Fork in the Road

FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter 21

"If you come to a fork in the road, take it."

-Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that occasionally contains rather graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting adult men. If that's not your cup of tea, or if it is illegal for you to possess or read such material, then please go elsewhere. This story is copyrighted, 2008, and may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed permission of the author.

Scott grabbed the kettle just as it started to whistle. "You take milk, right?" He was standing at the kitchen counter and Suzanne was sitting at the table, both of them in their robes. Each one looked almost as tired as they felt. It seemed nobody had slept well after their brief family conversation the previous evening.

His mom nodded, "Yes, Scotty, please."

Scott poured the steaming water over a bag of orange pekoe and then turned to reach into the fridge for the milk. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then dunked the teabag up and down several times. "So Dad's not freaking out?" He reached over her shoulder and put down the mug and a spoon.

"Thank you honey." Suzanne smiled and bobbed the tea bag a few more times before squeezing it against the spoon. As she stirred the milk into her tea she reflected for a moment and finally shrugged. "Freaking out? No. I don't think he slept much last night, but I don't believe he's angry or anything like that. Honestly, honey, he and I didn't discuss it at any length after you went to bed last night. I think we both just needed some time to process and digest this on our own and then we'll discuss it."

Scott sat down, took her free hand in his and looked directly into her eyes, searching. "He didn't say a hell of a lot before I went upstairs either. I was kind of surprised at how brief our little talk was last night. I'm guessing it'll be an on-going conversation for awhile." He paused and watched her nod, smiling ruefully. "And what about you, Mom? You're not bothered by the fact that I'm gay?"

She squeezed his hand and held it to her cheek. "Of course I am. But not in the way you might be afraid of." A subtle smile crossed her lips. "Actually, Scotty, I've been wondering for a while when, or even if, you'd ever tell us."

Scott coughed on his coffee. "Huh? What? You knew?"

She stirred the tea again and sipped it, and then met his stare as she put down the cup. "I can't say I knew for sure, but I've suspected it for some time." She smiled a smile that beamed a mother's love. "You know, they that say that moms just know these things." She paused and smirked at her son. "Plus, it was pretty obvious that the guest bed hadn't been used for anything other than holding Greg's suitcase during Easter weekend." She gently kicked him under the table. "Honestly, Scotty, in your parents' house?"

Scott's blushing ranged over four different shades of red, but he didn't speak. He thought of Greg and a pang of loneliness suddenly shot through him. He bowed his head half way and looked down into his mug. `I wish he was here with me,' he thought.

His mother leaned over to try to look him in the eyes. "It is Greg, isn't it Scotty?"

Scott shook his head and shrugged. "Don't know, Mom. Right now, I just don't know. Things have been pretty rough on that front lately. We were doing real good for a while there, but the whole baseball thing with The Regents has kind of thrown a monkey wrench into everything."

She reached over and patted his hand. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But if it's meant to be, then it'll all work out. It might not be easy, but nothing worthwhile really is."

There was a long silence that made it pretty obvious that Scott didn't want to talk about Greg. Finally, Suzanne pointed into the dining room where they'd had their conversation the night before. "Like the fact that you stepped up and told us all of this last night. That couldn't have been easy for you. But it means a great deal to me and, I'm sure, to your father as well." Her lower lids welled with tears. "I love you, son. I love you for all that you are. You are so much more than your sexual orientation. Your being gay doesn't add or take away from all that you are, all that really matters, not one little bit."

Scott reached out and took her hand. "But you said you were bothered?"

She gently squeezed his hand and shook her head. "I guess `bothered' is the wrong word. I'm concerned. I'm worried about the sort of grief you'll have to face as you go on. There are a lot of mean, ignorant people out there who will pollute your life if they have the chance. And some of them will be in a position to do just that."

Scott let go of her hand and took another gulp of coffee. He nodded at the truth of her observation, but said, "Mom. I'm a big boy. It's not like I'm going to throw on a wig and a dress, grab a rainbow flag and storm around in parades shouting I'm here, I'm queer!' Suzanne shut her eyes and shook her head, grinning. "My plan is to be an educated, professional, responsible, well-adjusted adult man who also happens to be gay. And it's not like I'm going to start introducing myself, Hi! I'm Scott Turner, not the lawyer or the senator, but the fag."

Suzanne gasped and then giggled. Hoping to keep the lighter tone of their talk going, Scott chuckled lightly through his nose. "I figured you'd be better equipped for this news than Dad would." Then he laughed again. "I damn near spit out my coffee last night when he asked, now impersonating Big Scott, `So...uhm...how...I mean...er, when did this happen?'" Suzanne laughed along with him and he continued with a grin. "Happen...happen...when did this happen? Like I hit my head or got shot with a gay dart or joined a club or something."

His mother nodded with a sympathetic gaze. "Give him some time, Scotty. Your dad has known several gay men, and he knew they were gay. I dare say he's known a few and he didn't know they were gay. But I doubt he's had much experience actually discussing it with them. Remember, I'm in the interior decorating business and have a wider experience than he does in such things."

Scott teased her. "Chattin it up with the gay boys in the business a lot, are you? Who's doing whom, swapping fashion tips, raving about Madonna and all that?"

She rolled her eyes and blushed a little. "Heavens no! But you know...I have some clients, some contractors and some competitors who are definitely...uhm...'playing for your team,' is it?" She blushed again, even more so, at her effort to use the jargon. Then she smiled with wide eyes. "I remember a client I had last year who'd just bought an old brownstone down in Holmen. I'll never forget visiting him and his partner at the house, standing in the middle of a bare living room and trying to get a handle on what they were looking for. William finally just waved his limp hands around the room and beamed his excitement. `You know, Suzanne...we just want you to gay the place up a bit.'" She giggled at her memory. Scott guffawed at her lispy, limp-wristed impersonation.

She sighed again and went back to being serious. "But, you know your father hasn't had those kind of experiences. I doubt anyone has ever asked him to `gay up' their trial or their will or their contract or anything."

Scott leaned back and nodded. "I know, Mom. Really, I do. But I'm worried that you're concerned."

Suzanne wiped her lips with a napkin and nodded. "Well, like I said, I've known more than a few gay men in my day, and I do know of some of the trials and tribulations they've been forced to wrestle with. I'm told that the couple in Holmen had a ridiculous time with their new neighbors for a while, until the neighbors finally moved."

Scott shook his head and frowned. "I'm sure there'll be some of that in front of me, but I don't plan to let that part of my life become anybody else's fu...er, damned business."

As she nodded and chuckled softly at his correction, they heard the bedroom door open and close. Silence reigned as Big Scott made his way into the kitchen. He took a mug out of the cupboard, filled it and then leaned against the kitchen counter.

After nearly a full minute of complete quiet, Scotty finally spoke up. "Hey, ya' old fart. I got a penny here. Any thoughts for sale?"

His dad took a sip and his eyes shifted right. "You're wearing boxers, a grubby old t-shirt and a robe. You don't have a penny."

Scott reached into the old sugar dish where Suzanne always dumped her spare change and pulled out a copper coin. He stood and took four steps, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. "Any thoughts for sale?"

Big Scott pursed his lips and stared at the coin. "Just one." His eyes met his son's. "Just one that matters."

Scott dropped the coin into the pocket of his dad's robe. "Okay. Spill it."

Big Scott choked and then he blurted out one long, rambling sentence. "I...I...I love you... you're my son and I'm proud of you and I admire you and...and I love you and I always have and I always will and I don't care who you're spending your quality private time with as long as they're treating you right...you're a sensible, intelligent young man of integrity and I know you'll always do what's best...for yourself and for those around you." He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. "You are my pride and joy and I love you."

Scott's vision went fuzzy and he felt the tears spilling onto his upper cheeks. "Better put that mug down, or one of us is gonna be wearing that hot coffee." The father set the mug on the counter and opened his arms. The son fell into his embrace. Scotty finally broke, and he sobbed. "I knew it. Deep down, I guess I knew it. But still, I was so afraid. I'm sorry."

The two held their embrace and Scotty sighed. "You know? I've met more guys these past two years who come from totally screwed up families, and most of the screwing up has come from their fathers. You two need to know that I realize how lucky I am. Marty's dad is an asshole, Kip's dad is an asshole, Greg's dad is a raging asshole. And here I am with a complete pair of perfect parents. How'd I get so lucky?"

Suzanne removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with the napkin.

Big Scott nudged him back and looked into his eyes again. He snorted. "I wanted to be an asshole, but your Gran' woulda kicked my ass." All three laughed, relieved that he'd managed to lighten the moment. "We're all very lucky, Scotty. But a minute ago you said you're sorry. For what?"

Scott sniffed while he wiped his cheeks and eyes with the back of both hands. "Sorry for doubting you, I guess. It's just that...I...I...only came to terms with all of this myself recently. I tried to deny it for the longest time. Part of me figured that if I wasn't willing to face facts and accept them for such a long time, it'd be too much to expect that you folks would."

Big Scott put both hands on his son's cheeks and he kissed his forehead. "You are my son, my one and only son, and I am so fucking...sorry dear, but it's my house too...so fucking proud of you in a hundred different ways, every single day. That has not changed one bit, and I can't imagine that it ever will."

Suzanne stood up. "Well," she kissed her son's cheek, "I'm going to start the laundry and give you boys a little man time together. Do you have anything for the washer?"

Scotty shook his head. "I have a couple half loads waiting for me when I get back to Madison. You've dealt with enough of my `dirty laundry' the past twelve hours."

She hugged him again. "Nothing dirty about you, Scotty. Nothing at all. Your father's right. We are both really fucking proud of you!" They all shared another enormous laugh as she descended the stairs to the basement and the men sat down at the kitchen table.

Scott leaned on the table. "So anyway, Dad, this is what Randy Oakes was coming up here to raise a stink about at your senate campaign announcement."

"I wondered about that after we talked last night." Big Scott rubbed his chin and shifted his eyes. "So if Randy knew, does that mean that, uhm...you and Randy...that is, you two...uhm...I mean, you and him...?"

Scott interrupted his dad to ease his obvious discomfort. "Twice. We messed around twice, but that's all it was. Messing around. Nothing more, and there wasn't going to be any more. Randy, God rest his soul, was a wreck. Those were a couple instances of weakness on my part." His dad's eyes squinted and he bit his lower lip. Scotty shrugged. "Sorry, Dad, but you did ask. It was stupid and it meant nothing, really. Randy wanted more, but he wasn't what I was looking for. I mean...I was, and I am, really sorry he died, but he wasn't in my future in that way."

Scotty paused as his dad continued to consider it all. "So...ah...how do you see this playing out in your campaign, Dad? I mean, like I just told Mom, I'm not going to be up here this summer lisping and limp-wristing my way through the campaign, but what if it comes up somehow?"

Big Scott shrugged and sighed. "I'll simply, and very directly, tell anybody who raises it or asks about it that my son isn't running for office. I'll tell them he's going to be a junior at the UW next fall, that he's a LaFollette Scholar, he's the two-term President of the Wisconsin Student Association and that the governor saw fit to appoint him to the UW Board of Regents where he has served with courage and integrity. And, I'll tell them that my son's private life is about as irrelevant as it gets in this campaign and that it's none of their damned business. And if it's somebody I don't like, I'll probably ridicule and roast them for even bringing it up. Simple as that."

Scott laughed. "Thanks, Dad. But don't forget the `fucking proud' part." His father laughed and nodded as Scotty continued, "I kind of hope I can be on hand if somebody makes that mistake."

After another pause for thinking, his dad shifted his weight and cleared his throat. "So, uhm, anybody special in your life right now?"

Scotty held a mouthful of coffee and thought about it before swallowing. He shrugged and shook his head. "Not sure, Dad. I'm just not sure. Me and Greg have spent a lot of time together this past year, and have become very close, but it looks like the whole baseball thing has kind of shit-canned that."

His dad nodded and then sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that. It had to be a tough call, all things considered, but I don't see how you could have handled thatt any other way. I like Greg. It was obvious that you two are...or were...pretty close."

Scott just nodded and swirled his index finger around the rim of his mug, but he said nothing.

Big Scott changed the subject to something he'd been thinking about since late the previous night. "Son, pardon me for asking, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least bring it up. You are being safe, aren't you? I mean things are different from when your mom and I were chasing each other around campus."

Scott rolled his eyes and blushed a little. "Dad!" He got up and grabbed the coffee decanter and refilled both mugs. "I only play safe, only and always. And other than Randy, there've really only been two other guys in my life, uhm, in that way." He neglected the romps with Frank and Jesse, and then with Danny up in Minneapolis the previous year, but those had all been safe sex too.

Big Scott shrugged. "Well, sorry, but what the hell do I know about such things? You and I had the `birds and the bees' conversations when you were a kid. But I'm out of my league when it comes to the birds and the birds or the bees and the bees, or whatever the hell it is."

Scotty returned the coffee pot to the machine and sat down with a sly grin. "It's the bees and the bees, Dad. It's the stinger that makes all the difference." Then he winked.

The father stood and picked up his mug. "Okay! Enough! Too much information. Or, how do you say it? TMI, TMI!" and he walked toward the bathroom. "The bees and the bees," he muttered with a chuckle. "Stingers!" He chuckled again. "Jesus!"

The following Saturday evening, Craig and Brett returned from a pickup game of basketball at the Red Gym. The aroma hit them as soon as Craig opened the door. They scampered up the stairs. Brett opened the oven door and blurted out, "Jesus Christ!" just as Scott was returning from the bathroom.

"Yes?" Scott asked. "What can I do for you my son?"

"You're roasting a whole fucking chicken?" Brett was stunned, but smiling.

Scott turned the burner under the pot of potatoes on high. "I was hungry for some comfort food. Chicken and stuffing, that good ol' green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy and biscuits. A real Sunday dinner. I knew Angie was gone this weekend and Craig didn't have any sad-ass wanna-be band to cover, so I thought, `what the hell?' They had these big, fat roasters on sale at Sentry, so I got the biggest one."

Craig grabbed three beers from the fridge and shook his head. "But it's not Sunday. It's Saturday."

Scott shrugged. "So, we'll eat enough tonight to tide us over to tomorrow and call it a Sunday dinner."

Brett grabbed a fork and scooped a bit of stuffing from the bowlful that wasn't already inside the bird. "Can't happen. I can't eat enough on one day that'll tide me over to the next. It's impossible." He shoved the fork in his mouth.

Scott salted the water that the potatoes were immersed in. "Then tomorrow you can have leftover chicken and gravy on either potatoes or toast."

Craig handed out the beers. "Make it buttermilk biscuits and you have a deal. But I like it with some veggies in the gravy. Peas, carrots, celery."

Scott swallowed a gulp of brew and nodded. "And then, I'll boil the poor bird's carcass down with some veggies and herbs to make a stock and we'll have a kick-ass chicken soup in a day or so."

Brett grinned. "You know I want to kiss you right now."

"Don't. Please don't. Just say `thanks' to my mom for teaching me how to do this. Then go let the dog out to pee and take a dump and we'll call it even."

"Okay, it's a deal."

They feasted like kings and then worked together to clear the table and soak the pots and pans that would be scrubbed in the morning. "Your turn on the dishes, sad sack," Scott happily reminded Craig. Craig flipped him off.

Scott looked at his other roommate who was grinning as he wiped down the table. "When you're done there, why don't you make three drinks and we'll play some cards in the living room."

Scott walked down the hall and picked the fattest cat in the world off the couch. He cradled him in his left arm, scratching his head with his right hand. The cat looked up and blinked. `You woke me up, dummy, but the head scratch is long overdue,' he said with his eyes.

"It's gonna be okay, fat ass." Scott hugged the cat to his cheek. "Ya' just gotta believe that it's all gonna be just fine."

The cat squirmed a bit. `It was okay before you picked me up and I was sleeping, but the chicken on your breath smells pretty good.'

Scott reached over to turn on the local classic rock station and then scratched the cat's chin. "I might have some treats for you in the morning when I strip the rest of that carcass, like you need them you tub of lard. Chicken. Real chicken!"

The cat squirmed again. `If you really loved me, you'd dish it up now. Put me down and call me when breakfast is ready.'

Scott set the fattest cat in the world on the floor and watched him waddle out of the room.

Brett came in carrying two drinks and Craig followed with his own. Brett asked, "So what's the game tonight, chef?" He handed a bourbon and water to Scott.

"Hearts sound good?" Scott asked, picking up the box of cards. "But I wanted to talk to you guys first."

Brett looked at Craig and pointed. "See? I knew something was up! He's moving out, or he's joined a cult, or he's having a sex-change operation, or he's committed some heinous crime and has been hiding out with us, or he needs some money."

Craig laughed. "He doesn't need any money. He has a scholarship and a job, a dad who's an attorney and a mom with her own successful business. So, it must be one of the others." He sat down in the recliner and looked at Brett. "It's gotta be the sex change, the cult or the crime." They talked as if Scott wasn't even in the room.

Brett sat on the couch and sipped his bourbon. "Maybe he's gonna run away and join the circus?"

Craig sipped his own and moved the coffee table between the chair and the couch. "Or sell Amway out of our apartment?"

Scott took a big drink, grinned a little and took a deep breath. "Okay. Enough with the smart ass remarks." His eyes darted back and forth and then finally settled in the middle of the living room floor. "I'm gay."

There was a long pause. Finally Craig spoke, his face showing no emotion at all. "No shit, Sherlock."

Brett smiled. "Duuuuuuuhhhhhh! Glad you can finally say it. Now shuffle the cards and deal. Dollar a game and nickel a point." He shook his head. "What, you thought we were fucking blind? Now that you got that off your chest, just deal the fucking cards."

Craig held up his glass. "To good food, good drink and good friends. All of life's great staples." He paused and looked at Scott. "Especially the great friends."

Scott raised his glass and all three clinked. He swallowed hard and blinked several times before honoring the toast with a sip of his drink.

The LaFollett Scholarship luncheon was later on the calendar this year for some reason. As last year's honoree, Scott was invited to sit at the head table and make a "few brief remarks." He read a certain emphasis on the words "few" and "brief." He made sure he could get the notes for his first afternoon class from one of his classmates so that he could attend the ceremony. He'd decided to walk to the Capitol that morning and, after clocking out, he casually strolled down State Street with his sport coat slung over his shoulder. It was a beautiful early afternoon in early May and everything was turning so green. Despite the misery he'd suffered after the last Regents' meeting, and the absolute silence between he and Greg since then, it had been a really good couple of weeks. Penny had met with Grant about the caucus crap. He didn't know where it would go, but he didn't really care at the moment. His folks had been outstanding. His roommates had equaled Big Scott's and Suzanne's compassion, but without the overt expressions of love. So this day Scott was whistling nothing in particular as he casually strolled and scanned a few of the shops' window fronts.

And now he was looking forward to meeting the luncheon's keynote speaker, Doris Kearns-Goodwin. She was a renowned historian who focused almost exclusively on political history, especially presidential politics. Years earlier, she had written what was to considered by many to be the seminal biography of Lyndon Johnson. She had worked in his White House and literally lived on the Johnson ranch in Texas for a time during his retirement years. Scott had read that book when he was in high school, and he'd eagerly devoured everything else she'd written since then. He'd picked up her latest work on Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, but hadn't had time to do anything other than scan through the photographs and read the captions. It was on his summer reading list, after he survived the current school year. `If I survive it,' he thought. As he approached the entrance to Memorial Union, he reminded himself that he was not the guest of honor this year. He'd have to try to keep his exuberance over the noted author in check out of deference to this year's named scholar.

At the reception prior to the luncheon, Dr. Ellison Cushing welcomed him warmly. "Scott, you've been such a stranger!"

"I know, professor. Burning the candle at three or four ends."

Cushing ticked them off on his fingers. "Let's see, State Senate Caucus, Board of Regents, WSA president and full time student." He chuckled, "What do you do in all your spare time?"

Scott grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "Well, the WSA and the Regents only meet once a month, and I kicked it back to nine credits per semester this year, just enough to maintain full-time status."

Cushing raised a hand and waved. "Doris, there's someone here I'd like you to meet." Scott felt his stomach quiver a bit as the author arrived with an expectant smile. "Doris Kearns-Goodwin, I'd like you to meet Scott Turner, Jr., last year's LaFollette honoree."

She smiled warmly and met his grasp. "Very nice to meet you, Scott. It's quite an honor."

Scott nearly bowed in her presence. "Thank you ma'am, but the honor today is all mine! I've been a big fan of yours since I read your outstanding work on LBJ."

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Wow! Well, that was some time ago and I've covered a lot of ground since then."

Scott nodded. "I know! And I've read everything except `No Ordinary Time.' I have it, but won't get to tackle it until the summer. But I can't wait." He glanced at Cushing. "Jeez, Professor. Last year Stephen Ambrose, this year Doris Kearns-Goodwin. How long do I get to keep coming back for these things?"

Cushing laughed. "As long as you're still here, Scott."

Kearns-Goodwin cocked her head. "Stephen was here last year?"

"Yes ma'am. He's a Badger too! I know you're a big baseball fan, but he was the last guy on our football team to play both offense and defense."

The historian rolled her eyes and giggled. "I know, I know. Stephen and I are good friends. I can't tell you how many times he's mentioned that."

Scott went on. "And he's a former LaFollette Scholar himself. I found it interesting that he changed majors from Poli-Sci to History." He glanced at Cushing. "And he was able to hang onto the scholarship, right?"

Cushing nodded. "He set the precedent, though it's rarely been repeated. As long as the student earned the award through work in our department, and he or she remains a full-time student in good standing, then the fund remains intact. Doris is a great example of the overlap in the two disciplines. She's an historian without peer, but she writes some of the best political analysis I've ever read. So we're not all that territorial and we respect the historians too. Like Dr. Ambrose, they just need to get their start in Poli-Sci. It gets them into the habit of thinking original thoughts and doing the contemporary research of the political scientist. Then they just might be truly useful by digging around in old stuff and the established facts. They just repackage the crap we already know, give it a new twist, and get rich in the process." He winked at Kearns-Goodwin and she laughed again.

Her smile didn't wane. "You're too kind, Ellison, and as broad-minded as ever."

The professor smiled, checked his watch and said, "Well, we'd better take our seats. He led them to the head table and quickly introduced Scott to this year's scholar. Jessica Kayon was a smallish young woman who looked intense and quickly gave the impression of a serious academic lacking a sense of humor. As they enjoyed their lunch, Kearns-Goodwin gave up on trying to sustain a conversation with Jessica and she turned instead to Scott, who was sitting on her other side. He was on cloud nine and could have spent the rest of the day and all the next right where he was. The speeches were nice and not too long. Scott's was a perfunctory thank you to the department and the foundation that funded the award, and a brief word of congratulations to Jessica for having earned this great opportunity. Jessica's was very little more than "thank you very much." They ended within the time indicated on the invitation. Scott thanked Dr. Cushing again, asked Kearns-Goodwin to autograph his copy of the Roosevelt book he'd packed before leaving the apartment, and headed for the door.

Scott woke up a little after eight on Saturday morning with a bit of a hangover. Brett's birthday had been that Thursday, but they'd waited until Friday to take him out for dinner at Smokey's. Then the three returned to an apartment mostly full of marching band members that Scott and Craig had invited over. Angie had a key to the place that she'd never used, and she had been there to let the partygoers in with all the necessary supplies. The next four hours were full of typically stupid college revelry, complete with the obscene songs championed by all band members and one or two losers puking off the front porch into the bushes below. Brett had ended the night on the floor, his upper torso just inside his bedroom doorway, and his butt and legs laying sprawled out into the hallway. Scott couldn't recall if he, or anyone for that matter, had been considerate enough to toss a blanket over the grinning, drooling and snoring birthday boy.

At least Brett was no longer on the floor when Scott went to the kitchen for a bottle of water and a couple of aspirin. He started the coffee and ambled back to his room to boot up the computer. Then he put on his robe and went out to the porch. It was going to be a beautiful day with blue skies and a soft breeze coming off the lake. He breathed in the cool spring air and felt a little slow relief from physical price he was paying the proverbial piper.

After pouring a cup of coffee he returned to the porch. Reclining in a chair, he propped his slippered feet on the rail and put his head back. For a half hour, he just stared at the lake, occasionally sipping the `nectar of the gods' to which he was so terribly addicted. After refilling his mug, he trampled into his room and called up his e-mail. Greg's message jumped off the screen. "Saturday" was the only word in the subject heading, dated two days earlier.

"Scott,

"First farmers' market of the season this Saturday. Care to join me for a tall coffee and a stroll around the square? I'd really like to talk. I'll be at the coffee stand on the State Street corner of the square at 10:00. Hope you can and will join me.

G."

Scott showered quickly, fed the animals and brought the dog downstairs for his morning constitutional. He sat down on the back steps with a third cup of coffee as the dog lifted his leg and marked the corner of the back porch for about the millionth time. Scott let him off the chain and he sniffed around the greening lawn for a spot he hadn't yet properly soiled. He hunched his back, lifted his tail and dropped his rear end a few inches to take a good dump. He looked around as if he was embarrassed to be seen. Scott chuckled quietly and sipped his coffee. Now that he was at peace with nature, the dog romped back and gave Scott the customary I'm happy now' crotch dive. Scott propped his elbows on the step behind him and scratched the dog's neck and ears. "What do you think is on Greg's mind this morning?" he asked. The dog licked his hand and put one paw on his thigh. Scott shook his head. "No, I don't think that's it. I could be wrong, but I doubt it." He checked his watch, stood up, opened the door and said, "Come on!" The dog bounded up the stairs, finally sliding on the linoleum and hitting the kitchen wall. Again. Scott shook his head. He's never gonna learn.' Obviously refreshed and frisky after his morning relief, the dog chased the fattest cat in the world into the living room and under the couch. It was a good thing the sofa had pretty tall legs or that cat never would have made it. Scott grabbed his wallet and keys, put on a cap and stuck his head back into the living room. The cat's paw was swatting at the dog's snout from under the couch. "You boys be good."

Greg had reached the top of State Street about fifteen minutes early. He ordered a tall coffee with milk and dropped a couple sugar cubes into it. After checking his watch, he strolled twenty feet to an artist's table and fingered through the stack of watercolors. They were mostly five-by-seven and eight-by-ten views of various local sights and landmarks. He noted the prices and thought it probably worth stopping back the following weekend. He glanced up the street and spied Scott's familiar Hard Rock Cafe cap bobbing this way and that amidst the slow moving crowd. He walked back to the coffee stand and ordered a tall coffee, black.

"Hey!" Greg heard from behind.

He turned and smiled demurely. He offered the coffee. "Got you one for the road. I'm glad you could come."

Scott wanted to hug him, but he took the paper cup instead. "Thanks a lot. I'm very glad you asked. What, no game this weekend?" He paused and looked a little embarrassed. "I, uhm, I stopped looking at the schedule a couple weeks ago. I've been tempted to show up at a home game, but didn't want to rattle your cage."

Greg nodded, seeming to appreciate Scott's judgment. Then he explained. "No, we're in playoffs now, and we got a `bye' this weekend because we clinched the conference title."

Scott sipped gingerly from the small opening of the plastic lid. "Yeah! I saw that. Congratulations."

Greg shrugged. "Thanks. It's been a fun season." They crossed the street and stepped onto the curb to join the throng of other market goers in the leisurely counter-clockwise stroll around the square.

Scott spied a bakery stand ahead and pointed. "You got the coffee. Let me get breakfast. These folks have great baked goods." He pointed to the lawn. "Then we can go pull up a piece of turf and sit and people watch for a while.

Greg shrugged. "Okay by me."

Scott asked for two apple Danishes and picked up a couple extra napkins. These treats were notoriously sticky. The two guys found a spot that was dotted with shade from the large maple tree nearby. Greg sat and crossed his legs facing the trunk of the tree as Scott lowered himself and leaned back against it. Simultaneously, they bit into their pastries.

After he'd swallowed the sweets and sipped his coffee again, Greg looked into Scott's eyes. "I don't blame you, Scott. Not anymore anyway."

Scott looked surprised. "But you did. You tore me a new one outside the dorm that night."

"I was very emotional, not thinking straight. I mean you'd had plenty of time to think about the situation and what it might mean to me. On my end, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and the fact that you were part of the final decision really hurt at the time. I won't kid you, Scott. It hurt bad."

"I'm sure it did. You made that pretty clear. And like I said, I always wanted to tell you this might be coming."

"I know. I really do...now. And, I appreciate that you tried to take some of the sting off by letting me know before hand."

Scott pursed his lips in a slight grin and then said, "You can thank Marty for that. He kicked my ass about the whole thing when we were at home over Easter." Greg mirrored his subtle grin and Scott raised his brows. "So, why the sudden change?"

"Coach Bidwell helped us all put it together."

"How so?"

"Well, turns out he's seen this coming for several months. Somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody gave him a heads up' mid-year. He came clean and told us all this about a week ago, and he explained that he couldn't say anything until the decision was final. And he used pretty much the same reasons you gave me. He said he didn't want us all, in his words, distracted and shit, wandering around pissing our pants,' over something that might not happen. It made sense. I finally realized that if the guy whose program was getting shit-canned couldn't do or say anything, then neither could you. I mean, he was only tuned into the local grapevine or rumor mill or whatever. You've been in the real shit at the top."

Scott nodded, looking thankful. "And I hope you know it was killing me, not being able to say anything. Those board meetings, and just thinking about the whole thing afterward made me sick. But like I said, I'd taken a stand on a good principle, and I couldn't just back away from it because of what it meant to me or you personally. I tested the waters once with a phone call to that dickwad Pennington, and he practically tore my head off over the phone. I knew it was practically futile and just crossed my fingers and held my breath, hoping the money would be there in the end." He sighed and shook his head. "But, it wasn't. I brought a proposal to that last meeting and was handed my ass a second time." He scoffed lightly and then sighed. "Thinking about it since then, I guess I kind of had it coming. I was trying to use my position for our personal benefit. I tried to wrap it all up in a `for the good of the school' argument, but I deserved to get shot down."

Greg looked down. "I know you tried, Scott. Really, I do, and I appreciate it."

Scott smiled warmly. "Thanks. I needed to hear that."

Greg stared at the crowd passing by. "And the picture's gotten a little brighter. It looks like I might be able to stay here next year after all."

Scott dropped half of his Danish onto the grass and did a double take. "What? Are you kidding me?! I thought for sure that..."

Greg interrupted with a small smile and a nod. "So did I, but the coach has done a great job, a really stand-up job going to bat for all of us. He's on the phone practically around the clock." He inhaled and looked back at Scott. "So far he's hooked me up with a great financial aid counselor. Coach knows my situation as far as the family's concerned. He doesn't know why it is what it is, but he knows my old man is useless to me as far as college goes."

Scott's eyes got wide and he leaned forward, prodding Greg with animated hand waves. "And...?"

"And Jerry, that's the counselor, said that he thinks we can piece together a package of student loans, maybe a small grant and then some work-study on campus. I'd probably need to get a job on top of that, but I think it could be done. We just need to move fast. It's getting late, but he's making my case a top priority."

Scott was giddy. "Greg! That'd be great!"

Greg shrugged. "Well, I'd kill to be able to keep playing ball, and it's too soon for me to say for sure what's next for sure, but yeah, things are looking a bit brighter. I just needed to adjust my thinking and make staying in school priority number one." They gazed at each other, sitting there on the lawn. Slowly, two blazing smiles crawled across both guys' lips. Finally, Greg broke the silence. "So, what's on your schedule for the rest of the day?"

Scott was still smiling. "Well, I have to do some work on Dad's campaign calendar, answer some e-mails and wrap up a year-end report for the WSA, I want to kiss you right now, then I'm gonna walk the dog `cuz the guys are gonna be gone, I mean I really want to kiss you, then do some editing on a final paper in my psych. class and finish some prep work for final exams, and I'm about ready to lunge over there, pin you down on the lawn and suck on your face."

Greg pulled up a handful of grass and threw it at him. "No lunging! There will be no lunging and certainly no kissing here in front of thousands of these decent, upstanding patrons of the market."

Scott faked a pout. "So, what's on your schedule?"

"We have a team meeting and practice at one o'clock, but I should be out of there by four."

Scott pointed to a stand on the corner with enormous stainless cooling units. "That guy over there has some of the best, freshest steaks in the world. What say I pick up two rib eyes, whip up a pair of twice baked spuds and you come over after practice."

Greg's grin was suggestive and he blushed a little. "Why do I get a feeling there will be lunging involved at some point?"

Scott stood up and extended a hand to help lift his buddy off the lawn. "Oh, my good man, if you'll have it there will be much lunging." They both snickered, but then Scott looked at Greg a bit more seriously. "Besides, there are a couple other things I want to fill you in on."

Greg's face registered his curiosity.

Scott shook his head. "Later. I gotta get back. The dog's probably peed on Brett's bed by now, and I'm pretty sure Brett's still in it. See ya' this afternoon."

"It'll be around five." They parted, each strolling in a different direction, each one giddy with anticipation of what might be on their near horizons.

The dirty plates and silverware were still littering the kitchen table, even though the room itself had been hastily vacated. The dog had grown too big to hop up onto one of the chairs. Nevertheless, seeing the opportunity with no humans in the room, he managed to hoist his front paws onto the table so that his snout and huge tongue could at least begin cleaning the dishes. He was doing a fantastic job. The juices on the plates were delightful, as were the scraps of fat from the steaks, and the potato skin Greg had left behind was a wonderful bonus, all buttery and cheesy. `Could use a little more salt, but beggars can't be choosers' the dog thought to himself.

In the bedroom, Greg wiped his oily hands on the towel he'd grabbed as they left the kitchen. Then he slid his right hand under Scott's right upper arm and pulled. "Here ends the massage of the day, now roll over." He raised his butt off of Scott's hamstrings and Scott did a horizontal one-eighty degree flip without leaving the mattress. Their eyes had a contest over which pair could gaze with greater determination and lust.

It was a tie.

Greg's face dove downward and their lips and tongues exploded in and on each other. Greg's left hand grabbed a handful of Scott's hair and jerked his head back over the top hem of the pillow. He devoured Scott's neck with licks, kisses and nibbles. Scott writhed and whimpered, encouraging Greg with his hand on the back of his head and grinding their hot, hard tools together.

The ferocity of Greg's happy assault abated and Scott's fingers slowly danced and stroked up and down the defined muscles of Greg's strong back. They just kissed and slowly ground their torsos and groins together, Scott's legs wrapped around his lover's thighs, pulling Greg as close and tight as he could.

Greg's eyes squinted and his hand slid between their bodies. "Relax the legs, babe. I want to get on top of you the right way." Scott eased his grip and Greg sat up straddling the fully erect and dripping pole beneath him. He slid back and forth, grinding and flexing his cheeks up and down over Scott's rigid member. Greg leaned down and kissed Scott again, then whispered. "What do you want?"

The pressure and slow movement of Greg's glutes on his cock made Scott whine. "Oh God! I want to be inside you. I NEED to be inside you!"

Greg giggled and lightly bit Scott's earlobe. "Say please."

Scott reached down and swatted his ass. "You think you're in charge now, huh?"

Greg flexed his cheeks again and slid up and down over most of the length of Scott's cock. "You tell me." He pinned Scott's arms down by the wrist above the pillow and kissed him again hard. He broke the lip lock and bit Scott's lip, then his chin. "So tell me again, stud, what is it you really want?"

Scott nearly whimpered. "I want you to wrap my aching cock, lube it up and sit on it. I want you to ride it and beg me to pound it up into you. I want you to lay down on me while we're joined and I want to lick you as far as I can reach...your neck, your pecs, your pits. I want to taste you. I want your hot, tight chute swallowing me and not letting go and driving me crazy. I want to bury it in you and explode while your tongue is in my ear and you cum all over my chest and abs. Please. Please!"

Greg giggled into Scott's neck. "You sure that's all you want? That's quite a list there."

Scott laughed back and swatted Greg's left thigh. "I said pleeeeeease!"

"That you did." He ran his tongue from Scott's chin to his forehead and then reached over onto the nightstand for a rubber and some lube.

After a wild ride and a hot shower, they climbed back under the covers. Greg laid his head on Scott's chest and he traced abstract patterns across Scott's abs with his index finger. "I still can't believe you told your folks."

Scott gently rubbed Greg's back. "Why is that?"

"Well, the politics mostly. There's yours and your dad's situations to consider."

Scott pursed his lips and thought about it. Then he shrugged a little shrug. "Well, Dad made it clear that he's ready to handle the topic if it should come up. So it's all good there. As far as I'm concerned, my work in the caucus or on campus won't be affected one bit. It's not like I'm going to issue a general press release. I'm just coming out to those who are nearest and dearest to me. Anybody else asks me about my personal life, I'll probably handle it the way I did with that jackass when we were on the radio: How many times a day do you jack off? What position do you like to do it' in?' I'll just throw it back at them with a sharp `None of your fucking business.' I'm sure I'll be tempted to answer the question directly, but that'd be like saying it's an okay thing to ask in the first place. You know my take on that shit."

Greg licked and then kissed Scott's right nipple, then grinned. "Scott Turner Jr. Man of steel." Scott lightly swatted the top of his head. Greg looked up. "And Craig and Brett were totally cool with it too, huh?"

Scott chuckled through his nose. "It was kinda funny, actually. I'm sitting there practically sweating bullets, afraid one or both of them is going to go ape shit. But they were just totally deadpan about the whole thing. It's like I was telling them the day of the week or what time it was. They were, like, `Yeah...and...?'"

Greg shook his head. "You're a lucky guy."

Scott reached under the covers and grabbed Greg's ass. "Don't I know it."

Greg squirmed and lifted himself off of Scott, rearranged a couple pillows and sat up next to him. "So what made you do it?"

Scott sighed and reached for Greg's hand, linking their fingers together. "Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time. And whenever I did, I'd think of Kip Monmouth and Sonja Weiss and Abby Svendsen and Peter Andreassen...and you. I know that you went to Hell and back with your family, but you all seem so comfortable in your skin, generally so content. And sometimes I'd remember what a miserable sop Randy Oakes was, and the way that his obviously pained soul took its leave. So much promise, so much potential there, all ended in an instant. At the same time, I've had this growing unhappiness and anxiety building up inside, gnawing at me. I hit that clichéd `fork in the road.' I could go down one lane, living a lie and worrying all the time about somebody finding out. Or, I could go the other way and become immune from much of the misery somebody might want to throw my way." He sighed again but smiled. "And, on top of all of that, I remembered a conversation I had with Gran' not long before she died. She hinted, very strongly, that she knew the score...with me and Marty, that is. But her love for me remained so completely unconditional. She just wanted me to live a life of honesty and integrity, and for me to be happy."

Greg rubbed Scott's thigh and nodded. "Jeez. I wish I could've met that old girl."

Scott's smile was subtle, but it screamed his loving memories of Evelyn. "Me too. Me too." After a long moment of silence he finally said, "There was one other thing that really nudged me though, as I stood there at that fork in the road. Oddly enough, one of the biggest pricks I've ever met kinda helped me."

Greg turned his head. "Huh?"

"Remember me talking about that asshole in the WSA, Elliot Lyman?"

Greg rolled his eyes and snorted, and then he sarcastically recalled "Oooooh, you might have mentioned him once or twice."

Scott squeezed Greg's hand. "Don't be a smart ass. Anyway, that prick actually followed me back to your dorm after the Regents meeting...long story...and he was crouching out of sight at the top of the footbridge when we had our big `to-do' that night. He heard all of it."

Greg's jaw dropped open and his eyes grew wide. "What a fucker. That man needs to get a life."

"Like you don't know. Anyway, after you went back in he stopped me and threatened to out me when he thought the time was right."

"What'd you do?"

"First I told him to fuck off. Then I told him to give it his best shot."

Greg gasped. "Aren't you worried?"

Scott's upper lip curled and he shook his head. "Not in the least. He can't hurt me now. Those folks who are most important to me already know who I am. If he tries to make it a political issue, I'll publicly bitch slap him into the next week." He paused. "Besides, I think I can take the wind out of his sails."

"What do you mean?"

"Not a hundred percent sure yet, Greg. I'm still mulling it all over, but I have more than one fork in the road to consider before too long, I do believe. I'm just taking stock of everything right now and want to get my bearings straight on what's most important to me. You have enough to worry about on your own right now, so don't sweat it." Scott turned on his side to face Greg and gently stroked his forearm. "But, just so you know, Lyman is trying to figure out which member of the baseball team I was having it out with that night. He couldn't really see you and the dipshit probably doesn't know baseball from dodge ball. But he's crazy enough to try and target you too. He knows your first name, and that you're on the team with a scholarship. That's it. But I checked, and there's only one Greg on the team with a scholarship."

Greg's brows scrunched together. "Why the hell would he set his sights on me?"

"Because he's a mean-spirited, vindictive, destructive head case."

Greg scoffed. "Doesn't he know there won't be a team next year? So if his aim is to discredit me with the other players or fans, he'd be pissing up a rope."

"I'm just saying he's a mean son of a bitch on his own imagined `mission from God.' There's no telling what he might try to pull."

Greg laughed. "Awww, fuck'im."

Scott leaned over for a kiss. "Good for you." They pecked at each other's lips for a few more seconds, and then Scott rolled over on his back again. He locked his fingers behind his head. "Tomorrow morning. Let's go to The Avenue for breakfast. I haven't been there in ages and have a hankering for their corned beef hash."

Greg turned and laid his right arm across Scott's chest. He traced Scott's jaw line and chin with a couple of fingers. "No can do, stud. Can't spend the night."

Scott's face showed his surprise and disappointment. "What?"

Greg kissed him on the chin. "Told Darrin I'd go fishing with him tomorrow morning up near Tomah. We're leaving at the crack of dark. The man takes his fishing seriously. I have to be out of here in a couple hours so I can bag a few hours of sleep before we head out."

Scott sighed, and then raised his eyebrows in a most suggestive gaze. "Couple of hours, huh?" He lifted Greg's arm and rolled his lover onto his back. He leaned over and sucked Greg's left nipple between his lips, and then looked up and leered. "Wonder what we can do for the next couple of hours." He pushed Greg's left arm up against the headboard and roamed with his tongue from the nipple, across his left pec, and then danced a little tongue dance in Greg's armpit and enjoyed the sound and feel of Greg's squeal and a squirm. He moved up and kissed his way across Greg's shoulder, and then nibbled and licked his neck, finally making his way to Greg's left ear. With his tongue flicking in and around it, Greg giggled and sighed some more. Then Scott felt Greg grip his hardening cock. They kissed long and slow.

Finally, Greg pulled back. "What could we do? How about something that would really piss off The Reverend Elliot Lyman. Something that would truly disgust the psycho." He giggled again as Scott rolled over on top of him.

Scott ground their firm tools together and buried his face again in the crook of Greg's neck, and he offered a muffled, "Great idea." He rubbed his hard cock against Greg's three or four times. "Here's to Elliot!"

At seven in the morning Scott was slumbering soundly and snoring lightly, much to the annoyance of the fattest cat. On the third ring, he wrestled himself out of the fog and realized it was the phone that was being so rude.

"Hello! Scott Turner!" he mumbled.

"Scott, my man. I know it's early but you always said you're a morning person." It was Grant Cornell. "Did you read it?"

Scott coughed and propped himself up on one elbow. "Shit, Corny, I haven't even read the back of the Wheaties box yet. It's Sunday, damn it! The day of rest. You know...`And on the seventh day, He rested?'" Scott yawned and wiped his face. Then he coughed again, turned and sat up half way. "Uhm...read what?"

"Do you get the Sunday `State Journal' delivered?"

"Of course. It's probably sitting on the porch downstairs right now."

"Go down and get it. Go to the second section, the `State' section, and check out page one. You're not going to fucking believe it! Well, wait. Yes you are, but you're gonna love it. Read it and call me back later." He laughed again. "But I'll tell you my man, the next sound you hear under the dome is going to be the sound of shit hitting the fan. I hate to say this, but I might owe you one."

Scott sniffed. "If you leave me alone the rest of the day, I'll just put it on your tab, whatever it is."

Grant laughed. "I'll buy you lunch this week. Go check it out and I'll talk to you later. Gotta run." And he was gone.

Scott rolled out of bed and grabbed his robe. "Oh what the fuck. I can take a nap later." He started a pot of coffee and then slowly plodded down the stairs and picked up the paper. His thighs were tired and hips were sore from the wonderful strains of the previous night.

Hearing movement in the apartment, the dog was waiting anxiously by the back door when Scott returned. He tossed the paper on the couch and then brought the dog down the back stairs and hooked him onto the chain. He came back up, poured a tall glass of water and drank it, and then went to the bathroom for a healthy and enjoyable morning pee. The pot was only half done, but he poured half a cup anyway and went to the living room.

He pulled away the top section of the paper, all the national and international news, and he tugged the second section out. He just stared, slack-jawed and blinking, for several seconds. Finally he inhaled. "Jesus Fucking Christ!"

"D.A. TO LAUNCH PROBE INTO SENATE CAUCUS ACTIVITIES" blared the headline. Scott sat down and stared at the headline for the better part of a minute. The byline read `Bruce Weeden.' "Worm," Scott muttered.

The article trumpeted the paper's accomplishment. "Based on information unearthed by `The Wisconsin State Journal,' the Dane County District Attorney's office is looking into the possibility of several violations of state law at the direction of Assistant Senate Majority Leader and Party Caucus Chairman, Jeremy Frick. At the center of the probe is the alleged use of state employees in support of electioneering by the party's candidates for seats in the State Senate. In addition, questions of fundraising activities by the senate election committee led by Frick are being raised."

The dog barked outside and Scott put down the paper. As he scurried down the stairs he grinned. "Way to go, Corny!" Back upstairs, he quickly fed both pets and filled his mug the rest of the way before returning to the paper. The next several paragraphs of the story detailed the information that Penny had provided, citing `unnamed sources within the caucus staff.' Scott grinned again. "The prosecutor's office would not specify the number of subpoenas being drafted in order to obtain sworn statements from members of the caucus staff. Calls to Frick's office and his home on Friday and Saturday went unanswered."

The story was continued on page six. "Senator Maureen McCarthy, Majority Leader and candidate for Attorney General in next November's elections was reached at her home over the weekend. McCarthy says she was unaware of the allegations and is unable to shed any light on them. `Personally, I have very little to do with the political operations of the caucus or its staff. So, naturally, I am not familiar with these accusations. All I know is what you've told me so far, and it appears that these things are only allegations. Moreover, it sounds like a very capable and reliable prosecutor's office is investigating them. I trust that District Attorney Kachelski and his staff will do a fair and thorough job investigating and answering these questions.'"

Scott coughed and then used his sleeve to wipe the coffee off his chin and lips. "Not familiar with these accusations? Awww, Maureen! For God's sake!" The dog scampered in wondering what all the noise was about.

Maureen continued. "As a candidate for Attorney General, I can promise that, if elected, the D.A. and his staff would have the complete and vigilant support of my office as the state's ultimate prosecutor. If these charges are true, the people of Wisconsin need to know that such practices will be promptly snuffed out, and that anyone and everyone responsible will be held completely accountable to the fullest extent of the law, regardless of their position or their party affiliation."

The dog ran back out of the room when Scott balled up the newspaper and threw it across the room. "Awww fuck!" He stood up and ran his fingers through his hair. He pointed at the crumpled paper on the floor. "For the past...how many months...you've been telling me `it's part of doing business...it's all part of the game...I'm not going to intervene in Senator Frick's management of the caucus.' God damn it, Maureen! You basically tell me to mind my own fucking business and now you get on a fucking soapbox and preach about the evils that have been going on right under your nose, but that you've been conveniently ignoring! What a crock of undiluted shit!"

He sat back down and recalled the line in the story about subpoenas. Wonder if my name is on one of them,' he mused. What if it is? Do I tell em that she's had reason to believe this shit has been going on for a long time?' He stood up again and thrust his hands into the pockets on the front of his robe. He walked to the front window of the living room and looked across the street at the park and the lake, then pinched his lower lip. Well, she didn't play an active part in Frick's shenanigans. And I told her I wouldn't name names when I talked with her. I also basically agreed that my ranting was more suspicion than it was actual knowledge. So if there are sins here on her part, they're sins of omission.' He picked up the strewn pages and went to his room to change clothes. He needed a good, long run.

Scott had stewed and moped all day long. He'd come back from his run that morning more frustrated than when he had left. He shouldn't have jogged past the dome. Craig was back from his weekend job for the paper, but was mostly asleep on the couch. Scott looked at most of the rest of the Sunday paper, but hadn't really read much. He went across the street to James Madison Park and strolled around amidst the touch football games and Frisbee throwers. He came back in and tried to nap, but sleep wouldn't visit. He got off the bed and e-mailed a couple of high school friends he'd been keeping in touch with, mostly vapid `things are going good' messages that felt like lies. He put the dog in his car and drove to the Arboretum to take him for a hike. Twice he feared his shoulder would be dislocated by the frisky pooch who desperately wanted to have at it with the smaller animals scurrying about. "Not again, boy. Remember the last time that a squirrel beat the hell out of you?"

In the middle of the evening, as Scott was trying to finish the Sunday crossword, Brett came into the living room, leash in hand. "I'm taking Nigger for a walk and then gonna run up to the store. Need anything?"

Scott put down the pen and looked up. "I'd like you to rename the dog, but otherwise I'm good."

"Not gonna happen."

"Going to the park?"

"Yep. It's just across the street and he loves to run there."

"You know that it's illegal to let your dog loose in a city park these days, right?"

Brett shrugged. "It's dark."

Scott smirked "Oh, in that case I'm sure it's just fine. My mistake. I guess it's only illegal when you and the dog can actually be seen. Go for it." He paused. "Now that I think about it, bring back a six-pack. We're almost out of beer."

There are a few absolute truths about Madison in the springtime. First, it can go from fifty or sixty degrees to zero with the celebrated `wind-chill effect' in less than 24 hours, even in April or May. It might be sunny and breezy one day, with perennials fighting their way up through the topsoil, followed by six inches of fresh snow the next. Second, you're going to step in some gray slush or some mud a minimum of five or six times as you get out of your car or off the bus. Third, some dopes will dress according to the calendar and not the day's weather forecast, as if they can force the arrival of warmer temps by putting on shorts and taking off their shirts when it's thirty degrees; not always a bad thing as far as Scott was concerned. Fourth, with four lakes in and around the city of Madison, the fish that have suffocated under their frozen surfaces during the winter will rise from their icy graves and wash up on shore. And most of them will be big, bloated, stinky and slimy carp.

Brett crossed the street with the dog's flapping tongue leading the way. After they crossed the sidewalk and made it onto the lawn he looked down and said, "Sit!" The dog did as he was told because he knew the routine. If he sat, then the damn leather strap would be unhooked. Then the skinny dope would walk out front a few dozen yards and finally give him the go-ahead. "Okay!" Brett shouted and the dog bolted into the darkness. `Damn, he can run!' Brett thought with a grin.

Brett jogged in the same direction and looked toward the lakeshore, about a hundred yards away. Just below the turf line, down on the beach, he could barely make out the dog's legs and paws flailing skyward, his head rising and falling behind the little knoll of grass above the sand at the lake's edge. Fuck.' Brett thought, He's in a goddamned fight!" He ran over and jumped down onto the beach. "Awww... for Christ's fucking sake!"

Scott and Craig heard the front door slam open against the wall downstairs. "Get your god damned sorry ass up there you fucking moron!" was all they heard, followed by the thundering stomps of a chocolate lab on the steps. Then they inhaled.

"What the fuck is that?" Craig moaned.

"Fucking A!" Scott closed his eyes. "That is rank! What the fuck did you do?"

The dog scampered around the living room as Brett just shrugged and shook his head. "I didn't do squat! I let him off the leash and he was a bullet heading for the beach and the shore. Next thing I know I caught up with him and he's rolling all over a dead, fat, rotten fucking carp!"

Craig started to gag and swatted the dog away. "Get him into the fucking tub and clean him off, or he's living outside until that smell is gone! I mean it! He's gonna make me puke!"

Brett grabbed the collar. "C'mon, dummy. Bath time."

Normally, Labrador retrievers really like the water, but not in a tub and not on the so-called master's terms. Scott and Craig giggled through the sounds of much whining, shouting, splashing and thrashing before the newly coiffed lab pranced into the living room, still damp. He set his wide paws solidly in the middle of the floor, locked his legs tight and shook his head and torso with a vengeance, splattering droplets on the TV screen, the coffee table and bits of the morning paper that lay here and there. Then he looked back and forth between Scott and Craig, his tongue hanging and his tail wagging. He seemed to be very proud and appeared to be looking for their approval. Brett's sweatshirt was soaked, along with the top half of his jeans, and the lenses of his glasses still showed spots of water. He was still scowling when he looked at Scott. "I used your shampoo `cuz it smells the best. It won't make him gay, will it?"

Scott flipped him off, but managed a grin. "I think he's gay already `cuz I've seen him hump your leg. Problem is he has the same taste in guys that he has in fish."

Brett was peeling off the sweatshirt before leaving the living room. "What a stupid fucker, rolling around on a slimy, dead carp!"

Craig leaned back and shouted down the hallway, "He's a dog, doing what dogs do! You're a dumb shit, doing what dumb shits do!"

Scott chuckled and scratched the pooch's ears. He also shouted at Brett, "Does this mean you didn't go to the store and get any beer?"

"Hell no! I mean Hell Yes! That is exactly what this means."

Scott stood up. "Okay. I still need a drink. I'm having a bourbon then." He looked at Craig. "Join me?" Craig glanced over the morning's sports page, gave a thumbs up and nodded.

Scott came back in and handed Craig a drink. His roommate looked up and nodded his thanks. He put down the paper, sipped and then looked at Scott. "So, what's been gnawing at you all day?"

Scott sipped his own and sat back down. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Craig blinked. "Scott. You've been mulling around here, in and out of the apartment, in and out of your room all day with this cloud hanging around you. You haven't said shit to anybody. You'd think somebody died or something." He paused, waiting for an answer, but none came. "I mean, Scott, check it out! You went home and squared things away with your parents about who you are and where you think your personal life is headed, and that was all good. You did the same with me and Brett, although that was already all good. You said that Greg's cool with the way things are going, even if he's unhappy about a lot of it, and you two are obviously back in each other's company. I saw the used condoms in the bathroom waste basket." He wiggled his eyebrows and smirked. "Shit, man! You ought to be walking on air."

Scott sucked another mouthful of his stiff drink and then sighed. "I was." He mulled it over for several seconds, and then leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs. "But, remember how we both reacted when the dog came in? He seemed happy as hell to wallow around in the muck and the slime, and he wound up smelling all putrid and shit. And reeking like that was just hunky-dory as far as he was concerned." He shook his head. "Well, I've just been dealing with way too much of that kind of kind of bullshit lately."

Author's Note: Many thanks to all of you who've been so kind with your e-mails, especially all you first-time correspondents. Please write to the other authors whose work you enjoy, and contribute to Nifty if you are able. Hats off to Matthew and Jeremie for catching the incorrect spelling of "modus operandi" in Chapter 20 (I used "motus" Duh!). Well done! Many thanks again to Kory for his eagle eye, (but work on your Latin buddy! What do you think I don't pay you for?) Please feel free to send any and all comments to scotty.13411@hotmail.com