Marble, Michigan, 1960

The temperature had dropped to freezing during the night, and light sleet and crisp snow had been falling all day. But Gun had cabin fever and decided that if he didn't go somewhere fast, namely the bar, he would wind up shooting himself. Even he saw the humor in the pun. Besides, he was horny, so horny, in fact, he was turned on by just about anything he touched, his feet against the soles of his hiking boots, his palms against the supple leather of the chair arms. Even the seat cushion felt like the spread crotch of a man.

The roads were icy, and since the bar was less than a mile away, he thought he'd walk instead of drive and hoisted himself from the chair. He slipped into a canvas field coat, wrapped a gray scarf around his neck, and, pushing back a big handful of hair, slipped a gray knit cap over his head. He stuck a stud through the hole in his left earlobe and fastened it in back. Then he picked up his gloves and gave himself one last dubious look in the mirror.

The name of the bar — The Hot Spot — was spelled in pink neon lights, except that a couple of letters were broken so that the name actually read The Ho pot. The Ho pot, however, was the closest thing to social activity in a hundred miles, Stone Age as it was. The wind was up, and the letters glowed in a nimbus of mist, staining the snowflakes flying by the color of cherry petals. Beneath the lights, the silvery icicles hanging from the gutter looked like so many jagged, bloodstained teeth. Two ice-glazed pickup trucks — one black, one brown — huddled against the cold in the gravel lot.

The Hot Spot wasn't so hot for another reason, too. It was almost as chilly inside as out. Gun could even smell the chill.

"Jesus, Jacque," he groused, pulling off the cap. He shook the snowflakes off it, then stuffed it into a coat pocket. He pulled off the gloves, stuffing them into another. "You do have the heat on?"

The bartender drew a draft, staring at Gun deadpan, then escorted the mug down the counter. Just sitting on the barstool, though, struck a sensual match in Gun's groin. He felt as if a pair of big, insistent hands had clutched his buttocks.

"Where's Sylvia?" Gun asked, meaning the waitress.

"Car wouldn't start."

"Better off at home with this storm coming."

Gun loosened the scarf, then swigged beer. The jukebox had been playing Elvis Presley's "It's Now or Never," but when it switched to Paul Anka's "Put Your Head on My Shoulder," he noticed the group in the booth, two rough-looking men and, unfortunately, three equally rough-looking women. The dimly lit bar was basically a big rectangle with ragged maroon booths along the frosted windows in front, ragged maroon stools at the bar, a coat rack by the door, and a colorful jukebox at the end of the room. The blank space in the middle was the dance floor, and the bearish group densely wedged in the booth somehow seemed to counterbalance all the hefty emptiness.

"Hi, honey," one called. "Come on over."

The women's hair was a contrast in colors: fire red, oily black, and bleached blonde a la Marilyn Monroe.

"Have a seat," the redhead said, Siren-like. "I'm Miriam." When he sat, she began the introductions. "This is Tie, short for Ty-rone."

When he reached across Miriam to shake Tie's hand, it was big, strong, and calloused. Tie's round, blowzy face tended toward a sour expression.

"The one who did not read the warning label on her pills," Miriam explained, "is Ruth."

Ruth was slumped, head back, mouth open, against the booth's padding. As far as Gun could tell, she was dead. She certainly wasn't breathing. Her hair, all awry, looked like a nest of sleeping snakes.

"Stew's the other fella," Miriam added.

Stew flicked the tip of his nose a couple of times with his index finger as if sending Gun a secret message.

"And I'm Trudy," the blonde announced. "His date."

Trudy had a wad of green gum stuck to both a lower and an upper tooth so that as she chewed, it would stretch, but wouldn't break. And her coif was so sprayed in place that chewing jiggled it, like a chandelier in an earthquake, no single hair or pendant, the whole thing.

"But I ain't got a date," Miriam said, pinching the back of Gun's hand.

"Ow!" he blurted, yanking it away.

She whispered into his ear: "I kin take the chill outa the air fer ya."

When she bit him, he slid away, feeling his earlobe.

"If that's your idea of flirting," he informed her, "I'm not into S and M, especially the M." He showed everyone the red smear on his fingertip. "Imagine that."

He rose, clutched his beer, and strolled back to the bar. But before he even settled on the stool, Tie appeared at his side, startling him.

"Why didn't ya order the little lady a drink?" he asked. "You kin tell she wants ta wring your rag."

"Wring my rag?" Gun chuckled. "I'd rather fuck you." All he meant was that he was not interested, but it was, of course, a Freudian slip, though Gun didn't desire him. When Tie shot him a sharp look, Gun said, straight-faced, "Uh. Not that the little lady doesn't have her charms. It's just that —"

"Just what?"

"Well," Gun hesitated, trying to think of something. Finally, he confided, "Please don't tell 'er, but I'm suppose' ta wait ten days before havin' sex with anyone. You know, till I finish the medication." When Tie's eyes narrowed to a squint, Gun added, "Clap's a bitch." At that point, Paul Anka was finished, and a glacial hush fell on the room. "If you'll excuse me," Gun said, stepping off the stool, "I have ta pee." When he touched the restroom door, he turned and said, "Not lookin' forward to it."

In the restroom, he stood in front of the basin, looking at the small purple aneurysm where Miriam had nipped him. He tried to rub it out, then squirted a drop of liquid soap onto his fingertips and massaged his earlobe. After that, he stared at himself in the smudged mirror: pale skin, gray eyes, brown hair.

When he returned to the bar, the tension in the air was as palpable as the chill, colder. Tie and Stew were gone, but Miriam and Trudy were watching him as if waiting for the spell to take effect. When he dropped the dollar on the counter, he was not entirely surprised at Jacque's hostility, either.

"Why you so fuckin' rude to my customers?"

Jacque was leaning on the counter, hand on hip.

Gun thought he would try crossing the room without offending anyone, but as he did, Miriam and Trudy lunged across Ruth, whispering behind their wrists at such a furious pace they sounded like a crowd.

When he opened the door, a snow squall was blowing across the lot, and the two snow-encrusted men were posted by the pickups. Tie was holding a crowbar casually by his side, and Stew was hitting the gloved palm of his left hand with the wheel wrench in his right. Each was wearing his poker face, but even without the weapons, Gun could see what they were thinking. Gun was a big man with the meaty body of a boxer, but this time, when the fight-or-flight reflex kicked in, it was flight. He would simply rather run.

When he stepped back inside, Miriam was waiting for him, arms crossed, a cracked, red, patent-leather shoe turned to the side.

"How come you don' wanna fuck me, big boy?" she snapped. "What's wrong with you anyway?" When he tried to jog past her, she stepped into his way, and he bumped her. "You don't like pussy?" she called after him. "What do you like, huh, cock?"

When he swung round the bar, he slammed into a door jamb, bouncing into a back room stacked with boxes of liquor. He managed to get out the back door just as Tie was chugging around one corner of the building and Stew around the other. The bar was on the edge of town, and Gun was galloping as fast as he could through knee-deep drifts across a flat field he knew went on forever. But soon he couldn't see the men, or anything else for that matter, so he crouched in the snow, waiting for them. He was breathing hard and, at times, thought he saw them, light-gray blurs focusing out of the white, then softening back in. He put on the cap, pulling it over his ears, and wound the scarf around his face, leaving a slit for his eyes. He put on the gloves, squinting into the whiteout, but when he decided that they were, in fact, not following him, he set off at a right angle to his tracks, paralleling the road, he thought, then cutting back toward town.

Till then, he had thought of himself as having a good sense of direction — some inner gyroscope keeping him on course — but after thirty minutes, he knew he was lost. If he was going to find his way back, he realized, he would've. He stopped, looked around, and tried backtracking, but soon his tracks played out. The wind had erased them like pencil marks, each fainter than the last, fading, at last, into a blank page of snow. He stopped and looked around again. Drifts sheared off, unraveling in long, sibilant, crystalline strings. A lull ensued, and the wind whispered over the field, gossiping about him, as he thought of it. When another gust hit, he could actually lean on it.

He set off on another tangent, his thighs tired from the high strides. Occasionally, he would step into a furrow or hole and fall, half swimming, half crawling back onto solid footing, and soon his boots and clothes were both miserably wet and ice stiff. His nose, ears, fingers, and toes began to ache, then went numb. His face felt like plastic, skin stunned with Novocain. The warmth in his body had retreated to his chest, he felt, had been turned down to a little blue flame, a wavering pilot light, and it was about an hour later, on the verge of collapse, head down, that he walked into something that gave a little but held, something that stopped him long enough for him to come back to himself: dark strings of icy barbed wire cutting across his chest. Then he saw the Buick Special, a red and white, four-door sedan half buried in snow. A drift sloped up and over the car on the road side, but the fence side was up only to the handles.

Gun leaned over the wire until he flipped, landing on his back, then sat up and crawled to the car. The window was glazed with ice, and when he pounded it, it crackled, and a young man's face appeared behind it as if trapped under ice in a river. The young man was in the back, leaning over the passenger side. He studied Gun, then struggled to roll down the window. When there was enough room for his hands, Gun grabbed the top and pushed, and when there was enough room for him to climb through, he did, falling flat on the seat. He immediately noticed the warm male smell.

When the man tried to roll up the window, Gun's boots were in the way, so Gun swung them onto the floor and shoved himself up, sitting on a map. The man worked with the window, leaving a crack at the top, and when he plunked on the back seat, Gun pulled the map from under his hip and dropped it on the driver's side. Then he noticed the hush in the car. After the hiss of snow, the car was strangely quiet, quiet, that is, except for the ticking. A small, round clock in the dash was ticking. Then it clunked.

Gun faced the man: a moody, good-looking youth in a red sweat suit with the words Flash Point printed in black across the chest. He had a wide, angular face still tan from summer and framed by a thick mop of curly brunet hair. His cheeks dipped in, and a two-day growth of stubble peppered his upper lip and chin. Hazel eyes glanced at him from lush lashes. Even at his coldest, Gun had had that little blue flame flickering in his chest, but at the mere sight of the man, a furnace ignited. He began warming up.

"What's your name?" Gun asked, shivering.

"Tommy," the man said in a soft voice. "Tommy March."

He was zipped to the thigh in an orange sleeping bag as if just hatched from a silk cocoon. Beside him on the seat were an open duffel bag, an open shaving kit, and a bright-yellow, goose-down ski jacket.

"Thanks," Gun said.

"You're welcome."

"I don't think — I would've —"

Gun's teeth began chattering so much he couldn't finish the sentence. He went from shivering to shaking, then from shaking to a kind of grand-mal seizure, wide-awake.

"Guess there's enough room in here for two," Tommy said, shoving everything aside. "Climb over."

Gun knelt on the seat, but Tommy had to grab Gun's coat by the shoulders and pull him over. Gun fell on top of him, then sat beside him, twitching. Tommy leaned over the front seat to slide it forward as far as he could, exposing a big, white flashlight under the driver's side.

When he sat, he glanced at Gun, then said, "You'd better get out of those wet clothes."

Gun managed to pull off his gloves and cap, but Tommy had to help him with the coat, scarf, and crewneck. He bent down to unlace and push off Gun's boots, setting them next to his athletic shoes on the floor, and when he skinned off the soaked socks, Gun's feet were red and swollen. Gun was shaking too badly to unbuckle his belt, so Tommy did it for him, drawing the wide leather through the brass buckle. He unzipped Gun's corduroys and, as Gun lifted off the seat, pulled them down his thighs. Though Gun's boxers and T-shirt were damp from sweat, they left them on.

"Scoot onto this," Tommy said, meaning the bottom fold of the sleeping bag. "Swing your feet in here."

When Gun was in the bag, Tommy zipped it, and there they were: side by side. Tommy hesitated, as if nonplussed by the awkwardness of the situation, then slipped his arm around Gun's neck. The position was the only way both could find room in the bag. Gun, too, hesitated, then lay his head on Tommy's shoulder.

"Jeez!" Tommy chuckled. "Your hands are ice." Tommy held Gun's right hand, rubbing and blowing it. "Put your left under my butt," he said, lifting up. "I can even feel your feet through my socks."

When Tommy covered Gun's feet with his, Gun did not know what to think. Was Tommy gay or simply taking care of him, one man to another, as some men would in a storm? Whatever the case, Gun, of course, had no objections. He was cuddled with a man in a sleeping bag. Straight or gay didn't matter to him. He was cuddled with the man who had saved his life.

All at once, he felt weak and drowsy in a lightheaded, surreal sort of way, but the last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the comforting smell of Tommy's armpit.

Gun dreamed that he was lost in the storm again, but this time, instead of stumbling upon the stranded Buick, he could just make out, behind the billowing sheers of snow, the black snouts and eyes of two polar bears lumbering toward him. The dream frightened him so badly he woke.

The window was fogged and frosted on the inside, on the outside silvery gray with snow, and Gun could hear a subtle white noise in the background, the fizz of snow blowing over the car. But he was no longer cold, in fact, hot, embraced with Tommy. The smoldering animal heat of their bodies had warmed the bag so much they were sweating. Then he realized they had erections, Gun's pressed into Tommy's hip, Tommy's, like a stick of wood, cupped in Gun's hand.

Gun raised his head, and they stared at each other, but though they apparently knew at once what was about to happen, they simply hugged. On Tommy's part, the hug seemed a natural impulse to keep Gun warm. On Gun's, however, it was more like consolation.

Gun raised his head again, and they kissed tenderly, then hungrily, tonguing each other. Gun's hand slipped under the waistband of Tommy's sweatpants, then under his jockstrap, and five minutes later, Tommy was flat on his back with his feet on the roof, his hands, clasped in Gun's, pressed to the seat on either side of his shoulders. Gun kissed him, flicking his tongue into his mouth, but when he made as if to kiss him again, Tommy gaped, like a nestling, showing him his throat. Instead, Gun kissed his left nipple. Tommy's chest rose to meet his mouth, and when Gun realized that just his presence deep inside him was about to bring him off, he forget about himself for a moment, angling up vigorously.

"Oh, no," Tommy moaned, rolling his head from side to side. "No, Sir." He sounded as if he did not want to come, but when he cried, "Oh, man," his head tilted back, and he did, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could hardly bear the intense pleasure. Then he laughed a nervous laugh which immediately became a long-pent-up sob. When Tommy came — his body, like a fist, clenching Gun — Gun came, too, grimacing, but his grimace burst into tears.

"Oh, man," Gun groaned, his forehead pressed to Tommy's shoulder. "Oh, Tommy, thank you."

Then the moment passed. Their breathing slowed. The car fell silent, and Gun could hear the clock ticking. They rested for a couple of minutes, but when Gun heard the clock clunk, he braced on his elbows, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Tommy peered at the seat back, his face glum. Then he looked at Gun, who kissed him thoughtfully, brushing back his hair.

"Sorry," Gun said, adding as if to himself, "I don' know, I don' know. It's been quite a while."

Gun sat up, withdrawing from him, and grabbed Tommy's ankle, swinging his leg over. He lay down, his front to Tommy's back, pulled up the bag flap, and zipped it. He slipped his left arm under Tommy's neck and draped his right over his chest, cupping Tommy's biceps. Tommy lay his hand on top of Gun's. Despite the intimacy, though, Gun could feel him drifting away, wandering off someplace private, but thought he understood the feeling. Often after he came, he just wanted to get away from his trick, cute or not, as fast as he could. But not this time, not with Tommy.

"I can't believe I let you in my ass," Tommy said, squinting at the back of the front seat. "I'm not gay, you know."

Gun rose to gaze at him and smiled shrewdly.

"Tommy. Look," he began. "You came from just my cock in your ass. If you ain't gay, then I ain't goin' outa my mind with boredom in this god-forsaken place."

In some sense, Gun knew that he had opened him up, as in a Caesarean, had delivered the gay that, otherwise, would have died, and Tommy certainly looked as if Gun had given him something to think about.

"You didn't happen to get a weather report?" Gun asked, lying down.

"I was afraid to leave the radio on," Tommy said. "You know, the battery. Mostly country music and Bible thumpers. The U.S. only got three gold medals at Squaw Valley. Won hockey, though. Beat the Russkies."

"Russkies, huh?"

"I was afraid to leave the motor on for the heater."

"Carbon monoxide," Gun commented.

"We going to die?"

"We're not gonna die," Gun assured him. "This'll blow over by morning."

Gun glanced at the window above their heads. The silvery snow was dulling to gray.

"I'm hungry," Tommy said.

"Well, you can eat me," Gun joked, "and I can eat you."

"Mine enough?"

"In spades, babe." Gun closed his eyes. "I could eat off yours for years."

"What's your name?" Tommy asked. "You know. Just in case I want to file a rape charge."

"Gun."

"What?"

"Gun. Short for Gunther, Gunther Rourke. I'm named after my German grandfather."

The car was growing dark, and after a couple of minutes, Gun could tell from Tommy's contented breathing that he had fallen asleep. Then Gun dozed off.

This time, Gun dreamed that he and Tommy, in jogging outfits, had ventured into a mine, but as they were leaving, it started to cave in. Gun jumped under a boulder, bearing it on his shoulders, like Atlas. The immense weight pushed him down to a squat, but he fought back, straining against the rock, until he had hoisted it high enough for Tommy to get by. At that point, Gun's strength began to fail, and he was slowly sinking back to a squat. Strangely enough, all he could think of was how beautiful Tommy's legs were — big, strong, shapely legs, the legs of an athlete. Tommy glanced at him helplessly, then ran.

Gun jerked awake.

"What?" Tommy asked.

The car was pitch black, dead quiet, except for the clock.

"Nothing," Gun said. "A dream."

"What about?"

"I, uh —" Gun paused, clenching a fist. His fingers were stiff. "I had this barbell on my shoulders, and I was trying to lift too much weight. Where's the flashlight?"

Tommy flicked it on, but left it on the carpet, pointed under the front seat.

"Why are you out here?" he asked.

Gun pressed his feet against Tommy's, could feel Tommy's toes wiggling.

"Hmpf," Gun chuckled. "You're not gonna believe this. I got lost walking home."

"No, I mean, why are you out here in the middle of nowhere? Where are we, anyway? "

"You don't even know you're in Marble, Michigan. Or someplace near it. That must be nice."

Gun ran his hand over Tommy's shoulder, then down his side to his waist, touching his navel, a waist so narrow that when Tommy breathed out, his stomach pinched to a tight, little knot of pleats. Gun twiddled the line of hair on Tommy's groin.

"Why am I out here in the middle of nowhere?" Gun asked himself. "Because my father had a stroke, and I had to take care of him, that is, until he died a couple of months ago. Now I don't exactly know what to do with myself."

Gun's hand brushed past Tommy's cock to his scrotum, pulling free the skin tucked between his thighs. He rubbed the rubbery skin between his fingers, fingered the big, soft stones rolling around inside.

"Why are you out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Thought I'd try this secondary road. Hoping to beat the storm. But the snow just got deeper and deeper. If it hadn't been for the fences, I wouldn't even have known where the road was."

Gun raised his knee and adjusted his own scrotum. Then he lifted Tommy's cheek, sandwiching himself between the mounds. He draped his leg over Tommy's, rested his head on his, and began tweaking Tommy's right nipple with his left hand.

"Where you from?" he asked, fondling Tommy's cock with his right.

"Atlanta. On my way back from visiting Dewey."

"Dewey?"

"College roommate. Lives in Cheboygan."

"Old boyfriend?"

"Dewey is married to Norma. Or — the 'frigid bitch,' as he calls her. They have two boys, Allan and Larry."

Gun could fill in the blanks, and all at once, he saw how defeated Tommy was, like himself, how emotionally damaged, as if Dewey had run a bayonet through him, then stripped him.

"You did 'im, didn't ya?" Gun smiled, flicking Tommy's cock. "Didn't ya? He reeled out some line 'bout the frigid bitch, and you bit."

"He has this cozy cabin on the lake."

"Still love 'im?" Gun asked, kissing the cool skin on Tommy's shoulder. When he failed to answer, Gun said, "You still love him."

When Gun squeezed Tommy's cock, a little tear of seminal fluid leaked from the slit.

"What do you do?" Tommy asked, changing subjects.

"I'm a stony," Gun said.

"A what?"

"A stony. What locals call a guy who works in the quarry." When Gun started humping him, Tommy was, in effect, thrusting Gun's hand. "An old quarry's a great place to swim in summer," Gun said. "Most people don't even know they're there. Daisies on the ledges." What had started out as a little front-to-back cuddling had gradually turned into a comfortable coupling. "What do you do?"

"I help my dad —" Tommy held his breath for a second. "— run a pool-supply center."

"So that's why you're so tan," Gun said, jostling him. "Must be a lot warmer in Atlanta. That would be nice."

"It can be — uh, just as cold," Tommy gasped.

"I doubt it," Gun said, picking up the pace. "It's cold here in all sorts of ways." As an afterthought, he asked, "What was your major?"

Tommy chuckled: "Psychology."

"Psychology, huh," Gun grunted. "Trying to figure yourself out."

Gun rolled partway on top of him, his face in his neck, and the foam seat puffed in rhythm. Gun's left hand was hanging over the seat, and Tommy laced his fingers through Gun's, squeezing them hard. Then he grabbed Gun's hair with his other hand and tried to pull him off his neck.

"Oh, no," Tommy whispered, coming. "Oh, man. No way."

Tommy's climax, in turn, triggered Gun's, and Gun — sucking on Tommy's earlobe — wallowed in his hips. Gun's mouth must have tickled, though, for Tommy broke into what could only be described as a cross between ardent groans and giddy laughter.

"Don't cry," Gun joked, licking his neck. "Don't cry." He plunged his tongue into Tommy's ear. "You have nothing to cry about."

"You cried," Tommy laughed.

But his smile faded to a pensive look, a look of concern etched in the glow of the flashlight, and again Gun could feel him — though they were still connected, as physically connected as two men could be — leaving him again, drifting off, Gun presumed, to the cabin on the lake.

"I can't believe I let you fuck me twice," Tommy said.

Gun sighed, then lifted off him, sliding out of him slowly. He wiped Tommy's come off his fingers onto the edge of the seat.

"You act like I cut your fuckin' balls off," Gun said, pulling up the bag flap. "I didn't cut your balls off." He zipped the bag. "You still have a great pair of balls. Big ones."

Tommy turned off the flashlight, plunging the car into darkness. Gun embraced him again, front to back, and they snuggled like lovers in the warm lair of the bag. Gun breathed in the balmy scent of Tommy's hair, then fell into a deep sleep, a dreamless sleep as black and still as the night.

During the night, the temperature dropped to zero, but when Gun woke, Tommy was wrapped around him, his face in his neck, softly twining the tuft of hair on Gun's chest. The clock was ticking, and the windows on the fence side of the car glowed with a smooth, nebulous vermilion. At least, he knew where east was, Gun thought. Now where was town?

He clenched his hands a couple of times. His fingers were stiff.

"Well, if I dreamed anything last night," he said, "I don't remember it. That's the best I've —" He yawned, arching his back off the bag. When he flopped flat again, the bag breathed out a heady incense of sweaty crotch smells. "I don't think I've ever slept that well. Sleep OK?" When Tommy kissed him gently behind the stud in his ear, his mouth touched off a pleasant flush. "I take that as a yes."

When Gun rose to unzip the bag, the west windows were dark blue, and when he lay back down, he raised his right knee, and Tommy lay his hand on Gun's pectoral.

"Great legs," Tommy whispered.

"Thanks," Gun replied. "You have a sweet pair yourself. In fact, you're pretty sweet all over." Gun's cock was lolling on his groin, but Tommy's hand stole past it to fondle Gun's scrotum. "Not exactly the biggest marbles in the game," Gun said, wiggling his toes. His balls, unlike Tommy's, were not in proportion to his cock.

"It's the aim that counts," Tommy said, "not the size of the marble."

"Well, I do have good aim." Gun chuckled too eagerly, Tommy thoughtfully. "Speaking of which," Gun said. "I have to pee."

He propped on an elbow, kissing Tommy's lips. Then they dressed and climbed out the window. In the sharp, dry air, Gun realized how chafed his face was.

He slogged a yard off the back of the car, Tommy off the front, and as Gun stood there, peeing a yellow pocket in the snow, he glanced across the glittering field coloring in the sunrise. Small, comma-shaped clouds were fading from blood smears to pink fleece. The golden halo around the sun reminded him of those floating over saints in religious paintings.

"I know where we are," he said.

When he slogged back to the car, he scooped up a big handful of snow, which he ate, washing the gummy taste out of his mouth. He spit it out, then ate another handful, which he swallowed. He heard something and gazed down the road toward the tiny white feather inching along the fence. Then Tommy saw the snowplow, but when Gun glanced at him, he looked away.

When Gun said, "This is it," Tommy touched the brake with his shoe.

The car rolled to a stop by the mailbox, and they stared at the house: a brick, snowbound bungalow stark against the white plain and, in the sky to the east, big, muscle-bound clouds. Gun's blue Falcon, window-deep, sat in the drive.

"Come in," Gun said, glancing at him. "I'll fix you breakfast. You can take a hot bath while I'm fixing it. You must be starved. I am. You need to call home, anyway. Don't you? Let 'em know you're OK?" When Tommy just sat there with the motor running, his hands on the wheel, Gun said, "The highway's straight ahead."

He got out, slammed the door, and hulked off. But when the car crept forward, grinding on the ice, he turned, and when it picked up speed, he could not help himself. He ran after it. There was nothing else he could do. He needed him. Or he needed what only a young man like Tommy could give him.

The brake lights lit up, the car slowed, and a little white rag of vapor fluttered from the muffler, but when Gun caught up, he slipped on the ice, landing on his hip. The fall was cushioned by his buttock and clothes, but he hit the ice so hard the shock wave flashed through his body. When Tommy looked at him, Gun grabbed the door handle, pulled himself up, and opened the door.

"Officer Rourke here," he began, an arm on the roof. "I noticed you were going too fast for road conditions. May I see your license, please?"

"Gun," Tommy blushed, glancing up. "What are you doing?"

"May I see your license, please?" He stepped out of character and whispered, "Tommy, let me have a look at your license." Tommy looked at him askance, then fished out the license and handed it to him. Gun squinted at it in the glare, but his hand was shaky. "205 Pineland," he muttered to himself. "205 Pineland, 205 Pineland." Then he shook it in Tommy's face and said, "I'm not giving this back to you till you come inside. You're gonna give us at least one chance."

"I'll be back through here," Tommy said, staring ahead.

"Yeah, you and Halley's Comet. Oh," Gun laughed. "You mean Dewey." He tapped the license on his palm. "Think about it, Tommy. Married. Two kids." For some reason, he felt awkward looming over him, so he knelt on the ice, one knee, then both, the hand with the license on the seat back, the other on the window crank on the door. "Listen, Tommy. You can fuck me if you want. You can fuck me all you want. I don't care. I can think of only one thing I'd enjoy as much, and we did that."

"Twice," Tommy said, glancing at him with a neutral look.

Gun looked down, thinking, then up.

"Don't let this be the last time I see you," he said. "Please. Don't crawl back into that — that igloo of yours. OK? OK? I don't have anything to hold me here. See. I can move. We can see if things work out. I've saved money. My father left me money."

"What things?" Tommy asked, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel.

"What?"

"If what things work out?"

Gun grabbed the running board and slid closer, his face about level with Tommy's shoulder.

"You don't know how it is around here. Well, maybe you do. I don't know. But when you live in a cold world, you have to build your own fire. Right? The best I've been able to do is tricks at a rest stop a hundred miles to the north. Flint and steel, no spark. I can't get anything started." Tommy looked paralyzed, a test dummy in a crash vehicle. "I can be good to you," Gun swore. "I can be good to you for a long time."

When Tommy finally relaxed and looked at Gun, Gun offered him the license, but Gun's hand was shaking so badly he dropped it. When they reached down, the car rolled forward a couple of feet. Tommy stepped on the brake, pulled up the emergency brake, and leaned out the door.

"I'm sorry, Gun. I didn't mean to do that."

Then he faced forward and just sat there. Gun had slumped onto his hands, but he picked up the license, sat on his heels, and, hands on his thighs, evaluated his status in life. He realized what he'd come to. But he didn't care. There was nowhere to go but up.

"OK," Tommy said.

"OK?"

"Yeah." Tommy faced him, trying to smile. "Let me back up."

"OK," Gun whispered to himself.

He got up carefully, bracing on the road, one foot, then the other. When he walked around the back of the car, he could smell the exhaust, and when he reached the door, Tommy opened it for him. Gun got in, shut the door, and handed him the license.

"I'll stay tonight," Tommy said, tossing it onto the dash. "We'll talk."

Tommy shifted gears and backed in front of the house. When they went in, Gun immediately turned up the thermostat. And they were never cold again.

 

©2002 Ken Anderson - Contributor's Bio