Calvin’s Cowboy (3 page)

“It wasn’t as great as you think, being me.”

“Oh, spare me. You didn’t walk to school every morning worried that you were going to be beat up, have your head pushed down the john or have your homework stolen from you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. But fuck the past. I hated high school and am glad I got out of this shit hole of a town.”

Brock could agree with him about getting out of Parish Creek. He’d managed it—for a while at least—until sports injuries and family obligations had pulled him back. However, he couldn’t agree with Calvin about high school. There he’d been someone. Now he was a fucking nobody with a business rapidly going down the tubes with…Brock closed his eyes; he wasn’t feeling well, and reminding himself of how badly life had treated him wasn’t helping any.

The engine started and… “Hello Calvin. What is your destination?”

Brock’s eyes shot open.
Fuck a duck!
it was KITT, the voice from
Knight Rider
. That’s what this car reminded him of. “Always thought you were a fuckin’ nerd.”

Calvin, who had started to roll the car out of the bar’s parking lot, slammed on the brakes, causing Brock to jerk against the seatbelt. “If you want to walk, then be my guest.”

Brock patted his pocket to check that his truck keys were there. “Fine! I’ll drive myself.”

Calvin pulled out a fancy looking cell phone. “The second you put those keys in the ignition I’m calling the cops.”

Brock sank lower in his seat, defeated.

Calvin started driving again. “It’s just a GPS with the voice of William Daniels.”

Brock said nothing.

“Though, uh, yeah, I guess it’s a bit geeky to have it installed in the same make and model of car as the one in the TV show.”

Brock snorted.

“Shut the fuck up. I work hard for my money, and without kids or a boyfriend I treat myself to the occasional toy.”

“Must be nice,” Brock grumbled, thinking how little cash he had to survive on each week. There was never anything left over for ‘toys,’ as Calvin termed them.

The two fell into silence for a while, until Calvin asked, “So, where’s home?”

Brock didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t because he’d be alone. No, it was because the place was a mess, the roof leaked and the paint was peeling. There were dirty dishes in the sink and piles of dirty laundry to wash.

“Brock?”

He realized he’d not replied to Calvin’s question. Before he could formulate a response, they hit a pothole. Brock’s stomach rolled.

“Gonna puke!”

“Jesus!” Calvin pulled to the curb. “Not on my upholstery you’re not.”

Brock fought to unlatch the door, but was held in place by the fucking seatbelt.

Thankfully Calvin was onto it and released the catch. Brock leaned out of the car and painted the gutter. The smell and the bad taste in his mouth made him retch again.

“Ah, fuck,” Brock said when he realized he’d got some puke on his shirt.

“Here.” Calvin had got out of the car and was standing by the open passenger door, but to the side, out of projectile range. He handed Brock a handful of Kleenex.

“Thanks. Sorry about this, I just—” How could Brock tell him it’d been a shitty week, hell, a shitty year? The guy didn’t need to know—and probably wouldn’t be interested in—his tales of woe and misery.

“It’s okay.” Calvin sounded genuine.

If anything, that made Brock feel worse.

“Want some water?”

Brock shook his head; he didn’t think he would be able to keep it down.

“Just to rinse your mouth, maybe it’d take away the nasty taste?”

“Thanks.” Brock took the offered bottle, rinsed and spit.

Calvin put a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Feel better now?”

“Some.” However, most of the improvement was because of Calvin’s concern. He could feel the heat of the man’s palm radiating through his shirt.

“Ready to set off again?”

Brock nodded.

Calvin closed the passenger door, walked around the car and got back into his seat. Starting the engine, he said, “Seatbelt.”

Brock rolled his eyes, but complied. In a strange way it showed that Calvin cared. Brock hadn’t had anyone care for him in…he didn’t know how long.

“I think I should take you back to my parents’ place. You shouldn’t be left on your own after drinking so much.”

It wasn’t exactly the first time Brock had tied one on. Hell, lately he’d often found himself in some bar or other, trying to drown his sorrows, but his sorrows had grown life jackets and had taught themselves how to swim. Brock snickered at the image.

“Huh?” Calvin asked.

“Nothing.”

After a minute or two of silence, the car traveling along the dark and mostly empty streets, Calvin said, “There’s only one bed, an air mattress. As you saw earlier, most of the furniture has been shipped off to Florida.”

Brock didn’t see a problem.

“You’d have to share a bed with a queer guy.”

Brock didn’t know what to think. If he reached for Calvin in the night he could pass it off as being drunk.

“Will that be a problem?”

“Uh, no, just as long as you keep your hands to yourself,” Brock huffed.

“You’re pretty high on yourself, aren’t you?”

Brock didn’t answer. He didn’t need to as they had arrived at the house, and Calvin was shutting off the engine.

Getting out of the car, Brock stumbled, but again Calvin was there to steady him. Brock took a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary to hold on.

“You’re a mess. I hope that stain will come out of your shirt.

“Yeah, me too.” It had cost him a couple hundred bucks at a fancy store in Austin. Given his current financial situation there was no way he’d be able to replace it. “Goodnight, KITT.” Brock waved at the car just before Calvin closed the door to the house.

“Ass.”

“See, I knew you liked my ass.”

“Oh, brother. Come on. Let’s get you out of that shirt. I’ll find a bucket to soak it in.”

Brock thought better of making a comment about Calvin wanting to get him naked. Since high school and his short-lived career in the minor leagues he’d let himself go a little. Sure, he was still strong, he had to be for the type of work he did, but he’d lost much of the definition he’d had in his late teens and early twenties.

“You need a shower.”

“You’re determined to get me naked, aren’t ya?”
Shit!
Why couldn’t he keep his fool mouth shut?

“You’ve got as much chance as Mother Theresa at turning me on tonight. I suggested you take a shower because I don’t particularly want to share a bed with someone who stinks of puke, whiskey and stale cigarette smoke.”

Brock felt strangely crestfallen.

“And there’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet. I suggest you take some, because you’re going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, uh,” Calvin consulted his watch, “later today. Jesus, I must have been crazy to get out of my bed to rescue your drunken ass.”

“Sorry.” Brock could feel himself getting emotional, so escaped to where he thought the bathroom was.

“No, dumbass, that’s the fucking hall closet. Here.” Calvin took his arm and guided him to the bathroom. “You can manage from here I’m sure. Trust me when I say that it has never been a fantasy of mine to hold your limp dick while you piss.”

Brock closed the door—and for good measure—slid the bolt closed.

* * * *

Christ on a pogo stick,
his mouth felt like the inside of a wrestler’s jock strap. And Brock had had some experience with the insides of wrestler’s jock straps. In high school he used to mess around with a couple of guys on the varsity wrestling team, but it was totally understood it was just guys getting off when their girls weren’t putting out.

“Oh, God.” Where was he? The room didn’t look familiar.

“You’ll probably need the help of the almighty with the hangover I bet you’re sporting.”

“Huh?” Brock looked up to see, uh, “Calvin?”

“You remembered. Doesn’t always happen with the guys who share my bed.”

Brock didn’t want to think about that. “What time is it?”

“A quarter till ten.”

“What?” Brock shot up. The room swayed. He lay back down again, holding his head.

“I figured you needed your beauty rest, so I let you sleep. And has anyone ever told you that you hog the blankets?”

“My ex-wife.”

That at least earned him a raised eyebrow. “Is that why you’re her ex? She got fed up with being cold at night?”

“No, I divorced her if you want to know.”

This got another raised eyebrow, but Brock wasn’t going to say any more. Mary Ann and he got married only because a condom had split one time, and when she’d become pregnant, their two daddies had made them both do the right thing.

“How’s the head?”

Brock rubbed the top of his head. “Like a fuckin’ army of jackhammers are at work demolishing the town.”

“Hmm, if only. Say, is Miguel’s on 4
th
and Patterson still in business?”

“Huh?” Brock didn’t understand.

“Miguel’s,” Calvin repeated slowly, like as though Brock were a third grader. “Used to have the best Mexican food this side of the border.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I think they’re still there. Why?”

Calvin gave him an exasperated look. “Because I was going to buy a truck load of drywall from them.”

“What?” Had Hal slipped something into his JD last night?

“Okay, I’ll make it simple. Miguel’s menudo is the best hangover cure I know of. I’m assuming he still sells it?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.” In truth Brock hadn’t eaten there in years, he couldn’t afford to. He silenced the little voice inside him that told him he could eat there if he didn’t spend what little money he had on liquor.

“Good, so once you’ve gotten dressed, that’s where we’re headed.

Brock reached for his pants. He doubted he had enough money to…

“My treat. Miguel’s is about the only decent thing in this Podunk town. Your jackhammers are welcome to the rest of it. Oh, I managed to get the puke out of your shirt, but it’s not dry yet. See if you can find something to wear in my suitcase over there.”

Brock rolled off the air mattress, conscious he was only wearing boxers. Crawling over to an expensive tan leather suitcase, he studied the closed top. “I ain’t gonna find no gay sex toys or shit like that in here, am I?”

“Do you want to?”

Fuck!
He really shouldn’t tease Calvin like this; he always ended up the worst for it.

Calvin huffed, got on his knees and unzipped the suitcase. Searching through the clothes, he said, “Not much of my stuff will fit you.” He looked up and gave Brock a close examination, making Brock flush. “Maybe this sweatshirt might be baggy enough. Though in this heat—”

“Thanks, it’ll be fine.” Brock stood up, snatched the offered clothing from Calvin and headed for the door.

“And just so you won’t be embarrassed in being seen out in public wearing a fag’s clothes, we can swing by your house before Miguel’s so you can change.”

Brock remembered the mess his place was in. “No, its okay, I’ll manage with these.”

Calvin shrugged. “Do you remember where the bathroom is?”

Brock closed the bedroom door without replying.

* * * *

Brock had to admit the menudo was excellent. He could have used a second bowl, but with Calvin paying he…

“Hey, Miguel,” Calvin called out to the over-weight, middle-aged Mexican, “can we have two more bowls?”

“Sure.” The man waddled off and soon returned with a tray. Brock eyed the new bowl hungrily. Amazingly, his appetite had returned.

“You too thin. Need to eat more,” the man said, setting a bowl in front of Calvin. “All that New York Jewish food.” Miguel shook his head and made a tsking noise with his tongue.

“I know a bistro owner in New York who would sell his grandmother to get his hands on your recipe for menudo.”

Miguel laughed. “What would I need with his grandmother?”

“Sorry, Matthew, I tried,” Calvin said, dipping his spoon into the steaming soup.

Brock was already halfway through his bowl.

Miguel ambled off, muttering something about how he already had enough old ladies in his family to support.

“So,” Calvin asked, “When can you start work on the old homestead?”

Brock swallowed his mouthful of soup. “I haven’t even priced it up yet.”

“I know, but I’ll still choose you, whatever your price.” Calvin’s look had Brock fidgeting in his seat.

Brock knew the guy was only trying to wind him up, and Brock was beginning to realize he’d never get the best of him, so it was better to ignore his teasing.

“Well, I’d have to look in my workbook, but I think I’ll be able to squeeze you in—”

“Cut the crap.” Suddenly Calvin had turned all stern and businesslike. “I know you’re struggling for work. This town is barely holding its head above water. Folks don’t have money to have repairs or renovations done. What they can do themselves, they do.”

Ain’t that the truth,
Brock said to himself.

“So let’s make a deal. You give me a fair price and I’ll accept it. You do the work quickly and well, and I’ll throw in a bonus.”

Brock didn’t have a problem with that. He did good work, and, given that he didn’t have anything else on, he could start pretty much immediately.

“Deal.” He held out his hand to shake on it, just like his daddy had taught him. Something else his daddy had taught him was that you could learn a lot from how a guy shook your hand. Calvin’s was warm, firm, yet not designed to crush the bones in your hand.

The shake, however, went on for longer than Brock was expecting.

“What’s that on your wrist?” Calvin asked, using his free hand to raise the cuff of Brock’s—or rather his own—sweat shirt.

“Uh,” Brock was getting panicky about two men holding hands in public. He looked down at his wrist and saw something black, granulated, with irregular edges. The thing was about the size of a quarter. “It’s nothing.”

Calvin touched Brock’s wrist. “When I saw it earlier I thought it was a birthmark, but now—”

That was the last straw; Brock pulled his hand out of Calvin’s.