Travelin' Man (3 page)

And, finally.

Acts 3:19.

He rips the paper into pieces that he flushes down the toilet. He's got more than four hundred dollars between the per diems and the cash from the sanctimonious reformed drunk. The money isn't enough to salvage his car. It won't pay for new tires, let alone replace the head- and taillights and remove the paint from the windshield. But he's got almost a thousand in his checking account. Fourteen hundred bucks should cover the repairs if he settles for retreads. He grabs his wallet, locks the door to his room, and goes in search of an ATM. The desk clerk says there's a machine at the convenience store across the street that charges a fee and a Wells Fargo branch two blocks away. He receives the same ominous message at both of them, TRANSACTION UNAUTHORIZED. It's only eight o'clock. Not too late to reach Frank Stapleton, his financial advisor, on his cell. And it's an emergency. He desperately needs his wheels back.

“KC, it's eleven o'clock at night,” Mr. Stapleton's sleepy voice reminds him when he answers the phone. KC'd forgotten about the three-hour time difference between Spokane and Tampa.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stapleton. But I need to talk to you.”

“I've been expecting your call, KC. John said I would hear from you.”

Mr. Stapleton and John Freeman have known each other since they came up together in the Pirates farm system. Their bond runs deep, strengthened by worshipping together at the New Covenant Christian Fellowship Church during the years Mr. Freeman coached junior college baseball in Tampa.

“The ATM won't take my card.”

“I know KC. John told me to deactivate it.”

“Mr. Stapleton, please. I really need money.”

“Are you in trouble KC?”

Mr. Stapleton's voice is sonorous, like God speaking to

Moses on the mountaintop. It invites a confession and a plea for mercy.

“No. I just need money.”

Mr. Stapleton reminds him his money's in a trust, with Coach Freeman as the trustee. He gets a small allowance to supplement his paycheck and, even then, he has to give a strict accounting of how he spends it. KC had agreed to the arrangement, even thought it was a good idea at the time, to ensure his future against his own bad, impulsive decisions and to put his assets beyond the grasp of his mother back in Albany.

“You know I can't send you money without John's permission. You call him, KC. Call him now. He wants to hear from you.”

“I will,” KC promises, a blatant lie.

“Will you pray with me now, KC?”

“No,” he answers decisively as he ends the call.

Ten minutes later Coach Freeman is calling his cell. KC assumes the Coach has just heard from his friend in Tampa. He doesn't answer, letting the call roll into voice mail.

Coach Freeman will know by KC's skittish response, his shaky voice, that he's lying when he denies the story the Chiefs are telling to justify their decision. The Coach will never believe KC's tall tale that he was jumped by two black guys coming out of the laundromat, that the cops got it all messed up, thinking he'd gotten into a fight with a drunk coming out of the queer bar next door. His story sounds preposterous, even to KC. So he chooses the safer course of responding by text.

 

 

Sacramento's out of the question, at least until he can come up with a more believable explanation for being cuffed and hauled off to the police station. He needs to get the fuck out of Spokane, but can't even think about where to go until he has his car back. He knows a gypsy repair shop run by some scary Mexicans who will give him a good deal on a set of retreads. They'll sell him used parts they've scavenged from the salvage yard and might throw in scraping the paint off the windshield for free. He's gonna need to pay for gas and oil and eventually he's going to have to eat.

There's one man in Spokane who'll be willing to help. Mr. McGwire has always been kind and generous to KC. He's always telling KC that they're friends, good friends, despite the forty years' difference in their ages. Mr. McGwire says it doesn't matter how they met—KC responding to a post on craigslist by
a GEN dad seeking younger, fit son for good times.

Call me Red
, he'd insisted, a nickname he'd been given many years ago before his still thick hair turned silver. Mr. McGwire's a rich dude, with a big house outside the city. Every few weeks, KC gets a text or a call inviting him for steaks on the grill and carrot cake. Red's made him promise more than once to never be too shy to ask if he ever needs anything.

“Hi Red. It's Kevin,” he says when Mr. McGwire answers his phone. He's a little anxious since the unbroken protocol has been that the older man contacts the younger to suggest they get together. Mr. McGwire seems angry, or at least irritated, to be receiving a call from his young friend.

“I'm really, really sorry to call you,” KC apologizes, regretting his impulsive decision. “But I wanted to let you know I'm leaving Spokane.”

Red's attitude changes and he even sounds concerned, asking if everything is okay. No problems or emergencies he hopes.

“No, no,” KC lies. “I got promoted. I'm gonna manage a Radio Shack in Tacoma.”

Mr. McGwire may be his friend, but he can't be trusted with KC's true identity. The guy Red knows is named Kevin Conroy, a shift supervisor at the electronics franchise in a mall on the other side of town.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I didn't know when you'd call and I wanted to say goodbye.”

“We need to celebrate, Kevin! Why don't you come over around eleven? I'm at a banquet right now. I've got to give a testimonial after dinner. One of my best salesmen is retiring.”

Mr. McGwire's dealership moves more Hyundais than any lot in the entire Pacific Northwest. He's got more money than he needs, but he's lonely. He's a widower and his daughter lives in California. Pictures of his grandkids are in every room of the house. They visit often, but Red is always down when they leave. His young friends are a distraction and he's willing to compensate them for their trouble and time. KC's his current favorite and always leaves with a hundred fifty bucks in spending money for doing nothing but letting Red watch him jack off.

“Remember not to leave your car out front. Park behind the garage out back.”

The cab ride is twenty-five bucks, but you got to spend money to make money. Not that KC's looking for a handout or even a loan. He's gonna shoot for the moon and ask Mr. McGwire to lease him a car, maybe even an SUV, without a down payment. Red knows he's a stand-up guy, responsible, with a good job, and won't miss any payments. Maybe they can even drive to the dealership and sign the papers tonight. It's Mr. McGwire's business. He can do whatever he wants.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” Mr. McGwire asks when he greets KC at the back door. He seems wary, debating whether to let him in. KC knows it must look bad. He understands why Red is cautious when a kid he barely knows, someone with whom he's spent less than six hours total, turns up at his door with a freshly broken nose and an ugly bite on his cheek.

“I fell on my face on the basketball court. They have to wait for the swelling to go down before they can set it.”

It sounds reasonable to Mr. McGwire, who, thank God, doesn't ask him to explain the mysterious bite mark. He lets KC into the kitchen where his stupid little Shih Tzu is making a racket.

“Misty, you behave! You remember our friend Kevin. Now be nice!”

KC's given up trying to befriend the dog. She snaps at him if he tries to pet her and growls if he so much as says her name.

“Where's your car Kevin?” Mr. McGwire asks, looking out the window to make sure the Civic is parked behind the garage. “You didn't leave it out front, did you? I told you to never leave it in the driveway.”

“No sir. It got stolen. Three days ago.”

“How did you get out here?”

“In a cab.”

“I hope you have insurance.”

“I think so. I'm pretty sure. My mom takes care of all that stuff,” he says, regretting a stupid lie that makes him sound too irresponsible to trust leasing a car.

Mr. McGwire changes the subject, asking KC if he wants to fire up the grill even though it's late. KC understands the subject of the stolen car is closed, for now at least. Red must have some kind of sixth sense and already suspects the true reason for his young friend's unexpected call.

“No. No thank you, Mr. McGwire.”

“Red.”

“Red.”

“How about a beer then? Or a Coke?”

“Do you have any Dew?”

“Of course I
do
,” Red teases and KC forces himself to laugh at the stupid joke.

Red says they should sit out by the pool and enjoy the cool breezes. It's a quiet, peaceful night. The water filter is humming and angry sounding crickets are chirping in the grass.

“In the mood for a swim?”

“I don't think so. Not with this,” KC says, pointing at his damaged nose.

“Right. Probably not a good idea to get that wet.”

Mr. McGwire puffs on his cigar and sips from his tumbler of scotch on the rocks. KC can see he's growing impatient; he's checking his watch every few minutes.

“Bugs are terrible out here tonight, Kevin. Let's go inside.”

KC follows him into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. Everything's set up as usual. There's a sheet draped over the upholstered easy chair beside the bed and a bottle of lubricant on the end table.

“Do you want me to take off all my clothes or just pull down my pants?” KC asks.

“I don't know when I'll see you again so let's make tonight special,” the older man says as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Mr. McGwire is definitely a weirdo, but he's a polite one. He never touches KC, never takes off his own clothes, doesn't even pull his cock out of his fly. All he wants to do is watch KC jack off, then slips him the money and sends him on his way. KC feels a little uneasy about their arrangement. But Mr. McGwire's harmless, nothing like Darrell Torok, and KC is a grown man now, twenty years old, capable of making his own decisions. He's not the scared fifteen-year-old boy masturbating on camera because he was afraid Darrell would be angry if he refused. And the extra buck and a half is appreciated since he's expected to live on the lousy money the Chiefs pay and the meager allowance Mr. Stapleton deposits in his checking account.

KC sits on the chair and starts pulling on his pole. He used to feel self-conscious doing this. The first time he couldn't even get hard, but now he just closes his eyes and thinks about boys he's had sex with until he shoots his load on the sheet.

“So, are we going do something special tonight, Kevin?” his host asks, unbuttoning his shirt to bare his chest.

“Sure,” KC reluctantly agrees. He ought to at least let Mr. McGwire jack him off, maybe even blow him, if he's gonna ask to lease a car without a down payment and no responsible adult to cosign. But he can't see beyond the older man's loose, flabby flesh and his chubby little man boobs and gently, but firmly, pushes aside Red's roaming hands.

“I got to go, Mr. McGwire,” he says as he grabs his clothes and shoes, fleeing down the stairs and out the door. The taxi dispatcher says it will be forty-five minutes before she can send a driver and he hangs up, a seven-mile walk back to the motel ahead of him.

 

Darrell Torok, three thousand miles across the country, sounds high or drunk. He's not so out of it he isn't making sense, but he's definitely mellow, even sympathetic to KC's plight.

“I'll pay you back Darrell. Every penny. I promise,” KC pleads.

Darrell says it feels like old times again, when KC depended on him for handouts and gifts. Every pair of spikes, every batting helmet, every gallon of gasoline to drive KC to travel ball games, every airfare between Albany and Tampa/St. Pete, all of it funded by the generosity of Darrell Torok.

“Money's a little tight these days KC. I don't know if I can help you.”

KC resists mentioning that Darrell was just boasting about his new home entertainment system and the fully loaded Silverado parked in front of the barn. He needs to be careful not to piss off him off as he doesn't have anything Darrell wants any more, no currency to bargain with. Others have replaced KC in Darrell's affections. Darrell's been blackballed from coaching in the American Legion league after one of his players told his parents he'd been partying in Darrell's hot tub. The outraged father wanted to press charges even though his son insisted nothing had happened. The new friends Darrell talks about aren't ball players; he meets these young men online, responding to ads with code words—
boi seeking older, looking to PNP, have parTy favors.

“You know I lost the election for president of the Local. Because of the shit that kid's parents made over nothing. I have to be careful with my money now.”