Making New Memories - Three
Thank you, Gentle Reader, for opening this story, a series about a man who confronts his past to find a new future. Dave, Jim, and the rest of the cast of characters are fictional, and do not represent any person living or dead. The story is fantasy and exists in that realm,
Elements in this story include sex between men, some racier elements might include some kinky sex, but for the most part just good old-fashioned cocksucking and fucking. If you enjoy this story, and others like it, please consider making a donation to keep the Nifty archive free and accessible! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
I cleaned up, and then grabbed a towel and a bottle of Dr. Bronner's Castille soap. There was always a bottle of this in the kitchen. My dad used to love to bathe in the lake with it, and it was biodegradable, so he used it. Shedding my shirt and tossing my towel down along the way, I ran out to the end of the dock and did a nice shallow dive into the cool water. I bobbed in the water, and washed myself in the cool morning. What a way to start the day,' I thought, while lying on my back in the water. Coffee, bacon, and Jim's handsome face.' The thought came out before I could stop it, and there it was, making my dick hard even in the cold lake.
I walked out of the lake, and back up to the house. Dressing in some khaki shorts and a collared shirt, I grabbed my keys to head into town. It was Tuesday, and my ticket for San Francisco was for Saturday. I needed to head back downstate on Friday to handle any last things with the sale of my parents' house, I reasoned, so, maybe I'd stay a couple more days up here at the lake. This was the vacation part of my trip, I justified.
My first stop was Weathers Realty. Connie was in, and I sat down in front of her. "I'd like to list the house now at $1.2Million. I'll let the new owners turn it into their dream home if they want,"
"Very well, Mr. Bishop, Dave, I'll get right on it. It's August, and already late in the season to list a summer house. There are always a few people, however, who have rented up here all summer and realize that they might like to make Antrim Country their home. I'll post it, and we'll put up some flyers in the laundromats and other places that will attract summer visitors, and see what happens." She smiled a lot, but I felt confident with her. Having received asking price on the downstate property, valued at over a million dollars, I felt like I had time for this property to sell. "I'm just about to get some lunch," she said, with an expectant pause in her voice, "would you like to join me?"
We went down the street to a nice fish place -- clearly this restaurant thrived on tourist dollars: whitefish lunches at $16.99 and glasses of oaky chardonnay. The server looked confused when I asked for sauvignon blanc, and suggested, if I didn't want chardonnay, that I try their white zinfandel. Inwardly, I counted to three, then ordered an iced tea.
Small talk. It's a Michigan past time -- never serious, always nice, usually too nosey, but never threatening. We chatted about all kinds of things. At one point she mentioned going somewhere with her girlfriend and I thought, for a moment, it was about to get more interesting, then I remembered that in Michigan parlance, when women talked about their girlfriends, it just meant `friend who is a girl.' So much for having a lesbian realtor. I chuckled to myself.
"What's funny?" she stopped her story about her church group.
"Oh, I was thinking of something funny that happened, that's all. I didn't mean to stop your story," I tried to come up with a suitable excuse.
She used the pause to change topic. "I noticed you're not wearing a wedding ring, Dave. Is there no Mrs. Bishop?" She winked and blushed. Oh, jeez, I am being picked up by my realtor.
"The only Mrs. Bishop I know of died three weeks ago, and we're selling her house now, aren't we?" I retorted. Too harsh? Yeah, it was, but I wanted this line of questioning to end now. The only thing I needed was this chatterbox knowing my personal business. I met her wink with a wink of my own. She looked down into her food.
It didn't take but a moment, and the check came. I picked it up. I felt a little badly for her embarrassment. A few minutes later I was driving into Bellaire, the bigger town nearby, for some grocery shopping. If I were going to stay `til Friday, I may as well get some more supplies. I picked up some steaks and potatoes, and some fresh veggies, more coffee, bread, milk, sugar, pasta, a couple more six packs, a bottle of cabernet, more bacon and eggs. And an ashtray. It would save my mugs, I rationalized.
Getting home, I put away the groceries and changed into a tattered shirt from my graduate school days. I had a couple of hours to mow the lawn and clear out some of the overgrowth. Maybe I will pick up some annuals if there are any left to give the place some `curb appeal' -- a funny notion out here in the woods. It didn't take long, and I had the grass mown. Just as I was putting away the mower, I heard Jim's truck coming up the rock drive.
I walked around the corner of the house to meet him just he was rounding the same corner. We scared each other, both us taking a jump backwards. His entire face lightened into laughter. "Well that's quite a welcome home! Where's my kiss?" His audacity was stunning!
I blushed, I think. "You wish," I finally was able to retort. Nice recovery, Dave.' "Back to play with your wood?" Fair's fair, right?' I was so smug with my come back.
"You wish," he said as he walked around me and toward the dock.
`Damnit! Why did he always get the last word?!' I was flustered. Taking three seconds to get my wits about me, I followed. "Need a hand with the dock?" I volunteered.
"Naw, looks like you'll have your hands full clearing the weeds you couldn't mow from the windows in the front and sides," he said, over his shoulder.
Who the fuck is the boss and who is the employee?' I stewed. Was he telling me what to do?' I looked over at the overgrown windowsills. They needed attention, and I wanted to sell the house. I set my jaw, and returned to the toolshed to get my pruning shears, trowel, shovel, and rake. I worked with my back to the lake, but I heard Jim working, banging with a hammer, low cusses every once in a while.
Digging out some roots, I hit something solid. It sounded like metal connecting with my shovel. I dug a bit further and revealed a banker's box. White paint on the top read "1986." It was my time capsule from the 4th of July that year. I set it aside and finished what I was doing. After a while I heard Jim's voice behind me. "Looks a lot better," he said.
He took a seat on the bottom step and lit a cigarette -- a sign he had finished his work, or at least was taking a break.
"Thanks," I said, wiping the sweat from my forehead, "I am about done with this. How's your job?"
"Done. It'll last the winter and several more," he judged. "What've you got there?" He pointed to the black box.
"I made it after we came back from watching the fireworks on July 4, one year in Central Lake. It's a time capsule. Let's take a look -- it's the future, right?"
The box had a combination lock on it. I rolled the numbers to various dates: 0704. Nothing. 1234. Nothing. 0901 (My parents anniversary, and usually an ATM or door code in our family). Nothing still. "Hmm, I can't remember, what the code is," I was ready to give up on the little box and go to find a chisel.
"When's your birthday?" Jim asked.
"August 20," I replied. He turned the numbers. 0820. The lock opened. He smiled, and gestured to the box. "It's all yours, big Dave."
I took a deep breath. Who knows what could be in here. There was a plastic bag, and then another, and then another. I guess I had been waterproofing it. Finally, we hit the payload:
First up was a note in my fourth-grade hand writing.
"If you are opening this, you are from the Future. My name is David Bishop, and I live with my parents and our dog, Rocco, in a state called Michigan. I am 10 years old. My dad is 37, and my mom is 38. I am including pieces of our daily life!"
Then we found 4 watermelon Jolly Ranchers. My favorite flavor.
2 petoskey stones
A photo of all of us taken that summer
A wooden cross that I had made in Sunday School
A newspaper front page in its own plastic bag from July 4, 1986
A yellow matchbox car
A recipe card in my mother's handwriting for cherry cobbler
I scanned the items. The picture showed three smiling people and our dog. We were laughing in the picture, which had been taken earlier that summer on Mom's birthday. I felt tears come up. I wept. I bit my lip, but couldn't stop the tears. Great sobs, coughing, ugly, tears. I hadn't cried like this since I was a boy. Heaving spasms of angry, bitter, too-long unshed tears.
Before I registered the burly, furry arms around me, I felt the warm breath on the back of my neck. I let the crying finish, and the arms held me. I relaxed my body, giving into grief. The arms held me up, and pulled me back into the warm chest of my handyman.
After the tears, I didn't move, letting the moment rest. I relaxed and then stood up on shaky legs. I turned around, and Jim was standing up beside me, his hand still on my arm, letting me know he was nearby. He smelled good -- like sun and the lake and sweat. He smelled like a real man. I sunk onto the railing, exhausted. Jim waited, calmly. Finally he spoke, softly.
"I don't assume much, and I can't imagine what it must be like to have both your parents go at once. Further, I don't know what happened in your family, but I know we haven't seen you up here on the lake in 30 years, so I can only guess you were not close with your folks in the last few years. You don't have to tell me anything, and I think you already know I am not like old man DeWitt or that nosey realty lady. What you say will stay right here. I'm offering," he took a step forward and squeezed my forearm with his strong hand.
I said nothing. I couldn't find words. We stood there, silent for minutes, far surpassing the awkwardness of not talking.
"I'm finished up here, I'll, ah, head out, I guess, and be back tomorrow to make sure the repairs were good?" Jim pushed back, and started to walk toward his truck.
I found my voice. "No, you don't have to leave, I ... I'll ... let's get a beer, eh?"
I went into the house, grabbed the whole six pack, and came back outside. Jim was walking down to the lake, and I followed. Getting to the shore, he took off his shirt in a single, fluid motion, and sat on the edge of the dock to remove his work boots. I opened two beers, and watched as he emptied his pockets, stood up, walked to the end of the dock and dove in. "Well, don't just stand there, Dave, the water's great!" I kicked off my sandals, removed my shirt, and walked to the edge of the dock with the two opened beers. Setting them down, I jumped in. The water felt great.
We treaded water, keeping our beer and head's afloat, and talked, our legs kicking under the surface to keep us up. It was a gentle camaraderie, and that gave me the comfort I needed to tell my story.
"Jim, thirty summers ago my dad walked in on me and Keith Ekilsen fucking on my bed. It was one helluva way to come out to my folks," I snorted with an ironic laugh. "Shortly after that, my parents and I parted company on pretty bad terms, I went off to college, and haven't had much contact at all with my folks in the years since," I relayed the facts. Once that was out there, it all came rolling out in one long run-on paragraph. "I've been living in San Francisco since I finished up grad school, probably about 20 years now, and have a place out there."
Jim's eyes showed that he was engaged, paying attention. Raising his eyebrows slightly, he invited me to continue.
"I guess I've been living without much thought to my folks, to this place, to these memories. I've had plenty of sex, worked hard to build a career, have a nice home, and I've let all that take up my time. I've built a good life." I didn't know why I said that last piece. Somehow, when adding up all the small parts of my life, it didn't seem to amount to much. Convincing myself, and Jim, I hoped, that I was a success, I continued, "yeah, it's been a good life."
"I guess opening up that box closed the last few years of distance I've had for this place -- my parents -- the whole experience here." I didn't know where else to go with this. "I guess, I came up here to sell this place and thought I could keep the memories down, but, they have a funny way of being dug up," I smiled at my pun.
Jim raised his arms out of the water and made a small splashing gesture with his hands, patting the surface of the water. "Lie on your back, and float."
Squinting at him, I moved through the water, and brought my legs to the surface, lying flat on my back. I felt his arms come under my back, supporting me. His breathing was surprisingly steady, seeing as he must have been kicking furiously under the water to keep us both afloat.
"My dad used to do this to us as kids," his words were soft, his mouth near my ear. "I loved the feeling of floating. Just relax. There's nothing that floating in the lake won't fix, trust me on this one."
I had never felt so good. The water of the lake was cool -- cold to some. With the sun starting to slip behind the treeline, it was downright chilly, still, I made no move. This was a great place to be.
"Well, I guess I said a lot there, didn't I?" I asked.
He chuckled. It was a kind chuckle, not condescending. "Yeah, I think you have a long story to tell. Why don't you continue," he invited.
"Well, I dunno what more to say. This wasn't exactly the way I had anticipated spending my summer. Right now, I should be on a ship in the Mediterranean with some friends, but I am here instead, cleaning up shit that wasn't mine." I was surprised at my sudden bitterness. Taking a deep breath, I said, more quietly, "These feelings are new. I'd put them away, perhaps like my time capsule." I let the words fall to the water.
I took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Jim, I've spent 20 years not caring about my folks, not thinking about this house up on the lake, shutting Michigan and its memories out of my mind. I've had some good therapists, and a supportive community of friends, even a serious relationship or two, and they've all helped me to understand that I was ok, I was a good guy, I was better off being true to myself. But now, suddenly, I wonder if I haven't just spent the last 20 years smoldering, angry about the way it all ended, pissed off at my parents for rejecting me. I wonder if I am still that 17-year old whose dad pushed him out the door." I stopped myself before I started to cry again. "Shit."
I felt Jim's hands up under my pits, pulling me up. I realized we'd come to the shore again, and Jim was standing up. He helped me up. We walked over to the dock, and I sat down. Jim sat next to me, grabbed his beer, tipped it up, and drained it.
"Hey, the dock's not wobbly anymore. Nice work," I handed him another bottle of beer. "Cheers!" We clinked the necks of our bottles together. Jim lit a cigarette, and gazed out into the lake. Without meeting my gaze he began speaking.
"Thanks for sharing that with me," he said, earnestly. "You've been through a lot, and, if you don't mind my saying, you strike me as a strong man ..."
"No, not really, I mean, it's what anyone would do, right, it's survival," I cut him off.
He looked me, squinting over his smoke. "Let me finish," he said quietly. "I ... I admire you." He said it as if it were the definitive statement. "I never had the guts to do what you did," he almost whispered it. He took a deep double pump on his cigarette and held the smoke in. He let it out slowly and we watched as the breeze picked it up and carried it down the lake.
I turned to him. "Jim, are you ..."
"Gay," he replied.
It was my turn to empty my bottle and pick up another one. I didn't know what to say, and I started to chuckle.
"Is it so hard to believe?" He asked. I think he was a little defensive.
"No, no. I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at myself. I wonder about my gaydar! I live in the big gay city of San Francisco and know dozens and dozens of gay folks. I have some mighty handsome bearish friends, and I am totally out and open. Suddenly I can't think of a single thing to say to a handsome man, and it makes me laugh. Mr. Smooth Operator, no longer so smooth," I said with a smile.
"Glad to know you think I am handsome," he winked at me.
I blushed and looked down at the water. My feet were dangling over the side of the dock, and I kicked at it, intentionally splashing him.
"Careful," he growled, "I am bigger than you," he winked at me.
From tongue-tied, to splashing, I was starting to make a fool out of myself. I wondered for a moment why I was having this reaction. I reached over and stroked the back of his hand with my fingers. Getting up the nerve to grab his hand, I met his gaze. "Thank you for telling me about yourself, Jim. It's nice to meet a friend, and today I needed it," I said, hoping to sound more honest than horny, which, I realized, was exactly what I was feeling.
End Chapter Three
Jim and Dave are opening up to each other, learning about the things they might have in common. Seems like maybe there are some mutual attractions. I wonder if these two will have the courage to explore what lies between them, or if they'll play it safe? Let's find out together in Chapter Four.