These Men

Chapter 1: The Pony Boy

Chapter 1: The Pony BoyThe pony boy. Mason Abraham. The kid looked like a model but acted like a total spitfire. Not very quiet. Polite most of the time. He decided to stay the full three months at Chester House. Still fresh to the house compared to Andy and Sebold, my other two tenants. Truth told, the poor thing would have frozen or starved to death had I not picked him up in downtown Templeton back in December; a blessed Christmas miracle.

Before I allowed him to permanently stay at my five-bedroom Colonial, I asked him a string of significant questions. We sat across from each other in my gloomy and dusty library on the first floor, sheltered by hardbacks written by Clive Cussler, Ernest Hemingway, Agatha Christie, John Grisham, John Steinbeck, Nora Roberts, Mark Twain, Ray Bradbury, and other novels written by so many other writers.

My grandfather left me the three-floor house. Its pine library had turned out to be my favorite room. Most of his fiction (I added a few of my own throughout the years) covered the walls from floor-to-ceiling. Every time I sat in there and looked around the room, I thought of him. Peter Chester Bass died thirteen years before from leukemia; a very ugly death that I promised myself to never write about, and haven’t. Being his only grandchild, and someone he happened to love, he willed me his two acres, the apple orchard next to the woods, the gazebo, and wishing well. Plus the massive Colonial and everything inside the house by Lake Erie. Bless his soul that all I had to do with it was pay the taxes when he passed, and begin to enjoy the hell out of it, which is exactly what I did. I’ve lived in the house since his passing. Took over his space right where he had left off. I think that’s exactly what he wanted to me to do. Carrying out the Bass name and blood. Amen.

The questions for Mason were typical of all the young men who lived with me at Chester House after three months. They had options to choose from. They could stay at the house and earn their keep for as long as they needed. No more free room and board. No more full-time rest and relaxation from their personal situations. Or, if they wanted to, they could return to where they had come from, if Chester House wasn’t helping them. I never forced them either way. The visitors could do whatever they desired. There was no arm-pulling or pressure.

Before my questioning started, I did some fact-finding on the internet about Mason Abraham and learned more of his story than what he told. His father, Edward James Abraham, had been an Elder in his Latter Day Saints community for the last two dozen years. Edward had three wives and fifteen children. Mason had six older brothers and eight younger sisters. The little town he lived in was called Shelter. His father was a carpenter like Jesus, and was forced to excommunicate his son from their community because of their Laws, or be excommunicated himself.

I knew more about Mason than maybe he wanted me to know. He needed a father figure in his life. Someone queer like me. Some normalcy in an abnormal world. Someone to respect him, love, and care for, listen to, and guide him in life. Maybe I didn’t realize that at the time of his questioning, but eventually I would. And maybe his life falling into mine was what he needed. But life was made up of a bunch of maybes, wasn’t it?

I began my process and asked Mason, “Do you want to go back to Salt Lake City and be with your family?”

His six-two, farming-muscular frame sat motionless in the high-back chair across from me. Confident, he tilted his cute, blond head to the right and asked, “Why would I want to go back to my family? They hate me. They’ve kicked me out of their community.”

“Fair enough.” I made a mental note. “Has Chester House helped you in the three months of your stay?”

He batted his handsome blue eyes. “I probably would have died without this place. I’ve had a bed to sleep in, and food to eat. Chester House saved me.”

I paused and looked at a window above Mason’s right shoulder: it was small, an awkward-shaped trapezoid, tinted a light blue. My grandfather’s set of old, but not first edition, Hemingways sat on its windowsill. Outside the wind blew snow in figure eights, dancing. The March day looked frosty beyond the window, but James Daley of WTMP, Channel 7 had forecasted the day’s temperature to reach forty-two degrees, which was warm compared to January’s bitterness. It was supposed to snow later that evening, about an inch. So there was no reason to get excited about spring yet. I made another mental note regarding Mason’s last answer. “How do you feel you’ve helped Chester House during your stay here?”

He raised his eyebrows, showing off his spunk and bravery to be grilled. “Listen, Joel…I can call you Joel, right?”

He couldn’t and he knew it. Only close friends and family called me Joel. “You can grow into Joel, as I’ve already told you the last dozen times in the past ninety days you’ve been here. Call me Mr. Bass for now.”

Did he roll his eyes? Maybe. Maybe not. I shouldn’t have blinked.

He sat up straight, glared at me, and spouted off, “Listen, Bass. I don’t do drugs. I’ve never robbed a bank. I’ve never owned a gun. I don’t steal. And I didn’t even lie to my parents when I was forced to leave my home because they found out I like guys instead of girls. I f****d a guy with my mouth and there was a price to pay for that. A big price. I get that. Frankly, I’m an honest guy with no secrets who doesn’t ask much of anyone. Everything I’ve done, and do, I pretty much wear on my sleeve. You’ve told me yourself that you open up your house to strangers like me. Well, I’m a stranger and I need a place to stay and possibly live for three more months, three years, or even three decades. Will you help me?”

I knew the kid had had it rough in his past. Queer Mormons usually did. I had had several like him pass through Chester House during the last few years. Some stayed for six months, and some stayed for a year. Others were swept away like rag dolls by their Mormon relatives. Those young men basically had to hide from their communities sometimes, even when they were excommunicated. You didn’t put it past an elder to drive from Utah to Pennsylvania for one of his members, kidnap/abduct a young man, and take that member back to Utah. I’d seen it happen numerous times. And God only knew what that community did to that young queer when he returned to their obscene cult? Mental and physical abuse? Murder? I didn’t know for sure. I had guessed it wasn’t at all pleasant. Not by a long shot.

I told Mason, “Fair enough. I get that. Every guy here has a story like yours. But, I still have a few more questions for you.” I referred to a palm-sized, spiral notepad. Then I asked my next question, “From this point on you have to pay rent. How do you plan on doing that?”

Straight-faced as the Pope, he told me, “I’m here to meet, visit, and make the famous screenwriter/director/producer on Elk Island fall in love with me. That’s my goal. I’ll be living on Elk Island before I realize it.”

“David Walker, the scriptwriter? Is that who you’re talking about?”

He nodded innocently, tried to smile, but didn’t pull it off. A shine of some sort lifted and flashed in his eyes. “He’s the one.”

I didn’t want to tell him that Walker probably wasn’t into fresh-out-of-high-school boys with blond hair and blue eyes. Whatever. I ignored him and moved the questioning along. “Where do you see yourself in a year?”

“Underneath David Walker…as his lover.”

“The David Walker?”

He nodded.

David Walker. Born and raised in Templeton. Attended Bender High School, a private school near the public high school, THS, where I went. At nineteen, he moved to West Hollywood and wrote a movie called Choices. The flick won some kind of big award that put his name on the Hollywood map. Then he traveled the world with famous movie producers and made lots of money writing/producing flicks. Big movies like Underwater, Osborne Rules, and Fiasco. Huge, summertime blockbuster movies. David did that for twenty years and made millions. Must have loved it. He had done well for himself. Recently he’d retired and moved back to Pennsylvania, specifically Elk Island. I expected that. Young people who had family in the area, and experienced the lake—its fascinating swirls and evil undertow, its unpredictable beauty and profane evil—always ended up returning to Templeton’s powers, under its spell. David and I were the same age, forty-one, and the lake still housed our souls. It had kept us as children, middle-aged adults, and it would probably keep us until we were old. No doubt. That was normal along the lake and throughout Templeton. Real life.

I asked the kid across from me, “And if that doesn’t work out, what do you intend to do with your life?”

He shrugged. So young. So cute. Typical. A mirror image of me when I was eighteen. Innocent to his Mormon core. “I’ll get underneath someone else and make cash.”

“Dear Christ, Mason,” I whispered, shook my head. “Don’t be so easy. Hold close to you whatever you feel is important. Your bottom should be in that category. Don’t put yourself out there so much. Show some pride, young man.”

“I’m eighteen and have needs. You’re what…seventy, right?”

I rolled my eyes and scolded him. “Don’t go there. I’m forty-one.”

“Forty-one. Seventy. Whatever. I’m sure you know about needs. I’m sure you’re sleeping with a slew of men, getting your rocks off. Men, both young and old, are like that. They want s*x. They need s*x. I bet you’re under a dozen of guys your age, or older.”

I shook my head and sighed, getting nowhere with him. “Think about finding a job, Mason. And that doesn’t mean ending up underneath a famous Hollywood writer. You have to earn your keep from here out.”

“So, can I still stay here until I want to leave?”

“Yes,” I told him. “But you have to work for it. Your three months’ of free-stay is over. This is the process. You’ve adjusted to Chester House, and it has accomplished for you exactly what was intended. Now, you have to start giving something back to the house and the people that live here. Nothing is free from here out.”

“Which means I’ll be under you, right?” he joked. Or, at least I had hoped he was joking.

I laughed. “Absolutely not. We’re not having s*x. No more free ride.”

“Sounds fair.”

“This will help you get back on your feet, Mason. That’s what Chester House is all about. A place for guys like you to have a second chance at life.”

He nodded and slightly grinned.

“We’ll see how it works out for both of us.” I stared hard at him, steady, and cut to the chase, “Just stay away from the s*x here. Take a break for a while from the dicks.”

“But what if I need some cash?”

“We’ll find you a job. Something reliable and worth your time. You don’t have to climb under guys to make cash. You’re better than that. Remember that fact.”

“I’ll give it a try,” he said.

“Good. That’s all I expect out of you.”

We shook hands. Our meeting ended.

He went back to his room on the second floor; now a tenant at Chester House providing for himself.