Define Boink Read online

  Define Boink

  By Emery C. Walters

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 Emery C. Walters

  ISBN 9781634869409

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Define Boink

  By Emery C. Walters

  I was supposed to meet Derrick, my soon-to-be ex, at The Mug Shot, where we could work out how to separate my stuff from his stuff from our stuff, without the ability to kill each other, as we would have had in private, at our shared condo. He was in the process of moving out, and, as it had already sold, I was going to be left to rearrange what was being sold with the place from what was mine and what else I wanted. I looked as if I was about to become homeless or to learn how to couch surf off my friends. I wasn’t in a very good mood.

  The line was long and slow, and they were out of my favorite scones. I had to wait for my drink, and the guy making it was new or from a different shift. I watched him like a hawk; he was so young, I felt like a chicken-hawk, ha ha. But when he tried to read my name and looked up bewildered, I couldn’t be angry with him if you’d told me he had killed my dog. Of course, I didn’t have a dog; my ex had got him in the divorce. Yes, a gay couple had divorced. Not my choice, his, but there you go; we really are just like anybody else.

  So, the new barista, whose name tag said Troy, mumbled out, “Climax?” and his voice broke. How old was he, anyway, fourteen? He looked older, physically, but he looked, well, he looked broken, so he could have been older.

  A few people in line chuckled as I went up and took my drink. “It’s Clement, like Samuel Clement.” I couldn’t tell if I was angry, embarrassed, or just amused.

  The boy answered, “Who?” He still sounded fourteen, but his eyes looked fifty.

  I gave him my best smile, and, having worked retail at one time, it was brilliant and as phony as hell. He flushed and looked a bit less confused and terrified.

  Some homeless guy was at my favorite table. Well, it used to be our favorite table, where we’d go every Sunday and chill out. Grumpily, I took another by the wall. Derrick would want to plug in his laptop to go over his list of Our Things.

  I watched people coming and going, nodding to a few but trying to look disinterested in talking. I knew Derrick would be late; he always was. Today was no exception. He plunked his laptop and notebook down and got in line for his coffee.

  When he came over to sit, he said, “Did you see that little queer they got working? I’ve seen him at The Gateway. He’s older than any of these kids here. I saw him get carded once, and he’s twenty-two, for fuck’s sake. What a loser, working here.”

  Derrick was good-looking in a dark, almost Italian way. Curly black hair, flashing eyes, big muscles. That was always the kind of guy who caught my attention, except, now, he’d ruined it for me. I know, I know, not all the people who look like him are jerks, but still, it lingered in my mind like a bad cup of coffee, full of spoiled milk and the wrong amount of sugar.

  “I talked to my lawyer friend, and he said,” Derrick droned.

  I actually tuned him out. I no longer cared who got the china or the silverware we’d picked out together. What was I going to do with them, give them to my mother, who’d never accepted my being gay anyhow and hadn’t even come to my wedding? It galled me that she’d said we wouldn’t last five years, and she’d been right. I wondered if I’d have to go back and live at home until I got enough money saved up to make the down payment on another condo or first and last and damage deposit on an apartment. I wondered if she’d let me. I needed a housemate to make ends meet. I loved my job. I’m a family therapist for Children’s Hospital and the juvenile court system, a certified good guy if you will, but my salary was not the best.

  Derrick ended his little lecture with, “And the china closet. Do you have any input or do you disagree with any of this?”

  He already had the dog; what else really mattered? Everything else could be replaced. Then I remembered the one thing I did want.

  “I want the collection of red cut glass my mother gave us. She always liked those herself.” They were worth quite a lot, and maybe I could buy myself back into my old bedroom with them for a bribe.

  “Well, then that cuts down on your half of the cash in the savings, which comes to…”

  “I need a refill. Do what you fucking want; you always do anyhow!” I hadn’t meant to be so loud, but people looked at me as I stood up, looked at Derrick, and quickly looked away, except the new boy, or man, Troy. He kept looking at me, and his eyes were deep, dark pools.

  I turned my back on Derrick, hoping he would take the hint and leave. Tonight, I would pack up the red cut glass vases and cups and put them in the trunk of my car. Tomorrow morning, I’d leave.

  As the line inched forward, Troy called my name, correctly, and I smiled as he handed me my refill.

  “Are you going to be open on the holiday?” I asked, hoping to not sound pathetic. I should probably ask my mother if I could come over, but she always had the whole family there and had never invited me, or us, before, so I didn’t really want to, not even with the cut glass as a gift for her. I hope she still liked them. They meant nothing to me, personally.

  Troy nodded. “I’ll be here,” he said quietly, with what I thought was resignation.

  Well, so would I, I thought, but I did not say it out loud.

  Derrick had left. He’d packed up his stuff and sauntered out with his head in his ass, I mean, held high, I suppose, as I could just see it, see him as he got into his new Mercedes. My Honda was parked right beside it, looking like an orphan. Of course, he’d made sure those appeared equal in the division of property. Our lawyer did a lot of eyebrow raising and fake smiling. I think Derrick was giving it to him on the side, well, not on the side, exactly.

  I had errands to run, so took my coffee, and after his hot red car had zoomed away, got in mine, adjusted my music, shuddered, and found I really wanted to go somewhere and have a good cry. But I could not; maybe later, but for now it was the dry cleaner’s, the drug store, and I had a bag of books and toys I’d bought to take to the Children’s Shelter I dealt with in my job. Derrick sells cars. Now my nose is in the air!

  By the time I got home, I was starving, but I found the refrigerator door standing open, no food it in at all, and water dripping all over the floor. Even worse, I happened to see red glitter on the dining room floor and found the shelf of red cut glass broken, with all of the pieces, bowls, cups, wine glasses, shattered to pieces. There was a note taped to the china cabinet. In Derrick’s writing were the words, “OOPSY! So sor
ry.”

  I sat down at the table, put my head on my arms, and wept. A piece of a vintage, red, hand-cut crystal bowl was on the table, mocking me, and I slammed my hand onto it, which was stupid. I cut my palm and sat there in blood and tears like an idiot, a heart-broken, angry idiot.

  Weeping wasn’t helping. I stopped when I could, cut up a dish towel, tied it around my hand, and set to cleaning up the broken glass, the water in the kitchen, and throwing things out in the trash. Then I checked the rest of the house, but it was all in order. I’d left my sleeping bag on the bed, but I didn’t want to be in our house any longer. I’d rather sleep in my car. I loaded my car with the last of my things and went back to the coffee house for another refill and something else to eat. I could park at the beach with the other homeless people, and tomorrow…well, tomorrow I had to work, so I wouldn’t worry about tomorrow night until much later.

  Troy was still there, and I could see he was getting ready to close up. Nobody else was there, and he locked the door after letting me in. I offered to help and took the broom from him while he made my coffee. He surprised me by getting out all the day’s left-over baked goods and setting them on a table near the back where we couldn’t be seen from the door. Then he brought coffee for both of us and called me over. As we sat down across from each other, I noticed he’d been crying.

  I’m used to dealing with crying children. My parental (not that I am one) instincts rushed over me like whipped cream over a pumpkin pie. Well, that’s how I use it, anyhow.

  “What’s wrong, Troy?” I had to remind myself he was an adult, and I wasn’t much older than he was, still in my twenties also. It didn’t count that I felt older; some of which was experience from work, some was education, and some was from just being dumped. That makes you feel old and worthless in a hurry.

  Coffee goes very good with scones, cookies, and other fattening and sweet leftovers. Especially when there’s a big holiday coming up and you’re not going to be with the ones you love, or, probably, anyone else. So, I decided this would be my celebration. I’d love the one I was with. My dick agreed, but I told it to calm down, it’s just a phrase.

  “You remembered my drink,” I said around a mouthful of blueberry crumble.

  Okay. I can say he blushed; we know that young guys blush a lot, and then they look up at you from under their eyelashes and you melt, and then for fuck’s sake, if they flash a fucking dimple and a smile that goes by so quickly you almost miss it, you fall over on the damn floor with your hand on your chest to keep your heart from leaping out. My brain was mumbling something about he’s just a kid, you don’t even know him, it’s on the rebound, stay in the now, and my heart (and several other parts) were going: dimple, he’s got a fucking dimple, go for it. So, I did the rational thing, I choked on a blueberry and almost spit it out across the table.

  He looked shocked. “Oh, my God, are you okay? Have I killed you, too?” Those eyes started leaking in earnest.

  For crying out loud, (well, okay, he was very quiet). Now what? I gulped, recuperated, tried to swallow like a normal human being, managed it, and then got up, knelt by his side, and put my arms around him. He put his head on my shoulder, shaking, crying, but still not sobbing. Well, I thought, this escalated quickly.

  “I’m okay,” I said quietly, “and you are, too. Things happen. Whatever happened is over. Do you want to talk about it? I’m a very good listener.” As he calmed, I pulled away and went back to my chair. I put my hand out, and he put his hand in mine, wiping his eyes with the other. God, he was beautiful.

  They tell you not to get emotionally involved with clients, but I often find it impossible. I was having a lot of trouble finding the right balance of helping, being there for him, and being a friend. Sometimes a stranger is the best person to confide in, for you can always never see them again, or at least, not be in fear of what they might think of you. Well, sometimes life just throws you together, and I believe you do what is put in front of you to do. That’s what I believe about charity and what we as humans owe each other.

  Okay, I’m human. I was hurting, too, and he was adorable.

  Troy caught his breath and moved his coffee cup around. His hands were smooth. He still looked younger than his age, but right now, he was hurting, and we tend to look vulnerable at those times. “Last weekend,” he began, “And it was in the papers, you might already know about it, there was a big traffic accident on the main road. A drunk driver in a Volvo hit two cars, and one of those cars hit some people on the sidewalk. The Volvo spun out and crossed the street, hitting a power pole and flipping over, hitting another car. The people in that car were killed. The drunk was flung out and, last I heard, was in the hospital and paralyzed from the waist down. The car he hit first, after hitting—my—car, did a 180 and hit the car behind it. That bastard had been tailgating for the last five miles, which is why I had gone into the right lane, but then this other idiot, well, you get the idea. I was in the right lane, was hit, flipped over, and hit the two pedestrians, two high school kids who were skipping school. One of them—died. I killed a kid, Clement! Out of nowhere, driving along, knowing these idiots are passing but unable to get out of the way in time. And now suddenly, I’ve killed someone.

  “My younger sister knew the boys. She tried to tell me they were scum anyhow, but that doesn’t help much, you know?

  “Oh! And the frosting on the cake? My dad said it’s God’s punishment on me for being a homosexual.”

  He drew a deep breath, looked at me searchingly, and then down at his hands, which had been tearing a cookie into miniscule crumbs. “I don’t know what to do.”

  The first thought that crossed my mind was too bad Derrick hadn’t been there on the sidewalk. I had to shake my head to get rid of this unwanted and unpleasant, let alone unworthy, thought.

  “It’s always struck me odd,” I began, “how many things have to come together just right for there to be a tragedy. I don’t think of that when good things happen, but the bad ones…they take so many lines to hit each other at just the right spot, so many things or people to be at the right—or wrong—place, the timing. It’s like it’s never any one person’s fault. You can’t always blame just one person when so many are involved, but you can’t, and I mean, you blame yourself for all of it. Maybe none of it, maybe there is nothing like blame, exactly, just being, just being there, then, with no intentions, no ability to see the future. I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through.”

  I hesitated to say more and had no idea if maybe I’d said too much already. I do have a practical streak, as well, and was already wondering how he’d gotten to work, where he was staying, and even if he was welcome at home. If my father had said that, I’d never forgive him; not for the belief, which was bad enough, but for saying it to me. That was the cruelest cut of all.

  After a minute, Troy sat up straighter, attempted to sip his coffee, choked, and said, “Shit. I was going to say something bright and practical, but I can’t summon the words. I’m lucky to be alive, I guess. I’m lucky the bus runs near here. I’m lucky I didn’t break down while everyone was still here! I’m sorry I dumped all this on you. And I still don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

  “Acknowledge; move on.”

  We ate in silence for a while, both trying not to gulp, choke, or show other emotion, though I knew my eyes were shooting Cupid arrows, which couldn’t be helped.

  “I got my dream job, and it’s a half hour drive from where I’m staying, which is with friends, because I just put everything I own in storage and was going to spend next week finding a new place near where I will be working! This is actually my last day here other than the holiday tomorrow.”

  A flush rose into his face, and he looked ten years older now. “I refuse to spend another night in my father’s house, hah, not so many mansions in that father’s house! Since I’ll be opening here, I might sleep on the floor in the back room! At least I won’t starve.”

  I sat and admired the pride and co
nfidence Troy showed, at least for the moment. It was a success when a child I was working with, or a teenager, was able to reach that point, and I smiled. I didn’t ever want to spend another night in my home either, but I thought if Troy would go with me, he’d be more comfortable, and I wouldn’t be afraid of the ghosts of what used to be us. And who knew what could happen, right? God, I am such a selfish bastard, aren’t I?

  “We can go to my place. It’s pretty empty; it’s on the market tomorrow. But you can at least shower and clean up.” Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. What was I, sixteen years old again? Did we leave any towels? “Well, maybe we shouldn’t. I mean the linens are all packed up and away, and there’s no food or pillows or anything comfortable.” I squirmed.

  “Well, we’d have each other, and that’s comfortable! Let me just get my backpack.”

  “Tell me about your job on the way,” I said, and we gathered up all the snacks.

  He made fresh coffee and washed out the last pot. Then he locked up, and we walked toward my car.

  Outside the door, an old man stumbled up the path and grabbed Troy by the arm. “The manager always lets me have the left-over shit. You rich pansy boys don’t need extra food. Give it to me, or I’ll…”

  I brought my arm up under his and twisted sideways. He went off the curb and almost fell. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, all sweetness and light.

  “You wait ‘til tomorrow, asshole!” the man yelled at Troy, who was visibly shaking.

  “Go get in my car. It’s the white one over there,” I pointed with my chin and turned toward the man in the street.

  He reeked of skunk, the latest type of marijuana to hit the markets here, or maybe it was just his own rank body odor, but I knew Troy had had enough for one day, and I’d dealt with this kind of person all the time. He shuffled off, mouthing obscenities as he left.

  The worst part of my job was meeting some of the young people’s sometimes abusive families, and I’d taken up karate to bolster my own courage. It had definitely worked, and I had made friends to whom I could send my kids for their own self-protection lessons. The confidence those kids came out with was astounding. And right now, adult or not, Troy was one of my kids.