Fork in the Road

FORK IN THE ROAD By Scott Turner Chapter 6

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

CHAPTER 6

Disclaimer This work contains suggestions and/or scenes of sexual activity between consenting men. If you prefer not to read such material, or it is illegal to read or possess it, then please go elsewhere. It is copyrighted, 2008, and may not be reposted, reproduced or distributed without the expressed consent of the author.

Scott was feeling good after the weekend in Rockford, and he smiled and hummed along with John Melencamp as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel during the drive back into Madison.

Meeting Jill's folks had been a pleasure and seeing Marty's mom, Shelly, again was a lot of fun. She had a new boyfriend who seemed really cool. Naturally, it was great seeing Marty again. Jill had been gracious and welcoming and appreciative, and downright funny at times. Little Scott was adorable, but slept most of the time. He'd only spit up upon his godfather once, but Scott considered that a right of passage of sorts.

The church ceremony left him with a lump in his throat as he publicly accepted the honor and responsibility of godfather. Little Scott slept through the entire event, only stirring mildly when the pastor gently poured some water from the font out of the palm of his hand onto the little guy's furry head, and then dabbed it mostly dry. Back at the house, Ashley had carefully and thoroughly coached Scott on the finer points of handling a newborn. This included how to pick him up, how to hold him, how to hold the bottle when feeding him and all the steps in changing a diaper. She had quickly become an expert on such things. Scott had dutifully listened and followed her directions. She loved her little brother dearly and he was going to do well under her protection, that was clear. She wrapped Scott in a merciless hug on his way out and kissed his cheek. "I love you Uncle Scott. Come back again soon, okay? Little Scotty's gonna want to see you when he's older and awake most of the time." She thought about it for a second. "And me too." She hugged him again. He nearly cried.

"I love you too, hon. And I'll come back as soon as I can. And you talk to your mom and dad and get them to bring you back up to Madison again. I'm sure Scotty would like to see State Street and the beautiful Capitol where I work."

She giggled. "He doesn't even know he's in Rockford."

Scott smiled. "But I'll bet you'd love it. It's all very cool. And you know I love it when I get to spend time with you."

She leaned in and whispered. "I'll see what I can do."

"Honey, what do you want for Christmas?"

She thought about it for a minute. "Another little brother, or maybe a sister. They're a lot of fun!"

Scott, Jill and Marty all burst out laughing and Ashley jumped in surprise at the reaction.

Scott shook his head. "Can't help you there, sweetheart. You need to talk to your mom and dad about that one." He winked up at Jill and Marty and looked back at the little angel. "You see what you can do."

She nodded in earnest. "I will, Uncle Scott."

"And if you can pull it off before Christmas...well, we'll see."

Ashley nodded.

Scott got up off his knees and stepped to the bassinette. He kissed his dozing godson on the forehead and then hugged Jill and then Marty. He leaned down once more and kissed his "niece" on the forehead. "Take good care of your little brother, okay?"

She furrowed her brows. "Well, of course, silly."

Scott snorted and shook his head and then made his exit.

Monday night's WSA meeting had gone well. Scott presented his organizational assignments to the various committees and reviewed the duties of each committee. Elliot Lyman beamed at his appointment as finance chair, and he quickly gathered the other four in his group together near his desk at the end of the general meeting. He already had a meeting schedule planned and was passing it out to the other members.

Scott was organizing his materials and caught Walter looking at the small group with something that looked like disdain. "What's up Radar? You look pissed off."

The clerk shut his laptop and sighed. He stepped over to Scott. "I don't know what it is, Scott. In my gut, I just don't like the guy. Don't trust him."

"Why's that?"

Walter shrugged. "I just think he's kind of a...uhm...sort of a weasel."

Scott mulled it over. "Well, okay. But he was elected, and we both have to work with him. Okay?"

Radar's eye's widened. "Oh, I know that. No problem there. Heck, I can work with practically anybody. But I'd rather deal with that a-hole Monmouth than with this piece of work."

Scott stepped back and mulled it over. Kip Monmouth had been a royal pain in the ass and a sleazy actor within the WSA for most of the previous year. "I see."

Radar shrugged. "Uhm, keep in mind it's just a gut feeling. I could be wrong."

Scott patted his shoulder. "You can handle him, Radar. If you can put up with me, you can handle anybody. I gotta get going. Have a good night." He headed for the door thinking, `He's practically never wrong.'

On his walk back to the dorm, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. "Scott Turner."

"Hey, Scott. It's Greg. Greg Page."

"Greg, what's up? How's it going?"

Greg sighed. "I think I'm in over my head. Jeffersonians, Hamiltonians, liberals, conservatives, the friggin' Bank of the Unites States. I am so damned lost, and need to finish this paper by Friday." He truly did sound desperate and beside himself.

"Well, it's abstract stuff, depending on the question you're tackling. But I can probably help, if that's why you're calling."

Greg sighed again. "Could you? Man, I'd really appreciate it."

"Well, this is Monday, and you say it's due on Friday? How `bout we meet tomorrow night. You can come to my place, or I can come over there."

There was some silence. "Can we do it here? I got all the books and the computer and all that shit right here."

"That'll work. I'll see you around seven. That okay?"

Another sigh. "Thanks a lot, Scott. I'd really appreciate it. See you tomorrow."

Scott chuckled. "It'll be my pleasure. I look forward to it. Well, I'm just getting into my car. See you tomorrow." He closed the phone. He really was looking forward to it.

He rapped on the dorm room door. Greg opened it and smiled shyly. He was wearing baggy sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt that hugged his torso tightly. He smelled like he'd recently been in the shower and his hair still looked a bit damp. He looked delicious. "Hey. Thanks for comin' over, man. I really appreciate it."

Scott waved it off. "No problem." He glanced around the room and noticed the computer was already booted up. "So, let me see the assignment." He read through it. "Yeah, that's what I thought. This is a question of federalism. Like I said before, we all know branches of government, but everybody's quick to overlook levels of government. That's what this is all about. Everybody thinks the fed's have all the power, but all the shit runs downhill to Madison and our counties and our hometowns and even our school boards. That's where the rubber really hits the road." He nodded at the chair and pointed to the keyboard. "Go to Goggle." Greg nodded and clicked on the bookmark. "Now, plug in `Library of Congress.'" Greg typed. "Okay, now bookmark that. You're gonna want to use this site for this course." Greg did as Scott directed.

Scott leaned over his shoulder so that their faces were side by side only inches apart. Greg really did smell fantastic. He guessed Zest soap and sensed they used the same shampoo. He reached over and pointed to various features on the site. "Okay, now go to search.'" Greg wiggled the mouse around but wasn't familiar enough with the e-landscape he was navigating and didn't immediately find the search bar. Scott moved a step to his right and leaned over again. His chest rubbed up against Greg's right shoulder. He noted Greg leaning back into it. Scott's hand covered Greg's and he guided the mouse. "Uhm, here." He left his hand there for another second. "Now, ah, search Federalist Papers.'"

He noted the tenting in Greg's sweatpants and broke the contact, standing up straight. "Okay. This will be your most useful source for this assignment. I'd go with Federalist Numbers Nine and Ten and then the Tenth Amendment' in the Bill of Rights. Hamilton wrote Number Nine and James Madison did Number Ten. Hamilton might have been a bastard, literally, and a horse's ass much of the time, but he was brilliant and Washington trusted him completely. The Amendment Madison wrote, as you probably know, and it says that if they didn't give the power to the fed's, then it's reserved for the states. And if they hadn't added it, The Constitution might not have been ratified." He grinned. "They haven't always done a good job of following that, but the assignment asks about what Hamilton and the gang intended. And profs love it when you use a lot of primary source materials and citations with your own analysis, rather than reading someone else's interpretation and paraphrasing it with a footnote."

They talked through the Federalist Papers for a while and Scott could see the light going on in Greg's head and the boner going down in his pants. He was happy about the former, but had mixed emotions about the latter. He checked his watch. Two hours had flown by, but he'd enjoyed every minute of it. He stood. "Well, buddy, I hope this helped, but I need to get going."

Greg stood and extended a hand. "You have no idea. You're a life-saver, dude."

Scott smiled and winked at him. "You'll knock this out in no time. Try to knock off the first draft tonight. If you want me to look it over, give me a shout, but you probably won't need it."

The handshake went on for a long time. Finally Scott cleared his throat. "Uhm, well, I better hit the road. Have to finish some History myself tonight. The fricking' Crusades. Lunatics, all of them." He grabbed the doorknob and looked back. "Good luck. Keep in touch. Uhm, call me anytime. Really."

Greg swallowed. "Ah, yeah. You know that I will."

He sighed and shook his head on the way down the hall. `Maybe I should go into teaching.'

United States Senator Michael Walford from Connecticut was coming to town for a rally Wednesday. The national media's speculations surrounding Walford's presidential aspirations were electric. He was going to appear with Maureen and Governor Hackett at a noon Kiwanis luncheon, and then address a rally on the lawn of the Capitol grounds that night. Rumor had it that they'd be doing a lot of filming for future presidential campaign commercials. It would be dark, the crowd would be large and the beautiful façade of the Capitol building would be brilliantly lit behind him. It was good stuff in Mid-America for any politician. It would make good commercial footage.

Walford's staff needed some space for the event and the Senate Sergeant-at-Arms had assigned the caucus offices for the event. Scott and Grant had both eagerly volunteered to be on hand as helpful hosts. Twenty minutes before the speech was to begin, one of the staff members noted that the flagpole over the south wing where Walford was to speak was unadorned. Scott explained that the flag only flew over the south wing when the State Senate was actually sitting in session. They wanted the flag flying. The two guys eagerly made their way to the wing's fourth floor, and then up a ladder and outside onto the roof of that wing. Grant clipped the two large eyelets to the cord and Scott slowly raised it. The crowd below watched Old Glory ascending above them and began to roar.

Jazzed by their accomplishment, both guys leaned over the parapet and waved to the crowd, and they roared even louder. They felt like rock stars.

Unfortunately, nobody had told the Secret Service that there were two young men going to the roof of the building. By the time they descended the ladder and exited what looked like a closet door back into the interior of the building, the fourth floor of the south wing was swarming with four trench coats. They were both grabbed, pressed against the wall and cuffed. The Special Agent In Charge shouted, "Shut the fuck up" more than once.

Chad was near tears, but the writer in him was also dictating a story to his cranial archives.

Scott was ready to explode, but followed orders. When they got the two back to the caucus office, Scott finally asked. "May I speak now, sir? Mr...?"

"Agent McKoewen." He whispered something into his shirt cuff as two of his colleagues patted down the guys from shoulders and armpits to their socks.

Scott was minding his p's and q's. "Agent McKoewen. My name is Scott Turner. This is Grant Cornell. We both work in this office and are here to staff the event. If you don't believe that I can show you my cube. You'll see my name plate and a few pictures of me and friends and family posted around in there." Grant was still hyperventilating, so Scott persevered. "Grant works in the press room now, so his stuff isn't here anymore."

McKoewen nodded. "Show us."

"Uhm, could the cuffs come off please? I can assure you we're no threat to you or your partners or the senator. We were just asked by his staff to raise the flag. Just ask them."

McKoewen looked around. "They're all outside." The accompanying agents had removed both guys' wallets and checked their driver's licenses. They nodded. "Okay, show me the cube where you supposedly work."

Another agent freed them from the cuffs.

McKoewen scanned Scott's cube. He saw the nameplate, a couple of framed family photos and the one from Marty's wedding.

Grant was sniffling now and was eyeballing the box of Kleenex, but afraid to reach for anything. Scott grabbed a tissue and handed it to him. Grant nodded and blushed as he took it.

"Sir, if it would help ease your mind, you'll find Senator Maureen McCarthy's home number, cell phone number and her office number in the memory of my cell. It's in my coat. Unfortunately, my boss, Will Maxson is in the hospital after a heart attack. Or you could contact Senator Frick, the caucus chair, but I don't have his number. I'd guess he's around here somewhere, though." He nodded with his head toward the chair where the coat lay. "You might not know her, but she's our majority leader and a good friend of mine, and I know she'll vouch for me. Unfortunately she's out there at the podium with Senator Walford and Governor Hackett right now."

McKoewen hadn't met her, but he knew the name. He grabbed Scott's coat and found the cell. He went through the contacts list and stopped on "Maureen-cell," and hit send.

"Hi. You've reached Maureen McCarthy. Unfortunately, I'm unable to take..."

The agent hit `end.' He handed the phone to Scott and squinted. "Okay, that'll do for now. But we're gonna run your id's and follow up on this. If there's anything a kilter about your story, there's gonna be hell to pay." He looked at his subordinates. "We gotta get downstairs."

"Uhm, Agent McKoewen?"

The `Fed' turned. "What?"

"Well, sir, we really should go up and take the flag back down after the speech. By tradition, the flag only flies over this wing when the State Senate is actually sitting and doing business. Is that going to get us in trouble?"

McKoewen squinted again and hissed, "Once the Senator is gone and we've all left the premises, you can do whatever the hell you want. Meantime, you can open the window over there and listen to his speech from here. I have an agent in the hall. Leave this office and you'll be arrested. He smirked at Grant and pointed at the waste basket in the corner of Scott's cube. "If you gotta pee, `Red,' you'll have to use that."

The four trench coats swept out of the double doors. Scott looked at Grant. "Jesus! Thinks he's Clint fucking Eastwood!"

They listened to what Scott judged a pretty flat speech from the second floor window.

Frank Martine walked into Frick's office and closed the door. He sat across the desk. "So where are we?"

Frick smiled at the spreadsheet. "Well, you're doing good work. 800 k already. If we get that to a million by November, we can wipe the slate clean and start all over. That's the election cycle, November to November."

Martine nodded, but frowned a little. "I know what the numbers are, I mean where are we on legislative action?"

Frick sighed. "Well the research is almost done. I needed to pause it and am doing a little house cleaning."

Martine's eyebrows raised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the kid I had working on the research for this was making some noise I'm not comfortable with. So I called my contact with the `State Journal' and persuaded him to create another internship in the pressroom. It's where the kid wanted to be anyway. He doesn't know it yet, but he's shipping out tomorrow. Then, on top of that, the Caucus Director had a heart attack and will be out another month or so. So, I'm reassigning the project to another staffer over there. Sharp kid who is solid with our majority leader. He'll finish it up and then we'll get it over to the legal crew for the exact language. We ought to have something ready to introduce once everybody settles back in next January. That'll give us time to whip up some support during the campaign season and I'm already working the governor's office. He's up again just over a year from now, and a pro-business stance can only help him. So, Mr. Martine, in a nutshell, a few little bumps in the road, but we're more or less right on schedule."

The next morning, Scott stopped by Will's office, even though the boss was still out. "What's the latest on the chief, Clara?"

She smiled demurely and with affection. "He's going home in a week. Then another two or three weeks off before coming back half-days for a while." She sighed. "But it looks like he's going to be fine, thank God. He got a kick out of the flowers and the naughty card you and the rest of the staff sent over."

Scott smiled and winked. "That's great. He can get visitors, can't he? Me and Grant were talking about stopping in to pester him one of these days."

She nodded. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that."

"Need me to go to the bank today?"

She frowned. "Uhm, no. Senator Frick is handling that personally now. He's really cracking the whip with Mr. Maxson gone."

Scott's eyebrows arched. "Frick's doing grunt work now?"

She just shrugged and shook her head. "Go figure. I didn't ask."

Scott mirrored here gesture. "Okay, then, back to the grindstone."

On his way to his cube he passed two maintenance staff members carrying boxes, and found Grant standing next to the entrance to his own cube. He had a grin on his face. "Scott, I got it! There was a sudden opening in the pressroom, and Bruce Weeden from `The State Journal' called me first thing this morning. I'm out of here and going over to do leg work for him."

Scott's jaw dropped. He stepped closer and whispered. "But Grant. The guy's a shit."

Cornell shrugged. "Yeah, I know, but he's a pretty smart shit, gets a lot of ink and has some pretty good connections. Maybe I can impress the guy. Besides, I was made more for exposing you crooks than being one of you." He extended a hand and Scott grasped it. "And I'll just be down the hall and around the corner."

Scott grinned. "But you realize that this is going to seriously limit the content of our conversations, right? Me in the trenches and you in the Fourth Estate."

Grant patted his shoulder and winked. "Not to worry. Not talking shop for a change will be nice, and you can go `off the record' any time you need to spew about the job. But, hey, I gotta run. Weeden's expecting me right away."

"Okay, buddy. Take care. Put me on your speed dial and let me know when you have a new phone extension."

Two hours later there was a tap on the wall of his cube. "Hey, Scooter, how's it going today?"

Scott swiveled in his chair but didn't stand. "Not bad, Senator Frick. Just working on Senator McCarthy's legislative update newsletter." That reminded him that he'd intended to call her for over a week now.

"Atta boy. You heard about Grant's good news?" He smiled.

"Yeah, ran into him just as he was heading out this morning."

Frick faked disappointment. "Yeah, our loss. And, with Will out it looks like you and me and the rest of the staff are gonna have to kick it up a notch until Cornell is replaced. That's why I stopped by. He handed Scott a couple of manila folders. "Grant was working on this. It's about three-quarters done, but take a look at it. Will's directions are in here and you'll see where Grant was going with it. I'd like you to finish it up."

"No problem, Senator."

Frick flashed a cheesy grin that Scott immediately judged as insincere. "Atta boy." He paused. "Oh, and Scooter, if you have any questions about this, contact me directly. No sense in bothering Cornell if you run into anything that needs clarification. Got it?"

Scott swallowed a swig of coffee. "Understood, sir."

He set the file aside and checked his watch. Greg would be leaving class. He picked up the receiver and dialed his cell number. "Hey, Greg. Get that paper done?"

"Hey Scott! Pretty much done. Just going to give it another once over tonight and hand it in tomorrow. Thanks again for your help."

"Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Well, just the regular workout with the team at the gym after class, and then nothing much."

"Okay. Well, the guys are both going to be around for a rare weekend appearance, and we're gonna grill some burgers and brats. I'm guessing one or two beers might be consumed as well. Want to come over and make it a foursome?"

Greg was delighted. "I'd love it. What can I bring?"

"Just yourself and your sense of humor. These guys can be a handful sometimes."

"Sounds cool. I'll be there about seven."

"Excellent. You know where the apartment is, right?"

"I think so. I'm walking between classes right now. Why don't you email the address and I'll pick it up when I'm in the library this afternoon."

"You got it. See ya' then. Gotta get back to work."

"K, Scott. Thanks again."

Scott was slicing an onion while Craig tended to the grill. "He's kinda shy, so take it easy on the guy."

Brett smirked. "Oooh. I smell blood."

Scott shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Just don't be a dick, okay? He's a good shit, but I think he's kind of insecure already. He doesn't need some cocky fart like you rattling his cage." He turned toward the table with the onions and tripped over the dog who had quietly flopped on the floor behind him. "Jesus, dog! Could you warn a guy before you try to kill him?"

Brett scoffed. "Dog! You still can't call him by his name, can you?"

Scott shrugged, keeping an even temper with his roommate. "Sure I can. I'm more than capable of saying all sorts of stupid shit. But that, I never will. Having the right to say it doesn't make it the right thing to say. It's vulgar, it's offensive and it's hurtful to an awful lot of people I know and like."

There was a loud knock on the front door. Scott stepped to the top of the stairs. "Door's open, Greg. Come on up."

Brett muttered. "Hehehe. Fresh blood."

Scott sneered and whispered. "C'mon, Brett. Don't be a shit."

His size twelve high tops thumped their way up the wooden stairs. He carried a twelve pack of MGD and wore his adorable dimpled grin. Scott damn near sprung full wood. Scott nodded back toward the kitchen doorway. "We're in here."

Greg nervously and slowly entered Brett's free-fire zone. "Brett, this is my buddy, Greg Page. Greg, this is Brett the head case."

Greg squealed. "Ohmygod! THE Greg Page? Greg Page the baseball stud-star-icon?"

Scott took the twelve-pack and shoved into Greg's gut. "Here. Make yourself useful and a little less obnoxious."

Greg grinned as Brett grunted. "May I have your autograph, Mr. Page? Would you sign my jockstrap?

Greg folded his arms and leaned his butt on the counter. "Sure you can have it for twenty bucks. That's what I gave my roommate to get the brew." If he'd learned nothing from his asshole brother, he'd learned not to cower in the face of an asshole. It only encourages them.

The dog came into the kitchen to inspect the new comer, starting, as dogs will do, with a snout to the crotch. Greg reached down and scratched behind his ears. He wagged his approval of the visitor's scent and manners. Scott spied the fattest cat dart from the living room toward his bedroom just as the screen door to the front balcony slammed shut behind him. He ambled into the kitchen. He set the platter of grilled meat on the stove, gripped the oven mitt between his lips and freed his right hand. He turned and smiled extended a hand. "You must be Greg. Welcome to the asylum." He shoveled the brats into a simmering pot of beer and onions, and the burgers in to a beer laced beef and onion soup mix to keep them warm. Brett broke open the twelve and unloaded it into the fridge, making and even case for the night. He stood and started pulling apart the carton for the recycling bin. Then he reached in and retrieved four cold ones. "Greg, you know the dog's real given, right?"

Greg took a good sip, stared squarely but without any expression at Brett and merely nodded.

The gaze was so cool that Brett felt a chill.

Greg's glare was not broken by so much as a blink. "I think it's kind of sick. But Scott tells me you're kind of sick, so I guess it makes sense in a weird sort of way."

"You must think I'm a real prick then, huh?"

Greg drank again. "I don't think Scott would live with a real prick. And I don't know you well enough to make any real judgments, other than guess that you're kind of sick. A lot people I like, and some I even respect, who are really out there'. The jury's still out on you. If it matters, ask me again at the end of the night. But I don't know why it ought to matter. My opinion don't mean squat. Besides, forget the right or wrong of it, anybody who would give than name to his dog obviously doesn't give a shit what other people think of him anyway. That's a mentality I've never understood, and I don't judge that which I don't understand." The fresh blood' had pulled the rug out from under the resident smart ass without any malice or hostility. Brett was out of his element. Scott was proud of his new friend.

Craig jumped in to the rescue. "Let's chow. Chez' Craig's is open for business. I `ave your regular table for four set up in ze veranda. Ze citronella candles are ablaze and ze bug zapper is zapping." The accent was embarrassing, but the food smelled marvelous. The stacked their plates with bratwurst; two on a large hard roll, the only way to eat them in Wisconsin, with brown grainy mustard and sauerkraut, burgers, potato salad, tossed salad, and baked beans. Huge kosher dills, sliced cucumbers and onion in a garlic ranch and mayo dressing and huge beefsteak tomatoes, sliced thick rounded out the main course of this cheesehead gourmet dining. Scott had taken a bag of strawberries out of the freezer the night before and made his mom's famous rhubarb-berry cobbler crunch, served warm with gobs of vanilla ice cream. Several bad jokes were told, numerous beers were consumed, and much trash talk was exchanged. Three roomies regaled their new fried with grossly embellished tales of the previous year. At times, Greg was laughing tears and loving it. At other times it was quieter and his knees were brushing Scott's. He met no resistance and more than once the gesture was reciprocated.

A little past midnight, Craig waved the white flag. They'd played five hands of Hearts and polished off the cans of brew and everybody's lids were heavy. "I'm with you, boss. Angie's dragging my sorry ass to some lame flower and art show tomorrow morning. We leave at nine. If I'm up early enough I might be able to at least put a dent in the hangover."

"I'm headed to Brew Town to over a day-long music fest of strictly local bands. Hope the headache has subsided at lease a little by the time the head banging starts." They looked at the couch, where Craig had happily laid claim to his bed for the night, clutching the corner pillow firmly to his head and grinning sublimely.

Brett chuckled and nodded sideways with his head. "Looks like baseball boy has staked out his territory. He paused and eyed Scott. "He's a good shit, Scott; a good addition to our merry band of brothers. Nobody could replace' Marty, but he's a good one to follow Marty into our fold."

The other two disappeared into their rooms. Scott went into the bathroom and went through the nightly ritual. Returning to the living room to kill the lights he found Greg had stripped down to only his boxers and was laying on this sides, hands wedged between his knees. He looked so good, Damn my roommates,' he protested in his head. He took the folded quilt off the back of the couch, flopped it open and covered up his friend. Greg's eyes opened into tiny slits ever so slightly, so little that it couldn't be detected. For a full minute Greg watched Scott watch him from the doorway. Go for it dude. Cop a feel. Steal a kiss. Just be quiet about it.'

Finally, Scott just sighed, turned around and quietly padded to his bedroom. Greg flopped over onto his other side and snuggled the quilt around his shoulders.

A little less than eight hours later, Scott sensed he was being watched. Slowly his eyes crept open about half way. There was Greg leaning against the doorframe wearing only his blue satin court trunks, and wearing them low. His firm pecs and abs were covered in a moderate layer of short dark hair, giving way to a modest treasure trail leading to the dark bush that peeked above the band. The morning wood was mostly history, but not entirely and was very impressive even in its outline. His scruffy, unshaven face was remarkably sexy, made all the more so by the unkempt mop of hair that pointed in every direction.

Scott yawned, stretched, scratched himself to adjust is own chubby, then propped up on his elbows. He grinned. "You been there long?"

Greg grinned shyly and looked toward the floor. Scott slid his feet back toward the wall to open up the bottom corner of the bed. "Come on in." Greg tentatively perched on the mattress. : "Brett and Craig gone?"

I heard Craig get up and out early. Angie dragged Brett out here kicking and screaming about a half hour ago." He giggled. "She seems real nice."

Scott snorted. "She can be. She can also be a royal bitch on burning wheels, and she has him by the short hairs." There was an awkward pause. "So the guys are gone and we got the place to ourselves. Want to hang for the day?"

Greg's face fell and he shook his head. "Every Saturday morning. Two hours in the weight room, and hour of indoor batting practice and a pick up game of round ball with the team. Then I grab a quick lunch and book it all afternoon at the library. Need to keep the grades up."

"Okay, well, come on back tonight. We'll order a pizza and rent a couple movies and chill."

Greg looked even sadder still. "Team dinner. One of the guys' birthdays. A ritual not to be missed for sake of collegiality and team building. It would be a gross offense to miss it. Sorry, Scott. Gonna have to be some other time."

Scott flopped back onto the pillow and covered them with his forearm. "Hope so."

He swatted Scott's knee. "But thanks a lot for last night. You got some great roomies and I had a great time." He scratched his scalp, which is why I'm gonna jog back to the dorm rather than ask you for a ride. You go back to sleep. I'll see you on Monday, if we don't talk tomorrow. Hang in there bud. Thanks again.

"K, Greg. Be a star today."

Greg flashed his dimple. "Yeah, right."

Scott sighed and his phone rang. "Shit!" He always missed Marty, but had no desire to speak with Special Advisor right now. He knew he'd sound like sniveling, love-struck little schoolgirl. He let it ring, rolled over and pulled the extra pillow over his head.

Author's Note: First, my sincere thanks and apologies for the failure to respond individually to everyone who has been so kind to me in the shadow of my last two episodes. It's been great fun and I cherish all of your kind words. You'll understand more in a moment.

Second, you'll be interested, perhaps, in knowing that I've discovered a foolproof solution to worrying too much about things that really don't require immediate, if any, attention, stressing out over the little stuff too much of the time, ignoring your diet, losing sleep over other peoples' problems, over-imbibing and other miscellaneous self-destructive habits.

It's called a stroke. But if you choose this path, or if it chooses you, I'd recommend a mild one. While it might leave you a bit confused about many of the things around you, that's not much of a leap for some of us, sort of like going from the sniffles to a real cold. The mobility issues are annoying as hell, but are often temporary. The recovery requires exercise you could use anyway, and the change in diet takes some adjustment but it's a positive one. Plus, as word gets around, you get really nice cards and calls from friends you haven't heard from in a long time. On balance though, it's a minor stroke is not such a bad thing, I'm not endorsing anybody's active search for one of their own, just saying they can be tolerate an managed, and need not be feared. Be warned, though. Daytime TV really sucks and in the hospital it's even worse. And on your way to the hospital, don't forget your cell phone charger.

The hand-eye coordination has suffered. The good news is that this chapter was about 80% complete before lightening struck. But, now's a good time to give Greg and Scott time to think and try to sort out their feelings, for Frick and Martine to scheme and for Elliot to work on putting his plans in motion.

Even though the first draft of Chapter 7 is substantially developed, I'm taking a medical leave of indefinite length. On the one hand, I'll have some time on my hands. On the other, I need to reorder my priorities and put together some pieces of a bigger, more important puzzle.

I'll be back when it's good for me. Meantime, God Bless and Be Well.

Scott