Learning the Ropes Ch. 01

Author's Note: I suppose most of these notes are self-evident, but I include them here to circumvent getting comments about them later. I've read many a story where the comments section has left me scratching my head; it's always a good reminder to me that, just because an author puts something in a story, it doesn't mean (s)he endorses or agrees with it.

All characters engaging in any funny business are over the age of 18, as well as the age of consent in the (fictional) areas in which they reside. The characters are human beings and do not, therefore, always act with the highest moral integrity; this does not reflect my own views, nor do I personally endorse any of their actions. On the contrary, I may privately outright disagree with them, but the following is their story as they have told it to me-over coffee. This is, after all, a work of fiction but also their collective autobiographies. Exercise your own good judgment when out in the world, and for goodness' sake: play nice with others.

Oh, and I know there are glaring grammatical and idiomatic errors in the prose (i.e., subject-verb agreement, English idioms used incorrectly). They're all as intentional as they are flagrant. This story is told in the first person, and the narrator's register reflects his upbringing. No need to point them out; each was placed there with tender loving care for a particular reason.

Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. And leave me a comment! I love hearing from you!! Thanks to all the kind folks who've left me a word or two in the past. Rest assured I've read each and every one of your wonderful notes. Much obliged.

P. Alinea

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Learning the Ropes: Chapter 1

So I'm at work on a Saturday night. It's this sit-down burger joint: family-friendly, I guess, but popular enough with the high school and college crowd that it's a go-to spot for proms and other get-togethers in the area. Anyways, so I'm finishing up my shift when in comes these two guys, and right away, they're turning heads.

Partly, it's because they're dressed pretty flashy. Mostly, it's because they've got their arms slung over each other's shoulders. And that's not all: their opposite legs are so close, they're practically joined at the hip before they've taken two steps in through the front door.

They come in and sit down next to a family of six: Mom with bangs curled up in a ski slope and a backcomb to make 80s Cher jealous, Dad in matching royal blue track suit and baseball cap. The local team. From the looks of it, he either plays for them or has season tickets. Anyways, their four kids are fidgeting and screaming, but soon the two of them are the ones looking antsy on the wooden bench in the waiting area.

The two young men next to them are sitting on each other's hands. It's totally obvious and intentional. Never seen anything like it around here. I mean, a guy and a girl, sure. Two guys? Well, you obviously haven't been to these parts.

One of them's got sandy blonde hair, same color as mine but with bleached tips. Think late 90s boy band and you've got the right idea. Tight white shirt with open collared button-down over it. Ripped, faded boot-cut blue jeans and shades. White sneakers tied up real loose. About 15 years too late, but he doesn't seem overly concerned.

His partner - that what you're supposed to call it? - is Latino with closely cropped hair all gelled up. He's wearing khaki cargo pants and a black button-up. He's built, a bit heavy in the middle, with broad shoulders and thick forearms. This guy's stereotype macho while Mister Backstreet is a pretty boy.

Their hands are slipped in each other's back pockets now. Mister Backstreet is whispering something into his bronzed boyfriend's ear to which the more athletic man smiles and returns with a whisper and a pinch to his round ass. He squirms in his seat, and Mother of Four gives them the stink eye. They're oblivious, though.

"I'll get this one, Erin," I say, my eyes never leaving their rambunctious forms. I grab a couple of our tall laminated menus and clear my throat.

"Thanks, Will. You know I can't deal with that."

I turn to grin at the pudgy blonde standing next to me and pulling her hair back in a ponytail.

"What, the flirting? I guess it is a bit raunchy."

"Nah," she replies, smacking her gum. "That kinda stuff happens in here every Saturday night. It's the faggotry."

Ouch. I hope she's joking. Who says that? Is it even a word? I resist the urge to tell her where she can stick the homophobia and put on my most hospitable smile before walking over to my overeager customers.

"Welcome to the Roadhouse. My name's Will. I'll be your server, but seeing as we're short on staff this evening, I'll also seat you and bus your table. Tips welcome."

The boy band boy flashes me his bleached whites and giggles. "You're pretty funny."

"Well, I've been trying to get 'em to agree to let me do some stand-up on Saturdays, but it's Saturday and, well, here I am. You can guess how well that went."

"Oh, stop... Baby, isn't he funny?"

The guy next to him smirks at me. I notice his eyes are looking me up and down a few times before he turns to kiss his companion on the cheek.

"Uh, can I show you to a booth?" I offer.

"We don't mind a table," Backstreet replies.

"Nah. I'm sure you wanna sit together." I pause here and throw a glance at their hands, which are still going to town. "Anyways, I opened a booth for you." I stop myself from telling them the booth is in a corner where they might not be on full display.

"That's sweet. Isn't that sweet, baby?"

"Fuckin' faggots."

I turn to see Father of Four chewing on a toothpick and scowling at us. I'm sure my eyes must be as wide as the dinner plates on all the tables. Is this guy for real?

"Ugh..." Backstreet groans. I'm sure this isn't the first time he's had that kind of language slung at him. He's pretty femme.

"'Scuse me, sir: We're a family establishment. Now, I don't know what kind of language you use at home in front of your kids, but around here, that's not gonna fly." I'm trembling even as I hear these words come out of my mouth.

What the hell am I doing? Since when do I make waves? Everybody knows you don't make tips trying to play the hero. I don't even know what my own deal is, but I grip the menus tight to my chest with both hands as a shield. I set my jaw, gritting my teeth and trying to look like I mean business. I narrow my eyes and flare my nostrils. That's right, asshole: I'm in attack mode.

"Who you think you're talkin' to?" Mister Baseball says, standing up and turning red in the face. What a douche.

Then, he lurches forward a step in my direction. Oh, shit.

"You heard him. He said you need to show some respect or you're gonna have to leave." I could recognize that sass anywhere. I turn to see Erin with her hands on her hips and a scowl that makes Mister Homophobe look like Mister Rogers.

"Now, what'll it be, sir? Can I show you to a table, or are we gonna call it a night early? Your little ones look like they've been looking forward to dinner with us this evening." Here, she gestures at the kids. One little boy is tugging on his sister's hair. The two others are listening to what's going on with their folks.

"You're prolly a little fag, too."

Me? Does he mean me? Not hardly. I open my mouth to counter that claim, but he practically spats the next words in my direction before I can start.

"Come on, Con. Let's take our business someplace else. I don't need to take none of this shit. Specially not from some fag-loving teenagers."

"I am not a teenager!"

Erin throws a hand on one hip and another in the air, exasperated. She's obviously got her priorities set.

Backcomb scoops the littlest girl up in her arms and takes her brother by the hand. Mister Baseball practically yanks the arms off the other two, tugging so hard I wonder for a second whether he's dislocated them. They go flying off the bench in the foyer, giggling as they're pitched into the air.

Dad walks away, kids in tow, muttering more profanity. Father of the Year. Makes my old man look like a saint.

"I'm really sorry about that," I offer to the two still sitting on the bench. "Can I show you guys that booth?"

"Yeah," says Mister Buff. He stands, and I finally get a good look at him. He's tall and built, muscled but with a little ponch after all, and bronzed by the summer sun. He smiles at me. "Thanks for stepping up for us, bro."

He claps me on the back and grasps my right hand in his. Right away, my palm is drenched. I can feel myself pitching my weight slightly forward onto the balls of my feet, inching closer to him, a grin spreading on my face. Damn.

Instinctively, I flip the menus in my hand down to my waist, clear my throat, and spin on my heels. "OK, let me show you that table. Err... Booth."

My cheeks are on fire. I clear my throat again and shuffle through the noisy dining room, past the rows of bright red booths and long tables, the guys following close behind. Standing with my back to them, I let them slide into the booth before slapping the menus down in front of them with gusto.

The specials, I can rattle off without even thinking. I take their drink orders, confirm they'll need a few, and promise to be back momentarily with a complimentary appetizer to make up for the fiasco in the foyer. Mozzarella sticks alright? Everyone loves deep-fried cheese. I head over to where Erin is organizing the kids' menus and the crayons that go in the little kiddie buckets.

I'm still shaking when I reach for my soda from its place in the cupboard in the foyer. I can't help but wonder whether it's residual adrenaline from telling a customer off or something else altogether.

"Damn, Will. Looked for a minute there like that guy was gonna deck ya. He was pissed. What a dick."

"I thought you weren't so much with the faggotry."

Erin is pulling her hair back into a ponytail for the third time since we got on shift. "Don't misunderstand. I'm just looking out for my friend. But look at you: Didn't know you had such a soft spot for the gay rights crowd."

"I don't! I mean, that guy was swearing, and there's little kids around. We can't let a bunch of redneck homophobes ruin the mood in here, you know? It's bad for business."

She holds a knife in one hand and is critiquing her teeth in its reflective surface. Finding them white enough, she puts it down and turns to me.

"I don't know that that's all it was. You had that look me and my friends did when we found out about that puppy mill two towns over. You know: righteous indignation. It's like a story we read in Intro to Soc last quarter. You were a regular champion for social justice."

She giggles and continues, a hint of mischief in her tone now. "And from the looks you were giving Mister Latin America afterward, I wonder whether I might hafta have a little talk with Sharla one of these days."

She slaps me on the ass here to make her point and a spray of diet soda pops out on impact.

"Jesus, Will! It was a joke. No need to go all Sea World on me. Look, your shift's over in ten, and speaking of Sharla, aren't you two supposed to be catching the new Marvel movie down the street in twenty? Captain Planet, was it?"

"That's not it. And we were." I sigh. "She got a call from Steph. You know how she's not doing so hot after her breakup with Brad?"

"Ugh. What a prick." She makes a face. "Still, that sucks. Well, then, maybe you really should pull up a chair and join the two cuties in the booth after all. You might be able to talk them into taking you home to make a Marvelous flick of your own."

"Shut the fuck up!" I hiss a little too loudly. A woman who looks the better side of seventy is just walking out of the bathroom and clasps her hand to her chest over a red God Bless America T-shirt. You can't make this shit up.

"OK, Will: Keep it PG. This is a family joint!" With that, Erin slaps me upside the back of my head in mock consternation at my language. To Granny, she flashes her pearly whites and nods her head. "Sorry, ma'am. He's new. I'll make sure to wash his mouth out with that industrial soap in the kitchen before he clocks out."

The woman, whose eyes have just about popped out of her head, scurries off into the dining room muttering something that sounds like "Yeah, you'd better."

Erin heaves a sigh of relief. "Jeez. I was just ribbing ya, Will. We sure are touchy this evening, aren't we? What's your deal?"

"Sorry, Erin. Guess I don't do so good with the faggotry myself."

She snorts. "I was joking about the faggotry. It's just not something you see every day around these parts. Doesn't mean it's not there." She pats me on the shoulder. "Besides, you don't strike me as much of a homophobe. It doesn't suit you, Slim."

Here, she gestures to my lanky lags. "If anything, I'd say you might get mistaken for a twink if it weren't for those arms." She squeezes my bicep here for effect. "Oh, and your god-awful fashion sense."

I groan. "I'm gonna take off. Thanks for taking that booth. Cheese sticks on the house. Extra dipping sauce, charge them."

"Sure. Shame, though. I'm sure as heck not gonna get the tips you woulda from those two."

"I'll be sure to put in a good word and flash 'em a nice view of my ass when I walk out," I say, sticking my tongue out at her for good measure.

"I knew you weren't afraid to sell it."

"Good night, Erin," I say with finality. And then, softening, "Thanks."

She winks at me and heads toward my guys.

My heart is still thudding in my chest when I climb into my little red Toyota. It's sizzling hot. Summer nights and all that. I inhale a chestful of air and exhale with a whoosh, partly willing my heart to slow down. But more than that, I'm trying my damnedest to get rid of this goddamn stiffy I've been trying to cover up since that guy touched me.

I look at my hazel eyes in the rearview mirror and rake my hands through my sandy blonde locks.

"You're not queer," I reassure myself. "You can't be. You've got a girl." I squeeze my eyes shut. My head feels fuzzy. "You were on varsity with the guys for four years and never once made a move in the showers. Even when you had the chance, you didn't. You don't swing that way..."

The words don't sound as reassuring as they usually do, though. I sigh, tilting my head back into the seat, and twist the key in the ignition. The stereo comes on blaring; the engine roars to life.

It's too early for a reckless romp around town, and Sharla's busy. Most of my other friends are either at the park or out of town for the holiday weekend. Even my parents are bound to be out at the park for the concert heralding the end of summer.

I don't head over to theirs every weekend for dinner or anything, but I've decided a barbecued hamburger for the holiday sure would hit the spot. Hopefully there's still some patties left in the fridge, either cooked or not.

Sharla and I were set to catch an early movie and then head up in my car to our usual spot. It's supposed to be our annual ritual on the Labor Day weekend: a final summer action flick and cheap dinner in the car before a walk outside and, if I'm good, a little fun inside.

A smile crosses my lips at the thought of last year. DC movie, two slices of cardboard pizza and hopelessly big buckets of soda before getting down to business with our own little Labor of Love.

But Steph just found out Brad was screwing around with two different girls, one of them real close to Steph and Sharla. And so, my girlfriend stocked up on Ben and Jerry's and is no doubt baking up a storm now. She always says nothing beats a little kitchen therapy. She's too nice. Maybe I am, too.

I sigh. Nothing else to do but hightail it home and try going out for a run and then having an icy cold shower. I groan, realizing I haven't even jacked off this week. No wonder I'm so wound up. I was supposed to take care of her and me tonight.

I adjust the crotch of my jeans. Have they gotten tighter? I swear they're cutting of circulation to my dick. I fiddle with the air conditioner, blasting icy cold air onto my knees. It works. I'm feeling calmer in no time, and there's freed up real estate in my boxers.

"Finally..." I mutter aloud and flip the dial on the stereo to something a little livelier.

When I pull through the old neighborhood and bring the car to a stop in front of the garage next to my parents' condo, I notice a black SUV I instantly recognize. Mark's home! He won't mind my crashing his Labor Day Saturday. Maybe he'll even let me order takeout and eat it with him at his. I'll have to count my tips, but there's got to be enough for a pizza or some Chinese.

Mark's real chill. He always lets me have a beer or two when we're eating and watching the game on TV. I'm a soccer fan; he's from Canada and won't let me forget it, so he's always watching hockey. Neither of us is very lucky when it comes to good coverage of our favorite sports, as you might imagine. Luckily, Mark's got satellite.

I pull my car into my parents' spot and switch the car off before running the usual checks and then running up to Mark's before even showering. I just want to make sure he's not got plans, too. Wouldn't be unheard of; after all, everybody else has left me high and dry without anyone to share food and end-of-summer fun with.

A few knocks but no reply. Nobody home, so I head over to my parents' place. Depositing my keys in the little basket Mom keeps in the entryway, I shuck off my clothes on the way to the bathroom to splash water on my face before heading out on a run.

I'll admit an evening run in the late summer heat wasn't my most inspired idea or even a safe one. I end up running 90-30 interval sprints and calling it quits after twenty and the first signs of heat exhaustion. I'm pouring with sweat and cursing the fact I didn't bring a towel with when a familiar voice bellows through the evening air.

"Hey, kid."

I'm just wiping the sweat off my face with my shirt, abdomen fully exposed, and flip around without thinking. Beads of runner's sweat scatter, some hitting the man standing in front of me.

There stands Mark looking disheveled in his crumpled suit and white shirt. He's wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.

"Hey, kid: I'm happy to see you, too, but say it, don't spray it, eh?"

"Mark! Shit, I'm sorry. Just got back from a little jog." I pause and assess. He looks a mess. "What's your excuse?"

"Walked home from work. Well, from the bus stop. Been away from the gym too long and too many late nights with takeout. It's been salad and daily walks since Memorial Day."

"Ah, man! Here I was hoping I could talk you into letting me call for takeout and we could catch up. It is Labor Day weekend after all. Gotta live it up a little, right?"

"No can do, Slim. I'm not about to fuck my diet over for an American holiday. 'Sides, I don't wanna end up looking like most of your compatriots."

I flip him the bird and laugh. "The People of Wal-Mart, you mean?"

"Exactly. Canadians are hotter."

"Can't argue there," I blurt out without thinking. He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Well, not every Canadian," I quickly recover. "You're lookin' old these days."

"Didn't your parents teach you that that's no way to speak to your elders?"

I'm just giving him shit. Mark is anything if not youthful. He's not five years younger than my parents, putting him in his early forties, but he looks at least ten years younger. If it weren't for his graying hair, he'd look about thirty or so.

His ex, Cheri, was always after him to dye it. He staunchly refused, saying his "ashen locks" were a mark of dignity that comes with age. My personal theory is he's too lazy to keep up with the routine trips to the salon keeping up a masquerade like that would take.