FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter Two
Disclaimer: This work is a sequel to my first effort at writing gay erotic fiction. As such, it may help if you've read "Strange Bedfellows," (available in its entirety on Nifty, with a cleaned up and re-edited version now partially posted at the Rainbow Community Writers' Project). The story is fiction, but occasional depicts scenes of sexual activity between consenting adults. If it's for you to view such material, then please move on. The work is the sole property of the author, and my not be reposted, reproduced or published elsewhere without my expressed consent. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it.
"If you come to a fork in the road, take it" -Yogi Berra
CHAPTER TWO
Rita Freeda. Scott sucked in a guffaw at the rhyming name the first time they met. Sadly she was blind, but that also meant she couldn't see him smirk. He wasn't happy she was blind, but was grateful that she couldn't see his grin when she introduced herself. Rita Freeda. Shit,' he thought, you couldn't make that up.'
Rita lived in the downstairs apartment of the house next door. When he was moving in with the help of the other guys the previous spring her son had spotted him. Warren Freeda was a 30-something bean counter for an insurance company who was visiting his mom that day in late May. After Craig and Brett had left, and Scott was walking back toward the front door soaked in sweat, Warren basically accosted him. Warren obviously wanted to find a neighbor who could and would keep an eye out for his mother. The three of them enjoyed a Coke in Rita's living room and the fattest cat in the world waddled into the room. Scott was aghast by the size of the thing. Warren smirked and Rita sensed both the cat's presence and Scott's reaction.
"He's a big boy, isn't he?" Rita sipped her Coke and dropped her right hand down near her ankles. The cat leaned into her fingers and took a loving scratch on the head and neck. "He found his way onto my porch about five years ago. I made the mistake of feeding him and he never left my porch. He was a fat ass when I got him." She chuckled over her presumption about Scott's reaction to the language.
"With all due respect, Mrs. Freeda..."
"Rita, please."
"Okay Rita, but what do you feed this little monster?"
She giggled. "Believe it or not, I've been a cat owner all my life, since I was a little girl. I do know how to take care of them. I don't feed him too much. He was fatter than hell when I got him. It's his metabolism and his genes, according to the vet. Plus the fact that I keep him inside and he's not out running around and doing his thing all day long."
Both Warren and Scott smiled as the fattest cat in the world plopped near Scott's feet and his body language begged for a pet. Scott leaned over and accommodated. The cat approved with a purr.
Scott was taken by Rita. She was sweet. In some ways she reminded him of his late grandmother, Evelyn. She was immediately grateful for the association that she took for friendship, and Scott was immediately determined to make it a friendship. But then, in mid-July, she'd called to say that Warren had arranged for her to move into "an old folks' home," as she put it. She begged him to take her cat. He hugged the short, frail woman with the thinning gray hair and gray blind eyes, he shook her son's hand and hugged Scott and the cat and said goodbye. And thus, Scott Turner became the person owned by the fattest cat in the world.
Greg Page had butterflies in his stomach. He scolded himself because a large part of the discomfort was his own damned fault. He'd slept though the stop over at the Burger King and he hadn't eaten a thing all day. Still, the butterflies were there and they were real.
The redeye bus from Spooner was a major pain in the ass, but it was the only option. Greg's older brother Jesse had grudgingly helped him move his stuff into one of the jocks' dorms the previous weekend. In all, it had been a stressful and a shitty trip. Jesse was a disagreeable asshole with a chip on his shoulder, envious that his younger brother had been so successful at baseball. Greg was no scholar and without his batting average, sharp eye and hot arm, he probably wouldn't have been admitted to the UW. Jesse reminded him of that at every opportunity. But Greg could hit the hell out of a fastball and he could scoop up nearly anything that came his way. His throw to first was always dead on. Meantime, Jesse was stuck working at a paper mill and still living with his dad at the age of 23. He didn't like their father, Stephen, much more than Greg did but he didn't have many options, and that pissed him off.
But Stephen told Jesse that he had to help move the youngster out of the house, so he did. They had moved Greg's stuff into an empty dorm room, did some paperwork with the athletic department and made their way back to Spooner. A week later, Stephen Page had given his younger son an obligatory hug and ordered Jesse to bring him to the bus depot. Jesse did as he was told, but it was nearly midnight when they pulled out of the driveway and he wasn't happy about it.
Greg didn't quite cry, but he choked up and did wipe his eyes. He really missed his mom, and he still damned the powers that be for allowing that stupid drunk to take her away. Audry was simply driving to the school to pick him up one evening almost a year earlier. To make matters worse, he still felt a little guilty about his sense of satisfaction over the other driver's demise. After all, the woman had been driving home from her own retirement party when she died. Or rather, when she killed herself. But she'd taken Audry Page with her. `The stupid bitch. Fuck her. I hope she's burning in Hell,' Greg thought for the thousandth time. But still, he wasn't exactly proud about these malicious emotions.
And then his attention turned because the bus was coming into Madison. Rolling off the interstate onto East Washington Avenue, there was the Capitol dome in the distance. Nice,' he thought. He'd been there for the first time in his life seven months earlier, playing third base with his high school teammates. They fought mightily to win the title in the state high school championship series. And they did it. That clinched the deal for Greg. He'd already been approached with what his high school coach had said were sweet nothings in your ear' from the UW coaching staff. But then he'd vanquished their rivals with a stunning catch in the eighth inning, and then capped it off with a game-winning homer in the ninth. All he'd ever wanted to be was a Wisconsin Badger. Never mind that it was baseball, and they didn't have the band and eighty thousand fans in the stands every weekend. He could go to those games himself. One piece of Greg's scholarship included season tickets to everything. His dad and his brother had no idea, nor did they give a damn.
Greg was looking forward to the relative anonymity that the UW would afford him. Being the star on the local team back home had its advantages to be sure, and his status as a successful jock had been about the only thing that ever seemed to make his father smile. But he was a shy guy, never very comfortable in the limelight, and his own questions about his sexuality and the high school flings with his friend Nick made it all very awkward. He had a lot more questions than he had answers, and a mountain of apprehension about what was ahead of him.
Greg spent the day wandering State Street and the campus, and then had a restless night alone in his dorm room. According to the mailing he'd gotten a few weeks earlier and the folder he'd received when he got there, his roommate was a junior who'd held his own as the team's first baseman. All the freshmen on the baseball team had been paired to room with an upper classman on the team. But Cameron Kohlrush wasn't due until the next day. They'd already exchanged a couple of emails to get acquainted. Cam seemed like a good enough guy, and said he had a serious girlfriend who had her own apartment, and so he would be absent much of the time.
All the better, as Greg wasn't in a very sociable mood. He laid in bed, grateful for the scholarship and he prayed, giving thanks for the liberation from Stephen and Jesse, and for his good fortune, and said a few words to his mother before drifting off into a deep and satisfying sleep.
In retrospect, Scott wondered why he'd been surprised by Randy's being hired as Maureen's new chief of staff. He was perfect for the job. He was newly divorced from his unfaithful wife, not that he'd been all that faithful to her. He was the proud owner of a brand new graduate degree in political science. He grew up in the home district and he wanted to remain in Madison. It was an ideal situation in many ways.
Still, the arrangement was troubling for Scott. He and Randy had flirted off and on throughout that freshman year when Randy had been his teaching assistant in a state government class. Scott and Marty had enjoyed a raucous three-way with the guy after a party one night. It had been a great time, but now he largely regretted it. On top of that, Randy's father, Marshall, was gearing up to run for Maureen's senate seat as soon as she announced for the Attorney General's post. What Randy didn't know was that Scott's dad was making the same plans for that position, and Big Scott' had Maureen's quiet blessing. This is a fucking cluster fuck,' he thought.
Just as troubling was that Scott still found the guy incredibly hot. He was...well, he was just plain buff. He was a stud. At 26, he still maintained a remarkable gymnast's build, had a strong masculine face and bearing, and he was very intelligent. In many ways, he was the total package. Randy and Marty had committed a gross indiscretion nearly a year earlier that had really pissed him off, but he'd gotten over that a long time ago. The plain fact was that Randy liked to drink and partied from time to time, and he was still given to the occasional adolescent misstep. Scott could say the same about himself.
He put all that behind him when he walked through the doors of the Union to help out with new student orientation, and he heard a welcomed and welcoming voice from down the hall. Walter `Radar' Jamieson, the WSA's clerk, was nearly jumping out of his shoes. "Jeez, am I ever glad you're here! Thanks a lot, Scott! They're gonna let the group go from the general meeting in about twenty minutes, and we're going to be swamped."
Scott hugged the little guy. "Relax, Radar. All will be well. You're too anal sometimes, but that's one of the things I love most about you." Radar. Everybody called him Radar because he looked like Radar O'Reilly from the old TV series MASH, and because he was the WSA clerk who acted like Radar. And, ironically, the TV character's real name was Walter too. It was too perfect. He was cuter than hell and took his various jobs very seriously. Scott wanted to ruffle his hair, but resisted the temptation.
Walter pointed to a half-dozen boxes of printed informational literature and started giving directions on setting up the WSA table. Scott grinned and dutifully followed orders. Fifteen minutes later, they had the table set and Walter had calmed down. Scott snuck off and bought two cups of coffee from the Union's café. It was bad coffee, but it would do.
After the introductory orientation meeting in the Great Hall, the newbies were dismissed for a half-hour break. They were encouraged to stop by the tables in the lobby where various student clubs and organizations had tables set up. Scott and Walter had been chatting and getting caught up when the din of voices and footsteps lured them both from behind the table.
Greg wasn't much of a joiner, and hadn't intended to stop by any of the tables. Then he heard his name.
"Greg Page? Aren't you Greg Page, from Spooner?"
He turned and nodded. "Uh, yeah."
Scott stepped forward and extended a hand. "Dude! I saw you play in the championship game last spring, and I read that Coach Bidwell had recruited you." Greg smiled sheepishly and accepted the handshake. "You were awesome, man! You basically locked up the final game single-handedly. Welcome to the UW!"
"Thanks, uhm..."
"Scott. Scott Turner. I'm the current president of the Student Association, here to meet and greet you newcomers." He looked to his right, but Walter was busy talking with a pretty young woman, so he didn't intrude with an introduction. "So, what do you think so far?"
Greg arched his eyebrows and shrugged. "Well, I've only been here about twenty-four hours, but so far, so good."
"Well, I'm just a sophomore myself, so all the new stuff is still fairly fresh for me. Been there, done that, if you know what I mean, but I remember it all too well."
Greg looked surprised. "You're just in your second year and already president of the WSA?"
Scott smirked. "Long story, but yeah. I had a lot of help." There was an awkward pause as each eyed the other from head to toe. "Anyway...so you have a major decided?"
Greg rolled his eyes. "Well, ideally the baseball thing will at least get me looked at by the pros. But I'm pretty sure I'm headed for education. If I can't make a living swinging the bat for some rich team owner, then I think I'd like to coach. Probably head for the social studies at the high school level."
Scott laughed. "Aren't all social studies teachers coaches? Or maybe it's the other way around. All coaches have to teach history or something like that. Hey, I'm a poli-sci and history major myself."
Greg's eyes lit up and he smiled a dazzling smile. "Very cool. It might be nice to know somebody who's already jumped through some of those hoops. I like the history, but the political stuff's never been my thing."
Scott smiled back. "Well, it's not everybody's cup of tea, but it's hard to separate the two. You'll have to tackle some politics in order to get your brain around the history." Greg nodded and shrugged. There was another awkward pause. "Uhm...so, you're dorming it I assume?"
"Yup. We're all pretty much in the same dorm. Coach's orders. My roommate's due in today."
"Cool, cool." Scott nodded. "Got out of the dorms myself this year, and never had to answer to a coach or any teammates, just a couple of obnoxious roomies.s Well, like I said, been there done that if you're heading into History. Some of it anyway. If you need something of an insider's view on the department or the classes, give me a shout." He jotted down his e-mail addresses at the WSA and at home, and the phone numbers for the office, the apartment and his cell phone. "Here. I suppose your schedule is already set."
Greg took the slip of paper. "Yeah. Just general studies this year. The usual stuff: math, English comp., history and a biology class this semester.
A small group of other new students were loitering around the table and Walter appeared to have his hands full, so Scott extended a hand again. "Well, good to see you here, Greg, and to meet you. Don't hesitate to let me know if I can help."
"Thanks, uhm, Scott." He was terrible at remembering names, and was relieved that he'd recalled this guy's.
Greg's next meeting was in the library's computer lab, in assigned groups of thirty. They'd all been given their log-ins and set their passwords, and were led through a tutorial of the university's e-library and e-mail systems. When given the chance to browse via the networked system, Greg fired off an email to his old friend, Nick Watson.
Nick had been the catcher on an opposing high school team in the same conference, but it was only fifteen miles away. They'd found themselves at the same baseball camp three summers earlier. Boys being boys, five of them found themselves comparing their equipment one night. One dare led to another and before long it was a full-blown circle jerk. Greg couldn't take his eyes of Nick's fine form and even finer member, glistening with pre-cum and getting harder and redder in the firm grip of Nick's spit-soaked hand. The blond young stud was gazing intently at Greg's pounding grip and he licked his lips more than once. Their eyes met and they each toppled into the throes of a very satisfying orgasm at the same time.
The following evening, they'd snuck off to an equipment shed that Nick had earlier discovered unlocked. Greg kissed another guy for the first time. He also sucked his first cock. The two of them, despite being on rival teams, remained friends until they parted ways for college. Greg headed off for Madison and Nick was now settling in at Mankato in Minnesota.
They had come of age sexually together, and now Greg missed his friend. The small town lives of a couple high school jocks required that they remain as far back in the closet as possible. And so the adolescent relationship had remained extremely clandestine. Both dated girls in their respective schools, attended their proms and put on every macho appearance they could.
But there had been that one time when Nick's parents came home when Greg's legs were in the air and his ankles were in Nick's firm grasp. Luckily, the guys were in Nick's basement bedroom and managed to put themselves together before Nick's mom made it down the stairs to check on them. They finished the task an hour later once mom and dad were safely in bed and sound asleep. This time Greg took it face down, his mouth clamped on the corner of a pillow muffling his moans. Greg recalled that night and grinned. Nick could fuck for hours. And he could take it as good as he gave.
Greg stirred in his seat to adjust his chubbing member. And then Scott Turner's face appeared in his mind's eye. Scott was a little shorter than Greg, probably about five foot ten he guessed. Maybe 155 pounds, very fit and trim. His hair was a light brown and cut just above the ears. He had piercing blue-gray eyes, and Greg imagined their hue changed a bit depending on what he was wearing, just like Nick's did. He had high cheekbones and just a bit of a cleft in his strong chin. And teeth to spare, Greg thought. Scott had about the most engaging, even perfect, smile he'd ever run into. Scott was great looking, he filled out his jeans and polo very nicely, and he exuded a charm and confidence that Greg was sure he'd never have himself. Plus, Scott was a baseball fan and had remembered that championship game. Greg had been flattered and very taken with the guy. And as a bonus, Scott said he could help him navigate the academic waters in the History Department. All in all, it was turning into a pretty good day. The malignant thoughts of his dad and asshole brother were gone, as were the butterflies in his stomach.
I wonder,' Scott thought as he drove back toward the apartment, Why did Page give off such sad vibes? Maybe he's just homesick or nervous. But damn! He's the total package. Baseball scholarship, seems pretty bright, pretty personable for a first encounter. And both above and below the belt he's fucking gorgeous.' And he had cute dimples when he did smile. Scott was a sucker for dimples on a cute guy.
Greg's dark brown hair and matching eyes framed a very strong face. Scott guessed he was fairly hairy below the collar, since even at eighteen his beard was becoming evident at eleven in the morning. He had a strong square jaw and Scott imagined he could pull off an imposing bearing if he'd wanted to. But it wasn't there. There was a shyness, a certain sadness and lack of confidence in his bearing. It didn't add up. `He should be strutting,' it seemed to Scott.
For a Friday, it was an early night. Craig and Brett were moving back to Madison from Rockford the next afternoon, and they'd no doubt hit it hard once the guys got settled in. Scott imagined a miserable Sunday hangover.
He grilled a couple of burgers on the upstairs front porch and sipped a couple bourbon and cokes while he looked across the street to Lake Mendota. He added some sliced tomatoes, a couple ears of sweet corn and a pasta salad to the fare and had himself a small feast while the fattest cat in the world flopped on his feet. Then he made another drink and returned to the front porch. He'd learned back in June that if he put the chair in the back corner of the deck he was far enough from the road's view that he could get away with sitting out there in only his boxers. Nude if he wanted. It was a muggy night nearing the end of August, so he opted for just the boxers. Billie Holiday serenaded through the open window, and he chuckled again at himself that someone his age had such an affinity for such old music.
He hummed along with `God Bless the Child,' and thought of Marty and Jill. He'd be traveling to Rockford in a month or so for his godson's baptism.
The summer months had flown by but he welcomed the coming school year. Craig and Brett's return would be welcomed too, but Marty wouldn't be there. Scott had come to terms with their heading in different directions months before, but he still missed the goofy, sexy bastard. And he was happy for Marty and Jill and the darling little Ashley, Jill's daughter, and for the future Scott Martin Anderson.
And, after Labor Day, even though the legislature would be back in session, he'd be working part time. That'll be a lot easier,' he thought. More grunt work, to be sure, but Will and Maureen and that asshole Frick will know I'm back in school and busy again with the WSA.'
Re-election was only six weeks off. `Ought to think about that, I s'pose.' He had decided he was going to run for at least one more term anyway. He made a mental note to email his colleagues with a greeting next week and start laying the groundwork for another bid for the presidency, should the good students decide to return him to office.
And then there was the Board of Regents. The previous year, Scott had been appointed by Governor Ted Hackett to the one seat created for a student on the UW System's governing board. It had been a fairly rocky first year, but he'd been trying to keep a low profile during their monthly summer meetings. He'd already managed to piss off Andrew Pennington, the Board's president, in a battle over tuition hikes the previous spring. But the dust had pretty much settled and he'd been going out of his way to fly below Pennington's radar screen, for now anyway.
He thought about Kip Monmouth. Christopher U. "Kip" Monmouth had been his mortal political enemy when Scott first ran for student office, and then the bane of his existence for the better part of the year. For reasons he still struggled to understand, they'd made nice by the time Kip graduated. Kip was the stereotypical snob when they'd first encountered each other, but then they'd both evolved and found some common ground. Then, after Kip graduated, the yuppie frat boy headed off to Australia for the summer. The last time Scott had seen Kip he was headed off to his private quarters in the frat house with a very hunky med student. Scott recalled both their asses heading up the stairs at the and he'd imagined one more time how the two of them might have spent the night. He had a vivid imagination, and the various scenarios he conjured up were very erotic. He wondered what ever had become of Kip.
His cell phone was ringing inside the apartment. "Fuck," he muttered as he stood and swatted his way through the moths and mosquitoes buzzing around the light near the screen door. He checked the caller i.d. screen and grinned. He hadn't talked to his folks all week long.
"This better be good. I was just about to score with this buxom babe in my bedroom." He emphasized the b's in his exaggeration.
`Big Scott' laughed. "A lot of alliteration allowed," then he chuckled again, "ya' little shit."
"Thanks, Dad. I've been waiting to use that line. You have no idea how I've wanted to use that line."
"TMI, Scotty, at least with your mom listening to my end of the conversation. I don't want to say something that might make me proud but incriminate you." Suzanne smacked her husband's shoulder with the back of her hand.
"Gotcha. So, what's up old man?"
"Well, I'm coming to Madison for a couple days of strategizing with some folks Maureen put me in touch with." Scott's father planned to run for Senator McCarthy's seat once she announced her candidacy for the Attorney General's office. "I'll be there next week, Wednesday and Thursday. How about dinner Wednesday night?"
Scott drained his drink. "What're you offering, hotshot?"
The father chuckled again. "Let me guess. You've had a relatively decent meal and a couple of cocktails, and now are feeling cocky."
"Couple of cocktails and cocky. A lot of alliteration is allowed." Scott giggled. "Yeah. Been a long week. Put in extra hours the other night under the dome, and then worked the new student orientation at the Union today. Walter needed the help."
"Well you should be there for that. You're the big mucky-muck after all. You should greet your newly loyal subjects."
"Yeah, right. But I met one of the new baseball Badgers today, the third base recruit, the guy from Spooner, Greg Page? You remember him? He's the guy who locked it up for his home team last summer. Seems like a pretty good guy."
Big Scott was also a huge baseball fan. That's where his son got it. "Really? I remember that picture in the paper last spring. The kid was airborne and horizontal between second and third base as he caught that ball. It was an amazing play and an even more brilliant picture."
"So, anyway, how's Mom? Still pandering to the rich and famous home owners?" Suzanne owned an interior decorating business, and only dealt in high-end clients.
"Here, I'll put her on, but you're going to have to ask her that question. Scotty, I'd like to make a plan now, but I'm going to have to call you when I get there on Wednesday, but let's plan on dinner around seven, okay? "Works for me. You know where we're eating if you're buying, right?"
"There's only Smokey's when I'm buying you dinner." Smokey's, in Scott's estimation, had the best service and the best steaks in the Midwest.
Scott had a decent buzz on from the bourbon, but thought he'd test the language skills further despite the mild inebriation. He emphasized every first consonant. "Good Gracious! Getting God-awful Giving. And a Good and Generous Geezer! Good Golly!"
Big Scott laughed again. "Yeah...yuck you! Here's your mother. I'll give you a call. Get some sleep."
He giggled. "Guess I'm a little goofy, maybe giddy, about the guys going to get here. Got to get going now." He was pleased with himself, but glad that he wasn't driving.
Scott kept it together and chatted with Suzanne for another ten minutes while he made himself one last drink. She'd finally become comfortable that her son was holding his own in Madison. He verbally patted her on the head for her newfound faith in him. Or maybe it was some confirmation of her own skills as a mother she was feeling better about. He thanked her and said "I love you," and then he hung up and headed back out toward the porch. The thick warm air hit him in the face before he even reached the screen door. He set the drink down on the small plastic table next to the lawn chair, then went back in and turned on the window unit air conditioner.
For the better part of an hour, he watched the reflection of a nearly full August moon dance slowly on the soft ripples of the lake's surface across the street. Greg Page's handsome face and fine form kept creeping into his head. And so did Marty. And so did Randy and Kelly.
As Lady Day' was finishing What a Little Moonlight Can Do," Scott reached out and dumped what was left of the melting ice over the railing, and then headed inside. The guys would be there tomorrow.
Scott woke early and finally checked his email. One from Brett had been sent the previous day. That was kind of odd, because he didn't email very often. But since he was moving back it made sense.
"Hey, dumb shit. Coming back up tomorrow morning. Please clean my room and have the coffee on. Craig tells me you went out and inherited a cat. Please be warned that I'm bringing a dog. My brother's chocolate lab had a litter this summer and I felt an obligation to take a gorgeous male lab puppy off his hands for free. AKC registered, he's a real sport, a lovable little hunk and I'm sure you'll love him."
Scott shook his head. "He's still insane." He looked down at the fattest cat in the world who had dropped his wide ass in the bedroom doorway. "You, my friend, are gonna get a roommate. No doubt a high energy, high maintenance roommate who is gonna drive you crazy." The fattest cat continued to lick his paws and wipe his face. He'd just finished breakfast. He didn't care.
Scott was sipping coffee and frowning at the soduku puzzle when he heard the horn honk. Brett's Jeep was pulling up to park illegally at the curb. Scott looked over the rail of the front balcony and saw the black hair rise above the door and roof of the car and he waved. Brett flipped him off and grinned. "Getcher ass down here and help me with these boxes, asshole."
By the time he'd slipped his shoes on and made his way downstairs, Brett had the dog on a leash outside the Jeep. They exchanged handshakes and manly half-hugs and laughed at each other without saying a thing. The dog was marking his territory at a tree on the boulevard.
"Hey pooch!" Scott bent down and the puppy's muddy front paws were immediately on his knees, his snout craning upward toward his chin. Scott obliged and went down to his knees and gave up his face for the obligatory tongue-mugging hello.
"It's Nigger."
Scott pushed the dog off and looked up. "You're kidding me, right?" He scratched the pup's ears while it nuzzled his crotch.
Brett smirked his sarcastic smirk. "Have I ever kidded you? His name is Nigger."
Scott stood up and stared, slack-jawed.
"C'mon Scott. Look at his color. He's as brown as any African American you and I have ever known. And it's a beautiful color. I'm tired of all the politically correct crap about the N word.' And, I have listened to you talk about language being offensive cuz of how it's used, not `cuz of how it sounds. The word isn't a weapon in this case. It's a term of endearment. He's my darling little Nigger." He scratched the dog's head, handed Scott the leash and then reached for the back door handle on the Jeep.
"You can't be serious. Does he answer to the name?"
Brett looked down and smiled. "Here, Nigger." The pup scurried to Brett's shins and sat.
Scott looked around nervously, hoping there were no neighbors who could hear.
"You're not gonna say that a lot in public, are you?"
"It's what he answers to." He handed Scott a box full of shoes. "C'mon Scott. Twain used it. Comedians use it. Rappers use it. And, best of all, most of mainstream America has a friggin heart attack over it, even though a lot of them use it. I'm not disparaging him when I use it. It's an endearing appellation in our case, and he likes it." He looked down and talked in that baby doggy talk people use. "Doooooon't yoooooooou Niggerrrrrrrrrr." The dog's tongue flapped around and he wagged his tail.
Scott rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"Like we've agreed before, words are vulgar because of how they're used, not cuz of how they sound. How many times have we gotten loaded and recounted George Carlin's `Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV?' Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cock-sucker, mother-fucker and tits." He laughed. "And how many of those are now getting by on TV?"
Scott rolled his eyes and shook his head, but didn't have a comeback.
"Don't get me wrong. I'm never gonna look at a man or woman of color and call them that for any reason. But would it be any more or less offensive if I looked at a black man and said out of my way, you damned n-word!'? Fuckin' a. Pretty soon we're not gonna be allowed to utter the phrase n-word.'"
Scott sighed. "So you're making a statement."
Brett put a suitcase on top of the Jeep and grinned. "Yep."
"With a dog."
"Yep. If he was a German Shepard, I'd name him Hitler or Goehring or Goebbels. If he was a snippy spineless little Chihuahua, I'd name him Scott."
"Fuck you. I don't have those bulging, bugged out eyes, and I only quiver and shake when I'm freezing my ass off in the winter or I'm having an orgasm."
Brett laughed and grabbed another suitcase out of the jeep.
The pooch nuzzled Scott's crotch again. "Don't know if I can call him that. I mean he's a handsome pup, but that's not something that trips off my lips very easily, or at all."
Brett handed him another box. "Get over yourself. I was hoping when I got back you'd be a little less anal."
They got Brett moved back in and broke out a couple of beers, even though it wasn't even ten in the morning. The fattest cat in the world took refuge in the closet that would be Craig's room as soon as he heard the dog coming up the stairs.
They sat on the front porch as the ten-week old lab took a nap in the sunshine on the corner of the porch. He was a very handsome dog.
"Maybe I'll call him `Nig'."
Brett laughed. "Now what the fuck is the difference? That's as absurd as `The N-Word.' Every time someone on TV uses that stupid phrase, we all know the translation. Nigger. They're saying nigger. His name is Nigger."
Scott got up and shook his head. He paused to pet the lazy pup on his way to the bathroom. He grabbed a small can of tomato juice out of the fridge to pour into his glass of beer and went back to the porch. Just then, Craig's horn honked out front.
A couple weeks later, with several days of new classes behind him, he smiled at the clerk. "Okay, there ya' go, Radar, I'm officially a candidate for re-election." Scott slid his nomination papers with more than enough signatures across the desk.
Walter smiled. "Well, it's about time! Jeez! I was starting to get worried. The filing deadline hits tomorrow, and you helped set the deadline."
Scott shrugged and grinned. "You're coming back for another term, aren't you?" He really wanted the trusted WSA clerk to return for another year.
Walter gave a smug grin. "That's pretty much up to you folks. You know that. But I'm going to be on campus for another year, so I'm available."
Scott winked on his way out the door. "Atta boy, Radar."
It had been a long week, and he was glad the apartment was probably going to be empty when he got back. Craig had a concert to review tonight, and then had to go home for his aunt and uncle's anniversary party, and Brett was spending the weekend at his girlfriend's family cabin. It was good to have the guys back in town but he looked forward to the solitude. Scott was really beat and looked forward to the time alone.
He nuked some leftovers, sipped a bourbon and water and read some old Sherlock Holmes he'd long been meaning to dive into. The he drifted off on the couch. Nig was gnawing on a chew toy on the kitchen floor and the fattest cat in the world found his way up onto Scott's chest making himself at home. Still mostly asleep, Scott shoved him off onto the cushion because the fat bastard weighted too much, and then he turned onto his side. "You're not a kitty. You're a fucking lardass," he muttered as the little monster nuzzled up onto his arm and under his chin. "You got no tact, but you got taste. You know I used to hate cats, don't you?" He kissed the cat's head and went back to sleep.
At about three in the morning he rolled over and nearly fell off the couch. He wandered into his bedroom, stripped down to his boxers and flopped on the bed. The fattest cat in the world was nowhere to be seen. Scott knew he would find his way to his feet before long. The fattest cat in the world seemed to have a foot fetish. He'd flop and roll on your feet any time they stopped moving.
One of the good parts of falling asleep early is waking up early. Scott shook off the fog of the bourbon, drank a tall glass of water, got Mr. Coffee going to work and then went for a run near the lake across the street. It wasn't a long run, just enough to work up a good sweat. He had just finished showering and dressing and was reading the paper when there was a loud thump on the front door. He looked at the clock. "Jesus Christ!" he said to the fattest cat in the world, who had plopped on the table in front of him. "It's not even seven-thirty on a Saturday. Do the Mormons, or the Jehovah's Witnesses or the Avon Ladies work door fronts this early in the morning?" The fattest cat didn't respond.
He thumped down the stairs and immediately recognized the silhouette that shown through the glazed window on the front door. His face erupted into a smile as he threw open the door and looked into the smirking face of Marty Anderson.
"Sup. Professor?"