blows! I'm probably not cut out for office work. What did Dad say about plumbers making good money?

It feels as if it's a hundred degrees in here. With perspiration forming under my arms, I mutter, "No, not that Pitney Bowes one, um, no, I don't know, um, much about that. I'm not a temp, though."

She's looking at page three, still scanning my application and looking at the mostly blank spaces about my qualifications, frowning again. Then, dropping the application, she looks up and does what I think she thinks is a smile, and, shaking her head, she says, "My bad. I thought you were the temporary guy who has the experience, um, well, never mind that. You're the new office boy, obviously! What else would you be? I'm glad you're here. Welcome!"

Oh, so she's finally figured that out. Nodding, I give my best impression of Billy's fabulous smile, murmuring, "Thank you so much. I was starting to think, um..." but she was not listening.

She's briskly walking to the door with eyeglasses on a long chain around her neck, swinging recklessly. When she opens the door, I hear much more activity going on out there than there was ten minutes ago. I strain my head around to see what's up as Maggie, with that big voice of hers, yells, "Barb, is Fredrico in yet?"

I guess he is because she yells, "Well, tell him to get his ass in here."

Muttering, "I hate Monday mornings," she stalks back to her desk, saying, "Freddy will be your supervisor, Grant."

Grant?

A handsome young Hispanic fellow in his mid-twenties comes in without knocking. Smiling, showing sparkling white teeth, he closes the door, "You bellowed for me, Mag?"

She says in her big voice, "I didn't bellow; I asked if you'd arrived yet."

With a smile remaining on his handsome face, Fredrico says, "It's eight after eight, Maggie. I arrived eight minutes ago. When have I ever been late?"

She mutters, "Only every other day."

As he pats my shoulder, ignoring Maggie's snarky comment, my handsome supervisor says, "I'm assuming this child is my much-anticipated new office boy."

Holding up my application, Maggie says, "Here's the application for young Grant, um, no, wait," as she's obviously noticing again that my first name on the application isn't Grant.

Then to me, she tries that smile again, unsuccessfully, and says, "You're in good hands with Freddy. It's great having you on board. Good luck to you."

To Frederico, she waves her hand, "He's all yours, Freddy."

He pats my shoulder again, saying, "Let's go, Grant. I have a hundred things for you to do."

Bringing my coat and hat, I walk out with Fredrico. Looking back at Maggie, I say, "Thank you." She waves her hand dismissively, like... yeah, yeah, get out of here.

Before doing any of those hundred things Fredrico mentioned, I tell him my name. He laughs, "It's not unheard of for Maggie to get someone's name wrong. Hah-ha, she can't remember most of our names, so don't take offense."

I ask, "What, um, should I call you?"

He shrugs, "Well, I like being called Fredrico. Maggie is the only person who calls me Freddy."

His complexion is similar to George's, a smooth, hairless, pretty face with a pale creamy tan complexion. He's so handsome I need to force myself to look away. Then I notice a wedding band on his left hand and wonder if he has a husband or a wife.

We walk around this large area with Fredrico introducing me to the other workers in the department, telling them that I'm his new assistant. I like that title better than office boy. All of the other workers are older than Fredrico, but I think he's their boss, although I'm not sure. Most were women, with one of the exceptions being an older black guy who didn't appear friendly, barely nodding his head when I was introduced.

When I've met everyone, already having forgotten all their names, Fredrico says, "It's after nine, so we'll check out the employees' lounge now. It's where we take our fifteen-minute breaks and where we eat lunch. Did you bring lunch?"

Shaking my head, I go, "No, was I supposed to?"

He shakes his head, "It's your choice. You can eat here or eat out. We have an hour for lunch either way."

In the lounge, there are a surprising number of people drinking coffee and eating donuts. There are many tables, and vending machines, one of the vending machines contains packaged sandwiches and containers of one-serving soups. There is a microwave oven to heat the soup. Another vending machine is filled with snacks, and another with sodas and juices. It's a very clean, nice spacious room that's obviously used by other departments as well as the mailroom/stockroom.

Fredrico says hello to a few people, then deposits a quarter in a coffee machine, asking me, "How do you take your coffee? Regular or decaf?"

I say, "Regular and, um, it only costs a quarter?"

He nods, "Yes, the company subsidizes all of the vending machines. See, the snacks and sodas are also a quarter."

Handing me the cup of coffee, he mutters, "The sugar and cream are right there," pointing at a small counter. Then he adds, "The sandwiches, which are pretty good, and the various soups are a dollar each, which is why many of us eat lunch here. Save some money, huh?"

His smile is brilliant, challenging Billy's for the best I've ever seen. He gets coffee for himself and puts in cream and sugar; then we sit at a sparkling clean table.

Blowing on his paper cup of coffee, he says, "This room is for our department, plus, as you can see, for those working in the sales and customer service departments. Then there is another larger lunch facility for the rest of the third floor."

He tells me, "Ordinarily, I'd spend a couple of days with you explaining and training you on the various operations we do in the department, and I will eventually do that. Today, however, we have a specific need created by the absence of our substitute DL2000 letter opener operator."

Nodding, I mutter, "Oh, I see," remembering Maggie mentioning that.

Swallowing coffee, Fredrico says, "We had to part ways with the full-time operator, so Emily Cora has been handling that machine, but she called in sick Friday and again today. It looks like it's going to be a longer-term illness than we anticipated. Maggie put in a request at HR for a temp, but so far, a DL2000 operator hasn't been found."

I'm concentrating on being interested in what he's saying, but it's a strain.

Smiling, he goes, "Lucky for us, we now have Gary Wallingford to save the day. I'll train you on how to operate the machine, and then you'll catch us up on the backlog by the end of the week, hopefully. Maybe, by then, Emily will be willing to come back to work. If so, ta-da, I'll have another experienced DL2000 operator to back up the always-ill Ms. Cora. That's a luxury I've never had before."

He goes on to explain a little about the other jobs I'll be trained on later, mentioning that the carrier aspect that service manager, Randy Mullins, envisions me doing as a replacement for UPS and FedEx is Randy's pipe dream. It won't be happening for the foreseeable future because there's too much for me to do here.

That's a relief because I could see myself driving around Philly, Pittsburg, or God only knows where else in horrific traffic. I can get here okay, so I'm glad that this is the only place I'll need to get to.

Finished our coffee, and it was pretty good coffee; Fredrico took me to the DL2000 machine. This machine looks equal parts intimidating and complicated with computer input icons on a twelve-inch square screen, a dozen levers, a razor-sharp component, plus large piles of different size envelopes.

Fredrico says, "First, safety! That's job one, as the saying goes."

We put on safety goggles. Mine smells faintly of cheap perfume, so these must be whatshername's goggles. I lie and mumble, "Um, these goggles are kind of blurry." They aren't, but I don't want to complain that they stink. I'm optimistically hoping for a new pair to wear.

And I get my wish. Fredrico opens a drawer under the long counter and hands me new goggles, still in their plastic wrapper. I nod, "Thank you," and he grins, showing a dimple on each cheek, saying, "Was Emily's Aquiline Pink Sugar perfume at three dollars a bottle hard to breathe in?"

I snicker, "How'd you know? And how do you know the name of her perfume?"

Chuckling, he says, "Everyone knows the name because Emily sells perfume and cosmetics on the side. Terrible perfume and worse cosmetics. I bought some to support her efforts, though, as many of us did. They were very inexpensive. My wife smelled them and laughed out loud at how terrible they were. We don't tell Emily that, obviously."

Gee, it was nice of these people to help out a fellow employee. Then, Fredrico proves to be a very good trainer, taking his time going over everything three times, saying, "You're obviously smart, Grant, um, Gary. Sorry about the name thing. I'll blame it on Maggie," and he laughs.

He continues, "You're smart, Gary, but there are some confusing aspects about running this machine, and it could be dangerous, so I'm going over everything a number of times. I'm going to work with you all morning once we turn this bitch on, okay? Don't be offended; it's not that I think you're dense or anything."

He's so 'effing nice! To demonstrate how closely I'm paying attention to him, I stare at him, nodding and mumbling, "Uh-huh, yes, okay. I understand." And stuff like that. The thing is, though, he's so good-looking I'd be looking for reasons to stare at him anyway.

This isn't like the crush I initially had on my boss at Weis Markets. Back then, I hadn't fallen in love with Billy yet, so I was vulnerable to any semi-attractive guy. Then, it wasn't long before I was asking myself, what did I ever see in John Baxter? This is different in that I don't have a crush on Fredrico; I'm just admiring a startlingly handsome young man, a handsome married young man.

We spend an hour imputing to the computer the information for the different sizes and heft of the envelopes, then Fredrico runs a dozen of each type of envelope through this sort of scary machine. It's tremendously effective when given the proper computer instructions. Even with proper input, though, it occasionally jams and shuts down automatically. Then there are specific things needed to be done which become quite tedious, but I try not to get frustrated.

While Fredrico was explaining everything three times, he had an operation manual for the DL2000. He was circling the appropriate areas with a red Magic Marker so I could refer to it when I needed to without reading a lot of unnecessary gibberish. Also, every ten minutes or so, he'd get texts from people working in other areas he was responsible for, and he'd calmly handle those situations.

Finally, at eleven o'clock, he's merely watching me working the machine without coaching me. It's stressful because I don't want to disappoint him, and I haven't so far. Then, at five of twelve, he tells me, "Take your lunch break now, Gary. You've done excellent work this morning; tremendous progress. Look me up somewhere on the floor at one o'clock, and we'll review everything. Great job!"

Oh man, he's the best boss anyone could ever have. I thank him profusely for all his help, and he says, "I thank you, Gary! You're making my job easy. I'll see you at one. Have a good lunch."

Wearing my coat and hat, I go down in the elevator to the main floor. Sure, I'm feeling strung out a little, but pretty good too. Getting out of the elevator, I look for Mark but don't see him. Maybe he doesn't work here anymore. That's disappointing.

Going past the reception desk, I wave at Florence, but she only looks blankly at me. I apparently don't leave a lasting impression on anyone.

Outside, it's drizzling rain and misty, so I don't want to eat lunch in the rain at the food truck. Not knowing where the Chinese restaurant Mark mentioned is located, I walk aimlessly down one block and up another, eventually seeing a sign for a small place called, The Lunch Counter.

There's a line inside, but at least it's dry in here. I'm reading the menu on the wall above the long counter next to the register where you place your order and pay. The line moves quickly, and I order a cheese steak and Coke for $15.95. Jesus, expensive!

When my number comes up, I get my lunch, then look for a place to eat it. There are people at all the tables, although not all the seats are taken at most tables. Hmm.

No, I'm not asking if someone minds if I share the table with them, so I eat standing up at a counter facing a wall with four others. None of my four fellow diners, thankfully, are the overly sociable type, and the five of us eat in silence. We're silent, but the small restaurant is far from quiet; it's very noisy. That helps, actually, but it isn't a pleasant lunchtime experience eating too fast just to get it over with.

So, I'm done eating lunch a mere twenty minutes after leaving the office, with forty minutes left of my lunch hour. The weather is not conducive to walking the streets, so I go back to the office, show my ID card to a new guy at the reception desk, then go to the third floor and continue working the envelope opening machine.

At one o'clock, Fredrico says, "Oh, you've already started. Good."

He reviews the important stuff, then watches me for fifteen minutes, pats my back, and says, "Good work, Gary, but we need to get the open envelopes delivered to different departments now. This is normally done hourly by our delivery girl, um, delivery person."

For this, he motions for a woman named Rose to join us. I met her this morning in the mailroom unit. She comes over pushing a cart that I help load with separated piles of open mail, and off she goes to the different departments on the floor, and it was all done without any chit-chat, which was fine by me.

At two o'clock, Fredrico leaves me on my own again, and nothing untoward happens. I'm in a groove, a trance, or something, so I skip an afternoon break. Then five o'clock seems to happen quickly. I only noticed it was quitting time from the louder chatter of people rustling around and getting their coats on. Fredrico comes over, saying, "Damn, I meant to come over to you earlier. There is a procedure for shutting down the machine that takes ten or twelve minutes."

I'm like, "No problem. Show me how."

He shakes his head, "No, I'll do it tonight, Gary. You did a wonderful job today. I'll show you tomorrow how to shut this bitch down. Go catch your train. Nice job today!"

The trip back home was not as bad as the trip in, but it wasn't pleasant. Traveling during rush hour with too many people isn't fun, whether driving or using public transportation. It's a new experience for me, but one that's become routine and familiar to millions, and soon, it will be to me too. Definitely doable, and I'll do it, which will make living close to the college campus as a college student seem that much sweeter by comparison!

I didn't know what to expect on my first day, and it certainly wasn't what I could have imagined, but Fredrico was awesome, so it was okay. Plus, I made a hundred bucks, cha-ching!

Now I'm super psyched to be with Billy tonight. It will be fun telling him about my first day at work. Then, what comes after our talking together makes me smile with anticipation. I didn't see Billy's dad, who works for the company, and who basically got me the job. Mr. Underwood travels as a salesman and might not have even been in the building.

Whatever, how wonderful to have my date with Billy to look forward to.

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

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