Rehabbed
Odd, when life brings people together at opportune times. Garcia and Beltran find opportunity in one of those odd times.
Adult content for mature readers. When posting on Nifty, this writer's text includes homosexual relations between consenting males in an entirely fictional setting with fictional characters.
MM, firsts.
Rehabbed
Instructors were understanding, they sent my syllabi, held my place. Travel and housing delayed me--car broke down and I had to catch a bus with three boxes and a heavy backpack.
Four miles from campus in an ancient three-story walk-up suited my budget. Bad area, they said, yet the cornices on the building told the opposite story. Sturdy construction, grandly detailed when the structure was built. Something inviting about the worn but heavy doors with brass trim. Prime location decades ago.
Next in the parade of nameless renters who'd inhabited a high-ceilinged efficiency on the third floor, west side of the building. Quiet but for sirens and the freeway several blocks over. Heard the neighbors' Spanish ballads, soft drone of recitations from the Qur'an. From my bed I heard snoring, radio playing classical music, shower running. No time for neighborliness, classes were more demanding during my last two years.
Stacked crates I swiped from behind the bodega and plugged in my computer, organized my junk. Stayed up late that Friday night, posting my services, "Beltran's Editing" on every campus site available. I charged for straightening out and formatting student papers while I educated myself to become a science writer. Shooting for a job with the USGS.
Completed an application for a work-study position as I smelled something good wafting through the building, made me hungry. Boiled water for ramen and loaded my clothes in the small closet.
Classes, editing work and a campus job; they say you have to suffer to succeed. These shabby digs and going non-stop were the trials I chose.
...
Slept great until six AM Saturday morning. Clock radio in the next apartment blasted the news and weather. Cleaned up, needed coffee. Went to bodega, bought a few things. Noodle cups, coffee, bag of apples and a jar of peanut butter. Just enough left for soap, toothpaste.
Picked up the local free newspapers, headed home.
Editing jobs came slowly as the semester began. A month into the semester, I was editing four hours a night and enjoying my classes. Eight hours a week in the tutoring center, and study hall; tenuous timing.
So far, so good.
Rehabbed Part 2
Friday before Spring break I fell asleep on the bus going home, the driver woke me at my stop, "You don't look good, boy." Exhausted, my stomach flip-flopped, why did I feel cold? Stopped a few times on the stairs, woozy. Sick all night in the bathroom, sat on the toilet, vomited into the sink.
Struggled downstairs on Saturday to pick up my mail, when I returned a bag hung on my doorknob with a can of soup, menthol rub and fizzy tablets. Nothing helped, guts churned, head ached.
Next day, "Get up. You have to go." My neighbor was at the door, demanding in a worried voice. In the hallway stood an older man, a few inches shorter than me, sunglasses and a backpack. "There's a doctor down the street, I already called him."
"My clinic's on campus."
"Not today." He pushed past me, tossed me my shoes, shorts and a tee shirt. "By the way, I'm Michael Garcia from next door." He tied my left shoe as I tied the right, "It's the doctor now, or the ER tonight...." Dressed, he took me by the arm down to the street.
Don't remember how we got there, and we entered through a narrow wooden door, down an ancient hallway to a small doctor's office. Nothing new or fancy, only a retired GP with a neighborhood practice, basic equipment.
Garcia had a list of my symptoms with the duration of each, rather personally detailed--listening through the walls no doubt. He could hear me as clearly as I could hear him. Stayed upright as the doctor took my vitals, then I ran to the restroom, couldn't wait. I vomited till nothing more came out and kept heaving as my intestinal music echoed off the tiles.
Garcia hailed a cab for the trip back.
Faintly recall the light from behind the blinds as the days and nights passed. Garcia disturbed my deep sleep making me sit up to drink, take medications. Through a mist of camphor and menthol, he wiped my face with a damp cloth.
Monday, woke up to a familiar aroma. Made it to the bathroom, weakly stepping, washed my face and went to the couch. He'd laid out a sheet for me. I fell onto it but jumped when the door opened. Garcia, in an apron with a big pot, "Caldo de res. Hungry?"
"You made soup?" My stomach was empty; my brain was wary.
"Traditional cure." He brought me a cup of rich beef broth, spices, "Best thing in the world when your stomach's acting up.'" He got a cup for himself, "Yoghurt and sherbet in the fridge. Juice--lots of fruit. Doctor said you're completely run down." He moved my legs, sat and draped my knees over his thigh.
"Thanks... you didn't have to." Seemed like he was taking over. "I have to get back to the computer. I've got two mid-terms and several papers."
"You'll never keep your grades up if you don't take care of yourself. You've got two jobs--right?"
I nodded. Soup was good; I lay back, grateful not to be nauseated. Felt peculiar that a strange man was in my apartment, apparently running my life. Too weak to protest.
He brought more soup, "Helping you makes me feel good about myself." He handed me the pill bottle.
Heard him shuffling around as I fell back asleep. I woke up later, lamp at the couch was on and Garcia was gone. Went to the fridge and drank a quart of juice, lay back down, noticed my stack of newspapers had notes written in the margins. Next to the ads for the gay bars and the spa were comments, "Used to be Dupree Cleaners." "Gaddis' Coffee Shop, 1972." He must know the local history.
A question mark was underlined on the top of the headline of the Blade; local gay paper.
Uneasiness stirred. Garcia was about forty-five, maybe fifty years old, sprinkles of gray at the temples, narrow shouldered. No bulk to him, slim, and kinda smiley. He didn't look like trouble but you never know. I checked my wallet and phone, locked the door. Nothing disturbed yet it was extremely curious to meet a helpful person in this part of the city who put a question mark on the gay newspaper.
...
Garcia came the next day at noon, "Feeling better?" He had a bag of clean laundry in his hand. "All the sweating made the sheets funky." He tossed the bag on the bed.
"Why are you doing all this?" I picked up the newspaper he'd written on, "And why this question mark? Do you want to know if I'm gay?"
"Helping you makes me feel good, I told you that." He went to the kitchen, brought juice and pills, "Well, are you homosexual?"
"Why do you want to know? Are you gay?"
"Doctor said the odds are against people being homosexual. Not that many in the population."
I stayed on him, "I'm gay. If you don't like it, leave. I won't bother you, and won't take any harassment."
"Fine with me if you're gay. You're a beautiful man with all that dark hair and big brown eyes. You must have to beat the men off."
"Since you seem to keep tabs on me through the walls here, you know I'm not beating any men off."
"Shame--it's healthy to have friends." He went in the kitchen and washed the dishes humming, then left.
School started again, and I made it through those midterms barely. Editing was easy, but tiring--had to push myself hard.
Rehabbed Part 3
Wednesdays were my longest day on campus. Came home to find a desk and chair replaced my crates. Stomped over to Garcia's, his door stood open. "How did you get into my apartment?"
"I know the super. Thought you could use the desk. I don't need it."
"What about my privacy? You didn't ask me first." I was miffed, though the swiveling chair was padded, comfortable.
"It makes me feel good to help a hard-working student." He gave me frown, "Guess it was presumptive of me to think--well, not important now. Apology-dinner at Deans?"
Glad for a break from ramen, we ate at the deli. Big, thick pastrami on rye, fries, cheesecake with a candle--odd, but his cheesecake had one too. He told me we were celebrating his birthday--both of us Geminis? Set that aside as I made Garcia promise not to tromp through my life: "I appreciate your wanting to help and we have to talk about it first."
Surprised me when he said I was right, "Planning; a good practice."
...
Headed into finals and term papers. Came home daily to find a sandwich carefully packed in waxed paper, soda and chips hanging on the doorknob. The next month, he graduated into tupper containers with salads and fruit. I didn't say anything, too busy to slow down.
Last day of finals, I came in and fell on my bed, relieved I'd kept my GPA. Heard footsteps in Garcia's apartment, then down the hall. He knocked lightly, "Only three more semesters to go."
Sunglasses, shorts and sandals, same ragged backpack, "I'm going to the bodega, you need anything?"
Feeling more comfortable with my codger-neighbor, "I'll go with you. We need to celebrate tonight." Bought a six-pack and chips. Garcia got real food.
We feasted by the kitchen window as the sun made its way toward the sea. He told me about being a boy in the area, "Used to be a big park where the freeway is now, swings, slides, wading pool. Gosh, that was fun." Described going into something like a boarding school when he was an adolescent, graduated and went to a private university. Majored in Education and worked for thirty years in the local community college with remedial students.
...
Summer was more relaxed though my finances were tight. Help came from Garcia, he started shopping for me on Saturdays while I did laundry, took our trash out, sorted the recycling--the alley was filled with questionable business transactions. Couldn't let my friendly old coot get mugged behind the dumpster.
Always had dinner together on Saturday, then got roped into a movie. That first time, I went to my favorite porn site; close enough to a movie.
Garcia wouldn't have it. "Not that, I want a real story--something about a person winning, a story with a happy ending."
Scrolling down the list of sex fetishes and specialties, "Make up a story for yourself. Get hotted up, go home and give yourself a happy ending." Found the anime tentacle sex I liked.
"No cartoons." He shook his head, sour look on his face.
We compromised on British comedies and I hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Summer was good, I continued editing and working on campus, stashed all the cash I could. Made it to the beach several times. Watched the guys strut the boardwalk, so casual and relaxed in scant, revealing trunks, had to wonder how they got so confident. I was shy--always had been.
Couldn't bring myself to walk into a gay bar alone, thought about asking Garcia to accompany me, but that would reduce my opportunities. If I did find a date, bring him home, I would probably have a penile misadventure knowing Garcia was listening to everything.
My prospects on finding a boyfriend were nonexistent; Mom was glad I found a friend.
Rehabbed Part 4
A Saturday in August, I was finishing a paper for a Botany student when Garcia came in with the groceries, red-faced and angry, breathing hard. Grumbled as he threw the local newspapers on the couch. "You know Montaigne, the guy at the bodega? Uncouth oaf. I'm not going there again."
Never saw Garcia angry, "Did he put a finger on the scale?" Montaigne managed the meat counter. Big, burly man with hairy arms and a huge nose--always yelled.
"Nothing like that, he made a nasty joke. Waved a chorizo at me."
I burst out laughing, Montaigne flagging sausage at Garcia? "Why did he do that?"
"He wiggled his eyebrows and made kissy noises. I could have died."
"Are you sure he was doing that at you?" Garcia was too milquetoasty to cause that kind of stir.
"I won't discuss it." He made lunch, continued grumbling about business ethics, consumer rights, mentioned disrupting equanimity several times. I was baffled.
We sat at the window watching the local kids hotwire a BMW and drive off. His face was still red, still scowling. Had to chuckle, wondering what went down at the bodega.
We walked the neighborhood, bought snow cones from the local vendor and window shopped in the closed stores. "I got a movie from the campus library, called `Wilde.'"
"Nature documentary? Sounds good." Garcia was easy to please, but I wondered how he would take the life of Oscar Wilde.
...
Creature of habit, Garcia had to have popcorn with a movie. I got the video out, slipped it in my laptop. Movie started, "Oh, English, and a biography... good choice." Garcia settled back.
The life of Oscar Wilde enthralled Garcia. Eyes big as saucers, mouth dropped open at the sensual scenes. Forgot about the popcorn, watching intently. Final scene, two men embraced on a busy public square as the camera panned out.
"You like that?" I stood, stretched. "I thought it was great."
He didn't say anything for a moment, then he leaned, popcorn spilled. As he stooped to pick it up, a plastic strip of three condoms fell from his shirt pocket and hit the floor. He scrambled to pick it up.
Intercepted. I grabbed his wrist, held the plastic envelopes close to his face, "Is this why Montaigne waved the chorizo?"
Jerked his wrist back, "No. Of course not." Shuffled quickly to the kitchen. "Montaigne's a jackass--just a big jackass."
"Got a hot date?" I sidled up beside Garcia.
"I have a plan." He rinsed out his bowl.
"Who've you got in mind?"
"I'm gonna find someone... someone who seems willing. Then, I'll slip a condom in their hand and ask them if they want to use it--with me." Never saw his face so red.
"Leap right over kissing and cuddling?" I chuckled.
He cleared his throat. "Well, it's honest--I don't know much about romance and courtship."
"All-or-nothing approach, Garcia. You're gonna get slapped down." Not that I was an expert.
Garcia turned quickly, "I wouldn't be offended, I'd feel honored if someone offered me a condom with the chance to use it."
"Typical horny old man, thinking with his little brain." I tapped the placket over his zipper. We stared at each other till I couldn't hold back. I laughed, then he started laughing, this was absurd. "Rom-coms, that's what you need. Let's find one."
He fell asleep during the second one. I left him to sleep on the couch, he was gone when I got up.
Didn't see much of him that week, though I heard him shower, come and go in the hall.
Rehabbed Part 5
Saturday came, Garcia showed up with his backpack, began his informal kitchen inventory.
"Going to the bodega?"
"Montaigne's an idiot. He should mind his own business and I'm going to tell him so." Hint of nonchalance in his voice.
"Get a bottle of cabernet." Had had to loosen his tongue to find out what was going on with my pet geezer. Did he still have all three condoms?
He put a snappy narrow-brimmed straw fedora on, and walked down the hall whistling.
Several hours later, he hadn't returned. I grabbed my backpack and went to the bodega. Not there; didn't see him in any of the stores around the block. Went home to find him uncorking wine, making salad. "What's up Beltran-io?"
"I got worried, where were you?"
"Stopped by the library." He went on with his cooking. Several books in his cart.
"Reference librarian, that gal Lily, she's hot." Fishing for info.
"Too attractive to work in a public place. She showed me some good books."
"Did she flash a condom?"
"Not yet." Garcia turned his nose up, gave me a catty smile.
Over dinner, we watched the drug sales up and down the alley as the sun set. "What kind of movie tonight?"
"No movie, I've got some things to do."
He ate, left, and I went to hear what he was up to.
He was in the bathroom, couldn't figure out what he was doing but it he muttered a few curses. Must have been reading or watching videos with his headphones afterward. His place was quiet.
I went out on the street but came back. Cop cars lined the block, lights flashing and uniforms all over the place.
...
Six o'clock Sunday morning, he was up and I had a feeling he'd be at the door after I heard his bureau drawer shut. I started the coffee.
Simple breakfast enjoying a quiet alleyway, only the pickers looking for aluminum cans. He lifted his coffee cup gingerly; several fingertips wrapped in small bandages. "What happened to your hands?"
"Don't want to talk about it." But he did and explained he became mystified then confused over the corner of his fingernails, where they met the nailbed. "Hangnails."
"On four fingers at same time?" Strange skipping our movie night to botch a manicure, "Wanna go to the beach? Borrow my gloves." I snickered.
Ragged backpack loaded with lunch, we left for the beach. Dined under the pier. Breezy, hot day; we watched volleyball games, kids swimming, strolled the pier. As we rode the bus home, Garcia told me I had to concentrate on my studies, get my GPA up as high as I could. "You'll have to move before you graduate, might be hard to study."
"Move? How do you know?" I'd planned on staying in the funky old building, save up a down payment on place of my own.
"Developers have been buying all through the area; gentrification, progress and all. We live in a prime location for condos, high-rises. Old buildings need a lot more maintenance...." Didn't hear what else he said.
I fell into a worried slump as we walked the stairs. "Where will you go, do you have family?"
"Thinking about going up the coast. Bay area, San Clemente--not sure yet." He waited while I unlocked my door, "Have you ever been to Ventura?"
"Never left Nevada before I came here." Seriously doubted a retired community college teacher could afford those areas. Dang, I'd probably have to get a room with a roommate before everyone in the building was evicted.
...
"Gonna hate leaving this place, been here, gee--most of my adult life." We sat on the couch. "Thanks for the gloves." He looked over my shoulder at the list of movies.
Spent a few quiet moments thinking about our peculiar relationship, our comfortable companionship. Made me feel good to accept his help, make coffee for our morning chats. Appeared we were equally quirky, both somewhat delusional. Me, overloading myself with work thinking it would guarantee a good job; him taking on a nerdy writing student and planning to move to the coast on a community college teacher's retirement.
Closed my eyes, took a deep breath through my nose, smelling the old building, the traffic fumes, distant ocean breeze and felt warmth behind me.
"Really going to miss you." Garcia whispered, his arm around my shoulders. "And you're not gone yet. Gonna pick a movie?"
"Nah, kinda blue." Looked at him, "You're a good neighbor, a friend. It's been good."
"It's been great." He sighed, patted my back. "And we've got a few more months."
Rehabbed Part 6
Knowing things would be ending in around eighteen months brought a deeper appreciation for a man who took a chance on an unsophisticated student. Didn't realize how much I leaned on him till I tried to imagine life without him.
Deadline on our friendship brought affection from Garcia. Now, he wasn't beyond pushing my hair out of my eyes, patting my back as I edited.
Shocked me when he said making a hole in the wall wouldn't matter now that the building was going to be torn down, "Might be fun."
"Fun? Destroying the walls?"
Took a while to pry it out of him: Garcia visited The Eagle, a gay bar that afternoon, "Oh, so polite, excellent service. I had a sloe gin fizz, hadn't had one in years. May have to go back for a pineapple margarita. The bartender, Fosse, told me..."
"Fosse? You know the barkeep? What else happened?"
"There's a hole in the restroom wall." He grinned, blushed and looked out the window. "Do you know that if you put your--"
"Stop. Don't want to hear it." Twinge of jealousy, this man was more adventurous than I figured.
I think he was chuckling as he turned the radio on and checked the fridge for dinner. "I enjoyed myself--felt like a real hep cat today." He grinned and winked, "How about pasta at my place tonight?"
...
Still blue and now envious, I remained quiet during dinner. Washing dishes, "You told me the odds were against you being gay."
"Never said they were zero." Kissed me, turned me to him and got a full-body hug.
"You really didn't know?"
"I wasn't sure. Slept most of my life away, never went out. How could I know? Anything sexual was beyond me, couldn't get an erection--one of the side effects. My doctor from years ago died. Found a new one and he took me off all the pills I'd taken for years--I was heavily medicated. When I wasn't working, I was sleeping or struggling to stay on the job.
"Sometime during my career, my problems went away. I didn't know because I was never tested again, I just kept taking the pills." He gave me a squeeze, "Now I've got to catch up for lost time."
"What kind of doctor?"
"Psychiatrist." He pressed his lips together, hugged me tighter.
Garcia was sedated for decades? That explained some of his peculiarities, defined his doggedness about finding love. Had I been his rehabilitation? Did he use me to come out into the world; to himself?
The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if Garcia was my rehab. I'd relaxed into myself, and made a close friend from a stranger. Wasn't shy around him, my confidence had built. Healthy to have someone beside you to take the knocks of life and to laugh at its absurdities.
...
He held me against him tightly. Garcia's dick was hard. My rigid tool rubbed against his, "You got a condom?" I whispered.
"Can't just leap over the kissing and cuddling." He chuckled, "Think with your big brain, Beltran."
Did a lot of kissing and cuddling, and a lot more, but in a limited way. Garcia, in his zeal to groom himself for potential condom use had inflicted a number of nicks on his groin area. He showed himself a pure-bred cum-hound though. Thought I'd died several times that night.
A little flat on the topside, but throbbing and leaking, I loved his cock. Bumbling, awkward and laughing, two virgins succeeded in becoming gay men reveling in each other's physicality. Porn became a catalogue of options for the weekends. Surprised me he enjoyed topping while he watched my face, listened to my breathing speed. Always said mushy things when he came. That was Garcia's brand of romance, and I was getting all of it.
Enjoyed a good fingering more than I imagined he would. Found out that's what the band-aids were about that morning weeks ago. It became our private joke.
Last year of school, last few months in that shabby apartment was the best time of my life. Confident, self-assured, almost suave, I landed the position I wanted.
Rehabbed Part 7
Mom came for graduation, happy to meet Garcia. He was being himself, smiley, still had the same ragged backpack carrying sandwiches, wearing his straw fedora and sunglasses. She didn't mind that I was queer, though wasn't sure about my lover.
Garcia was never going to look like the stereotypical gay man or act like one. I said nothing, but enjoyed it as he proudly told everyone I already employed with the USGS. "Beltran was chosen from the finest, straight A student. Bright future ahead."
We took the train back to Santa Barbara to a red-tile roofed townhouse near downtown area. Classy place with privacy, walls that didn't allow our intimacies to be enjoyed by anyone but ourselves. Den was decorated with photos of our old building. We got one of the old doors with brass trim, had it fitted as our front door.
Garcia hadn't rented the apartment alongside mine. He owned the old building; a trust fund investment. He'd reviewed my rental application, never knew what was on it that caused him to befriend me. The expensive private schools and low-stress career should have told me his income wasn't what it appeared, and Garcia wasn't the kind of man who had to impress others with flash.
Maybe that old graybeard rehabbed himself with me, and I was the one who benefitted from all our changes.
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