Skaterboy by J. M. Snyder

  Skaterboy

  by J. M. Snyder

  Copyright © 2004 by J. M. Snyder

  Please do not copy or reprint them without permission.

  Author: jms@jmsnyder.net

  Website: http://jmsnyder.net

  At 5:00 in the morning, the alarm clock goes off. In his sleep, CJ is dreaming that he's back in high school, outside by the band room door where he and his pals used to sneak smokes and flip their skateboards up onto the curb before class. He hears the alarm and in his dream it's the first bell, calling them in. But it's his turn with the board and he wants to show off a new trick he's never done before -- it's his dream, he knows he can do it. He gets on the board and skates for the curb even as the other boys start to head inside, Kace and Johnny, kids he hasn't seen in years. They haven't aged a bit. "Wait," he calls out, pushing off the ground harder to pick up speed. "Watch this, you guys. Look!"

  At the curb he jumps. The board comes with him like it's stuck to his feet. A twist of his ankle spins it, just as he hoped, once, twice, three times before it hits the concrete. Yes --

  One of the wheels catches the curb at a bad angle and the board skitters out from beneath him. CJ goes down hard on one knee as pain shoots up his thigh like paintballs smacking him, hard and fast. A strong band tightens around his chest, he's getting too old for this shit, barely even twenty and he's already lost his touch. Somewhere far away, the alarm rings and rings and he's late, he's going to be late for class, his knee ...

  He groans as he starts to wake, groggy. His knee hurts, did he fall? No, his leg's just wedged beneath his lover's body. A heavy arm drapes over him, tying him down. The alarm is blaring like crazy and he tries to sit up. "Rich --"

  Beside him, Richard sighs. "Go back to bed," he mutters. He's not a morning person. Neither is CJ, which is why he doesn't argue. Instead, he flops back to his pillow, pulling the blankets in to ward off the chill. Richard stumbles from the bed and CJ scoots into the warmth he leaves behind. Buried in the sheets, he hears his lover cross the room to the dresser where the clock is and after a few more seconds of bleating, the time it takes Richard to find the OFF switch, the alarm is silenced.

  The bedroom door creaks open and CJ hears heavy feet in the hall, on the stairs. In the quiet darkness, he listens for the shower -- and there it is, the rush of water in the pipes lulling him back to sleep. Then he's outside the high school again, flipping the board despite the lingering ache in his knee. A half hour later and he's out. Like a light, Richard would say. CJ doesn't hear his lover come back upstairs to dress. He doesn't smell the coffee in Richard's mug, doesn't hear the rustle of suits in the closet or the soft rumble of drawers as his lover gets ready for work. He doesn't feel the bed shift when Richard sits down, or the hand that moves the blanket away from his face, or the lips that press to his forehead in a tender kiss. "Love you," Richard whispers.

  In his mind, CJ dreams that he tells Richard he loves him too, and wouldn't it be great if they meet for lunch somewhere, his choice? But the words never make it past his lips and he doesn't wake up. With another kiss, Richard leaves.

  At 9:15 the phone rings, waking CJ up from another dream. He doesn't remember what this one is about, and because his knee no longer hurts, he hardly remembers the other one either. Something about school, and skating. He always dreams of skating. High school, though ... must've been a nightmare.

  On Richard's table, the phone rings again. CJ stretches across the empty width of the bed to snag the receiver, catches the cord on the side of the table, and manages to knock the whole thing onto the floor. "Shit," he mumbles. He has to roll over onto his stomach and feel around until he gets hold of the cord, then he hauls the whole thing up onto the bed. If it's a bill collector, he hopes they've hung up already. He hates talking to them. With the receiver to his ear, he asks, "Hello?"

  Nothing.

  He has the damn thing upside down. He flips it and asks again, "Hello? Who's this?"

  Warm laughter fills his ear. Richard. Just the sound of his lover's voice is enough to make him smile. "Who do you want it to be?" Richard asks playfully.

  CJ grins like a fool and burrows down beneath the covers, pulling the phone into the makeshift darkness with him. "You," he purrs. "How's work going?"

  Another laugh, because it's still early in the day and Richard probably hasn't had any clients yet. He's a salesman for a company that CJ's never heard of, selling things he isn't sure he understands. Frames and displays and shelves for trade shows. CJ has never been to a show, though Richard has offered to take him. In CJ's mind, they're something like Star Trek conventions, only without the fun. When his lover has to travel to these shows, CJ tags along because he doesn't like to sleep alone and he'll go to the hotel ballrooms to help Richard set up his own displays, but that's about it. During the actual show, CJ hitches a ride to the local mall, board in hand, in search of fellow skaters. He usually doesn't have to look too hard -- he's been at this long enough, he knows where to find them, outside the food court or hanging around the arcade, the video game store, the top level of the parking deck. A trade show of his own, where he shows off his moves and learns new techniques. Once he broke his wrist, fell flat on his arm and had to be rushed to the hospital in a city whose name he doesn't remember. He didn't even know the name of their hotel, but one of the nurses knew about the trade show because her husband ran concessions and she managed to get in touch with his guy. Richard rushed into the emergency room like a worried father and, just like a dad, once he realized that CJ was going to be alright, he laid into him something fierce. "I shouldn't bring you to these things" and "You're going to break your neck with that goddamn board of yours" and "Do you even know what all went through my mind when they called my name out over the loudspeaker? Jesus Christ, Ceej. You could've gotten yourself killed."

  But that happened long ago. What, over the summer? CJ pulls the blankets tighter around himself and listens to his lover's soft voice as Richard tells him, "It's going fine so far, babe, knock on wood. Did I wake you up?"

  "You know you did."

  "Lazy." The word is tinged with affection. In his mind, CJ can see the smile that creases Richard's smooth face. He loves his guy. "So," Richard asks, searching for something to keep them talking a little while longer, "what are your plans for today?"

  CJ doesn't know. He's out of school, on his own more or less, and his days stretch out endless before him like pages in a blank journal, each one full of promise. He's enrolled at the local community college but hasn't gotten around to taking any classes yet. He doesn't know what he'll major in anyway. And he doesn't have a job -- the last one was at a video store downtown but it didn't really work out. He doesn't have a car, just his skateboard -- still, the bus runs right by that strip mall and he showed up more or less on time for the first few days. Then the manager decided she needed him to work nights and he told her no. Richard works all day, the evenings are "their time." And some chick with a name badge wanted CJ to stand behind a counter until ten or eleven at night? He didn't think so. He told her he had to be in by six, she put him down three to close, and he didn't bother to come in again. Fuck that. He's not losing what he has of his guy for a few measly bucks. Shit, Richard makes enough, they aren't starving, and he doesn't harp on CJ for not working. At least he takes care of the apartment now, mostly, though his idea of straightening up means washing the dishes when he can't find any clean glasses and all the forks are in the sink. Rich is cool about it, though. He knows CJ will find something.

  In the meantime, he spends his days lounging around the place, snacking or watching TV or running out to the store if they need more chips. Wednesdays are his night to cook dinner, which means they usually order pizz
a or subs. He does the laundry when Richard's out of underwear, irons his guy's shirts on the lowest heat setting possible so he won't burn them (and usually ends up ironing more wrinkles in than out), runs a vacuum over the floor and sweeps up when the cat knocks over its food bowl in the kitchen. He plays video games -- Richard doesn't like them but CJ is crazy for racers, he's hell on wheels even if he doesn't have a car of his own -- and he makes sure the place looks half decent by the time his lover comes home. Some days, for something different, he catches the bus and rides down to the park or the mall or the comic shop, board tucked under his arm, in search of other skaters.

  Today he thinks he'll do that. He has this idea in mind that he must've dreamed of, he doesn't know, but a triple flip up onto a curb, he thinks he could maybe pull off something like that. Doesn't hurt to try, anyway. "I might head out," he tells Richard. Then he remembers this morning. "Are we meeting for lunch?"

  "Are we?" Richard asks.

  CJ hears the frown in his lover's voice. "I thought we agreed to it," he says. He doesn't sound too convinced. With so much time on his hands, it's sometimes hard to separate the day and night, what happens from what he thinks happens. "Did I tell you I'd catch up with you sometime today? Right before you left this morning."

  Richard laughs, a rich sound that curls through CJ like thick cream. "You were out like a light, babe," he says. That's his phrase, CJ knew it was coming, and he thinks it's cool that he knows his guy so well. "You didn't say anything when I kissed you goodbye. Maybe you --"

  "Dreamed it," CJ finishes for him. "Maybe I did." He listens to Richard breathe for a moment, then asks, "You want to, though? I can meet you somewhere. What time is it anyway?"

  "A little after nine." CJ hears papers rustling as Richard leafs through his appointment book. "I've got a sales meeting at eleven thirty, hon. I'm not sure I'll be out before noon."

  CJ waits. After a moment or two, Richard tells him, "No later than one, if you want to wait that long? If not --"

  "I'll wait," CJ says. It's not like he has anything else he really needs to do. "One?"

  Richard amends, "Or a little after that. I'll call you before I leave, how's that sound? Oh -- before I forget. There's a list on the stove, babe. A few things I need you to pick up."

  "Okay."

  "We're out of milk," Richard continues. "Or we will be. There should be just enough for your cereal. I left it for you."

  CJ grins at his guy's thoughtfulness. "Okay. How about Harrison's then?" A local grocery store with an eatery, on the bus route and close to where Richard works, too. They can grab a bite to eat and once Richard heads back to the office, CJ can get what groceries are on the list. Not to mention that there's an old piece of concrete piping that the city abandoned in the grassy lot beside Harrison's -- some of the older boarders hang out there. Well, boarders his age, now. He's getting older himself. Twenty is pretty damn old in his eyes. "Richard? What about Harrison's?"

  "Sure," his lover murmurs, distracted. "Ceej, I've got to go. I'll call before I leave."

  "I might not be here." CJ frowns at the phone. He hates whoever it is in Richard's office taking his guy's attention away from him, where it belongs. One of the admins or a courier. "Who is it?" he wants to know. "Tell 'em to go away. You're talking to me."

  Richard sighs. "Hon, I have to go. I'll call you."

  "Don't bother," CJ says. "I'll meet you there. One o'clock." He can hear a muffled voice through the phone -- Richard covering the mouthpiece as he speaks to someone else. Not me. "Richard?" CJ asks. "I'm still here. You said one?"

  "About that. Look --" Richard's voice takes on a hard edge, his businessspeak. It's one of the only things about his guy that really pisses him off, the easy way he can dismiss CJ when he has work to do. "I'm not sure how long the meeting's going to last, okay? Around one or so, I don't know. I'll call you ..."

  "I'll meet you there," CJ mutters. Fuck whoever's in his office right now. He was talking to him first. But if he says anything, Richard will remind him that he's the one at work, he has a job unlike some people he could mention, and he has to go. Then he'll hang up on him, pissed, and CJ will get mad and Richard won't meet him for lunch ... "Forget it." It isn't worth the hassle.

  "What?" Richard asks.

  CJ shakes the blankets off as he climbs out of bed. "I said forget it. I'll see you at one."

  With another sigh, Richard says, "Babe, I said I don't know what time --"

  "You said one." CJ gathers the phone up from where it rests between the sheets and sets it back on the bedside table. "See you then. Love you."

  Before Richard can argue, CJ hangs up. He's not mad, he tells himself. Richard's busy, that's all. He shakes the blankets into some semblance of order and then shucks off his boxers. Naked, he pads out into the hall, scratching his disheveled hair as he tries to remember the bus schedule. It's still early. He has plenty of time.

  At 11:55 CJ closes the door behind him as he steps out onto the front stoop. They live in apartments that stretch away on either side of him and across the street in row after identical row. This time of the day, only a few cars line the parking lot -- most everyone's at work. Everyone but him and the woman next door, who watches kids all day. Sometimes if it's nice out, she takes the whole gaggle down to the swing set at the far end of the apartment complex. CJ thinks only one or two of the kids are hers. The rest she watches to make money. Last month he would take his board down to the swings just to show off -- the little kids loved his kick flip, that's one of his best moves. But then someone in management posted the NO SKATING sign and fuck that. He'll take his board elsewhere.

  Today he has it tucked securely beneath his arm, a heavy, welcome weight. On the stoop he jiggles the doorknob to make sure he's locked up, then pats the pocket of his hooded jacket to make sure he remembered the keys. For a heartstopping moment, he can't find them, and he checks the breast pockets of the flannel shirt he wears under the jacket, he checks the front and back pockets of his cargo pants, the sides --

  There. Through the thin fabric, he feels the keys in his side leg pocket and he slips his hand in to touch the cool metal. Jeez, if he locked himself out again, Richard would have to drive him home and he'd be late getting back to the office and CJ would feel like shit. Pulling his hood up against the late autumn chill, CJ hefts the board beneath his arm and checks the door one last time. It's locked. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he ducks into his hood and starts across the parking lot for the entrance to the complex, where the bus stop is.

  He'd like to skate over there but doesn't. The stretch of tarmac is tempting, but when the signs went up around the complex, someone on the management staff came knocking on their door one Saturday afternoon when Richard was home. CJ was in the kitchen, making sandwiches for the two of them, when whoever it was from the office stopped by. Richard answered the door.

  From where he stood by the stove, CJ could hear a woman's voice and he leaned back to look down the hall. Richard barred the way like a sentinel, holding the door shut so CJ couldn't see anything but the sun around the edges. "Mr. Moyer?" the woman said. For a brief moment the light darkened as she tried to peer into the house, but Richard moved to block her path. He's a very private person. "I'm from the office, and we just wanted to point out a new amendment to the lease. Perhaps you've seen the signs we've put up? I know your roommate has a skateboard." CJ listened quietly. Anyone caught violating the rules of the complex was subject to eviction, she continued. Was Mr. Moyer aware of that?

  He was. In brisk, businessman tones Richard thanked the woman, told her that he would make sure his "roommate" noticed the new signs, and good day. When she started to say something else, he closed the door, quietly but firmly, in her face. CJ expected her to knock again, but she didn't. He looked up as Richard came into the kitchen. His guy stopped in the doorway, folded his arms across his chest, and watched him.

  CJ turned back to the sandwiches. Suddenly his eyes stung, must've been the onions he cut for the
ir roast beef and turkey clubs. As quietly as he could, he sniffled because his nose felt drippy. He shouldn't be upset, he told himself. She was probably going door to door telling people about the signs, even though they received a notice in their mailbox the day before. And he's the only one in this whole complex who skates.

  He started to apologize -- for what, he wasn't sure, but he thought maybe he should anyway, just in case Richard was mad at him. Before he got the words out, though, his lover crossed the room and wrapped his strong arms around CJ's waist. Burying his face into CJ's neck, Richard sighed his name, his real name, not Ceej or baby but "Charles." CJ squeezed his eyes shut, scrunched up his whole face -- he hated that name. In Richard's voice it made him sound so old. "I'm sorry."

  For a moment, CJ couldn't speak. He swallowed against a lump in his throat and tried to sound confused. "For what?"

  Richard's arms tightened around his waist. "You heard her, right?" he asked.

  How could he not? CJ nodded, and Richard kissed him just behind his ear. His lover's lips were damp along his flushed skin. "Okay," Richard whispered. Another kiss, and he added, "Love you."

  On his way to the bus stop, CJ hunches his shoulders and glares at the large windows of the apartment office as he passes. He should get on the board just for spite but he knows someone's watching him and he doesn't want to get Richard into trouble. It's his name on the lease, after all, not CJ's. He only moved in shortly after they started dating.

  At the stop, he sets the skateboard down and steps onto it. He's out of the apartments, they can't say anything now. Looking up and down the street, he shuffles a bit on the board, just enough to move it an inch or two in either direction. The cars zoom past, the faces through the windshields blank and unseeing. A police car slows as it drives by, the cop inside staring hard at CJ. Keep driving, CJ prays. He has to meet Richard for lunch -- he can't afford a shakedown right now. The last time he got stopped was at the mall in a bulky Army coat with his board under his arm. The way the policemen approached, he could've been on America's Most Wanted or something. Wasn't this sort of crap supposed to stop when he grew up? I'm doing nothing wrong, just keep on going.