Chapter 2-2
570 Words
Christ on a pogo stick, his mouth felt like the inside of a wrestler’s jock strap. And Brock had had some experience with the insides of wrestler’s jock straps. In high school he used to mess around with a couple of guys on the varsity wrestling team, but it was totally understood it was just guys getting off when their girls weren’t putting out.
“Oh, God.” Where was he? The room didn’t look familiar.
“You’ll probably need the help of the almighty with the hangover I bet you’re sporting.”
“Huh?” Brock looked up to see, uh, “Calvin?”
“You remembered. Doesn’t always happen with the guys who share my bed.”
Brock didn’t want to think about that. “What time is it?”
“A quarter till ten.”
“What?” Brock shot up. The room swayed. He lay back down again, holding his head.
“I figured you needed your beauty rest, so I let you sleep. And has anyone ever told you that you hog the blankets?”
“My ex-wife.”
That at least earned him a raised eyebrow. “Is that why you’re her ex? She got fed up with being cold at night?”
“No, I divorced her if you want to know.”
This got another raised eyebrow, but Brock wasn’t going to say any more. Mary Ann and he got married only because a condom had split one time, and when she’d become pregnant, their two daddies had made them both do the right thing.
“How’s the head?”
Brock rubbed the top of his head. “Like a fuckin’ army of jackhammers are at work demolishing the town.”
“Hmm, if only. Say, is Miguel’s on 4th and Patterson still in business?”
“Huh?” Brock didn’t understand.
“Miguel’s,” Calvin repeated slowly, like as though Brock were a third grader. “Used to have the best Mexican food this side of the border.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I think they’re still there. Why?”
Calvin gave him an exasperated look. “Because I was going to buy a truck load of drywall from them.”
“What?” Had Hal slipped something into his JD last night?
“Okay, I’ll make it simple. Miguel’s menudo is the best hangover cure I know of. I’m assuming he still sells it?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so.” In truth Brock hadn’t eaten there in years, he couldn’t afford to. He silenced the little voice inside him that told him he could eat there if he didn’t spend what little money he had on liquor.
“Good, so once you’ve gotten dressed, that’s where we’re headed.
Brock reached for his pants. He doubted he had enough money to…
“My treat. Miguel’s is about the only decent thing in this Podunk town. Your jackhammers are welcome to the rest of it. Oh, I managed to get the puke out of your shirt, but it’s not dry yet. See if you can find something to wear in my suitcase over there.”
Brock rolled off the air mattress, conscious he was only wearing boxers. Crawling over to an expensive tan leather suitcase, he studied the closed top. “I ain’t gonna find no gay s*x toys or s**t like that in here, am I?”
“Do you want to?”
Fuck! He really shouldn’t tease Calvin like this; he always ended up the worst for it.
Calvin huffed, got on his knees and unzipped the suitcase. Searching through the clothes, he said, “Not much of my stuff will fit you.” He looked up and gave Brock a close examination, making Brock flush. “Maybe this sweatshirt might be baggy enough. Though in this heat—”
“Thanks, it’ll be fine.” Brock stood up, snatched the offered clothing from Calvin and headed for the door.
“And just so you won’t be embarrassed in being seen out in public wearing a fag’s clothes, we can swing by your house before Miguel’s so you can change.”
Brock remembered the mess his place was in. “No, its okay, I’ll manage with these.”
Calvin shrugged. “Do you remember where the bathroom is?”
Brock closed the bedroom door without replying.
- Writer
