This story is fiction. I like getting email and if you'd like to contact me you can at uncutbloke@live.com
CHAPTER I
Andrew Fairbanks was a man who liked the sound of leather-soled shoes echoing down the hall. He preferred men's shoes. It wasn't that he had anything against women, or their shoes for that matter, but men's shoes sounded pleasant and authoritative as opposed to the harsh click of six inch French heels.
What may be more striking about Andrew, is that he was actually the type of man who would take time to consider the difference between the sound of men's and women's shoes as they walked down the hall by his office. Perhaps he did simply because he had the time. He was a new attorney -- a recent graduate of the University Of South Carolina School Of Law -- and this could explain his lack of a client base. However, the more likely cause of his boredom was simply that in 1962, in Laurens, South Carolina, there simply weren't that many things people called upon lawyers to do. There was the occasional will, maybe even a property dispute, but this small, sleepy town certainly wasn't aflush with legal conflicts.
So, there Andrew sat in his nicely furnished office, just off the Square. He sat and admired his door -- a magnificent walnut door with opaque glass through which he could read in reverse from the inside, "ANDREW T. FAIRBANKS, ATTORNEY AT LAW." This was perhaps the most pleasing door Andrew had ever seen in his life. Not because it was particularly pleasing architecturally, but because those black painted letters shadowed with gold leaf signified a life's goal accomplished. But as that very thought entered his mind, it lead to the next thought, one more frightening and, frankly, depressing. "What's next?"
Get off the farm and go to college: done. Graduate college with honors: done. Go to law school: done. Return home and start a practice: done. Get a nice office with a swanky door: done.
It was sobering. Andrew Fairbanks might have begun weeping at his desk had his door not opened at that very moment. He heard the authoritative, the immensely authoritative, crack of men's boots come through his office door. It was the sound of billiard balls being softly broken again and again. And this sound fascinated Andrew so much that his eyes were drawn toward the floor and feet of the man who had entered. Square-toed, weathered, but fastidiously shined boots. Size 13. Andrew's eyes rose to see freshly laundered blue jeans, a freshly starched white oxford, and finally the striking face of Will Simpson.
Andrew hadn't seen him in years...they had gone to high school with each other. His features had definitely improved. As had his build. In high school, Will hadn't exactly been the thing fantasies are made of. He wasn't ever ugly, he was just lanky. As Andrew thought back on it, he remembered that Will always had good skin...it must have been the hours working outside. The Simpsons owned Palmetto Dairy and provided milk to most of town.
The new Will Simpson was tall. Andrew guessed he was about 6'4. He had muscles to spare, but not so large that you would be afraid to meet him the dark. Will had raven hair that was longer and a bit tussled -- but combed with pomade. He was dressed to impress, at least to the extent he could with the means that he had. The question was then, who did he mean to impress? Then a silent jubilation swept over Andrew at the thought that Will, so virile and rugged, had put on his very best to see him.
"Andy, I don't suppose you remember me, do you?"
"Well, Will, come on in, of course I remember you. It sure as hell is great to see you! God, it must have been, what...1955...when I saw you last?"
"I believe that's right. How've you been, how's your folks?"
Will had to pause a moment in answering this question. The thought that popped in his mind was, "well, my mother is a saint, but my father is still known as `the meanest white son-of-a-bitch in Laurens County." What he actually said was, "Oh, they're fine. Nothing much changes around our place -- not even them!"
This obligatory exchange continued for a few more minutes and the two traded random recollections of high school. They both expressed their remorse that the old Central High School building had burned down. It didn't seem to occur to the town that a school with the oiled wood floors, piles of pencil shavings that collected in the corners, and the teachers who were far too casual about flicking their cigarette ashes during class, might be slightly dangerous. The building couldn't have been more flammable had it been constructed of fatwood logs. Regardless, it was a tragedy in the community and both these alums felt the need to mention it. Obligatory banter.
"Have a seat."
"Well, Will, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Is there something I can help you with, or are you just making the rounds catching up with old buddies?"
This last phrase seemed something of a stretch. The two had been little more than cordial in earlier years and Andrew certainly wouldn't have called him "buddy" in front of anyone else in high school. Will was gracious enough to overlook the comment, but a dour look seemed to overcome him. He sank back into the chair in which he was seated.
"Andy. I don't know any way to say this other than to just come right out and say it. I need you to help me get a divorce."
"Divorce?"
Divorces were about as common in Laurens in 1962 as dogs that walked on their hind legs.
He simply squinted his eyes, looked up at Andrew, and nodded his head.
"Will, you know, I haven't been back to long, and I wasn't around too much when I went away to school. Hell, I didn't even know you were married! Who're you married to? How long have y'all been together?"
Will, rubbed his face with both hands, ran his hands back through his hair, breathed in deeply and slowly sighed.
"It was a rush rob. Drucy Penland. She told me I had gotten her pregnant, and you know how folks would be in town about that, so, I figured I had to marry her. We had only been going out for about...two months I guess."
"So you have a baby too?"
"No. I don't know that I have any way of showing it, but I really don't think there ever was one. I mean, I don't think she was knocked up when we got married."
"Good God," said Andrew. "Do you love her?"
"Would I be here if I did?"
"Alright, we'll see what we can do for you." This was another inaccuracy on Andrew's part. There was no "we." He had no staff or secretary. He didn't even have a law library. He had to walk across the street to the Courthouse to do his research there -- in the event he had research to do, which hadn't really been much of an issue.
The two continued to talk about what would happen in filing for divorce, and as they did, Andrew noticed something. But that was just it, it was a something. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but the conversation and Will himself were different somehow in a way that was comforting and uncomfortable all at once.
Then it happened.
"I just don't think I'm the marrying-type," said Will, and as he did a flash of a smile and a look from his eyes cut deep into Andrew's mind.
Of course, taken in context, the comment merely meant that he wouldn't have married Drucy had she not mislead him. In fact, he just the kind of guy who would get married -- he was the wholesome type of farm-boy that mothers told their daughters to marry. But the "something" feeling that Andrew had been having, coupled with that glance, brought to mind a thousand questions. The first of which for Andrew was, "what do I say to that?"
A golden opportunity must be seized.
"Well, I guess that makes two of us."
It was the best he could do with such short notice. It was slightly humorous enough to give both men the excuse to laugh, nervously.
As the two of them continued to talk, they realized that all the pertinent questions had been asked regarding the case, at least for now. There was no real reason for Will to stay, and yet he lingered. The silences between questions and answers grew longer, and Andrew noticed himself focusing intensely on Will's every facial expression.
With the realization that Will might also have the same desires as Andrew had, the terrifying thought that he might not startled him. If the rumor, or even the shadow of a rumor like that was spread about town, he would be ruined. His family would disown him. He would never have another client set foot through the door. No judge would never even entertain the notion of ruling in his favor. It would be social death. And those rumors do not die outside the limits of a county line. His ability to practice law in South Carolina, or the South for that matter, would be over.
So, Andrew straightened himself in his chair, uncrossed his legs, and unknowingly lowered his voice.
"I think that about does it. I think I have all I need for now. I guess I can call you if I need anything else."
"I have a party line and my neighbor, Ms. Mary Compton, she's a bit nosey."
Will seemed a bit surprised by the abrupt end to the conversation, and seemed to be trying to calm any ruffled feathers.
"Well then, I'll call you and just have you come in sometime."
"Ok, ok, that's fine, that's fine. . . Or you can come on by the place if you like."
The smile which had been on Will's face since his comment about not being the marrying type vanished, and in its place came a placid, yet intense gaze into Andrew's eyes. He paused this way for just a moment, and then got up from his chair. He tucked the back of his oxford back in his blue jeans and headed toward the door. Andrew rose from his chair and moved to see Will out of his office.
"I do appreciate this," said Will. He grabbed Andrew's hand and shook it vigorously. And then as if to say, "I know what you're worried about, and it's fine," Will took his and gently stroked the back of Andrew's hand as he shook it.
Relief. Fear. Confusion. Unfettered excitement. Lust.
Andrew was speechless.
"Now, you call me if you need anything else from me at all...I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have. But, be careful with Ms. Compton, she might be on the line when you call. Yarborough-3659."
And with that he was gone, save the echo of his boots down the hall.
Andrew had to clear his head. Actually, he needed a drink. He turned on the radio in his office and pulled out the bottle of bourbon in his credenza.
"...this is WFBC-FM, Greenville, South Carolina. Tonight, for your listening pleasure, we bring you the mellow tones of..."
He had Coke, but not ice. He knew the insurance agent's office down the hall had a refrigerator, so he ran to get some. The agent had none, but did trade his warm Coke for one of their ice-cold ones.
"...Ms. Marilyn Monroe...I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else but you, I wanna be loved by you alone, boo boo be doo..."
Goddammit. Here Andrew was, enveloped in a fog of lust unlike any other feelings he had had before, and Marilyn was on the radio singing probably the hottest song he could think of...at least at the moment. He rubbed the coke bottle on his forehead. Despite how well-appointed his office was, he couldn't afford a window unit air-conditioner, and it happened to be a remarkably sweltering day for June...or any month for that matter.
"...I wanna be kissed by you, just you, and nobody else but you, I wanna be kissed by you, and you alone..."
That's was it. One new client for the day was enough. He looked around for his briefcase and to collect any papers he needed. There were no papers he needed though...he barely had any clients...so he got his coat, cinched his tie, and headed out the door. Wait. The bourbon and the radio. Andrew spun on his heels, switched off the set, gulped down the last of his drink and went home.