Fear and Courage

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Jim sang along to the record playing John Lennon’s awesome hit “Imagine.” The message of love and peace always made him feel good. He gave a relaxed sigh, killing time by tossing the green salad again, and wiggled his butt and danced. He gave himself a boner thinking of Brian. Sweet, kind Brian, who was on the short and slender side with a sexy ass and awesome smile. His long, upper canine teeth protruded, so when he smiled deep, it made for a bodacious appeal. His light chocolate skin was luscious. Everything about him was.

Seasoned hamburger patties rested on the broil pan, ready for the oven. As soon as his mom and the jerk she’d married two years ago drove into the driveway, he’d pop the pan under the gas broiler.

Minutes later, tires crunched gravel in the driveway, then Mom and George came through the side door, arguing and carrying bags from the mall. Jim groaned and knew it would be another turbulent night.

Turning on the charm, he asked, “Hi, Mom, George. Can I help with any bags?” Her new beehive hairstyle made her look younger than her fifty-five years.

Mom shot him a polite smile as George ragged on her about how much she’d spent and how long she’d taken.

“I spent my money that I earned in my job, and you insisted on going with me.”

George, mom’s junior by ten years, barked back, “You didn’t want me to go so you could check out the other men. That’s all you think about, Donna.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

George’s eyes flared and he raised a hand, but then moved it toward the oven and snarled at Jim. “You’re using the oven in this heat?”

Jim tensed. “I’m broiling hamburgers. They’re premium ground beef that was on sale, and Brian gave me the recipe. You’ll like them, I promise, and it’ll be on only ten minutes. I remember you said you hate fried burgers. They’ll be really good. Just ten minutes, okay.” Mahatma Gandhi couldn’t have said it better.

George closed the distance between them and jabbed a finger at Jim’s face. Jim retreated until his back hit the wall. “Don’t f*****g sass me, boy. I’ll kick your ass to hell and back. You’re eighteen and fair game for eviction, and until I do, get a haircut. No f*****g Beatles are living in my house. And turn off that Commie music.” George roughly tussled Jim’s hair.

Jim slid along the wall to put distance between them. “I made a cool, green salad, too. It’s in the refrigerator.” He hated being afraid. His stomach gurgled and his heart raced. He clenched his jaw to keep it from shaking and trembling.

“Turn the broiler off. It’s heating the whole house.”

“When the burgers are cooked. It’s our dinner and I’m not wasting the meat.”

Mom stood silently and caught her lower lip in her teeth, looking anywhere but at Jim. Once, just once, couldn’t she defend him?

George, in his spiffy military crew cut though never having served, wagged the finger closer to Jim’s nose. “Look, you little f**k—”

Jim tensed his abdominal muscles, and the next moment, George landed a fist into his gut, followed by a punch to the face that Jim sort of blocked. Jim was used to the abuse, but he bent over moaning.

“The next time I tell you something, you’d better do it.” George shook his hand in obvious pain from punching Jim’s cheekbone, and that made Jim happy. But of course, he kept his face stoic.

George had several inches and sixty pounds on him, but that didn’t matter. Jim was a pacifist and stayed cool. He wouldn’t rub his face, despite the pain. He refused to give the jerk that much satisfaction, but he stared at him again. The puffy mutton chop sideburns looked stupid with a military haircut.

Mom stepped between them. “Jim, stop it.”

“Me stop? He hit me! It was a coward’s punch since he had his finger in my face.”

George pushed her aside and raised his fists. “Come on, you little pussy.”

Jim wrinkled his nose at the bitter scent of booze.

Saved by the timer, he slipped outside of George’s reach, grabbed potholders, turned off the broiler, and yanked out the hamburgers. He shoved one in a bun and stomped to his room with visions of justifiable homicide racing around his head. But no, he shouldn’t think like that and stoop to the asshole’s level. Holding the hamburger in his teeth, he stripped to his briefs. Briefs were sexy. Boxers were boring.

He hated the yelling that erupted between his mom and George. This time it was about money, jealousy, and why George couldn’t keep a job, but nothing about Jim getting hit. Jim was his mom’s “accident.”

He tried to distract himself by working on a drawing of a bright yellow sun sinking into the ocean with an old-time, wood-masted sailing ship to the side. When the arguing got too much and his mom yelled louder and threw things, he dressed, escaped next door, and knocked at the Truttle’s open door. Through the screen, he saw Mr. Truttle reading the paper. Some kids at school gave Jim grief for being friends with a black family, but Jim believed people were people and everyone should get along.

Mr. Truttle, huge, gentle, and always kind to Jim, opened the screen door and motioned him in. He spoke in a deep calming voice. “I’ve told you there’s no need to knock.” He shook his head, but smiled. “Wondered how long it might take you to get here. I heard the yelling. Say the word and I’ll shove my .38 up George’s ass and pull the trigger.” Mr. Truttle winked.

It made Jim smile. “You know I abhor violence.”

In a wise manner, Mr. Truttle said, “Sometimes a man has to fight. I joked about the gun. So you know.”

“I know ‘pray for peace but prepare for war’. Yes, sir.”

Mr. Truttle pointed to the kitchen. “Grab a couple sodas from the fridge. Brian’s in the basement.” He brushed a hand over Jim’s sore face. “You can only turn the other cheek so many times. Looks like we need to get back to the Jujitsu lessons, huh? Put some ice on that.”

“Yes, sir, thanks.”

Mr. Truttle went to his recliner to read some thick, boring-looking book. Jim opened a root beer and held the cold bottle against his cheek as he slipped down the thick, wooden stairs to the basement. “Hey, dude, you awake or jacking off again?”

Brian watched the evening news with footage of the war in Vietnam on a twelve-inch black and white TV with a fuzzy picture. Soldiers ran, sometimes shooting, with the chop-chop-chop of helicopters beating the air as an unseen newscaster spoke. It made Jim’s blood run cold, and despite the heat, a chill ran through him.

The unfinished concrete basement with exposed beams was almost claustrophobic, maybe twenty by twenty with a six-foot ceiling, but Brian liked it, saying it made him feel safe. Jim’s gaze fell on sexy Brian, more than a friend, a true buddy, like a brother.

“More people got killed today.” Wearing only powder blue briefs, Brian sat on the edge of a chair. It was easily twenty degrees cooler down there. Jim took off his T-shirt and jeans, leaving him in his white briefs. He sipped his soda before setting the bottle against his cheek.

Brian’s face went flat. “Again?”

“I’d have slapped him back, but s**t splatters.”

“Why don’t you let my dad talk to him?”

“I’m afraid he’ll fuckin’ get carried away and end up in jail.” He sipped more root beer. “Are we addicted to this?”

Brian stared at the second bottle. “That for me?”

Jim looked around. “Naw, I’m a f*****g two-fisted drinker these days, like George.” Jim handed it over and Brian grabbed a bottle opener. Eventually they clinked and drank. “What you watching?”

“What’s it look like, Einstein?”

Jim play-slapped him. “You could be nice to me since I’m injured.” He screwed his face tight into his best ten-year-old pout and stole a look at Brian’s package.

Brian jumped to his feet and pulled Jim close. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He kissed Jim’s cheek and added a quick hug. “All better now?” He laughed and drank more soda.

Jim tried to ignore the lust shooting through him from the contact with Brian’s almost-fem body. He had gentle and loving sparkling brown eyes, thin fingers, and a perfectly proportioned oval face that could have belonged to a magazine model. Jim wished it had been more than a playful hug and kiss.

“s**t, I’d f*****g go crazy if I didn’t have your house to come to. You and your dad are awesome.”

“Anytime, day or night. I hate to see you getting hurt. Maybe I’ll go over and do something to George myself.”

“s**t, you’re a f*****g pacifist, too, remember?” This time, he play-slapped Brian’s head. “We’re going to end all the f*****g wars, and all disputes will be settled by Scrabble or Monopoly competitions.”

“But you sure swear a lot for a pacifist.”

Jim flipped him off, knowing Brian was right. He sat in the other aged wooden chair that needed varnish and stared at his bottle, then rolled his eyes to steal another look at Brian. Jim had filled out with decent muscle growth, adding a few inches in height, making him average for his age. Brian, however, had stayed thinner and stood inches shorter than the average guy.

They chatted, drank root beer, and watched more war news. Jim snuck glances at Brian’s butt, tightly outlined in his briefs, the powder blue contrasting nicely with his chocolate skin. Jim’s own briefs grew tighter. “Um…I think I’m gonna pump some iron.”

Jim stood and shuffled to the far side of the room, keeping his back turned to hide his erection. If Brian saw…

Facing the wall, he lifted dumbbells, chanting a mental “Go down, go down, go down” to his erection.

“Hey, man. You’re staying the night, right?”

Those few simple words undid Jim’s effort.