DISCLAIMER: You are about to read a story that is strictly FAN FICTION and in NO WAY represents true accounts. I do not - nor do I wish to imply that - I know Jake Gyllenhaal, his private life or his sexual preferences. This is also true of all other celebrities represented in this story. This is a work of fiction based in homo-eroticism, so if you are not of legal age, or if this type of content might offend you, please move onto something else.
For all others . . . ENJOY!
The snow was icy and hard-packed as I descended the mountain, my skis crunching against the frozen powder. I skirted around a column of conifer trees, branches flicking against my arm as if trying to throw me off-balance. I quickly righted myself and continued on, the brittle morning air stinging my exposed cheeks and mouth. I was thankful for the Colorado sun, which shone bright and warm, offering comfort to the freezing morning.
There were very few skiers out, just myself and a few other early-risers who enjoyed the harder slope. Peter was somewhere behind me, probably cursing me for bringing him to this slope, but at that moment I didn't care. I continued on, thankful for the exhilaration of physical activity, grateful for the chance to clear my head and not be plagued by constant thoughts of movie-making and media schedules. Freedom - pure and beautiful.
As I neared the end of the slope, I accelerated my slalom to gain one final surge of power. A monolithic stone and timber lodge greeted me at the bottom of the mountain, gentle clouds of smoke pluming up from its two chimneys. A welcoming sight on such a cold morning. I halted near the flagstone terrace, sending a cloud of snow billowing up behind me. A moment later someone slammed into me, throwing me sideways. We both landed in the snow, instantly tangled in poles and skis, struggling together. When I finally managed to pull free, I lifted my goggles and looked over to discover Peter, cursing and fighting against his ski poles.
The sight was hysterical, and I punched him on the arm, laughing. He stopped to stare at me, his goggles distorting his face. "You are one crazy asshole, Gyllenhaal," he commented, shaking his head in admonishment. He continued the attempt to disentangle himself.
I removed my skis and stuck them upright in the snow. I stood and brushed myself off and then extended a hand to Peter, but he waved me off in irritation. He unhooked his skis and tossed them aside and then stumbled up to the terrace in a limp. He landed heavily into one of the wooden deck chairs and winced as he brought his right leg up to the ottoman.
I stooped to gather all of our ski equipment and then joined him. There was a wood fire burning in a large terra cotta chiminea, and I sat with my back to it, instantly feeling its warmth. I removed my gloves and goggles and ski cap and tossed them to the table, running a hand through my unruly hair in an attempt to appear halfway decent. Peter did likewise but still said nothing to me.
The slope must have really pissed him off, I thought. I shouldn't have insisted we take it.
I pulled out a pair of sunglasses from my ski pants and slid them on.
Just then a server appeared from inside, wearing a white button-up shirt and burgundy tie, no jacket, no hat. He approached us and inquired if we needed anything, and Peter immediately said, "A hot toddy. Lots of liquor."
I glanced at him, surprised by the choice this early in the morning, and then I realized that he was truly in pain. He sat massaging his kneecap, squinting against the bright sun.
I looked up at the server, who was waiting patiently. "Um . . . just green tea and lemon," I requested. He nodded and returned inside.
The terrace was fairly empty, just a few early risers in ski garb, preparing for the slopes. No one glanced our way, and I was thankful for it. The last thing either of us needed were autograph seekers.
"You okay?" I asked Peter, and he squinted over at me.
"No. It fucking hurts."
"Do you want to go inside?"
He shook his head and sat forward, carefully pulling his leg from the ottoman and setting his foot on the ground. He unclasped his ski boot, and I leaned forward to help pull it off. He winced and sat back heavily in the chair, laying his leg carefully back onto the ottoman.
"Maybe you broke something," I stated, suddenly feeling guilty and responsible. After all, it had been on my insistence that we'd taken the difficult slope.
"I'll be all right," he muttered.
The server reappeared with our drinks. As he set them before us, he made quaint conversation, pouring steaming tea into my cup and proffering the lemon slices.
"Thanks," I said. I unzipped a side pocket of my pants and pulled out a clip of money. I counted out twenty dollars and handed it to him. "Keep the change."
He smiled, pleased with my tip. "Thank you, Mr. Gyllenhaal."
It shouldn't have surprised me, and yet, the mention of my name startled me anyway. I watched him turn and make his way back inside, and then I looked at Peter. I held my cup up in a toast, produced my best smile, and said, "Here's to surviving one hardass slope, my friend."
He looked at me blankly for a moment, indecisive, as if debating whether or not he should punch me. And then he cracked a small smile. It was the first smile I'd seen on him since we'd left the hotel that morning. He tapped his cup to mine and said, "Next time, I choose the slope, okay, asshole?"
It took a full day for Maggie to forgive me for taking Peter on the slope. "Just because you're a stupid daredevil doesn't mean that you need to bring Peter along for the ride," she'd said sourly, clearly aggravated with me. Although we typically got along great, occasionally she liked to pull the "older sister, younger brother" routine with me, especially when pregnancy hormones were raging through her tiny frame. This time she succeeded in making me feel pretty shitty.
Peter had gone to the resort medic shortly after the incident and discovered that it was merely a slight sprain. No broken bones or torn ligaments, thank goodness. But it still hurt him to walk on it, so he received a prescription of painkillers, a knee brace and a crutch to help him get around.
Much to my dismay, Peter and Maggie stayed in the hotel for a full two days, hanging out by the fireplace in the lobby drinking hot chocolate or simply sitting in their room watching movies.
A cloud of guilt shrouded me. I attempted to hang around as much as possible, playing countless hands of poker with Peter and raiding both their mini bar and my own, discovering new concoctions for Kahlua and whiskey and vodka and Coke until my stomach couldn't take it any longer. Restlessness and boredom soon took over, and I longed to be out on the slopes. After all, that was the whole point of coming to Aspen, and we still had several more days left before heading back home.
It was during a late night poker game with Peter that he sensed my anxiety and said, "Why are you hanging around, Jake?"
I shrugged, concentrating on the cards in my hand. I didn't have shit to play, and I'd already lost close to a hundred bucks.
"You should be downstairs finding a ski bunny. Getting laid. Shit, you've been here almost a week and you haven't fucked anyone yet."
This, coming from Peter, was a complete revelation. I stared at him, dumbfounded. Then I erupted into laughter.
"Is that so funny?" he inquired, studying his cards intently.
I thought about it for a moment. Did I really come across as someone needing to get laid? It was true that it had been awhile . . . well, actually, a long while. But, at this point, Peter was hardly an expert on the subject; I knew for a fact that due to Maggie's pregnancy and her raging hormones, she hardly let him touch her.
He suddenly threw his cards face down on the table and said, "Enough. Let's quit while I'm ahead." He gathered all of the money he'd acquired and stuffed it messily into his jeans pocket.
Maggie had long since retired to their adjoining bedroom, falling fast asleep. Her morning sickness had become a morning, noon and night condition for her. Plus, due to the high altitude, she was plagued with headaches. At one point I had suggested that we all fly home early, but neither of them would hear of it. Said it was worth staying in Aspen just to see the view.
"Well," Peter stated, hoisting himself up from the chair and hobbling over to the door that separated our two rooms. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning." He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, grinning rather devilishly, and added, "Or perhaps I won't see you in the morning, eh?"
I laughed in sarcasm, slapping my leg. "Oh yeah, buddy! You know it! Gonna go right out and GIT ME SOME!"
My sarcasm only made him smile wider. He saluted me sharply, said, "Good night, loverboy," and then stepped through the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
I was suddenly left with only the soft drone of the television to keep me company. I stood up and pulled the curtain of the large picture window back to peer outside. The gondola was brightly lit, returning its late night passengers from the slopes. Soon it would shut down for the night, and the mountain would be bathed in darkness. Somehow, this depressed me.
I turned from the window and shut the television off. Then I stood with my hands on my hips and looked around the room for a moment, searching for something but not knowing what, until I spotted my cell phone. I flipped it open and peered at the text messages, hoping to find . . . what? There were two messages from my agent regarding a script she wanted me to read, plus one from my mother checking in on the happenings of Aspen and her two children. Nothing more. What had I expected? Kirsten to call and say, "Hey, let's try one more time, and this time it's going to work, I just know it?"
But it wasn't ever going to work.
It was a bitter pill for me to swallow. We'd attempted - and failed - so many times that my head spun just thinking about it. And all of the others inbetween; friendly fucks with acquaintances, one-night-stands with strangers. Drifting in and out of beds like doorways, never feeling fully satisfied.
What was it Kirsten had said the last time we'd been togther? "You'll never find what you're looking for, Jake."
At the time, I couldn't fathom what she'd meant by that, and I'd felt instantly defensive. Now, I began to wonder if she might be right.
I sighed and shut the phone, slipping it into my pocket. Then I stepped into the marbled bathroom and splashed cold water over my face. I studied my reflection in the large gilded mirror, noting the unruly hair and five o'clock shadow covering my jaw, and then I said out loud, "What the hell are you doing, dumbass? Get out there and have some fun."
Suddenly feeling determined, I stripped out of my wrinkled clothes and pulled on a fresh pair of carpenter jeans and a black v-neck sweater. Then I gelled my hair to look more presentable, slid into my black down-filled parka and blue scarf, and grabbed my room key on the way out.
The night air was biting cold, but the dry Colorado atmosphere helped to make the freezing temperature more bearable. I shivered involuntarily and pulled my scarf tighter around my neck. I stepped off of the curb of the front drive, and the doorman, dressed smartly in a dark burgundy uniform and great coat, offered to signal me a cab. I waved him off with a grin, said, "No thank you," and made my own way down the sidewalk.
The hotel was centrally located, and I did not have very far to walk before reaching the busy nightlife area of Aspen. Bars and restaurants and night clubs were all lit up like Christmas trees. Music and laughter poured from the open balconies and doorways. Almost every establishment had outdoor heating lamps to keep the clientele warm and happy.
I contemplated going into a couple of the bars, but changed my mind every time. I wasn't sure where I was headed and soon began to wonder what I was even doing, wandering around freezing my ass off. Then I found myself standing in front of an all-night diner, its interior walls paneled in wood, its tables covered in plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths, an old country tune wafting out through the partially opened windows. An oddity among a string of gourmet restaurants and designer boutiques.
I smelled steak and eggs and onions and suddenly felt famished.
I pushed open the door, a bell rang above my head, and I stepped inside. The restaurant was warm and cozy, and I pulled the scarf from around my neck, glancing around. For such a late hour, there were actually quite a few people there, devouring steaming platefuls of breakfast, lunch and dinner. I slipped my sunglasses on - an annoying habit I had acquired a long time ago when the paparazzi had started appearing on every street corner to take my picture. I didn't mind the pictures, and I didn't mind saying hello to people, but tonight I just wanted to go unnoticed.
The hostess - an older, jovial woman with rosy cheeks and bouffant hair - appeared from around the corner and smiled at my arrival. "Just one tonight, honey?" she said, grabbing a menu from the rack on the wall.
"Yes, thank you." I followed her to the rear of the cafe, and she sat me down in a corner booth, somewhat darker and more remote from the other tables. She must have sensed from my sunglasses and demeanor that I didn't want to be disturbed, and I was grateful for her intuition.
"Specials are up on the board," she said, gesturing to a chalkboard hanging from the ceiling. "Tracy'll be your server tonight."
Tracy appeared almost immediately, pad and pen in hand, ready to take my order. She was in her early twenties, blonde, cute, chewing on a piece of gum while she asked if I wanted anything to drink. For some reason I had the urge for diner coffee and so ordered a cup.
"And I'll take your breakfast special up there," I added, pointing to the chalkboard. "Eggs over easy and wheat toast. No bacon."
"Peasant potatoes?"
"Sure."
She smiled sweetly, disappeared, and returned a moment later with my coffee. I tore open several packets of creamer and poured them into the mug. I fell into some strange hypnosis while watching the spoon swirl the white liquid into the black coffee. Either I was really tired, still drunk from raiding the mini bar, or else I was losing my sanity. I tried to shake the cobwebs form my mind by sitting up straighter in the booth.
The coffee was scalding, but I sipped at it anyway. It tasted like shit, just as I had anticipated, and I enjoyed it immensely.
I watched the room through my sunglasses, noting a party of at least fifteen people near the front, tables pushed together, numerous pitchers of beer being passed around. They were my age or younger, an equal mix of girls and guys, all perfect and beautiful and dressed in designer clothes. Sons and daughters of millionaires, here on a skiing holiday. This was what Aspen represented, why the rich and famous traveled here and why every restaurant and boutique in town catered to the wealthy crowd.
And I was one of them.
For some inexplicable reason, this self-analysis left me feeling pretty empty. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and shrugged out of my parka. Then I noticed a table slightly forward and to my left with two teenage girls and a young man sitting together. The girls were thirteen or fourteen, wearing low-waist blue jeans and tight t-shirts. They were nibbling on hamburgers and French fries, giggling together, their backs to me.
The man sitting with them was approximately my age, leaning casually back in his chair and spinning a toothpick between his lips. What caught my attention was the way he was dressed - faded jeans and a blue and brown checkered western shirt, its pearl buttons unsnapped to reveal a plain white t-shirt underneath. On his feet were tan cowboy boots, scuffed and in desperate need of a good polish. Beside him on the edge of the table sat an old Resistol hat, weather-worn and obviously well-used. His hair was blonde, slightly sun-bleached, falling in loose curls around his neck and ears. A thin goatee traced his mouth and chin.
His appearance was altogether rough and bucolic - completely in contrast to the affluent Aspen crowd surrounding him. To me, he resembled a cowpoke who'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in Aspen instead of Texas.
All at once, he noticed me watching him, and suddenly he was watching me, too, the toothpick pinched between his lips.
I quickly turned my gaze away and leaned back against the red leatherette cushion of the booth, bringing the coffee mug to my lips. I considered slipping my sunglasses back on, but then thought - what's the point?
A twangy country-western song I was completely unfamiliar with poured out from the ceiling speakers, adding to the ambience of the cafe. Had it not been for the ritzy clientele, I would have felt like I was in Wyoming once again, watching the endless dusty wind whistle through some small, podunk town.
Before I realized what I was doing, I turned my gaze back to the cowboy. He was now sitting with one boot propped up on an empty chair and a pint of beer cupped in his hands. The two girls with him were still giggling together, seemingly oblivious to his presence. But he seemed unconcerned.
His sights were set squarely on me, the corners of his mouth upturned in a surreptitious grin.
I half-expected him to walk over, introduce himself, and tell me Jack Twist didn't know shit about bull riding or some such thing, but he didn't. Just sat there sipping his beer, unabashadly eyeing me.
My server, Tracy, appeared with my breakfast, all smiles and bright eyes, her ponytail playfully swooshing against her shoulders. She set the steaming plate of eggs and greasy potatoes down in front of me, pulled out a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of hot sauce from her apron, and then placed the bill face-down on the corner of the table.
I thanked her and commented on everything looking delicious, and then I noticed that she was now staring down at me like a deer caught in headlights.
"Hey!" she said excitedly. "Aren't you in that queer cowboy movie?"
I inwardly cringed but managed a smile. Always the diplomat, I refused to let my abhorration for that phrase show. "Yeah."
"Wow!" She leaned the palm of her hand against the table and pushed her hip against the tablecloth, as if planning to stay for awhile.
My food was smelling delicious and calling out to me, but the awkwardness of the moment prevented me from indulging. I smiled up at Tracy. Twirled my fork between my fingers. Tried to clue her into my desire to eat, but she just stood there, smacking her gum.
"So what was it like smooching Heath?" she inquired, loud enough for the entire establishment to hear, even over the piped-in music.
Ahh . . .The most popular question of the century, one I had answered a million times during a million different interviews. I sighed, still flashing my brightest smile, and tried to keep my composure. "Well, you know," I said, "Heath's a great actor, and we both took our roles very seriously . . ." Blah, blah, blah.
I glanced over and discovered the cowboy smirking at me, as though he could hear every word of our conversation. I rolled my eyes sarcastically and he chuckled, lifting his beer up as if in a toast to my misery. Then the two teenage girls sitting with him turned in their chairs, noticed me, and screeched, "OH MY GOD!" simultaneously.
My food remained untouched, cold and disappointing. I had pushed my plate away to make room for the numerous napkins, coasters and menus that passed through my hands as I signed autographs. Small dark spots blotched my vision due to the flashes of digital cameras and cell phones going off all around me, and I had to blink hard in order to concentrate on what I was doing. I tried my best to smile and look enthused as I greeted and took pictures with no less than fifteen people, including my server Tracy, who insisted that my meal was "on the house" despite the fact that I hadn't even been able to take one bite.
It was during this mayhem that the cowboy approached my booth, squeezed through the couple who were waiting to take a picture with me, and said with great confidence, "Come on, I thought we were leaving ten minutes ago. I've got to get my nieces home, and it's past midnight."
I looked at him blankly, and then realized that he was bullshitting his way in order to liberate me from the chaos. It was fucking brilliant. I smiled, immediately taking on the role of dimwit, and said, "Shit, I'm sorry. I guess I lost track of time." I grabbed my coat and scarf, said "Excuse me" to those still crowding my table, and stood up.
The cowboy had pulled on a sheepskin-lined corduroy coat and was already heading for the door, his Resistol perched on the top of his head. I quickly followed him, allowing several more candid photos to be taken before I exited. But once outside, I found myself alone, no cowboy to be found.
"Well," I mumbled to myself as I slid into my coat and wrapped the scarf around my neck and chin. "So much for being rescued."
My stomach growled and my head ached as I started down the sidewalk in the direction of the hotel. A brisk wind had picked up, sending tufts of snow from the street up into my face. I bent my head down and moved along as quickly as possible.
The sound of a car horn startled me. I looked over to discover a blue extended-cab Ford pick-up truck idling next to me, the cowboy at the wheel. He was gesturing to the passenger-side door. I stepped forward and pulled the heavy door open. A blast of warm air hit my face.
"Hop in," he said.
I glanced inside and found the two teenage girls - his nieces? - sitting together in the back seat, staring at me and giggling.
The cowboy draped an arm across the front seat and said, "Don't worry, they won't bite. I promise."
I hesitated, but only for a moment. For some reason, getting into that truck seemed the best proposition all night. I quickly hoisted myself up inside the cab and shut the door behind me.
"Mind if we take the girls home first?" he asked, shifting the truck into drive. "We're running behind."
"Naw, that's fine," I replied. "Thanks for the lift."
As it turned out, they really were his nieces. Carla and Stella, who lived on the outskirts of Aspen in a town called Carbondale. They were fourteen and fifteen respectively, and they both adored 'Donnie Darko'. Raved on and on about the film and the character I played in it for a good five miles before Travis, the cowboy, ordered them to shut up, which they immediately did, without complaint.
The remainder of the drive was fairly quiet, with the slight hum of the engine and what sounded like The Allman Brothers wafting faintly from the stereo. The city lights of Aspen disappeared, and for awhile we drove across a half-deserted highway. The motion of the truck and the lateness of the hour began to take its toll on me, and I found myself drifting off to sleep despite my inner struggle to stay awake.
When I opened my eyes again, we had pulled into a large driveway and come to a stop. Travis opened his door, the cab light flickered on brighter than sunshine in my tired eyes, and Carla and Stella hopped out and down to the ground.
"Bye, Jake!" they crooned simultaneously, waving to me.
I waved back, grinning, and said, "Nice to meet you."
Travis walked with them up to the front door of a rather large wooden-shingled house and waited while they searched for their keys. Just then the porch light came on and the front door was pulled open by a husky-looking man in sweatpants, partly bald, and unhappy from the looks of him. He stepped outside, ushered the girls past him, and spoke briefly yet harshly to Travis, who hung his head as if being reprimanded. Then the man returned inside, slammed the door, and switched the porch light off.
Travis walked back to the truck with his hands deep in his coat pockets, his breath puffing out like smoke in the cold night air, his hair glowing dimly in the moonlight. He pulled open the driver side door and somberly slid behind the wheel. Started the engine and turned out of the driveway in complete silence.
I could sense a quiet agitation about him. He did not speak again until we'd returned to the main road leading back to Aspen. "That's my uncle," he said. "Edward. Total dickwad."
"Ah, well," I said, slapping my thighs. "Uncles can be like that."
What the hell was I talking about?! A ridiculous comment. Too late to take it back.
Travis grinned at me. "Oh, yeah?"
"Shi-i-i-t," I moaned, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. "I think I'm really fucking tired."
"Yeah," Travis agreed. "And probably hungry, too, from what I saw at the restaurant."
I laughed quietly. "You wouldn't believe how hungry, man."
As we approached Aspen, I gave Travis directions to my hotel.
"The Little Nell, huh?" he commented. "That's fancy shit."
I hadn't thought twice about my accommodations, but pulling into the expansive circular front drive now made me realize that it was, indeed, a ridiculously posh place. Overdone in every way, catering to an elite crowd. It was the type of establishment I patroned all the time, purely out of habit. A natural part of my lifestyle. I tried now to view it through Travis's eyes but couldn't quite imagine what he thought.
The front doorman, with his burgundy great coat and matching cap, approached the truck and pulled my door open. "Welcome back, sir," he said, standing at full attention, awaiting my descent from the cab.
I sat forward and looked over at Travis. He was lightly tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, gazing out of the windshield towards a line of potted fir trees strung up with golden lights like tiny stars.
"Do you live close to here?" I asked.
"Nah. Buena Vista. But I've got a buddy in Glenwood Springs that I can crash with."
I moved to get out of the truck, and then something sparked inside my head like a small firecracker. I suddenly felt wide awake, ready to take on the night. Wanted Travis to stick around and keep me company for a little while. I turned to him and said, "Why don't you crash here? My fancy-shit room has a fancy-shit couch you can sleep on. And twenty-four hour room service, too."
He grinned. "Thanks, but . . ."
"Come on," I insisted, punching my knuckles against his arm. "I'm sure they've restocked my fancy-shit mini bar by now."
His laughter was throaty and deep. He shook his head at my insanity, but finally acquiesced and followed me out of the cab. He dropped his keys into the upturned palm of the front doorman while I pulled out twenty dollars to offer as a tip.
"Thank you," I told the doorman.
He tipped his cap and said, "Good night, gentlemen," as we pushed through the rotating door.
----------------------------------------------------------- Brokeback Mountain copyright 1997 by Dead Line, Ltd. / 2005 Focus Features LLC -----------------------------------------------------------
Well, I hope you enjoyed this first installment of 'Jake's Cowboy'! I thoroughly enjoyed writing it and would love to hear your comments. Please feel free to email me at avymac@hotmail.com.
Future installments will be coming soon, so be sure to keep an eye out! Thanks for reading! - Avy