The story below is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblances to real people, alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon persons, in towns, cities, countries, nor governmental areas, which the story is staged. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offends you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by law. Check with your local laws regarding such. % Sexual safety matters. Remember guys, this is fiction. In real life, use protection.
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"For The Love Of Michael" 07 wriTten by T. Chase McPhee
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A little mismatched, Dean didn't mind wearing his extra gym suit, with Juan's extra tee shirt, somebody's pair of socks and sneakers, to band class.
"That was a stupid thing to do!"
"Don't rub it in," Dean said, wetting the reed of his clarinet.
"What did Michael say?"
"You saw him. Did he come over to me? Say he was sorry?"
"Sorry, Dean? It's not like he pushed you in the pool."
"So, he's the cause of it."
"Dean, you walked right out of the lockerroom and fell into the pool. All the guys were there. We saw you do it. Michael wasn't around until he came out, much later."
"I know."
"So?"
"I've gotta wet my reed."
Right out of Dean's mouth, Juan rips the wet reed.
"Owwwwch! Dammit Juan! You could have given me a splinter!"
"Talk!"
"I'm not saying anything til you give me my reed back!"
"You're not getting your reed back til you talk!"
"If Mr. D'Allago yells at me, it'll be your fault!"
Juan Alvarez surrenders the wet reed.
"I hope it isn't cracked."
"It's fine. Suck on it."
As soon as Dean places the clarinet reed in his mouth to `suck on it', Mr. D'Allago enters the room.
"You're not leaving school til I talk with you."
Band class went on as usual. They actually sounded decent, having taken first place at the `battle of the bands', five years running. However, this year started off a little weak. It seems the percussionist moved midsummer and Mr. D'Allago had to move up the worst drummer, one whom couldn't keep a beat. The whole band depended on Jim Hart and he wasn't working out to D'Allago's expectations.
When Mr. D'Allago spoke, students listened. Kids at school often spoke of him as a taskmaster on a plantation. Right out of a Pete Brown novel, he made his band students tote the line or take a hike. Only this year there wasn't any interested players for the percussion section other than Jim Hart. To clang the cymbals and carry the bass drum, Jim enlisted his cronies. Scotty Bingham wasn't bad at keeping the beat. Fortunately all Jeff Stocker had to do is `wear' the bass drum, like a backpack. He was hefty enough, standing at six feet tall and being on the wrestling team, as well, he was built like a tank. So, hauling the bass drum as Jim Hart beat the hell out of it, didn't prove a problem. Except for Mr. D'Allago's ears and the band's footsteps!
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo, Hart! It's 1..2..3..4..1..2..3..4......" Mr. D'Allagro pounded into Hart's head.
Everyone was aghast when Michael Malkovich set his flute down, walked over to Jim, took his hand with the mallet and tapped the four beats.
"Like this Hart!"
Strange thing is, Jim Hart `allowed' Michael to tap out the rhythm!
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Copyright 2007 T. Chase McPhee This story may not be sold, nor made part of any collection, without prior consent from the author.