While they sat at the counter, Gerry, sipping his coffee, and Michael, his tea, Gerry found it more and more difficult not to glance at the three tough-looking guys opposite, at the far end of the counter, roughhousing with each other, boisterously slapping each other on the back, and generally, being loud and rude. Perhaps, 'crude' would be a better description of the men. But yet, there was something drawing his attention to them, he knew not what. Yes … there was something!

Oddly enough, after the early morning crowd had dwindled a bit, the two men at one end of the counter, and the three men at the opposite end, all stood up at the same time; Gerry picked up his little suitcase, and they all made their way toward Marilynn to pay their bills. The cash register sat, more or less, in the center of the breakfast bar.

"Ahhh, gentlemen," she began as she directed her attention to Michael and Gerry, "or should I say, 'ye old swabbies'?" she jokingly asked, redirecting her eyes to the three ruffians.

Each of the five men sniggered in his own way -- Gerry and Michael in throaty chuckles, and the three others with forced grins across their faces; the eldest of the threesome then blew her a kiss.

"I'd like to introduce you to a newcomer. His name is Gerry, and he wants to be a lobsterman. Thought maybe you roustabouts might be able to help him out. And I believe you guys already know Michael, here."

"Yeah. Mornin', Michael," the rather heavyset, fiftyish-looking man said, with little or no warmth in his voice. He was bald on top and had about four inches of dirty-blond, shaggy hair hanging over his ears and continuing around the back of his head, just above the neck.

Somewhat coldly, Michael politely replied, "Good morning, Lars."

Thrilled with the thought of being introduced to some locals so soon after his arrival in Rockland, Gerry felt a sudden uncomfortable tightness in his stomach at Michael's tone. A quick glance toward Michael, and he saw an expression which told him that something was afoot.

"Gerry," Marilyn continued, "meet Cap'n Lars, captain of ' The Jolly Roger,' a lobster boat, here-abouts." Her cheerfulness belied Gerry's intuitive feelings about the three men, but, perhaps she's just being a polite hostess, he speculated.

'The Jolly Roger?' Gerry pricked up his ears at the name. Isn't that what they call the skull and crossbones flag, used by pirates in the olden days? he queried to himself, as he extended his hand in greeting. "G'morning, Cap'n," he said, politely forcing an anxious smile.

"That ain't no way for one lobsterman to greet another one, boy," the captain retorted, slapping Gerry on his left shoulder, the force of which sent him reeling against Michael. "How old are ya, anyway?"

Righting himself and rubbing his shoulder, Gerry answered, "Twenty, Sir."

"Good answer, boy."

"And this is Sven," Marilynn interrupted, "the Cap'ns First Mate," she added, wriggling her eyebrows as she faced Gerry with a shit-eating grin on her face.

Gerry's eyes immediately darted to the more muscled, small waisted, sea-blue eyed, blond Nordic god -- a rugged, yet handsome stud. Unabashedly examining the man from head to foot and back up to a sudden stop at the protruding bulge in his tight blue seaman's britches, and then further up to his captivating eyes, Gerry hastened to moisten his dried lips.

Oh, shit! Why in hell did I do that? he scolded himself.

Hesitantly, Gerry began to extend his hand again, but the much taller First Mate brusquely knocked it away without saying a word, only glaring at Gerry with a small nod of acknowledgment.

Rubbing his right forearm, Gerry returned the greeting with an ever-so-slight nod of the head.

"Mark … ye … well … boy …" Captain Lars slowly but firmly cautioned, while pointing his right index finger directly to no more than only a few inches from Gerry's nose, "… no one, and I mean, no one, touches my Sven without him making the first move, and I did not see him offer to shake your hand."

Gerry only nodded in feigned understanding, for before he could utter a single word, Captain Lars continued. "And before Marilynn butts in …" he gave her a threatening grin, daring her to interrupt; "… or before you do or say anything else, boy…", the captain commanded, waving both hands in wide arcs through the air, "… you are never to touch or speak to Dirk, here, without my express permission. Do you understand what I'm saying … Gerrrrrrry, lad?"

Those last two words were said in a rather, sweet, sing-song cadence and articulation -- so very, shall we say, come-hitherish and … seductive? -- words so different from everything else that the good captain had thundered with clarity.

"Yes, Sir, I do understand, Captain," Gerry answered. He then glanced up at Michael.

"Where did you find this boy, Michael? He's a good'un," the captain commented.

"We were traveling togeth…"

The captain cut him off with a dismissing gesture. "Pshaw! Never mind. It doesn't matter." Then he directed his attention back to Gerry. "Soooooo, ya wanna be a lobsterman, eh?"

Gerry nodded in the affirmative.

"Answer me, boy, when I speak to ya!" the captain again thundered.

"Sorry, Sir. Yes, Captain Lars, I think I'd like to do that kind of work. I love the sea, Sir."

Having just finished paying Marilynn for the coffee and tea, Michael said, "I think we should go, Gerry; I really do need to get out of these dirty clothes and…"

"… and you need a bath, Michael; you stink," Lars interjected. "Don't know how you had the balls to come in here, filthy like that."

"I do apologize, Lars, and to you, Marilynn, and to all in this establishment, for my indecorous appearance."

"HA!" Lars chastised affectedly, his voice mimicking that of a woman's, his upper body wriggling from side to side, and his wrists effeminately flipped toward Michael, "Such hoity-toity words you use, old man." Then, in an instant, he returned to his gruff manner. "No good American could understand you, even if he tried. Just get the hell outta here. Now, go! Both of you; but, boy! …" he quickly said to Gerry, "… if you're serious about wantin' to be a lobsterman, come on down to the docks and 'The Jolly Roger' before Six Bells Mornin'…"

Gerry opened his mouth to correct the captain in his nautical terminology, but then closed it again, after thinking, perhaps it's wiser to remain silent.

"… Oh!" the Captain went on to say, uninterrupted. "That's 0700, for you land-lubbers! … We're headin' out to pull up some cages, and you'll get a chance to see what a day in the life of a real lobsterman's like."

The trio slapped each other on their backs again, threw fake punches at each other's stomachs, laughed heartily, and in unison, roared, "Oh, yeah!"

"I'll be there, Cap'n," Gerry replied as he looked at the round-faced clock on the wall behind Marilynn. Four-thirty now, he thought. That's two-and-a-half hours I've got.

"We're countin' on it, boy," the captain snickered, along with his two cohorts.

Michael put an arm around Gerry's shoulders, and led him through the swinging doors of the café. Little was said while the two walked through the railway property, and soon they were on a public sidewalk, headed uphill to … God-only-knew-where -- Gerry certainly didn't; he was mindlessly following alongside Michael, thinking of the brief, though somewhat uncomfortable meeting with the three men. Suddenly he stopped, and after a couple of steps, Michael turned and looked at him pensively.

"What is it, Gerry?"

"Where are you taking me?"

"Well, my young friend, I rent a couple of rooms in a boarding house not far from here. And, as it seems you have neither family nor friends other than … myself, if I may correctly suppose, and if you do not object, we may discover whether there be another room-to-let for yourself."

"I sure hope there is a room I can rent. I wouldn't know where else to go and look for a place."

"Gerry … if I might take liberties and appear presumptuous for a moment …" Michael asked tentatively.

"Sure."

"I heard you say that you're just out of the Navy, and I surmise that you probably have limited funds at the moment; am I correct?"

"Well … yes, you're right, Michael. I have some money, but it's not much.."

Gerry had never heard the word 'froward' before, but he let it pass without questioning. "Uhhh … I don't know what to say, Michael."

"Then say nothing, my friend; merely accept my proposition until you are financially able to do otherwise," Michael offered.

Once again, Gerry stopped, set his suitcase down, put his balled-up fists on his hips, and stared at Michael.

"Now what?"

"I'm not moving one step further, until you explain yourself, Michael," Gerry announced.

"Explain myself? In regard to what, Gerry?"

"First you tell me that I can share your bed, and then you tell me merely to accept your proposition…"

"Yes," Michael cut him off with such casual nonchalance, that it surprised Gerry.

"Well … are you … propositioning me?"

A moment pondering, and then the proverbial light came on. "Tsk! You bloody Americans," the gentle, smelly giant roared while laughing. "You slaughter the King's English, and then … then, you become upset because you do not understand the proper usage of the words of that language." He continued his infectious laughter, as Gerry caught on and began laughing, himself.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, darling boy, I was not … sexually propositioning you 'a tall!' I was merely…"

Then Gerry cut him off by saying, "Okay, okay, okay, Michael. I think I'm beginning to understand what you're saying. Maybe I should get a dictionary and start carrying it around with me."

"A 'dictionry'? To understand your own language?" Michael teased.

"No … one to understand your own language," Gerry countered.

More laughter, then Michael pointed to a three-storied, Victorian-style, sea-foam-green house trimmed in yellow. "Ahhhhh, here we are, at last," he exclaimed. "My humble abode -- the Widow's Walk Boarding House."

"Widow's Walk?"

"Yes, that is correct," he answered, pointing to the railing around the small, flat portion of the roof at it's highest point. "The house was built in the early 1800's, and is one of the local landmarks. It has a wonderful view of the North Atlantic, in good weather, of course, and during or after a dreadful storm at sea, the fretting wife of a whaler or fisherman would, for hours on end, be up there, pacing back and forth, often hoping against hope to catch a mere glimpse of her returning husband's boat."

As Michael was talking, the first rays of the early morning sun quickly rose to strike the entire parapet, fully illuminating the ever-present lightning conductor and the weathercock.

"Sounds tragically romantic. I can almost see her up there."

"Oft-times it was just that -- a tragedy, for many a seaman was lost to Davy Jones' Locker."

"Yes, I've heard, but I've often wished that I'd been born during that wonderful, glorious age of the great sailing ships. I love reading anything I can get my hands on, about that era, particularly the military battles at sea, and the pirates, and the discoverers finding new lands and peoples, and …"

"Perchance …" Michael began, then seemed to think for a moment, and then added, "… but that's a subject for another time."

As they talked, they had quickly come to the few steps leading up to the stoop of the house. "Here we are, Gerry. Let us go to my room; I shall shower and shave; you may freshen up if you so choose. Then, we shall come back to the dining room for a wonderful home-cooked breakfast, prepared by our land-lady, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, and then we shall talk with her about allowing you to share the room with me until such time as you can procure your own."

They walked through the house, quiet at that hour except for some faint, distant noises coming from the kitchen, and on into the room at the back, eastern corner of the house. They chatted for a few moments, and as Michael began taking off his dirty, smelly clothes, he asked, "Do you think I should dispose of these, or should I ask Mrs. Kirkpatrick to wash them for me?"

"That look tells it all -- I shall toss them into the refuse bin." He had slid his suspenders from his shoulders and had removed his filthy shirt and sweaty undershirt, and Gerry couldn't help but notice that his arms, chest and back were covered with a light blond fur, even as it was matted to the abundance of flesh.

"Michael, what kind of work do you do? I'm … I'm just curious."

"Ohhhhh, just odds and ends, Gerry, here and there. I am what you would call a 'Jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none.' Michael had sat on a straight-back wooden chair and had just removed his shoes and very smelly socks.

"Whew!" they both exclaimed as the obnoxious odor wafted through the room.

"Burn them!" Gerry yelled, coughing from the stench.

"So sorry," Michael apologized.

"What kind of work were you doing before you got on the train this morning, if I may ask?"

"Yesterday, I was visiting friends, in Portland, and just before I was to return to Rockland, their cesspool backed-up into the house, and I worked through the afternoon and evening, removing the blockage in the sewage pipes from the house to the pit."

"Yuck!"

"And then I was able, just in the nick of time, to procure space on a later locomotive, and that is where you and I met. Again, I do apologize for my present condition."

"No need for that, Michael," Gerry said, smiling at his new friend. "It seems to me that … uhhh … 'somebody up there'…" he pointed upwards, "puts you in places to help others, such as your friends in their time of need, and in the seat next to me when I needed something or someone." On speaking those few words, Gerry knew in his heart that their souls had touched, and he added, "I think that you, Michael, are a heaven-sent angel who appeared just at the moment that I needed help."

Michael offered no more than a kind glance and a loving, paternal smile. He had unbuttoned the fly of his trousers, and as he let them drop to the floor, he again glanced over to Gerry's eyes as they feasted on the golden fur of his legs.

"I hope I haven't embarrassed you by saying that," Gerry then apologized, quickly looking up into Michael's face. He felt his own quickly heat up, and he imagined that he was blushing bright red.

They smiled at each other as Michael slowly shook his head in the negative, saying nothing, and stepping out of the dirty garment. He was then standing there in nothing but his rather long, baggy drawers. "May I impose on you for a favor?"

"Sure, Michael, anything; what can I do for you?" Gerry swallowed with difficulty, wondering where the conversation would lead. You want me to scrub your matted, furry back for you -- for beginners? he silently questioned, feeling a slight arousal in his own trousers.

"Whilst I have my shower, would you be ever so kind as to dispose of these ruined garments into the refuse bin outside the back porch?" Gerry nodded his head 'yes,' but with a questioning appearance. Michael understood and continued, as his hand gestured toward the intended route, "Out the door, turn right; then the second door on the right leads to the verandah, and just outside the door is the bin."

"Sure, Michael, I'd be glad to … well … maybe not … glad …" he remarked, wrinkling up his nose as he gazed at the small pile of stinky clothes.

Michael cut him off, "Oh, I say, how thoughtless of me." He rushed over to the bed, picked up a good-sized wicker basket with some trash in it, and handed it to Gerry. His furry forearm lightly brushed against Gerry's smooth one, sending a shiver of excitement throughout Gerry's body, but centering it's effect more in his arousal.

Michael then squatted down, spread his knees as he reached through them, and picked up the dirty clothes. For the few seconds that he held that position, Gerry noticed that the fly to the baggy underwear opened completely, and he could clearly see the golden brown pubic hair which almost, but not completely, surrounded the base of Michael's hefty penis. He shifted his position in order to possibly glimpse more of the man-flesh causing his lips suddenly to turn dry ... but to no avail.

Michael stood and placed the clothes into the basket that Gerry was holding.

Making a very ugly face, Gerry held it out at full-arm's length, turning his head this way and that, trying to avoid the stench.

"I am so sorry, Gerry. Here, permit me to use some of this," he said, as he spun around, dashed into the bathroom, and returned with a bottle of Old Spice After-Shave Lotion. He sprinkled quite a bit on top of the foul-smelling clothes. "How's that?"

Hesitantly, Gerry took a very small sniff, over the basket, and instantly closed his eyes, wrinkled his nose, and jerked his head to the right, while at the same time, holding the basket as far to the left as possible, and answered, "Please excuse the expression, Michael, but it smells like somebody shit in a perfume factory."

Michael roared in laughter, leaned back a little, and raised his hands to the top of his head. As he continued to laugh, Gerry looked at him and began laughing, himself. For some strange reason, he could 'see' Santa Claus standing in front of him, and a couple of lines from Clement Clarke Moore's "The Night Before Christmas" came to mind :

Though, in truth, Michael's 'belly' wasn't so 'little.'

As Gerry's eyes devoured the furry, rather obese bear before him, he realized that he was growing quite fond of Michael. He also realized that he was quickly becoming very aroused. "I'd better get these things outside," he said, both as a necessity and as an excuse to turn and exit the room before Michael could see his tented trousers.

"Very good," said Michael. "I shall dash into the shower, so, do not lock the door as you go out. I doubt that you should encounter anyone at this hour of the morning, but…"

"I'll … I'll think of something to say," Gerry interrupted, while gingerly balancing the basket on one raised knee, and it being gripped by one hand, as the other hand turned the doorknob. "Now, go. GO TAKE YOUR SHOWER! And take as L-O-N-G as you want!" he said over his shoulder. "SCRUB EVERYWHERE!"

"Yes, Sir, young Master," Michael placated with a slight bow toward the back of his guest.

Taken aback at the retort, Gerry slowly and inquisitively turned and froze on the spot at the sight before him -- a totally naked Michael, standing there in obeisance, his drawers nestled around his bare feet.

Silence.

Gerry, who hadn't taken a breath for several seconds, suddenly took a deep gulp of air, and as he exhaled, he, too, began laughing.

Michael stepped out of the drawers, reached down, picked them up and tossed them onto the pile in the basket. "Here; you might as well dispose of these, also. Now, YOU GO! And take as L-O-N-G as YOU want!" he said as he commandingly pointed toward the door.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Gerry immediately responded, not thinking about the words he used. A cold chill rushed through his body. Suddenly, he felt empty and sad. He hesitated a brief moment, then turned again, used his foot to further open the door, and walked into the dark wood-paneled hallway, giving no thought to whether or not Michael would close it.

In a flash, his entire military tenure went through his mind. Absentmindedly, he made his way down the hall, through the verandah, and outside, dumping the ruined clothes into the trash can.

Seeing a red-wood picnic table with two benches in the middle of the yard, edged with brilliantly colored flower beds, he walked over to one of the benches, put down the wicker basket, and hiked his right foot up onto the bench, pulled a twenty-three-cent pack of Lucky Strikes out of his sock, tapped out a smoke, returned the pack, and sat down. Then, using his trusty ol’ silver flip-top lighter with the U.S. Navy insignia on it, he lit up; the Zippo had been his maternal grandfather’s, and his mother had given it to Gerry for his eighteenth birthday.

He stared at the insignia. Deja-vu, he thought to himself. I've been here before. Or I've done this before. But that can't be right. He shook his head, but couldn't remember. Aye, aye, Cap'n. Aye, aye, Lieutenant, kept repeating again and again inside his head.

Another drag off the cigarette -- it relaxed him and relieved the inner tension that had been building. He recalled the different trainings that he'd been given. His instructors and Commanding Officers. Frank Hadley. “Ohhhhh, Mr. Gerald Arthur Young, Mis-ter G-A-Y, huh? You don’t say,” he'd smirked. And then Zed. "Zedekiah, really, but I hate the name,” he'd said. “Why don'tcha get down outta the rack and come to the shower room with me, and I’ll give you another birthday present?” he'd almost begged. Oh, Zed, I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? And then 'Doc,' the civilian psychiatrist working for the Navy. "Well, Mister Gerald Arthur Young, I think we're finished here, but I want to tell you that I wish my own son were as dedicated as you. You're a helluva man!" he'd said before that fatherly hug and that wonderful salute.

Not thinking about it, Gerry finished a second and then a third, and again even a fourth cigarette. But as stressful and embarrassing as the discharge process had been, he still loved the Navy. And he remembered something else the good Doc had said; "Except for this one aspect of your life, you'd be an asset to the United States Navy." Yes. I'm a homo. I am a homosexual, he thought to himself, and now, I'm even lusting after a hairy, fat, older, gentle giant of a man.

The smoke from the cigarette in the ashtray on the table, wafted heavenward, carrying his thoughts to the gods, as he buried his head in his hands, and sobbed silently, feeling totally alone, and also, a total failure. Where do I go from here?

"Gerry … Gerry!" called Michael from the outer door of the screened back porch. "Ahhh, there you are, my young man." He had crossed over to Gerry, had seen that he was crying, had sat next to him on the bench, and once again had tried to console him by putting an arm around his shoulders. "What's wrong, my friend? You seemed to be getting along splendidly, a while ago."

"What? Huh?" Gerry asked in surprise. He sat up straight, wiped his eyes, and looked at the man seated next to him. "Oh, Michael, it's you." He looked around the yard, asking, "How long have I been out here?" Then looking directly at Michael, he asked, "What time is it?"

"My, my, you are full of questions this morning, are you not? I showered, shaved, and all that sort of thing, got dressed, and have been waiting for you for a little more than an hour. It is now six o'clock of the morning, and you have a meeting with Captain Lars at The Jolly Roger down at the harbour … that is … if you intend to follow through on your word to be there.

"Well, I said I would, so, I will. But if my first impressions of them are correct, I don't know if I'm gonna take the job, even if Captain Lars offers it to me or not," Gerry said.

Michael only nodded his head.

"What would you advise? You apparently know him a lot better than I do. What would you do if you were in my shoes?"

"Just watch your P's and Q's, Gerry. Never have I personally had any dealings with the man, but I have heard that he and his crew are ruffians and only look out for themselves."

"I got that feeling, too. But at least, if I go down there this morning … from what he said … I'll see what all is involved with the job."

"That you will, my friend; that you will. It is entirely your own choice, Gerry. After today, you may wholeheartedly regret the decision, or you may cherish the experience."

Gerry regarded him quizzically with some confusion across his own face.

"Michael … I don't understand a word of what you just said, but I feel that you said it in wisdom and in truth, in spiritual understanding and love. And yes, I was a little afraid to go down there by myself, but you've given me some form of … of … courage; is that the right word?"

"Confidence," Michael said; "confidence to choose to do whatever it is that your heart tells you to do."

They stood up from the bench, turned and hugged each other. Michael kissed Gerry in the center of his forehead, and Gerry, being so much shorter, kissed Michael's shirt-covered chest, just above his heart. Then they both stepped back, but still touching each other with their hands.

"Now, Michael … how do I get to The Jolly Roger?"

Michael guided Gerry around the bench, and put his arm around Gerry's shoulder as Gerry wrapped his around the gentle giant's waist … at least, as far as he could reach.

While they were walking around to the front of the house, Michael gave him the directions he needed.

At the paved sidewalk, they stopped and hugged one last time.

"Michael…" Gerry began, with a lump in his throat, "I almost feel like this is good-bye."

Michael just smiled.

"Will I ever see you again?"

Michael nodded. "I promise you, Gerry, we shall see each other again. But in the meantime, should you ever feel that you need me, just call my name … and I'll be there." With a gentle bit of hand-pressure-encouragement on his back, Gerry began walking down the hill to the docks.

He hadn't taken ten steps when he stopped, turned, and raised his hand to wave good-bye, but before the words could leave his lips, Michael spoke more loudly and said, "Remember this, my … 'Young' … friend, never say good-bye. Rather, say what the Spanish say when leaving their family and friends … Vaya con Dios -- Go with God." He smiled a very loving smile to Gerry.

Smiling a bittersweet smile in return to Michael, Gerry said, "Vaya con Dios -- Go with God, Michael."

"Now GO, dear, darling boy, GO! Your Destiny awaits you. You've only thirty minutes to get there … and it's all downhill!"

(End of Chapter Two)

*****