This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. These stories have as their main character a sexually active gay teenager. If this is offensive to you, or if it is illegal in your area, or if you are under age, please leave now.
Constructive criticism is welcome on my e-mail.
Dermot Chapter 7, Marking Time
After Lando left, time seemed to creep along. Not much happened the rest of Saturday, all day Sunday, and a good part of Monday. Dermot finished THE UNPLEASANTNESS AT THE BELLONA CLUB, and decided he liked Dorothy Sayers. She wrote so well, even when he did not understand some references specific to the time or to England, that he enjoyed the read. And, he had not figured out the mystery until the second to last chapter.
By Sunday, therefore, he was thrown back on reading the book about the Lords Baltimore. Once he got into it, he found it fascinating, and forgot to be skeptical. The early life of George Calvert interested him, because it seemed that even then folks were always telling kids what to do. When George was twelve, officials of the Church of England came along and told him he had to conform to the established church, and his dad went along with that in order to keep his position in society. People are always finding some reason to pick on other people, Dermot decided. He had about determined that humans were hopeless, when he remembered Mr. Lyle and Lando. Maybe only some humans were hopeless. Seems Calvert had to resign from an important government job about the time he went back to being Catholic, but then set out to found colonies. Dermot was interested in the account of an attempted colony on Newfoundland. The Catholics complained they weren't given enough recognition, and the Protestants complained they were given too much. People were such fools. Dermot was reminded of another Shakespeare play he had read in the public library, not one on the high school reading list, A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, where there was a line he really liked, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"
That afternoon, Sgt. Flaherty came by again. He was depressed in that none of the leads seemed to be panning out. The man Gary had evidently not been back to the Cardinal bar. A check on vanity plates had turned up nothing which seemed connected with the name Chuck on any plate issued for a Cherokee. At least, not in this state. If the vehicle belonged to a student at the University, it could be registered anywhere.
They talked for a while, hoping that something would occur to Dermot, but nothing seemed forthcoming. He did remember that, after he was in the vehicle, and they were under way, they drove around for a while. He did not know where. He had been forced onto the floor on his knees, with first one guy, then the other in the back seat stuffing his cock down his throat. Blushing some, Dermot admitted he would have sucked all four guys with no hesitation for the right amount of cash, but they were not so much interested in the sex as in humiliating and hurting him. It was only when they pulled up in that alley that the two in front got directly involved. He had not been aware that they were behind a church. He had been busy trying to avoid punches and kicks. It was there that all four ganged up on him, and, he believed, most of his injuries had been inflicted. He barely remembered being sodomized. But he did remember a really nasty laugh one of his tormentors had, and would certainly recognize it again, but would not want to be in a position to elicit it.
The four guys talked about how much they hated gays while they were beating on him. Dermot shared with Sgt. Flaherty the insight that sometimes it was gays in denial who acted in this way, but sometimes in was straight guys who just had a real hang-up about gays. That didn't narrow the field much.
Seeing the sergeant's frustration, and realizing that he was genuinely concerned to apprehend the guys who had assaulted him, Dermot decided to give away one more piece of personal information.
"For a while, I went to a pentecostal church. You know the kind I mean?"
"Yes, I'm familiar with them."
"The people there might hate gays, too. I remember the preacher going on about how homosexuality was an abomination before the Lord. But these guys who beat me up were different."
"Different? How different?"
"Most of the people at that church were not very well educated, even the preacher. They worked at factory jobs or construction, mostly. They talked with a twang, and used bad grammar. My guys were not like that at all. Even though they used a lot of cuss words, and tried to talk tough, you could tell they were better educated, and had more cultivated voices. Not nice voices, you know, but educated ones, like announcers on television. And from time to time they would use a word of more than two syllables, like appellant."
"Thanks, Dermot," Sgt. Flaherty said. From something in his voice, Dermot was drawn to look up into the policeman's face. Something indefinable passed between them. He knew that the sergeant appreciated him giving away this bit of personal information. He also knew that it would be used as part of the effort to identify him. Professionalism. In a way, Dermot admired that, even as it frightened him.
Later on Sunday evening, the priest stuck his head in.
"Hello, Dermot. Anything I can do to help?"
"Get the fuck out of here!"
The head disappeared.
Dermot read more of the Baltimore book. He felt sorry for George Calvert, who was so often frustrated in his desire to follow his own way, and allow others to do the same. That really appealed to Dermot. He kind of thought it might be relevant to his situation with Lando, too. As he read more, getting into the early days of the Maryland colony, he understood what Lando had said, and it made sense. No English king would allow one of his subjects to set up a colony where the Catholic Church was established. The Catholic Church was outlawed in England, after all. So, the best the Calverts could do was to have no established church. Early Maryland was like the United States today in that respect. The damn Jesuits kept wanting more, though. That's the trouble with priests. Give them a little leeway, and they try to take over, the bitter youth decided.
Neither Lando nor his father came to visit on Sunday. Dermot hoped he had not offended Lando too badly with his comments about the Catholic Church. Damn it! It wasn't his fault if their Church contained a bunch of bigots. That priest might not have beat him up, like the guys last weekend, but his homophobia helped create the atmosphere in which that kind of thing could happen. Dermot lay back on his pillow. All this was disturbing and exhausting. Why couldn't people just mind their own business. Sure, if someone was doing something really bad, like killing people, then he had to be stopped, but why would anyone else care about who someone had sex with?
Then he began to muse about the various sexual experiences he had endured over the past nine months. There were the sickos who got their jollies by hurting someone. The guy who tied him down and beat him with a whip. The guy who held his head and fucked his throat so violently it tore up the back of his mouth, so he could not work for a week. Then there were the scared ones. Quick, get it done, don't let anyone see, get out of here. And yet, everyone seemed to be wanting sex, as much sex as they could get. It did not seem worth it. Lord, what fools these mortals be!
The only really satisfying sex Dermot could recall was that hand job he gave himself the other day, while poor Nurse Chandravari waited outside the restroom. He chuckled as he recalled that, then frowned as he thought about the harpy who monitored his activities on Saturday and Sunday morning. Bailey, Chandravari, and Hoffman were all nurses, presumably all more or less equally qualified on paper, but what a difference in practice! It made you wonder about paper credentials. Was there a lesson here somewhere? Maybe all sexual experiences were not supposed to be equal either. No matter what some people said, some sex was good and some was bad. All the same on paper, but very different in reality. The only conclusion he could come to was that sex that hurt someone was bad, but the kind he had experienced in the restroom was good. That left a lot of leeway in between. He wondered whether this might be a topic he could discuss with Lando, if Lando ever came back.
Sunday ended on a low note.
On Monday, 'his' people were back on the job. He was awakened by Nurse Bailey, who looked happy and refreshed after her weekend with her husband. She was a lot more accommodating than the weekend replacement. Dermot was helped out of bed and into his wheel chair, not picked up and deposited. She did not attempt to enter the restroom. Dermot took care of things himself, and felt a sense of accomplishment. Just going to the bathroom on his own was something, especially without all the hassle. His breakfast was served promptly, and Nurse Bailey chattered away about her weekend with her husband in a cheerful manner.
"So, how many times did you get laid this weekend?" the impertinent boy asked.
Bailey turned bright red, slapped his good foot, and replied with a smirk, "That is none of your business, you nasty boy."
"What's nasty? You're married, aren't you?" Dermot had decided that sex which made Nurse Baily so cheerful must be good sex.
"Yes, of course. But what Herb and I do in the bedroom is none of your business," she insisted.
"Sure it is. When you've had a weekend like that, you're a lot nicer to me than you were on Friday," he asserted with somewhat garbled syntax.
"Was I not nice on Friday?" she asked, concerned.
"Terrible. But not nearly as terrible as I was, so don't worry."
Shortly after this, Dr. Shipley returned, alone.
"Where's your entourage, Doc?" Dermot asked.
"The interns had duty all weekend. They get time off, too. I hear you got along well with Dr. Rygalski."
"Yeah. She thinks I'm her little brother," Dermot chuckled. Then he added, "She told me she wants to be a psychiatrist. What's the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist?"
"A psychiatrist is also a medical doctor, so he or she can prescribe medication, for example. A psychologist is more into counseling," the physician explained. "If your problem is physical, like a chemical imbalance, then you need a psychiatrist, but if it's emotional, then a psychologist will do," the physician conceded.
"Let's see this eye, now," Dr. Shipley continued, as he removed the bandaging and began to peer into Dermot's right eye. "Hmmm. I think you're coming along nicely. I'm going to leave the bandaging off, and let my colleague upstairs make the final decision on that. But do not strain it."
"How could I strain it, Doc?"
"Too much reading, for one thing. Take breaks. Let your eyes rest. You don't watch much television, so that's good. And be very careful for a while about getting anything in it. No rubbing, even if it itches, or I'll put the bandages back."
"Yes, sir," Dermot said, mimicking a military salute.
"Later this morning, you will be taken upstairs to see the ophthalmologist, and also to have your chest x-rayed again. We need to monitor that lung, you know. Right now, that seems to be the most critical area left of all your injuries. You've been very fortunate. It could have been a lot worse."
"What other delights do you have in store for me?"
"Well, Mrs. Harper will be back sometime today."
"I have a bone to pick with you, Doc. Why didn't you tell me Mrs. Harper was your sister?"
"I thought you might treat the poor woman worse than you did," Dr. Shipley said straight faced.
"She kept asking personal questions," Dermot defended himself.
"That's her job."
"Well, I'm sorry I was rude to her. I guess I'll have to apologize."
"That would be appropriate, although I must say I've never known my sister not able to take care of herself in an argument. Oh, one more thing. We think you should begin meeting with Dr. Grissom. He's one of those psychologists you were asking about. He will be working with you, now that your physical ailments seem to be coming along satisfactorily."
"What's with this psychologist bit, Doc? I'm not crazy," Dermot asserted.
"No one thinks you're crazy. But you have had a traumatic experience, and you have been engaged in activities which would normally leave anyone, and especially a boy your age, with some emotional scars. Besides, Mr. Lyle asked that you be afforded this service."
"He did?"
"Yes. He's taken a personal interest in you, Dermot. Moreover, you were raped. I know you intended to have sex as a commercial exchange, but that is not the same thing. Anyone who has been raped has had a traumatic experience, and needs to work through that. You're certainly not the first case like this we've had in here."
"Really?"
"Really. Only last month we had two prostitutes who had been raped and beaten by men who they thought were customers. They were not beaten as badly as you, but still in the same category."
The same category. For months, Dermot had been avoiding facing that reality, and there it was, as calmly and plainly as could be. He was a prostitute. Why did hustler sound so much more acceptable? When Dr. Shipley left, he pondered this, and began to cry softly. Life had not been easy, even before, but since he got kicked out, he had really reached rock bottom.
These negative musings were interrupted by the orderlies come to take him up to see the ophthalmologist. There, he was subjected to intense scrutiny of his right eye. Light was shined in his eye. Several different machines took pictures of the interior of his eye. He caught a glimpse in a shiny surface, and was surprised to find that he had a really impressive shiner. Disgusting yellow and purple colors. Somehow, that had not sunk in. It still ached, but he could see out of that eye, and was very glad of it. He was given the same advice as he had received from Dr. Shipley. Don't put any strain on it for some time. Don't rub it. We'll check it again in a few days.
From there, he was taken to the x-ray laboratory. His leg, his wrist, and his skull were x- rayed, but the most time was spent on his side where his ribs and injured lung were located. The technicians would say nothing about the results, so he had to wait until he got back to his room. He was barely settled in when Dr. Shipley returned, x-rays in hand.
"Everything seems to be healing satisfactorily. In a week or so, you'll be able to get around with a crutch, but only for very brief periods. However, such things as getting to the restroom should be possible. The wrist will take a little longer. Joints are more complex than a single bone, of course. As to your head, there's not much we can do for someone as stubborn as you."
"Ha, ha! Dr. Rygalski beat you to the punch. She said almost the same thing on Saturday," Dermot informed the physician.
"Did she now? I'll have to speak with her about stealing my best lines. Now here," Dr. Shipley said, showing Dermot the x-ray, "is your left side. You see, the ribs are cracked, but are bonding satisfactorily. As long as you don't put any pressure on them, they should mend nicely, like the other bones. Here is a close-up of the tear in your left lung. This is your most vulnerable spot right now. All is going well, but a really hard knock, or even too sharp a breath, like from anything strenuous, could cause that to open up again. This is what we need to monitor most carefully. So, I'm depending on you to take decent care of yourself, okay?"
"Sure, Doc. I'm not all that fond of pain, or of that oxygen mask I had for a while back there."
"All right. After lunch, I will allow Mrs. Harper in to see you again. Now, you take it easy until then. You've had a busy morning."
"Doesn't seem like it. Just more of the same old stuff. Poke, prod, and peer."
"It's all important for your recovery."
"Whatever you say, Doc. Hey, if I have to see a shrink, could I see Dr. Rygalski instead of this guy you talked about before? At least I know her."
"Dr. Rygalski has enough to do as it is, without having to put up with a rambunctious street kid like you."
"Oh," Dermot said, disappointed. Maybe he had really offended someone with his remarks. He thought he was getting along fine with Dr. Rygalski, but maybe not. Or maybe it was Dr. Shipley, mad at him because of ticking off his sister. Dermot sulked for the rest of the morning.
Not long after he had completed his midday meal, Natalie Harper appeared again.
"Hello, Dermot. How are you today?"
"So so."
"I told you I'd be back."
"Yeah, I know. I guess I should apologize. I was not very nice when you were here on Friday."
"You seemed to get upset when I mentioned that Boys Haven was connected to the Catholic Church."
"Yeah," he confirmed. "You Catholic?"
"No, Dermot, I'm not. But I have worked with the people out at Boys Haven, and always found them most accommodating. None of the boys there are pressured into becoming Catholic, or attending Catholic services unless they want to," Mrs. Harper stated.
"Let's drop the Boys Haven bit for now. Do you really think anyone would take in a foster child who had been out selling his ass on the streets?"
"A lot would depend on whether he intended to continue selling his ass," Mrs. Harper replied with a smile.
"Shit! Uh, sorry. I guess I'm used to bad language. Anyway, I told ... somebody ...." Dermot trickled to a stop, seeing the look in Mrs. Harper's eyes. "Oh, all right! I told Lando Lyle that I would not have been out there if I thought I had a choice about it. It sure was no fun. And I found out something last Friday, too. Did you know I had worms?"
"Yes, Dermot, I knew that. I was the one who told you about it, remember?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You don't still have worms, do you?"
"No. Nurse Bailey says they got rid of them, but worms hatching inside me! Ugh! Just thinking about it makes me want to puke. When I found out about that, I decided I had to find some way to avoid going back on the streets. So, that's why I asked about a foster home."
"I see. Well, I must say, that's a lot more accommodating than you were last Friday. I will definitely be looking into foster care for you. In the meanwhile, can we talk about your schooling?"
"I told you I wasn't going to tell you where I was in school last year," Dermot insisted.
"Yes, I recall. But could you tell me what subjects you were taking, so we can check with the school board about appropriate follow up lessons until we can get you back in school?"
"Um, okay. Let's see. English, World History, Algebra - ugh, I hate algebra! What else? Oh yeah, something called General Science. Civics. I know there were six subjects, in addition to lunch and PE. Oh yeah, English was divided. Second period was grammar and stuff, and then after lunch we had literature. I like literature.
"That's a pretty strong curriculum. You must have been in a college prep course of studies. Except for the missing foreign language and the weak science," Mrs. Harper analyzed. "Did you pass everything?"
"Of course I did," Dermot said, as though nothing could be more obvious. "I kind of had the idea I'd like to be a history teacher, but I guess that's hopeless now."
"Don't give up, Dermot. Nothing is completely hopeless at this point."
"Yeah. That priest said something like that last week," Dermot mused.
Mrs. Harper left, on a considerably better footing with Dermot than after her last visit.
The orderlies appeared again to help Dermot into his wheel chair for the trip to visit Dr. Grissom, the psychologist.
Dermot did not like Grissom from the very outset. He looked like someone from a bad movie, with thick glasses and a small Van Dyke beard and mustache, just like a cartoon character. What was he trying to prove? If he has to dress up to play the part, he can't be all that good, Dermot decided in his infallible fifteen year old wisdom. However, this negative first impression, and what he thought of as a smarmy voice and clammy handshake, meant that Dermot was not going to cooperate. He gave one word answers, and was even more parsimonious of information than he had been with Sgt. Flaherty or Mrs. Harper.
After about twenty minutes, Dr. Grissom gave up. "You are not cooperating at all, Dermot. Do you mind telling me why?"
"You're not real, Doc."
"Not real? What do you mean?"
"You're a cartoon character. Why should I waste my time talking to a cartoon character?"
"That's harsh, young man."
"So? I've become used to harsh."
"Tell me about it."
Dermot laughed. "Too eager, Doc. Can I go back to my room now?"
Dr. Grissom sighed, and called for the orderlies to escort the boy back.
When he got there, Lando was waiting. That certainly improved the situation.
"Wow, what happened to you?" Lando asked.
"Huh? What?"
"The shiner. That's a beaut. They been beating on you here?"
"Naw. That's the left over from last week. You might not believe it, but this is an improvement."
Lando leaned close, and inspected the eye in some detail. Dermot decided he liked having the other boy close, but he dared not actually do anything. Instead, they spent a good half hour reviewing his condition, and complaining about Dr. Grissom. He concluded, "I'm really glad to see you. I thought maybe I had ticked you off too much on Saturday."
"No, I just thought I needed some time to think about things," Lando responded.
"Yeah, well, don't scare me like that, friend," Dermot said, stressing the last word.
"Mea culpa," Lando replied with a wide grin.
"You're impossible. But I'm glad you're here anyway," Dermot confessed.
"Actually, I can't stay long. I've got a ton of homework. For some reason all my teachers got together over the weekend and conspired against me. And on top of all that, I've got to take my sister to her girl scout meeting at seven o'clock and wait for her until the meeting is over. I can do some studying then, I guess."
"I just noticed, this is the second time you've said something about taking your sister somewhere."
"Yeah," Lando sighed, "my folks really impose on me these days."
"Right," Dermot said, in a voice indicating he did not believe it at all. "But what I was getting at, how is it that you are taking your sister places? Do you have your drivers license?"
"Oh, sure. I got it the day after my sixteenth birthday. Here, see." Lando handed Dermot his wallet, with the license showing, from which Dermot learned that Roland Cartwright Lyle was born on 5 February 1993."
"Cool. So the parents let you drive?"
"Um, ah, yeah," Lando mumbled.
"Come on. Out with it. You're holding something back."
"They gave me a car," he mumbled even less audibly.
"What's that? Speak up!" Dermot insisted.
"My folks gave me a car for my birthday!" Lando almost shouted.
"God almighty! You get embarrassed by the strangest things. Most kids would want the entire world to know that."
"I feel like I'm showing off," Lando said, "especially when you have so little."
"Wrong again! I don't have little. I have nothing. But that's no reason for you to feel guilty. It's not like I would have gotten a car if you didn't. I'll bet it's a bitching set of wheels. So spill, what is it?"
"Mustang GT Premium," Lando responded enthusiastically, his hesitations overcome. "Sunset gold, with a black double stripe down the center from bumper to bumper, and all the extras. The folks went all out. Leather seats. Fucking great stereo system. I've been driving to school, here, all over town, as much as I can, for the past month. So, the folks said since I like to drive so much, I can take Emily to her scouts meeting."
"Cool," Dermot shared in his friend's enthusiasm. "When I get out of here, you can give me a ride, too."
"You bet! But hey, I really do need to get back to study. But I brought you some books. Dad says they're good standards for parts of American history you should have been studying this year."
Lando reached into his backpack, and retrieved copies of THE BOLD AND MAGNIFICENT DREAM by Bruce and William Catton, THE OXFORD HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN PEOPLE by Samuel Eliot Morison, FOUNDING BROTHERS by Joseph J. Ellis, and UNDAUNTED COURAGE by Stephen E. Ambrose.
"Gosh, Lando, this is great!" Dermot responded with obvious appreciation, fondling the books as they appeared. "Be sure to tell your dad that I really appreciate it."
"I will. You said the right thing when you told me you wanted to be a history teacher. I think that's what Dad really wanted to do, but he had to follow Grandad into the firm. I remember he told me once Granddad said, 'history's fine for a hobby, but you can't make a decent living from it.' Now, I really must go."
"I hope this doesn't mean you won't be back until I finish all these," Dermot said, a little apprehensive.
"No way," Lando relieved his worries. "Soon as I get my head around these bitching homework assignments, I'll be right back. See you."
"See you."
Monday evening, Dermot finished the book about the Lords Baltimore, and dipped into his new treasure trove.