Invited

Chapter 29

( Mark Jones )

Probably very few people experience a stress-free first day at a new job; I didn't, although my first day didn't totally suck either. It got off to a rough start, but once my immediate boss, Fredrico, took charge, my day improved markedly. For one thing, he is way handsome and only a few years older than me, so that's cool. Plus, he's wicked competent and a very nice guy as well; an excellent combination for a boss!

He's also married, but so what? I'm already in love and, therefore, not interested in other guys that way. Still, it's alright for me to admire Fredrico's handsomeness, if that's even a word.

I'm thinking these thoughts while showering, getting sparkling clean for my date with Billy tonight. He's usually sparkling clean for me, too, although he doesn't need to be, not on my account. I can't conjure up a condition he'd be in that would turn me off. That's right; I've got unconditional love for him.

Being in love is a crazy state of mind, though. I probably couldn't convincingly describe to anyone, couldn't articulate properly why it is that I have this unconditional love for Billy.

Hmm, that's a weird thought, but it's true. I could say I love everything about him, and if someone asks, could you be a bit more specific, I could say, well, I love how he looks, smells, sounds, and feels, and they could ask, why is that? See, then I'm stumped except to unhelpfully say I don't know; It's simply how I feel.

Maybe part of the reason I love him is that he chose me to be his special messing-around friend. I'd never had a real friend before Billy, a best friend who I'd see every day. Dave is an occasional friend, and while most of the other guys in the neighborhood seemed to like me alright, no one thought of me as their best friend until Billy.

He told me earlier today that he never had a best friend, either. I'll take his word for that, but what he didn't mention is whenever anything was going on in the neighborhood, he was always called and invited to join in. If I, by chance, happened to be around and someone noticed me, they'd ask me to join in, but no one thought to call me. I wasn't on anyone's radar, so to speak. Plus, I never thought to take the initiative of inserting myself into the conversation.

Billy inserted me into his conversation. Then there's the unexpected gay aspect of Billy's and my special friendship that resulted in our love affair, which completely changed my life.

Somehow, I easily slipped into gay messing-around activities with him, which should have surprised me much more than it did. I mean, I went through seventeen years without giving gay messing around as much as a single thought. Not until that afternoon with the Butterscotch Krimpets and Billy Underwood; things took off from there. Curious, huh?

But why am I having these thoughts? What difference does it make in how it all happened? I've never been as happy as I am now that I'm Billy's girl/guy and best friend who he loves. Why start second-guessing myself about this fortuitous and most important event of my life?

Turning off the shower, I grab a towel and get out of the tub. Drying myself, I say out loud, "It is all very curious, though."

During dinner, Mom and Dad grill me about my first day at work. Sure, it's annoying to be grilled, but, on the other hand, I'm glad they're interested, so I explained how my day played out. They were nodding their heads approvingly, so that made me feel good. I may have embellished a few parts of my day and downplayed a few of my less-than-shining moments, but overall, I gave a fairly accurate description. They seem proud of me, and I'm kind of proud of myself as well.

After dinner, I wash up, brush my teeth, re-comb my hair, and, in general, check myself out. Satisfied I'm looking good, I go downstairs, put on my puffer winter coat, and shout, "I'm meeting Billy to, um, hang out," then immediately go outside, avoiding the necessity of answering my Dad's question, "What's that mean, exactly; hang out?"

Billy's only five minutes late picking me up, which is early for him. Omigod, he's better looking now that he's wearing eyeglasses than he is without them. They bring his facial features together or something.

There's his big welcoming smile too! Getting in the van, I can't help but smile back, saying, "Seeing you always makes my blood flow fast and my heart pound harder."

Billy mutters, "Uh-huh. Could you try really hard not to say cornily embarrassing shit like that? No offense intended."

I go, "Sure, I can try. You look cool with your glasses."

Driving away from the curb, he shrugs, "Thanks, but it's not necessary to keep telling me that. I'm resigned that I need to wear them."

"Well, I won't keep saying it, but you do look good with glasses. How was your day?"

"College can be boring, Gary, but everybody knows that. Three classes, almost in a row without much of a break in between, is not what anyone would call fun. Even so, I paid attention in all three classes, took appropriate notes, and didn't piss anyone off as I was doing those things, so it was an average, okay day. Driving to and from the college, however, sucked as always."

Glancing at me, smiling, he says, "Now I'm with you, though, and things are looking up."

Lightly punching his shoulder, I'm like, "Nice! How flattering! Hey, do you want to know about my first day at work?"

Glancing at me again, with a great smile on his face, he says, "My Dad already told me that you're a hit. Apparently, everyone you came in contact with said you were an adorable and conscientious young fellow."

Snickering, I mutter, "That sounds like a big fat pile of horse doo-doo. Plus, I didn't see your dad."

Idling at a red light, Billy looks at me and goes, "That's because Dad was in New York all day, but he was talking with his buddy, Randy Mullins, who had talked to your boss, Maggie Dwyer, who had talked to your supervisor, the hot Fredrico Salvador, and everyone gave you rave reviews."

Chuckling, I mumble, "The big fat pile of horse doo-doo is getting higher and higher. I'm so sure the first day of an office boy would elicit all that communication. The person who hired me, a pretty lady named Serenity, didn't even remember me when I walked right by her, making eye contact. Instead, she was thinking, who the hell is that kid and what's he doing in here?"

Billy laughs, then says, "Okay, nobody said all those things about you, but I'll bet that's what everyone was thinking, especially the part about you being adorable," and he sings, "All your dreams are on their way... see how they shine!"

I mutter, "Now you're being embarrassing, although you sang that almost as well as Elvis."

We parked behind the dumpster; Billy put his glasses in the eyeglass case, then we got out of the van to put the back two rows of seats down. Getting in the back, we sat together the way we always do.

Billy mutters, "It's odd that the dumpster doesn't smell bad."

Snuggling against him, "Well, no one is using it. It's looked exactly the same and hasn't moved an inch since we started parking behind it." Then, remembering that I need to find out Billy's birthday, I ask, "By the way, when is your birthday? It's this week, isn't it?"

Looking out the side window, Billy snickers and says, "I guess you're right about the dumpster, but it's disgusting the way people throw their used condoms out near the dumpster."

The condoms are all ours, of course, so we chuckle about that; then Billy says, "My birthday is Friday, but don't you dare buy me a present! I didn't get you one, and I'll be wicked pissed off if you embarrass me with a present. I'm serious, Gary!"

Huh, he sounds serious, so I won't get him one. Maybe a card and a couple of packs of Butterscotch Krimpets.

I mutter, "Roger that, no birthday present!

He nods, then goes, "So, Gary, what did happen on your first day at work." I start from the beginning, telling him about it. He knows the people I interacted with because he worked in the mailroom for a month at the end of last summer.

We commiserated about Fredrico's excellent good looks; then, Billy told me Fredrico has twin girls with his wife of two years. She worked at the reception desk until Fredrico knocked her up, or, at least, that's the scuttlebutt, the office gossip.

As usual, our conversation led to some delicious making out, which then morphed into sexy messing around without either of us needing to suggest it. It just happens in a glorious way, seemingly on its own. Once we start, it's Billy who guides us from there, and I'm a more than willing follower.

My being so willing as the girl/guy to follow Billy's lead has a lot to do with our incredibly compatible lovemaking. We're in perfect sync, so there's zero conflict and zero arguments. We're two perfectly matched young gay guys, one hundred percent contented with one another.

Naked except for socks as we mess around making out in the back of the overheated SUV, quietly moaning in sexual arousal until it seems nothing could be better. Then it gets better when our bodies are joined, his hard as stone, smooth chubby sex organ inside my rectum with pleasure sensations of a lifetime soaring through both of us. That goes on for five or six luscious minutes until it gets even better again as our climaxes build and build to a point of no return. Then, as we fly to the stars, climax happens; a supernova of sexual pleasure that blows our minds leaving us quivering together. We drift back down to earth as if awakening from the most perfect dream in each other's arms.

Reality is quick to blow in on us, though, and we notice we're kind of sweaty and messy. Semen can get awfully sticky because, as everyone knows, it contains citric and free amino, fructose, enzymes, phosphorylcholine, procoagulant, potassium, and zinc. We rarely speak of that, however, as we don't care what's in it.

With his eyes looking sleepy, Billy smiles, asking, "How was that, Gary?"

He reaches for wipes as I grin, "That wasn't bad at all. My brain exploded for a second, so, yeah, that was a passing concern for a brief moment, but I'm doing good now. Feeling spectacular, as a matter of fact."

We're acting smug as we clean up; smug because we're pretty sure nobody we know is having the time of their life the way Billy and I are. Satisfied we've cleaned up enough, we sit together as we always do, damp with perspiration even though it's chilly outside.

Billy mutters, "I'm sick of cold weather! Keep your 'effing fingers crossed that we've seen the last of the snow. It's April, but that doesn't mean we're safe from blizzard-like conditions here in the Northeast. In 1997 on April fools' days, on April first that year, the Boston area got 24.4 inches of snow. Windy conditions blew drifts that covered parked cars. You only could find your car by looking for the antenna. Yeah, in those days, cars had these tall antennas that stood up higher than the car."

Lazily lying against him, I go, "If my math is correct, you weren't born in 1997. Maybe your parents didn't even know each other back then, so how do you know about this April first storm and the car antennas?"

He goes, "They were married in 1990. Yeah, they knew each other. My brother was born in 2000, and me less than two years later; then, I guess my parents stopped doing it."

I ask, "How about the storm? And they didn't need to stop doing it. There are birth control pills. Hell, they may do it tonight for all we know."

Billy mutters, "Gross! Um, I read about the storm online, of course."

It's kind of funny that Billy said, 'Gross!' that his parents may have sex tonight. I mean, he's fucking me up the ass, and he thinks his parents having sex is gross? I know what he means, though. I don't want to envision my parents fucking either. Yeah, I'm dropping this topic from my mind.

Holding up a joint, one of the ones he found in his brother's room, Billy says, "Let's get high."

I give a less than enthusiastic shrug, mumbling, "Sure, why not?"

Looking at the joint, then at me, he goes, "Or, we don't need to smoke it if you don't want to. You know, it's okay for you not to do every 'effing thing I suggest. Tell me if you'd rather not smoke this."

"I'd rather not," and he puts it back in his shirt pocket, smiling, "Then we won't. It's as simple as that. So, what do you want to do?"

Grinning at him, I'm like, "Guess," and he chuckles, "Me too."

After some giggling and wrestling around, I ended up on my back, holding my legs held back, as he slid his hard cock up my ass. I'm trembling with anticipation for a hard messing around, a pounding trip to the moon and back, but he does it romantically slow instead. His steady thrusting pushing his boner back and forth inside me, soon has me writhing with pleasure as I squirm on the carpet of the SUV, an arm around each of my legs, rocking slowly on my curved spine, staring into the serious expression on Billy's face as he makes low moans of pleasure, his eyelids fluttering.

This qualifies in every way as making love. It's what people mean when they say they are making love. It's experiencing the kind of mutual extreme pleasure that only one special person out of eight billion humans currently sharing planet Earth can provide. No one else will do, not when making love as opposed to merely having sex with a partner, which is good, too, of course, but it isn't making love.

When Billy leans down, our lips touching, I let go of my legs and hug him around the neck, and we kiss. Eventually, our climaxes overtake everything, as they always do. Gasping into each other's mouths, teeth scraping, we climax together, seemingly lifting off the floor as the Cosmos explode in a blinding red glare.

Shaking and shuddering, our heads touching, we shiver with pleasure as electric sparks zip back and forth between us, then a calmness slips in as we sigh, our bodies melding together. Then, Billy's dick slid out of me, followed by his creamy juicy cum that drools down to the back of my scrotum.

There's cum squishing between us again, plus mixed saliva around our mouths, but that's alright because it's ours. Without moving, we lie like this for thirty seconds, our hearts pounding, our chests heaving. Then, slowing lifting off me, Billy murmurs, "Okay, that was kind of different, huh?"

Nodding, I mumble, "Kind of, yeah. My blast-off snuck up on me, but wow! We blew off at the same time again."

Flopping over on his back next to me, Billy snickers then mutters, "See how well I'm taking care of you?"

Grinning, looking at him, "Oh, for 'effing sure you're taking fabulous care of me, and you're taking care of yourself pretty well too."

Smiling his smile, he goes up on his elbow to look down at me, "Well, yeah, I guess, but that's secondary. I'm getting into this love bullshit you've been hounding me about for months; that's the most important thing. It's working out pretty well so far, too."

"Aren't you going to sing some Bridge Over Troubled Water to me?"

He makes a face, "No! I've already done that. It's yesterday's thing, anyway. How about this: Let's roll all our strength and all our sweetness into one ball and take our pleasure with rough strife through the iron gates of life?"

Rolling my eyes, I'm like, "Whatever are you talking about? What the hell does that even mean?"

Billy snickers, "And you claim to know about love! It's from a love poem by a guy in the middle of the sixteenth century named Andrew Marvell."

I'm like, "Was he drunk or on drugs, do you think?"

Laughing, Billy says, "Okay, poetry isn't your thing. It doesn't make much sense to me, either. I thought it might make sense to you, though. C'mon, let's get dressed; it's getting late."

As we put our clothes on, I mumble, "How can it be a love poem when he never mentions love?" Billy mutters, "I don't 'effing know."

Grinning and nodding, "I didn't think you'd know."

Changing the subject, I'm like, "Um, how did it work out carpooling with Pat today?"

As we're putting up the back two rows of seats, he says, "It was okay. I liked having the company, but I still had to drive in that insane traffic. He's driving Friday, so I'm looking forward to that."

I go, "Yep, that's what carpooling is; taking turns."

In the front seat, he mutters, "Yeah, well, no shit. Um, but I've been putting off telling you something because you'll be disappointed. It's this; I won't see you tomorrow. You'll be working during the day anyway, and my friend at college, Ron, has been bugging me to check out his cool motorcycle."

"Ron, the gay guy at college? That Ron?" You're going to check out his motorcycle all day and night?"

Shaking his head, Billy puts his glasses on, drives away from the dumpster, and sputters, "Three questions in a row, again. Don't be stupid, Gary. No, we're not checking his bike out all day and night! After he shows it off to me, we're going to ride the motorcycle to his parent's vacation house in the Poconos. They rent it out doing the skiing season, then vacation there in the summer."

I'm like, "Oh, they're rich, huh?"

Shrugging, Billy says, "I don't know. Ron needs to check the house out to see that the renters didn't trash the place. The roads are clear of snow all the way up there, so he asks me to ride up with him. Hey, doesn't it sound like fun riding a motorcycle up the mountains?"

"Yeah, I guess. Um, you told me this asshole is in a committed relationship, right?"

He goes, "He's not an asshole! But, yeah, he's in love and not interested in me like that. Ron's also the only guy I've met this semester who I think is kind of cool. Making new friends is a part of life, Gary."

Shrugging, I mutter, "Whatever, I guess. I'm not seven years old, though, so it's no big deal you've got this motorcycle friend, and I'm not devastatingly disappointed about not seeing you tomorrow night. I will miss you, though."

Smiling, he glances at me, "Yeah, you are disappointed, Gary. Don't lie to your guy. I knew you'd be upset, so I told Pat about it, and he promised to look out for you tomorrow night."

I emphatically say, "I do not need looking out for! Christ!"

He goes, "I look out for you, don't I?"

"That's different, and you know it. Did you tell Pat I needed him to look out for me?"

Billy stops at a red light smiling and mumbling, "No, um, I didn't put it exactly like that." I can tell he's lying, but I can't help snickering and muttering, "Yes, you did."

Driving away, then turning onto my street, he asks, "Do you want me to tell Pat not to bother you tomorrow night?"

Shrugging, I mumbled, "I don't care," then, "No, don't tell him that. I'll need someone to make out with if you're going to be in the 'effing Poconos."

Chuckling, Billy squeezes the back of my neck, giving me chills as I hunch my shoulder, "Don't, Billy."

He says, "Well, I've got you all set for tomorrow night, so now I don't need to worry about you." Grinning at me mischievously, he adds, "You'll be in good hands with Pat. He'll keep you out of trouble."

When he stops the SUV at the curb in front of my house, I say, "You're 'effing kidding me, right? You don't really believe I can't take care of myself? That would be wicked insulting!"

"Gary, if you can't tell when I'm teasing you by now, I don't know what to tell you. Yes, I'm teasing, alright?"

Undoing my seatbelt, I mutter, "I knew you were. I was teasing you by pretending I didn't know you were teasing me."

Laughing, he says, "Liar! It'll be cool riding that motorcycle, but I'll miss you tomorrow night."

I go, "Me too," and he pushes at the bridge of his glasses, saying, "Listen, you have fun making out with Pat, assuming he's interested in doing that."

I go, "What? We don't mess..."

"C'mon, Gary. We both know, except for a short fling with that guy, George whatshisname, you've only messed around with me, so you're 'effing inexperienced. That's alright, though. It's just that you need to realize having a friend who is gay, like Pat, doesn't mean he necessarily wants to mess around."

"Yes, daddy, but I had to tell you the same thing about me and my friend George. Hey, and you're positive this guy Ron isn't interested in you, right?"

"Yes, I already told you; I'm positive he isn't, and don't call me daddy. Give me a juicy kiss to hold me over until Wednesday night when I'll do extra special messing around for you."

We have a sloppy kiss that gets silly, making us both laugh. After the

kiss, I'm like, "Is there anything you want to say before I get out?"

Rolling his eyes behind his smudged eyeglasses, he mutters, "Um, do you mean I need to say I love you?"

I nod, "Good; yes, that's exactly what I meant. I knew you'd forget to say it if I didn't remind you. I love you too."

We smirk at each other; then I get out. He toots the horn and drives the six blocks to his house as I go inside, shaking my head. Damn, Billy's like my Mom treating me like a little kid. It's annoying when Mom does that, but I kind of like the way Billy does it.

It's weird that I told Billy about Pat and me making out, and now he doesn't seem to care. Maybe he's forgotten, although that seems unlikely.

Then, after a good night's sleep, I'm up and at it Tuesday morning. The public transportation commute to work was as crowded as it was yesterday, minus the rain. Then, at the security check-in desk, Florence, the bored-looking woman who was friendly to me yesterday morning, just nods when I show my laminated ID on the special lanyard she gave me. Before moving on, I smile at her and say, "Hi, good morning, Florence."

Then she smiles and points at me, "Oh, it's you, um, Gary, right?" Still smiling, I nod and then go on my way. Whew, it's nice that somebody remembers me.

As I'm walking to the bank of elevators on the main floor, I feel a hand on my shoulder, "What's your hurry, little brother? it's only quarter to eight."

It had to be Mark Jones, my lunch partner, way back when I interviewed for the job. Turning around, I grin and say, "Hi! Were you at work yesterday? It was my first day, and I looked for you."

Using his fingers, he swipes his longish red hair over to the side, off his forehead, and out of his blue eyes, mumbling, "I worked yesterday, but they had me helping out taking inventory, and I couldn't get away for lunch until almost one o'clock."

Looking at him more closely, I correct my first impression. He doesn't have longish red hair; not all of it. He got a haircut in the past couple of days because his red hair is short, cut close on the sides, and combed with a part. The exception to an otherwise short haircut is his long bangs in front that he needs to swipe out of his eyes every thirty seconds.

That's a bit odd, but so is the fact we had birthdays on the same day last week. I'm working on being more sociable, so even though I don't care about this, I ask, "Did you have a big birthday party last week?"

Putting his hand on my shoulder again, he makes a face, "No! I'm nineteen, not nine. How about your birthday party? Did you have your little friends over for cake and ice cream, wearing pointy hats and balloons all around, as you tried breaking a pinata full of candies?"

Chuckling, I mutter, "How'd you know?" and then, shaking my head, I point at my hat, "Not really. I got this hat, plus fifty dollars from my folks. That was it except for birthday cards and twenty dollar bills from my grandparents."

Mark is wearing the bomber jacket he wore to lunch that day and a light blue dress shirt with a dark blue tie; the knot of his tie is pulled down a few inches. His slacks look like pants from a suit, yet he has sneakers on his feet. And, yes, he's as startlingly good-looking and cute as I remember from three weeks ago. There is a sparse scattering of freckles across the bridge of his perfectly proportioned nose, and he has strikingly white teeth. Almost everyone I know my age has sparkling white teeth.

We're standing with many others at the bank of elevators with Mark looking at my hat, his hand squeezing my shoulder, saying, "That's a ritzy resort. Your family must be rich."

I make a face at him, mumbling, "Ha-ha, no, we're far from rich. My Dad's a salesman, and he won a trip to this ritzy Florida resort for him and my Mom. It's the first time they were ever in Florida."

He squints his eyes, pushes his bangs to the side, and says, "I'm not sure what it is, but there's something so likable about you. Has anybody else ever told you that?"

"Only all the time! Ha-ha! No, I'm joking. I've never heard anyone say that before. You told me our birth dates make us Pisces, and, therefore, I'm supposed to have an openness, whatever that means, so maybe that's it."

He goes, "Very good memory, bro, but that's not it. It's something else. I'll figure it out."

The elevator doors open, three people get out, then there's a surge of people subtly pushing and shoving, getting on the elevator car. Mark holds my arm, saying, "Hold up, little bro. The number two elevator is about to land."

The first car was jam-packed with people. We get on the next elevator along with seven other people; plenty of room. I press the button for the sixth and third floors. Mark brushes his bangs to the side and goes, "You remembered my floor; that's so cool of you."

Rolling my eyes, I mutter, "That hardly makes me a genius."

He's grinning at me, and he's so 'effing cute! Resisting the urge to reach over and move his bangs out of his eyes for him, I mumble, "You're awfully likable yourself."

Mark grins some more and says, "Yeah, you think so, huh? Hey, what happened to the suit you were wearing for your interview? You looked like a kid dressed up as a banker on Halloween."

Someone behind us murmurs, "Aw, Mark Jones' little brother."

Mark laughs, holds his hand up, giving the finger over his shoulder, mumbling, "Alex, wassup?." Then turning around, he adds, "This is my new friend Gary. He works for the box company on the third floor. His second day on the job."

Behind everyone at the very back of the car, Alex, a very tall guy in his mid-twenties, says, "He doesn't look old enough to be working." Then he holds his fist out and says, "How you doing, Gary?"

I bump fists with him, "Hi, nice to meet you," then tell Mark, "They told me to lose the suit and wear jeans." Hearing "Ding," I look at the floor number and mumble, "Oh, this is my floor."

Getting off the elevator, Mark says, "Be in the lobby at noon, Gary." I nod, "See you then."

Oh boy! I'm lucky to have met Mark. It's not an insignificant thing to have someone to eat lunch with, especially someone as special as he is.

You know, as I was thinking some time ago, truly cute/good-looking guys are extremely rare. In all my years of schooling and growing up in the neighborhood, I've seen maybe three hundred guys who were within a year or two of my age, but I can only think of three who qualify as cute/good-looking to a special degree. George, Pat Summers, and now Mark Jones. Extremely rare creatures!

Billy almost could sneak in and qualify with his glasses smoothing out his facial features, and his profile is kind of cute, but the three I mentioned are in a class all by themselves. Huh, and I met all three of them in the last eight months. Billy made it possible because, without him, I wouldn't have had this job, so I wouldn't have met Mark, plus I wouldn't have met Billy's new neighbor, Pat Sumers.

On the other hand, I met George at the market, and we probably would have become boyfriends and lovers if I hadn't fallen in love with Billy. And no one is sure why it is they fall in love. And, for all I know, I may never have felt that way about George. I love him as a friend, though. Oh hell, I don't know what would have happened, but it's hard to believe I'd be as happy with anyone else as I am with Billy.

As I walk through the office this morning, I don't see Serenity, not that she remembers who I am anyway. Then, Fredrico is waiting for me. He smiles, "Good morning! I knew you'd be in early, Gary."

Hmm, Fredrico qualifies as exceptionally cute/good-looking too, although older than the others. Yeah, make it four exceptionally cute/good-looking guys in my life. It makes life so much more exciting knowing these guys, and they all seem to like me. Wow, has my life ever lifted off the ground since falling in love with Billy? I'll say it has!

After giving me a brief reminder of the safety requirements, Fredrico watches me operate the envelope-opening machine for ten minutes, then says, "Good, Gary. I knew you'd be an expert on this bitch! You've got my cell number so text me if you need me for anything."

Nodding, I go, "Thanks," and grin because who doesn't appreciate compliments from their boss?

Every hour a girl with a cart comes around and picks up the opened envelopes to deliver them to the different departments. Time flies, and then everyone is bustling around, leaving their workspace. Oh, it's noon already. Wow, that was quick.

Wearing my puffer coat, I get on a crowded elevator and get off on the main floor. Moving to the side, out of the way of people heading for the main entrance, I look for Mark.

Just when I think I'm going to be eating lunch alone again, Mark gets off the number four elevator, sees me, and grins, waving for me to follow him. I catch up at the security desk, and we walk out together. It's early April, but you'd never know it from this chilly, windy day with the gray overcast sky.

We both zipper our coats; I pull my hat down tighter on my head, and Mark says, "It's too windy to eat outside at the food truck."

I nod and follow him across the street and down one block. We go into Lloyd's Luncheonette, a busy restaurant, where we take a tray and slide it along a railing leading to various food stations. There are prepackaged sandwiches, a station for soup or chile, a guy cooking hot dogs with all kinds of toppings available, plus burgers. Further down the line is a bald, sweating man with a big pot belly who is carving hot roast beef for sandwiches and a lady making subs to order.

Mark gets two hot dogs with raw onions, deli mustard, and a small bag of potato chips. I move my tray down to order a hot roast beef sandwich and French fries. Further down the line, there's an enclosed plastic section with all kinds of desserts from which Mark takes a slice of chocolate cake. I pass on dessert and get a bottle of Kiwi Snapple from the ice-cold beverage section. Mark gets bottled water; then, there are two people working registers. Most diners use credit cards, tapping the machine with their cards and moving on.

I pay with a twenty-dollar bill, getting three dollars and change back. Mark tapped his credit card, and we sat at a small table for two against a wall. I mutter, "Kind of expensive, huh?"

Taking a large bite of his first hot dog, Mark chews and swallows, then says, "You chose the most expensive sandwich and fries on the menu. I budget ten bucks a day for lunch, although I went three dollars over budget today with the cake. When the weather gets better, we can brown bag lunch and eat at a nice park three blocks in the other direction from here."

Or I can eat lunch for three bucks at the company-subsidized employees' lounge. I don't say that, but I need to consider it because eighty or ninety dollars a week for lunch is out of the question!

The roast beef sandwich is excellent, at least. Mark makes quick work of the two hot dogs, then opens his bag of potato chips and says, "You'll probably think I'm racist, which I'm not, but have you noticed in today's super-woke, cancel culture-post-George Floyd era, how African Americans have been cast, incredibly disproportionately as surgeons, wall street executives, lawyers, etc. into nearly every facet of entertainment, advertisement, television commercials, and marketing of all kinds?"

Swallowing, I look at him, "Um, I don't have the slightest comprehension of what you just said; or was that a question?"

Plopping a potato chip in his mouth, he asks, "You don't watch a lot of television, do you?"

"Now that you mention it, not a lot, no."

Finishing his potato chips, he uses the plastic fork that came with his slice of cake to fork a big piece into his mouth and goes, "Yum!" Then says, "Not that I give a shit, but what I said boils down to this: African Americans are twelve percent of America's population but are cast in TV commercials and series at about the percentage of whites and others in America, meaning the remaining eighty-eight percent of the U.S. census."

Finishing my roast beef, I ask, "So what?"

He shrugs, "On the surface of it, you're right, so what? But I wonder if it's a genuine push for diversity, or is it just some kind of feel-good thing with a subliminal message of some kind? Sure, I agree that black lives matter, but seeing blacks in almost every TV commercial makes me wonder what's up with that. I've also noticed girls and women cast in traditionally male roles. Like, for example, women in TV commercials cast as construction workers or baseball referees, or young girls playing baseball and football or fishing or catching frogs or whatever the fuck, all traditional boys' activities. What are they trying to convince us of?"

I shrug, "I don't know."

"Haven't you noticed any of this and wondered what it means, if anything?"

Finishing my lunch, I wipe my hands and mouth on the small napkins from the table dispenser, "No, I haven't noticed, Mark. You said you don't give a shit, but it seems you do."

Making a face, he goes, "Not really. I find it curiously interesting, that's all. Let me show you something so you don't get the wrong idea about me."

He takes out his phone and shows me a picture of him and a black guy about his own age with their arms across each other's shoulders and big smiles on their faces.

"This is my best childhood friend and still my best friend of all time. His name is Jayden Williams, and I love him like a brother. Jayden is the one who noticed the increasing number of black actors in TV commercials starting like eighteen months or maybe two years ago. He doesn't know what it's supposed to mean either."

Mark flicks his bangs over, then flicks through some more pictures of him with this guy Jayden and his family, "I spent almost as much time with the Williams family as with my own family."

Gawking at a picture of one white face among many black ones, I'm like, "Jesus, how many brothers and sisters does your friend have?"

Chuckling, he says, "Only seven. Four brothers and three sisters. The other girls and guys are Jayden's cousins. That picture was from a Fourth of July cookout three years ago."

We dump our trash and walk outside as I ask, "What's he doing now?"

"He's a driver for UPS. We're trying to decide whether to start night college together or, more likely, join the Army together and have the Army pay for our college education when our enlistment is up. Jayden wants to go the Army route, so I'll likely be in the Army four or five months from now. How about you? Are you planning on going to college?"

I tell him my plans for sharing an apartment with my best friend and going to community college in the fall. He nods and says, "That's smart. My only concern is that the girl Jayden's in love with might screw up our plans."

"Oh, he has a girlfriend, huh?"

He chuckles, "Yeah, a serious one, and I think I'm jealous of her, of Claudine. Jayden has been spending more time with her than with me for like three months now."

"So, you don't currently have a girlfriend, Mark?"

He shrugs, "Nah, I'm considering making you my boyfriend, though."

I make a startled facial expression at him, and he laughs, then puts his arm around the back of my neck, jostling me, asking, "Do you want to be my boyfriend for a few months?"

I'm assuming he's joking, so I just snicker, mumbling, "As tempting as that proposition is, I don't think I could pull it off."

Leaving his arm around my neck, he pushes his hair out of his eyes and mutters, "Well, for now, you'll be my little bro then. I've always wanted one. Actually, Jayden's little brother, Shy, has been hanging out with me ever since Jayden's been spending so much time with his bitch, Claudine. She's super possessive of him. I think she hates me."

He said this latest stuff very seriously, so, trying to lighten things up, I go, "No! How could anyone hate you?"

We show our ID badges and walk into the office building. Mark swipes his bangs over, saying, "Come with me. We still have twenty minutes left of our lunch hour."

Leading us to a cluster of chairs and couches, we sit together on a small couch, and he grins at me, asking, "So, who's the lucky girl you're going out with? There is no way some girl hasn't captured you like the vampire Claudine captured Jayden."

Avoiding his question, I say, "You're kind of upset about missing your best friend, huh?"

Shrugging, looking away, he mumbles, "Nah, not really. It was inevitable, and I'm dealing with it okay. We're still joining the Army together, and the bitch is unlikely to join us in that endeavor. So I'm biding my time."

Then, in a less serious manner, he goes, "That's where you come in, Gary. You'll be my boyfriend, who I'll leave with a broken heart when I join the Army."

Forcing a chuckle, I nod, "Oh, but not right now. I'm your little bro now, right?"

Hugging my shoulders, he laughs, "You're so naively innocent and, well, sweet. That's the super likable thing about you I was trying to think of a while ago."

"Oh, ha-ha, thanks, but I'm not naive or innocent. You're right about one thing, though; I am sweet."

To get off this conversation, which I don't know if it's serious or frivolous, I ask, "What's your job on the sixth floor?"

He tells me he's a glorified office boy for a financial company that insists he needs to wear a tie and blah, blah, blah. I look at him, nodding and marveling at his, um, cute beauty. That guy Jayden is missing the boat, preferring Claudine over Mark Jones. If it weren't for Billy...

At five of one, we go up on the elevator with Mark quietly saying, "Don't take everything I say as gospel, Gary. I get dramatic sometimes."

I'm like, "Oh, hell, I knew you were exaggerating, um, everything. I'll see you tomorrow," and I get off at the third floor. Holy shit, what was that all about?

To be continued... donnymumford@outlook.com

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