Out of Place - Chapter 2

Chapter 2
The grey haired receptionist, dressed in brightly patterned sweater, looked away from her
computer solitaire game toward the big glass doors that lead into her lobby from the
elevator vestibule. Her face broke into a warm smile when she saw it was Eric.
“Hey, Judy, good morning,” he grinned, setting his latte down on her desk. “Great
sweater. Is it South American?”
“Yes, Chilean,” she beamed, lifting her arms and dancing about a bit, showing off like a
tropical bird trapped in a monotone cage. “My second son, Josh, bought it for me when
he was down there on a dig last spring.” She picked up and kissed the picture she had of
him. “He is such a sweet boy.”
She thrust the colorfully framed picture at him, her face blushing with pride. Eric smiled
as he took it. Josh was all decked out in his archeological garb. Eric thought he was kind
of cute in an earnest, professorial sort of way. “Very nice,” he winked, and handed it
back. She placed back in its place along side the pictures of her other son and her
daughter with baby.
“Anything special going on for me today?” Eric asked, picking up his latte and turning
toward the door that would led him into the inner sanctum of cubicles that was the heart
of the software company they both worked for.
Out of Place – Shepherd 1

“Don’t you ever remember your appointments?” Judy replied in mock exasperation.
“Maybe you did smoke a little too much dope in your twenties,” she winked, before
scanning her computer screen.
Eric just grinned and shook his head. She often teased that they were just a couple of old
hippies who had sold out to the Gen-X corporate world.
“The folks from the Spanish office are meeting with Neil and you at nine to discuss the
future direction of Internet marketing… Now that sounds exciting.”
“Crap, is that today?”
“Have a good one.” He called back as he swiped his badge over the reader and pushed
open the security door. He hurried past one hedgerow of beige cubical walls and turned
down another. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten his friend Maria was coming in this
morning.
Stepping into his own messy cubicle, its double-size and window location reflective of
his middle management status (his “double-wide” as Paul called it), he quickly sat down
and flipped on his desk computer. Why the heck is Windows so damn slow? He asked,
for the thousandth time as he shucked off his coat. Impatiently, he stood up and looked
over the edge of his five-foot wall to check to see if his Administrative Assistant was in.

She was busy working on a spreadsheet. It depressed him to think that his budget might
have been sent back yet again. But there was no time to think about that now.
Windows familiar chime sounded and he sat down and punched a few keys to get to his
email, again another wait. Finally they popped up. He had seventeen new ones. He
scanned the list, but nothing looked earth shattering so he picked up his phone. There
were only two messages, not bad. He often had a dozen, and more often than not, half of
them being from one person who just ‘had’ to get a hold of him. Those panic calls were
the main reason he was adamant about not linking his office phone to his cell phone. He
was not an Emergency Room Physician despite how important his internal clients thought
their marketing problems were.
The second call was from, Neil, the VP of Marketing, delivered about twenty minutes
earlier. He looked at his schedule just to confirm he was supposed to meet with he and
the Spanish office folks in about an hour. Then he punched in the number, leaned back
and took a quick sip of his now barely warm, drive-through latte. He was a little
surprised when Neil picked up on the second ring.
“Hello Neil,” he tried to sound sincere and hyper-busy at the same time. “What can I do
for you?”
“Maria and Carlos are in my office and we would like you to join us,” came the
exasperated reply.

“I am sorry, but I thought the meeting was a nine.” Eric responded.
“They got here early.”
“How nice,” replied Eric trying not to sound too sarcastic.
“So, you are on your way?” continued Neil.
“Sure am!” He replied cheerfully and then hung up the phone.
Sometimes Eric just wanted to smack his boss. Nearly every conversation he had with
him was either, vague and mostly pointless, or slightly hostile and borderline humiliating.
Besides, it was a well-rumored fact that Neil wasn’t where he was because he was a great
marketer, administrator, or leader. He was there because once, almost by accident, he had
managed a group that had done something very, very smart. Something for which, he
naturally took the credit. He may have believed he deserved it, but Eric and the rest of
Neil’s current staff didn’t.
Eric grabbed his laptop and headed down the hall to Neil’s office. He wondered why
they were here so early and why, oh why, was Neil on edge already? Was something
more then a polite meeting about to happen? God, it was just too damn early in the

morning for another artistic/political battle. For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself
turning around and just walking out the door.
When he stepped into Neil’s Vice-Presidential sized-cubicle, with its neat, but sparse row
of college diplomas and various awards hung behind his walnut desk, first Maria and then
Neil looked up. He noticed the thinnest of their smiles. The third person in the room, the
boyish, junior member of the Spanish marketing team, Carlos, just glanced up looking
grim and a bit angry.
“How was your flight over?” Eric inquired, in an overly pleasant voice, as he sat down,
opened his laptop and prepared for the worst.
“Not bad,” jumped in Carlos, his reply punctuated with that silly machismo gruffness that
some men think is required when there are problems, especially when a woman is
watching.
“Well, that’s always a plus.”
Eric turned to Neil in the slight hope he would set up this discussion in a non-
confrontational manner. But Neil eyes appeared locked on the very large, gold picture
frame on his desk. Eric knew the frame held a studio portrait of his blonde wife and their
twin blonde daughters.

Eric shot an inquisitive glance over to Maria. Appearing surprised, she blushed slightly
and then turned to look at Neil. The silence in the room was growing more and more
uncomfortable. Eric was about ready to say something when Neil stopped looking at the
picture, folded his hands across his ample chest and leaned back in his black leather,
executive model chair and stared at the ceiling.
They all waited. When he finally spoke his voice was carefully modulated and paced. “It
seems there are some questions about… and maybe some unresolved issues with the look
and feel of the new Internet marketing campaign... as it pertains to Europe.”
Neil looked down from the ceiling to Maria for confirmation. She nodded slightly. Eric
was surprised how piously poised she was. She was acting as if she didn’t really know
him. He was finally nervous. His instinct was to rush in and try and fix or defend
whatever was causing the problem. But since he still had no idea what the problem was
with the “look and feel”, he held back and waited for her to tell him. He knew Maria to
be reasonable and cautious. He trusted not she would not raise the hysteria level.
But it was not she who spoke, but Carlos, his heavy voice resounding loudly in the quiet
room. “The web page you design…does not speak to the new Spanish customer.” Eric
still didn’t know exactly what it was he was defending. A moment later Carlos spoke
again. “Maybe it is well done, yes, but is too American.”

Maria looked straight at Eric for the first time, letting him know she was backing Carlos
on this. He held her gaze for a moment, trying to figure her angle. Her hands were
neatly folded in her lap. Her smooth pale face was stern; her very red lips pulled down
into a crescent frown. Her large brown eyes seemed sad; her perfectly coiffed, straight
black hair, stiff and shiny. It suddenly occurred to him that she looked a lot like Snow
White. Which I guess, he chuckled to himself, makes me the evil queen. He looked
down to hide his smile.
A few moments later though the smile on Eric’s face was gone, replaced by the slight
grimace of burning stomach acid rising in his throat. He knew he had better think
quickly before this negativity train really got rolling. Ok… let’s see… too American…
well at least it is a new complaint. It could be legitimate. He glanced over to Neil, who,
probably taking his cue from Maria, also looked stern. No help there, as usual.
“So, can you tell me why our corporate strategy isn’t working for you? What specifically
don’t you like; what exactly is… too American?”
“We are not thinking about what we like,” replied Carlos tersely, his black eyes holding
that superior glint of the young and untested, “we must take care for our customers.”
Eric wanted to reach up and wipe that condescending sneer off his pudgy face, but
instead he just smiled. “Fine, so what specifically doesn’t work for your, excuse me ‘our’
Spanish customers.”

“America is not the only market…you must think globally.”
Eric wanted to laugh. Here it was the late Nineties and still, the last time he had checked,
the European offices hadn’t come to a consensus on how the Internet was going to impact
their customers’ buying habits, much less develop a coherent, unified business model. So
this was their strategy? Attack him for the look and feel of the web site his Creative
Services department had developed for them? No wonder these pious European bastards
had had a millennium of wars. He was disappointed Maria was going along with this BS.
“Have the European offices reached an agreement on how to act ‘globally’?” Eric asked
in his most officious professional voice.
When neither Maria nor Carlos responded immediately, Eric went on.
“Look, I do understand that Spain must have its own look and feel; but, there are certain
structural decisions about our company’s web design that have to be made on a global
scale first. It is important for my team to work from the macro to the micro. That is how
we work globally. When you and the rest of the European market groups figure out what
it is your region wants to do with the web, then we can drill down to specific country
requests.”

There was a part of Eric that was well aware of what a corporate wienie he was sounding
like; but he didn’t know what else to say. He was weary of these finger-pointing battles.
They seemed so trivial. Why couldn’t people just mind their own business and do their
own damn jobs.
Carlos’s face turned a few shades darker.
Maria glanced at Neil and then said in a dry voice. “Europe in general, feels left out of
the loop on this. We came not to nitpick the site, but to build better communications with
Corporate.” She looked at Eric directly. “We Europeans require a better interface with
your group.”
“Really,” replied Eric, “none of this has reached my ears. What I mean by that is that no
specific complaints that Creative is not allowing or asking for feedback have been
directed to me. I do hear a lot of complaints from Europe. But they are mostly about
other local offices.”
Steady boy she is your friend.
“Well, then this is something all Europe can agree on,” interjected Carlos his face
growing even darker.
Not bad. Maybe the tight-assed boy has some smarts after all.

Neil leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Well it is good to air these differences…
these different perceptions of a problem. Now maybe we can all work together to reach a
clearer understanding of how to best address the needs of the European customer base.”
Eric stared at him blankly for a few moments and then smiled. “You are right Neil, this is
an opportunity.”
Carlos, whose mouth had opened, swallowed his words and stared out the window.
Eric felt a stab of sadness as he watched Carlos turn away. Despite the fact he found lots
of reasons to dislike him, he did sympathize with his frustration about not being heard.
It was true Carlos had come here to confront and wound him, partly to boost his own ego
and to impress the powers that be that he could take on an older player; but that was just
an aspect of being young. He needed to prove oneself. But on a deeper level, he had
come to fight for what he thought was best for his office and his customers and Eric
respected him for that. In fact, he couldn’t help but see himself in younger man. He
understood what it was like to have one’s career controlled by higher-level people whose
culture and values were not really the same as his own.
He wanted to walk over to him and put his arm around his shoulder and tell him how
much he hated all this bickering over turf. That all he really wanted was to make Carlos
and all the other marketing managers ecstatically happy. All he really wanted, at the end

of the day, was to be able to go home and hug Paul, taste and smell his warm body and
tell him how happy he was at work and how much he had accomplished that day.
But instead of going over to Carlos, he looked away busying himself with making a few
cryptic notes about the meeting, because if he was ever so foolish as let those types of
feelings be known, he would , from then on, be perceived as weak and not a real leader.
>>>>>>>
“Karen Meluch! Karen, come on up here,” called Mike, the thirty-year old accountant
turned CFO, waving her up to the front of the large meeting room. A pale blonde woman
of about twenty-two finally stood up, blushing deeply. But despite the prodding of the
other sales people around her, she was too shy to run up and stand before the gathering of
nearly two hundred of her colleagues. So grinning from ear to ear, Mike yanked the old
microphone from its rusty stand and sauntered over to where the woman stood blushing.
“Karen, has just signed on a brand new customer!” he exclaimed turning to the crowd, his
face flush with excitement, his muscular, hairy arms gesticulating like a carnival barker.
“And not just any company; oh no, not our Karen!” He paused, smiling broadly, his eyes
sweeping the beer drinking, pizza-gobbling crowd of youngish nerds sprawled casually
around the room.

“No… No Brand X for Karen, No way,” the intonation in his voice ratcheting up the
emotional scale from barker to evangelist. “She just landed a seventy-five seat,
$150,000 contract with a little company down the road we like to call … HP!”
The crowd exploded with cheers, hoots and catcalls. The young woman, who had
probably never been applauded for anything in her life before was rocked back by the
sheer volume of the noise. Tenderly, Mike grasped her shoulder to steady her. She
looked at him and then finally got up the nerve to wave at the crowd. A young, pimply-
faced man with a greasy ponytail slide over on his knees, ducked his head, and held up a
beer to her as an offering. She took it graciously and then gave a small curtsey to the
crowd, which set them off roaring and whistling again.
As soon as the applause and the foot stomping ended, Mike began again. “And Tom’s
Team…Tom, where the hell are you? Get up here.” Tom dropped his pizza and bounded
up to the front and then yelled for his team to join him. Soon, four scraggly-looking
nerds in t-shirts with weird logos, stood awkwardly at the front of the room, basking in
the adoration of crowd like winning football jocks at a noontime pep rally.
“Tom and his mottle crew have gotten the whole company up and running on the new
email system! So, no more… well… hopefully, no more emails lost in the ether…
Ethernet that is… way to go Tom, Matt, Jack, Brian and John!”

The crowd stamped their collective feet in approval. Finally, they had reliable e-mail.
“Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom!”
Eric, who had been hired, only a week earlier, as employee number 210, stood in a corner
nursing a beer and watching in utter amazement. This was a business meeting? It was
more like a small college rally after winning the big game. Definitely weird! Really
weird, he thought, taking another bite of pizza.
But deep down he was falling in love. He was coming to love this group of successful
misfits with the same degree of shy intensity with which he had hated high school pep
rallies. He felt strangely safe here. He fit, despite the fact he wasn’t a geek; he still fit.
Maybe there are place where square pegs do fit into the round holes.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Maria dropped by Eric’s cube just before noon and asked him if he wanted to go lunch.
The brittleness she had displayed at the meeting was gone now, replaced by her normally
warm smile and sunny disposition. He hoped her smile meant that they had moved
beyond the confrontation of the morning. There were so many other important things
they needed to talk about. He grabbed his coat and followed her outside into the brisk
afternoon air.
Much of what had made San Francisco the white city of Eric’s boyhood experiences and
dreams was gone now. The pastel buildings of human scale that stair-stepped up the

dizzying hillsides, their huge windows soaking in the deep blue bay, had long since been
eclipsed by the dark towers of commerce. But the white sun remained, its light still
mostly unsullied by pollution. And, on a clear, warm day, like today, when the air was
clean and thick with the sea, it still dazzled the eye. Maria, having come from a place
where the temperature was more predictable, walked out without her coat. While Eric,
being a true San Franciscan, had his with him; because he knew, from bone chilling
experience, that despite the warmth of this moment, the fog, that lay just beyond the
western hills, could suddenly rise up and march in on big-shouldered banks to shutter the
sunlight and reclaim its city.
They chatted amicably as if nothing had happened that morning as they walked the few
short blocks to a low, loudly painted building. Stepping from the street, through a
wooden archway, then across a tiny patio, they joined a long line of diners waiting to yell
their order at the cheerful Mexican lady who translated their requests into Spanish for the
troop of hair-netted servers presiding over the clanging aluminum serving dishes.
Multi-media gulch, as this area south of Market Street and a few blocks inland from the
Bay were called, was alive with young people. Many of who, despite their nerdy or
radical appearances were making major amounts of money. But here, everyone CEO or
intern stood in line for burritos and tacos. The banging silverware, the beige food trays
and the raucous chatter always reminded Eric of a high school cafeteria.
“So how is your boyfriend?” Eric asked, as the line inched its way forward.

“We broke up,” replied Maria.
“Oh,” shuffled Eric, feeling strangely sad about it. He turned and casually looked up at
the wall-mounted menu. The din of the place was suddenly overwhelming.
“Is that a good thing or bad?” He asked, trying not to shout.
She shrugged and pouted. “It’s ok.”
Eric had the urge to know more, but knew he probably shouldn’t ask. He kept his eyes
trained on the glossy yellow menu with its red, hand-painted lettering. The menu had not
changed since he started coming here months earlier, but he always looked anyway,
hoping something new would jump out at him and say, “Try me today”.
“Spanish men have a hard time with women who make more money than they do.” Maria
said quickly.
“Ah,” he replied, noting they were almost up to the Mexican lady and he still hadn’t
decided if today was the day he changed his order. “And how do Spanish women feel
about men who make less than they do?”

Out of the corner of his eye could see she was looking at him with a puzzled, almost
angry expression. “I don’t care about these things.”
“Burrito Pollo Grande!” he shouted, realizing this was not the day to try something new.
The goddess of the restaurant smiled and nodded.
So maybe that explains some of her tightness, Eric thought, as they moved to grab a small
table shoved up next to an amazingly dirty window. They quickly bussed the remains of
the last occupants’ meal and sat down. The seats were still warm. Eric squirmed. It was
always unsettling to him to sit in a stranger’s body heat. It was as if he was suddenly
intimate with that unknown person. He looked outside where, just a few feet beyond
their soot-encrusted window, trucks and buses lumbered by, adding a jarring bass tone to
the human din inside.
“Aren’t we just the hippest, sitting here in all this noise and dirt,” Eric chuckled, feeling
slightly self-conscious within a room where, he quickly calculated, there were only two
other people who were even close to his advanced age. He hated that he noticed these
things. Yet he was sure everyone else noticed it too. Maria seemed not to hear him.
“So you ok?”
Maria crunched a tortilla chip and turned to gaze out at the crowd.

“How are you and Paul?”
“Not much changes once you get past the first ten years,” he replied, a little too quickly.
He always felt conflicted whenever he told someone how long he and Paul had been
together. He wasn’t sure if he was proud of their longevity or embarrassed by the boring
stability it. “He is good, working hard.”
But he knew she needed something more from him. Maybe she wanted some reassurance
that money was always an issue in any relationship.
“Paul and I are ok for now,” he continued quietly. “We are going through some stuff
about life directions. He wants to buy a new car… he calls it an investment in his real
estate business. But you know, I am not so sure about where my job is going, actually I
am not sure where anything is going. This Internet bubble can’t last forever and my
economic sense of timing is weak at best.”
She eyes narrowed. “Are you really worried about your job?”
Her words stung him deeply and in a way he had not expected. Was he worried? He
smiled quickly, thinking he may have said too much. “No, I just worry about this tech
bubble in general. Don’t you?”
“Not really,” she shrugged.

Eric laughed. “Ah yes, I remember a time when I thought everything would last.”
“Well something must be bothering you.” She went on “You seem very different. You
are not the Eric I remember. Its like your passion has run away.”
Eric was dumbfounded. Where did that come from? Who was she to say something like
that? His passion had run away? What the heck did that mean? His face began to flush.
He struggled to keep his mood and tone causal despite the surprising knot of fear growing
in his gut.
He grabbed a corn chip and began to slowly swirl it in the mild salsa Americano. “Why
do you say that? What do you mean… run away?” He did not look at her.
“The Eric I know is all fired up about… about life, about politics, about Europe’s
marketing challenges. Now you seem like…” she slide back in her seat, her eyebrows
furrowed, “you not really care. Everything is just a problem to get through… so boring
for you. I thought maybe it was Paul.”
Eric’s mind was reverberating with so many thoughts, his heart pounding with so many
emotions that, “Hmmm,” was the only reply he could muster.

A woman’s voice, broad with a Mexican accent asked, “two pollo grandes; one with mild
salsa?” Eric and Maria both nodded and she slapped two huge, aluminum foil wrapped
burritos down in front of them.
Eric grabbed his with both hands began stripping off half the silver wrapper. He opened
wide and bit down hard sending guacamole and beans spewing down the sides. He
chewed quickly, his mouth syncing with the thoughts churning in his brain.
Daintily, Maria unwrapped hers and cut off a small section with her knife. She chewed
slowly and glanced around the room. They continued eating in silence, unsure as to
where they should move the conversation next.
Bored and troubled by his own inner dialogue, Eric drifted into eavesdropping on the four
nerdy twenty-somethings, at the table next to them. Their banter was fast paced and quite
amusing. He had eaten half way down his burrito before the fullness in his stomach
snapped him out of his grinding trance. He lay the burrito down and wiped the salsa and
chicken fat from his mouth.
“So, I take it you are unhappy with the latest campaign as well,” he ventured, giving her a
sly smile “Not enough passion?”
“Not nearly enough,” she laughed. Then she drew closer. “You really don’t like your job
anymore, do you?”

“What a thing to say”
“Is it true?”
“No it is not true,” he replied firmly his voice carrying more conviction than he felt. She
looked back down at her burrito. He suddenly felt bad, like he had scolded her for saying
something she felt.
“Why all this searing honesty? You in therapy or something?” He chuckled.
She slapped his arm playfully. “No I am not in therapy,” she laughed letting the subject
drop.
They finished their meal quickly and headed back to the office talking about places they
had visited together in Madrid. She left him at his desk and hurried off to another set of
meetings. Eric buried himself in work, passing the rest of the day smothered in surface
concerns. He didn’t think of their conversation again.
When he stepped into their house that night, there was a log roaring in the fireplace and a
Bachelor Pad CD playing on the stereo. Exhausted, and grateful to be home Eric sank
down into his leather chair and took a deep gulp of the wine Paul brought to him. A few
moments later, Paul’s strong warm hands began massaging his neck.

“Long day?” Paul asked with just the right touch of sympathy. He loved Eric’s neck. It
had a long, swan-like elegance, not unlike that of Audrey Hepburn. But Paul never told
that to Eric. He knew Eric was too vainly macho for any comparisons to female movie
stars.
“mmmmm” sighed Eric.
Paul slid his hands down to Eric’s pecs and gave them a squeeze.
“MMMMMM” responded Eric.
Paul laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Dinner would be ready in fifteen,” he
whispered and padded off to the kitchen.
Eric slid further down into the warm leather. Through half shut eyes, he watched the
orange and yellow flames dance. Images of Maria began moving in across his mind’s
eye: The turn of her head; the tone of concern in her voice; the hint of pity in her eyes as
she commented about his loss of passion. It disturbed him how easily she had tuned into
his restlessness.
But her comments had been way over the top. He wasn’t that unhappy, just a little fried
around the edges and trying to make some big picture sense of it all. Still… she had

thought he was almost a different person. Maybe she was right. Maybe he never was
satisfied. Maybe life was never good enough for him. Maybe he would always be
looking for a new dream to escape the drudgery of his current dream and what it had
slowly degenerated into? He sat up in his chair. He was getting too old for this. How
many more times could he reinvent himself… and for what? He had a great job, a
wonderful partner, a nice home and he was healthy. He was living the life he had always
wanted despite his youthful aspirations toward some vague notions of a more noble
existence; a deeper more giving relationship with life; a sense of spiritual connectedness.
But wasn’t that silly? Church was for people who couldn’t deal with reality. Besides,
what more could he want? Ninety-five percent of the world’s population didn’t have
what he had. He felt like he was a spoiled brat for not being completely happy.
Paul called him to dinner. A walnut and apple salad was followed by pesto over linguine
and finished with raspberry torts. They ate by candlelight, accompanied by the soft
sound of Chopin playing on the stereo. Paul was happy again, chatting on about his day
and plans for the weekend. Eric just nodded and smiled, his mood slowly darkening
toward a foggy depression. When they finished, Paul took the bottle of wine into the
living room to settle down for a night of TV.
“I am so glad we finally got a Tivo,” remarked Paul. “I just don’t get why you marketing
types think we want to spend a full third of our TV time watching your crappy
commercials.”

“Some people say they are the best part of TV,” replied Eric dryly, his mind finally
growing nicely fuzzy and forgetful from the wine.
“You get all that BS from some focus groups? The ones you stack with just the right
people to get the answers you want. ‘Why four out of five advertising executives, love
commercials and wonder why there aren’t more on TV?’” mocked Paul, doing a fair
imitation of Vivian Leigh in “Gone with the Wind”.
Eric chuckled. “I am not in television, or advertising, as much as you wish I were.”
“No I don’t, if you were anymore shallow you would be a dessert,” grinned Paul as he
lifted the remotes that ran the TV, the stereo, and the DVR.
Eric smiled and sipped the last of his wine. He found Paul’s constant fiddling with the
blue scheduling screen almost as annoying as the hair product commercials. He knew he
was in for several minutes of screen jumping before they would be watching anything.
Eric grew tired of TV after the third sit-coms and left Paul for bed. He fell asleep quickly
into a dismal dream.
Eric looked around, up and down, but his eyes were unable to penetrate the gloom. In
every direction he looked there was only a dark haze. He tried to think, to figure out how

he got where he was. But he had no memory of that. He was just there, in this dark,
vacant, quiet place. His sense of orderly time had collapsed.
He felt and then clearly heard a rising sound. It was a strange, almost bestial cacophony;
and it was growing louder and coming toward him. He cocked his head back and forth
trying to figure out its direction, while getting ready to run in the other. But the noise
seemed to be coming from everywhere. He grew anxious and started to shiver. He tried
to clamp down on his emotions while he struggled to figure out what it was that was
headed toward him. He began to notice the sounds had patterns. He followed the gait of
the patterns until finally it struck him that these weren’t the callings of animals, but the
singsong vocalizations of human speech. He listened harder, but he couldn’t understand
anything they were saying. He couldn’t even tell if they were speaking English. Torn
between frustration and fear, he decided to move; maybe if he moved he would be able to
figure out where the speakers were.
He took a step forward and felt something heavy tugging at his leg. He jumped away
from it but it moved with him. He looked down dreading what he might find. He saw a
shackle and chain attached to his right ankle. He panicked and yanked at it determined to
get it off. But the rusty, old, ankle clamp held. He tried to see where other end of the
chain was attached, but it was lost in the gloom. He was too freaked out about what he
might find to follow the iron chain back to its source. He started to get the feeling he was
trying to escape something.

In his panic, he called out to the voices. Then he clamped his hand over his mouth, they
might not be friendly; they might even be his jailers. He looked down at the clamp again
but in the dim light he could see nothing more than its sinister shape. He pulled on the
chain gently. Surprisingly, it gave him some slack.
He shuffled ahead slowly. He was on a flat plane littered with trash; his panic was
turning to despair. A few steps later he caught the glimmer of something shiny blue off to
the right. He moved toward it. It was flashlight. He picked it up. It looked new, its
surface, a sleek azure hue. He turned it on. The beam was bright but narrow.
His first impulse was to shine his light into the darkness to try and find the people talking.
He wasn’t afraid of them at this moment. Surely they would see his light and come to
help. But as he visualized them coming to his rescue, a rush of embarrassment stayed his
hand. He loathed the idea of anyone seeing him trapped and controlled like this. He
turned the beam on the ankle clamp. He could now that there was a small, golden lock
fitted through the iron clamp. It looked new, like the flashlight. He wondered if he
could break it since it was so small. He started to move around looking through the trash
for a rock, or anything heavy and strong. But there was nothing but decay and dust. He
began to worry there was no way of ever getting free. Then, just as he began to fall in
utter despair, he realized he was rushing away from the gloom.
He woke up with a start. The clock blinked 3:30 in the morning. Eric shivered and
turned over. He lay for a few moments trying to think of pleasant things. He wanted to

go back to sleep, but not back to that place. Slowly, he drifted back, finally tumbling into
a deep dreamless sleep.
Paul lay on his back watching the shadows on the walls of their bedroom grow more
distinctive as dawn washed in from the eastern hills. Next to him Eric was still sound
asleep, his gentle snoring rhythmic and undisturbed. Quietly, Paul raised himself up on
one elbow and looked over at his partner. The morning light was just turning white,
casting shadows across the planes of his face. Paul’s lips lifted into a slight smile. Eric
always looked so funny when he was asleep. His eyes became all squinted and his mouth
sagged open like he couldn’t get enough air.
But after a few moments, Paul’s smile faded and sadness began to creep across his face.
The once sharp, masculine angles of Eric’s cheeks and jaw had grown soft with weight
and age. The lines around his eyes and mouth had multiplied and deepened with stress.
The years were not being kind to Eric at all. It appeared to Paul that he had aged ten
years in just the last few.
Paul rolled back over on his back, it was more than just the outward signs of aging that
bothered him; it was the loss of the easy virility that had burned so brightly in Eric when
they had first met. It seemed to be ebbing away a little more each day. Paul was at a loss
as to why. It didn’t seem natural that Eric should be growing old so fast.

He winced a little as he recalled how he had been so sure the problem was medical. At
fifty, it had to be heart disease, diabetes, or cancer that was sapping his vitality. His fear
of losing Eric had worked on him until his intuition had cemented into certainty. He had
been adamant about Eric getting a full physical exam. At first, Eric had scoffed at the
idea; even acted a little insulted. But this attitude had just spurred Paul on. They had
fought about it more than once. But in the end, Paul’s pleading worked and Eric went in
for the tests. It took days to get the results back. Eric never seemed worried and Paul did
what he always did when confronted with problems he could not solve on his own; he
gave it over to Jesus. Paul knew he had done what he could and now it was up to Him to
decide the outcome.
When the results came back, all that it showed was that Eric did have some slightly
elevated cholesterol numbers. But, there wasn’t a hint of cancer, diabetes, or discernable
heart disease. Paul had felt too relieved and grateful to feel foolish at the time. He even
went to the church, which he never did anymore, to give thanks and a small donation.
Eric, despite his earlier bravado, apparently felt the same, because he never said: I told
you so. In fact, he had thanked him for caring enough to worry. They went out and
celebrated that night and never spoke of it again. But Paul was still uneasy. Something
just wasn’t right. Eric only had eight years on him but he was sure he looked and acted at
least fifteen. Lord knows what he eats at work… maybe it’s a simple lack of exercise; or,
maybe Eric is simply just letting himself go because he is comfortable in their stable
relationship? The thought of that pissed Paul off. How could anyone do that? Eric
wouldn’t hear of a gym… called them temples of vanity. But Paul wasn’t ready to give

up. He needed to find something that Eric would do, to improve his health and energy.
If he didn’t do something soon, people would begin to think they had a daddy and boy
relationship.
Eric snorted and rubbed his nose. Paul, feeling a little embarrassed by his thoughts and
not wanting to wake him, slipped out of bed. He stood up and stretched, raising his arms
above his head reaching for the ceiling. His muscles felt good and tight. He bent over
and touched his toes; blood rushed to his head. The muscles in his ass were tight and a
bit sore. He straightened back up and twisted from side to side at the waist to get the
kinks out of his back. He rubbed his hands over his biceps and then down over his chest
loving the smooth, muscled tautness. He took a deep breath and tweaked his nipples,
smiling softly at the pleasure it brought. He felt awake now. He padded quietly into the
bathroom for a shower.
Stripping off his boxers, he checked himself out in the full-length mirror. He flexed his
muscles; they were sculpted and tight, without being over done. His dark trimmed pubic
hair definitely made him look better hung.
He pushed open the clear glass shower door and stepped in. Frothy warm water cascaded
down from three showerheads running over his shoulders and down his back, washing
away any lingering tightness. He took a rough sponge from the stainless steel shower
rack and bent over to scrub his legs. He wondered if he should shave them as well as his
chest, now that he was biking so much. They said it lessened the air friction and of

course it would make the muscles in his calves appear better defined. He wondered what
Eric would say, but then dismissed it. He grinned like a naughty boy and grabbed the
razor.
He stepped from the shower and glanced in mirror. His freshly scrubbed skin glowed a
healthy rosy brown. He turned and stretched his legs. He loved how they looked,
defined and sexy. He wondered if Eric would even notice he had shaved them. He could
be so old-fashioned about such things.
Paul grabbed a large red bath sheet and wrapped it around his waist. He leaned over and
turned on the sink tap. While waiting for the basin to fill, he carefully examined his face.
He didn’t look thirty but he didn’t look his forty-two years either. Mid-thirties was how
he saw himself and was sure others saw him as well.
Suddenly, he was struck by how much he missed the old Eric. They had been so hot
together. Everything else in their life was going so well now. When and how had he lost
the hot part of the man he fell in love with? Fifty was young. He saw lots of successful
men in their fifties and sixties going out, looking good.
The fear he might be losing Eric to some horrible disease gripped him again, sending icy
chills through his gut. He knew he was probably being silly but he couldn’t help it. He
turned off the water and stepped quietly back into the bedroom. The room was brighter
now. Light and shadow played fitfully across the bedcovers as the trees outside tossed in

the morning breeze. Eric’s mouth was closed now; his whole face had relaxed. Paul
really did love him, even if he had grown a bit haggard and chubby.
Impulsively, he tiptoed over to Eric’s side of the bed. Ever so lightly, he ran the tips of
his fingers along Eric’s stubbly cheek. His beard tickled and caused him to smile. He
sent him happy, healthy thoughts. Everything will work out he told himself.
Suddenly, Eric’s eyes flew open. Paul yanked his hand back.
Eric blinked a few times, then his face turned quizzical.
Paul smiled. “You ok?”
Eric nodded, groaned and turned over pulling the comforter with him. Paul dropped his
towel and slid in between the warm cotton sheets and pressed up against the heated body
of his lover.
“Sorry if I woke you,” he whispered.
Eric pressed back letting the delicious warmth of Paul soak into him as he drifted back to
sleep. Paul rested quietly, feeling the soft hairiness of his partner’s body melding into
the smoothness of his own. When his breath had lengthened and he was sure Eric was

asleep again. He carefully got up, finished dressing and went downstairs. The happy
buzz of hope still lingering to brighten his mood.
Paul walked across the kitchen and pulled open the wooden blinds. He smiled when he
saw that the fog had already retreated back to the bay, leaving behind a freshly scrubbed,
sunny morning. He started the coffee maker and gulped down a glass of pineapple juice.
Then he strolled out across their expansive front deck to retrieve the paper.
When he stood-up and turned back toward the house, the young sun was just creeping
over the edge of their fence, sending rays of pale gold to brush the red roses that stood
like little trees in deep ceramic pots along the western edge of the deck. He felt proud of
how large and abundant the flowers still were, despite the lateness of the year. The sun’s
heat tickled the back of his neck as he walked toward them. He caught a whiff of new
fragrance on the edge of a breeze still heavy with dew. Impulsively, he plunged his face
into one bouquet and then another, loving the overpowering scent and the caress of soft
thin petals across his cheeks. Laughing, he stepped back and began to examine the
leaves. Many were spotty with fungi, but that was to be expected in October. He stuck a
finger into the dry looking soil at the edge of the pots to check for moisture. They would
need water in two days he figured.
Back in the kitchen, Paul poured his coffee, grabbed a peach yogurt and sat down at the
breakfast table. He picked up the paper and quickly scanned through the news and
entertainment reviews as he ate. Nothing caught his eye so he set the paper aside and

retrieved the errands list he had started the night before. He ran down it and then began
jotting down a few more items that he thought needed to be accomplished that day. He
glanced up at the clock. It was nearly nine. He gulped down the last of his coffee and
ran upstairs. He gently woke Eric, letting him know that coffee was waiting for him
downstairs. Eric growled his displeasure, but nodded his agreement to get up.
It was moving toward eleven as they finished up their breakfast at the local café. Paul,
who was feeling anxious about the list in his shirt pocket, was growing irritated at Eric.
First, he had taken forever to get ready to go out. Then, when they were ordering
breakfast, he had adamantly refused Paul’s suggestion that he join him in an egg white
omelet, countering that instead, he would not eat his hash browns. But then of course, he
had gone ahead and dumped catsup all over them and eaten half of them anyway. And
now, when Paul had given the waiter his credit card and was ready to go, Eric’s nose was
buried in the local alternative newspaper.
“Listen to this…” commented Eric, rustling his paper to get Paul’s attention. “This guy
wants all bike paths throughout the watershed to be eliminated. He says only walkers
should be allowed on the trails. Says, it is better for the environment and safer for
children who are hiking.”
“Why are you telling me this? Are you just trying to ruin my day? ” Paul asked as he
pulled on his coat, “Why do you think I would possibly care what some skinny assed,
eco-fascist writes in that trash paper?”

Eric looked slightly stunned and then amused. “Well I just know how much you love to
ride your mountain bike. I just thought you might be interested in what the opposition
was up too.”
“Whatever,” Paul shrugged. “Mountain biking was born here in Marin county, they are
hardly going to outlaw it. It’s part of the healthy image and all that.”
Eric smiled quietly. Paul was always so definite about things that mattered to him.
“Shall we?” Asked Paul as he took his credit card back from the waiter and signed the
bill. “You do remember what the mall parking lot gets like after 11; especially this close
to Christmas.”
Eric dutifully folded his paper and reluctantly finished off his latte. “Jeez, Paul you are
worse than the department stores. Remember we still have Halloween.”
“When was the last time you did anything wild on Halloween?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”

“ Well… now that we have become middle-aged, middle-class fags, Christmas is our
holiday, not Halloween. Unless of course, you decide you want to try drag for the first
time.”
Eric laughed and shook his head. Paul was right of course. But Halloween had been fun.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
Eric stood on the second floor landing and looked down the long stairwell to the glass
front door. His boyfriend, Joe stood at the bottom playfully rubbing his crotch. Eric
laughed and buzzed the door open. Joe bounded up the stairs two at a time, his long
brown hair undulating with each step. When he reached the top, he dropped the big
brown bag he was carrying and he grabbed Eric, wrapping him up in a crotch grinding
bear hug. They grinned at each other until Joe grabbed the back of Eric’s head and
shoved his tongue in deep. A thrill raced down through Eric’s gut to his penis. He
groaned and wrestled Joe back, shoving his tongue down his lover’s throat. Eric started
to yank open Joe’s shirt, hungry to taste his skin, but Joe pushed him back. Surprised
Eric stood gaping at him, his chest heaving with lust. Joe got that devilish, sexy grin.
Then he scooped up the wrinkled grocery bag and held it in front of Eric. Eric asked
what was in it. Joe told him he would have to wait and see.
He grabbed Eric and pulled him into the living room and sat him down on the faded red
couch. Reaching into his shirt pocket he produced a fat joint. When he lit it, his nose
curling up in that cute, sexy way it always did. Gasping and holding his breath, Joe

handed the burning joint to Eric. Eric grinned and licked the mouth end of the joint.
Then he sucked a deep lungful and handed it back. They traded hits back and forth;
gazing into each others eyes, growling, kissing and giving each other light punches to the
chest until the joint was half gone. Then Joe leaned back. He held the joint like a
cigarette and told Eric to strip. Eric laughed. What a crazy request. Joe stared at him
like a cat, his eyes narrow and tinged pink from the smoke. Eric felt foolish and excited.
He was so horny by now he could hardly keep his hands off of the skinny, muscular man.
He thought, fuck it, and jumped out of his clothes. His skin sizzled as he sauntered over
in front of Joe. He stopped inches from his face swaying his hard-on back and forth
trying to tempt him. Joe chuckled, then reached up and gave it a squeeze. But a moment
later his hand slid away and he told Eric to wait and sit quietly; he had something he
wanted to show him. Slightly disappointed, but still very curious, Eric did as he was told.
Joe put his bag on the floor between his legs and grabbed a floor lamp and positioned it
like a spot light.
Once the stage was set, he brushed the hair out of his face and gave Eric a wink. Eric felt
a shiver of excitement. Joe began to hum “The Stripper” while his right arm swayed
back and forth like a cobra. His hand dipped into the bag and began to pull out and lay
before a wide-eyed Eric, a very strange assortment of objects: First, there were two
white afro wigs; then two pairs of combat boots painted silver; followed by two long
swathes of plaid material; four, bright red, glitter-encrusted, baby bottle nipples; and a
matching pair of silver space blankets.

Eric looked at Joe bewildered.
“We are going as Space Aliens,” sighed Joe, his eyes fluttering for effect. “Actually we
are Catholic school, polysexual, space aliens,” he grinned, picking up one of the glittery
white Afro wigs and pulling it on over Eric’s longish brown hair. Eric touched his new
plastic hair and rolled back laughing. Joe handed him the last of the joint and then set to
work transforming Eric into an intergalactic dream date.
Fifteen minutes later Eric stood before a full length mirror torn between hilarity and
terror. Staring back was a shock white, Kabuki face, dusted with glitter to match his
white wig. His dark chest hair was now pink and fluffy. He had two huge, red, baby
bottle nipples glued over his own. Wrapped around his waist was a red plaid mini-skirt
held in place by an oversized gold safety pin and his feet were shod in sliver combat
boots. Joe finished up the look by draping a silver space blanket across his shoulders
and fastening it with a large green glass broach.
“It’s really Kryptonite,” he whispered playfully. “Just in case we want to seduce
Superman.” Then he stepped back to admire his creation. “Very nice, now just one more
item to make you every Venusian’s wet dream.”
He reached into the bag and slowly pulled forth the piece de résistance: a long, soft, black
dildo. He smacked Eric with it playfully a couple of times, asking him all sorts of dirty

questions about where he wanted it. Then he reached up under Eric’s plaid skirt and tied
it so just the head swung into view as he walked.
“Oh my god Eric you are such an interstellar stud,” laughed Joe as he began to glue the
baby nipples over his own quarter sized areolas.
Eric couldn’t move away from the mirror. Never, in his whole entire life, had he ever
looked so bizarre, or felt so completely ridiculous. The image staring back at him from
the mirror clashed so completely with the cool, averagely masculine persona he had so
carefully cultivated throughout his life that it was beginning to scare the hell out of him.
In fact, he was terrified; terrified he might lose the aura of magical protection that his
blandly acceptable machismo had afforded him. Would he lose respect not only from the
straight world but also from other gay men if he went out dressed so flamboyantly?
Would they look at him and shake their collective heads knowingly and pronounce him:
“just another nellie queen”. But he wasn’t a nellie queen; he knew that deep down and
tonight, he felt just crazy enough to challenge himself and the world over the notion that
to have this kind of wild fun you had to be effeminate. He swished his skirt and started to
laugh.
But the longer Joe took his time getting ready, the more Eric’s resolve began to seep
away. He knew Joe was a cool guy but maybe this was crossing the line. He wasn’t sure
he could handle it; being out in world, dressed like this, being so obviously gay and crazy

even though it was Halloween. He wondered about what Joe would say if he said he
didn’t want to go. But he knew what he would say. He would call him a pussy. Besides,
Joe had worked so hard on the costumes and seemed so pleased with how they had turned
out, there was no way he was going to say or do anything to bring him down.
The cool night air felt icy on Eric bare skin as they stepped out on to the street. He pulled
the space blanket close, hoping to stay warm and to maybe hide just a little. He blushed
deeply when the playful, raunchy catcalls began, but he smiled too. They climbed into
Eric’s tiny Honda and started across town toward Folsom Street and the gay bars. Joe
hung out of the window the whole way screaming at every costumed person he saw. He
was obviously so relaxed and having so much fun Eric began to lighten up and even blew
the horn a few times.
When they walked into the first bar Eric was feeling more comfortable with the whole
costume thing and they moved easily into the hot sweaty crowd. After a few beers Eric
grew reckless and giddy; stomping around in his big boots, dancing like a madman and
humping madly so his dildo flew, sometimes smacking other dancers who ogled it with
mock lust.
Around midnight Joe dragged him out and they headed up to the Palace Movie Theater in
North Beach, where a troupe of gender-bender drag queens called the Cockettes were
putting on a Halloween Show. They split a hit of acid on the drive over.

They pushed through the brass doors of the movie theater’s art deco lobby and were
instantly sucked up into the throbbing chaos. Eric felt the metallic taste and the hyper-
drive in his brain kick in. Wildly dressed men and women brushed up against him as they
oozed back and forth across the wildly floral carpet. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be
looking for something: recognition, hot sex, friends, drugs, calm, seats or the bathroom.
Eric was stunned by the number of handsome masculine men decked out in dresses; hairy
chests and drooping mustaches not shaven or hidden but pushed out through plunging
necklines or framed by floral hats and bright lipstick. He was stopped, mid-lobby, by an
overwrought southern belle in a Tara green velvet dress and his/her friend; a big haired,
stiletto heeled, jock strap clad, Texas beauty queen with a rhinestone tiara, and a sash
proclaiming him/her “Miss Wackoff”. They fought loudly over his black dildo, forcing
Joe and he to laughingly escape into the theater to look for seats.
The vacant stare of zombies hungry for living flesh stared back at them from the huge
movie screen. Eric felt a little sick and looked away from “Night of the Living Dead”.
Unruffled, Joe stood and scanned for two open seats through the flickering gloom. The
crowd was loud, shouting out to the zombies and the eternally stupid victims. Eric
started to rush colors as the zombies started eating human flesh. The sound was
deafening. Eric grew nauseous. He told Joe he needed to go to the bathroom and fled.
He rushed out into the now nearly empty lobby whose colorfully patterned carpet now
looked like a badly made pizza. He hurried into the Men’s room and into an empty stall.
He shut his eyes trying not to smell the piss and tobacco smoke. Spinning wheels of
color cascaded across his mind’s eye as the drug rush raced to its peak.

At some point later, he realized that the door slamming, toilet flushing, and hollering had
dwindled away. The restroom was eerily silent. Panicked that he was missing the show,
he stood up and flushed.
He took a few deep breaths and cracked open the door. The mirrors above the sink
shimmered. He stepped out and was confronted by the image of a bare-chested man in a
white wig, big nipples and a plaid skirt. He stared for a long minute still shocked to see
how he was dressed and out in public. Finally, something in him cracked and he started
to laugh. He curtsied, blew himself a kiss and turned and skipped out the door.
Luckily, Joe’s white Afro stood out in the sea of darker heads and he joined him just as
the overture began. The stage lights went up and actors began to drift in. Some of the
bigger men strolling out in colorful summer dresses shod in the largest high heels on the
planet, while other guys strutted their stuff in bulging jock straps and football helmets.
The storyline was a very loose take-off on a classic Greek play; the serious philosophical
points replaced by witty punch lines and bastardized gender stereotypes. Within minutes,
Eric was laughing so hard, he was crying.
Late in the second act, the unabashed absurdity of it all suddenly snapped Eric awake. It
became so clear, in that moment, how very silly the deep reverence society holds for
gender and roles is. That behind all of the girly make-up and boyish football passes there
were real individuals struggling to hide what wasn’t “normal” just so they could fit in.

He started to laugh even louder as the shame and guilt he had clung to ever since he first
realized how sexy other males were, started to drop away. He reached over and gave Joe
a kiss. Joe grinned and winked as if he understood.
>>>>>>
Over the years that followed, he often wondered about Joe. They had broken up a few
months after that night simply because Joe had an itch to go to New York. Eric had been
hurt by his sudden decision to leave. But Joe had scoffed at such sentimentality. He told
him they would see each other again; and Eric, caught up in the daze of his own
innocence, had believed they would. It seemed so sad and stupid now that in the weeks,
months and years that followed he had made no effort to try and contact the man who had
shown him that being gay was a gift.
But still as Eric grew older and life edged him down from the sweet, floating clouds of
youth and into the bruising box of human limitation, he had often thought: “How would
Joe react to this?”. Thinking of him always stripped away the BS letting him see life
more clearly; particularly during those bruising moments of humiliation and dread, when
the siren song of the closet beckoned him with its misty promises of safety and
acceptance. It was the memory of that wink and sexy, self-assured grin that had given
him the strength to fight the urge to succumb to those self-deluding lies. If only he had
had enough heart and smarts back then to tell that amazing man how grateful he was for
everything he had given him. But now, of course, it was too late. He was probably dead
of AIDS.

Thinking: “He probably died of AIDS”; had become Eric’s standard end mark whenever
he recalled the wild, gay friends of his youth. It was during the Eighties, just as Eric was
maturing into his thirties, that the epidemic had muscled in on his happiness and began
pulverizing the men he cherished. The virus, efficiently strip mining away youth and
vitality until the dazzling men were little more than cadaverous shells, teetering on the
edge of death, rocked back and forth by bodily humiliations and agonizing suffering until
the virus finally decided it had feasted enough and brutally executed them. Horrified, he
had embraced the thorn bush of cynicism with its creed of expecting and accepting that
the worst happens to the best people; using it as a shield to remain strong and deny the
virus anymore power to hurt him.
When the siege had finally slackened and with new drugs that stretched out the years,
Eric had lessened his grip on stoicism and subsequently fallen into a deep funk. He had
felt strangely bereft and alone… like the lame boy in the story of the Pied Piper. All of
his playmates had been led away, maybe to a better world. He was the child whom fate
had chosen to leave behind to live in a town stacked high with sad memories. He knew
he should be grateful that he had not been infected; and he was, but sometimes it felt
harder to be left behind; left behind to remember all that had gone before and would
never be again.
Lately though, he had come to realize how demeaning and self-centered it was to dismiss
people with the blanket assumption that they were dead. After all, he was alive and free

of the plague. Paul and he had found love and built a wonderful life together. Why
couldn’t Joe be alive and well and living in New York or Key West, or even Paris or
Tuscany with a man who loved him utterly? He deserved that and more.
The parking lot at the mall was full, just as Paul predicted. It took several minutes of
cruising up and down the rows before Eric finally made a Land Rover back down and
scored a spot. But by then Paul was already stressed and edging toward a bad mood.
They stepped into the enveloping tan wood and stainless steel environment of a home
furnishings chain store. Paul was on a mission, stepping right over to the glassware
display, his eyes scanned the rows quickly. The bright fluorescent, multi-leveled display
threw an eerie light on his face, exaggerating the anger lines that began to deepen. “They
are still out of our style,” he snapped. “How long has it been now, two months?”
Eric shrugged and moved away, back toward the front door. He just wanted to be outside
in the fresh air, away from all the studied, focus group hominess of the store.
Paul marched over to the sales counter and demanded to know from the tired looking,
blonde saleswoman when they might be expecting his pattern to be back in stock. She
put on her reading glasses and tapped her computer keyboard. After a few seconds, she
replied they were on back order.
“That’s what someone said last week.” Retorted Paul, standing his ground.

The woman looked dazed and didn’t answer.
A woman in a black leather jacket peaked around Paul to see if he was buying anything
and when she saw he was empty handed, moved around him and shoved a glass vase at
the saleswoman.
“I am sorry, Sir.” The saleswoman finally replied, grabbing the vase.
“Well, I am having a dinner party next week-end and those glasses better be in.”
As if she cares whether we get our crappy glasses or not, Eric thought, feeling more
sympathy for her than for Paul. He stepped out of store and looked longingly toward the
other end of the mall where Starbucks was located. He really needed another jolt of
caffeine to deal with all of this. It wasn’t that he didn’t like having nice things; he just
couldn’t figure out why the process of acquiring them always seemed so difficult.
They continued through the mall, stopping to shop in a few stores. Paul began to feel
better after he was able to check a few items off his list and Eric felt better after he got his
latte. With his brain buzzing nicely again, Eric drove them to the mega building supply
store. Inside its enormous covered space Eric felt more relaxed. He got a big cart and
wandered up and down the huge aisles, sipping his coffee, admiring all the cool gadgets
and building supplies. Paul went to the Garden Shop. They left an hour later, their SUV

loaded down with various tools and garden supplies; and their credit card loaded down
with another two hundred and fifty-seven dollars of debt.
When they got home they changed into their grubbies. Paul turned on some Latin music,
stripped off his shirt, grabbed a hoe and went right to work clearing out a space for the
new orange and gold mums, his mood definitely upbeat. But for Eric it was just hard
work. After a short while of clearing away dying flowers and virulent weeds, he begged
off saying he had some office work to do. Paul just shook his head and laughed. Eric
blew him and kiss and ran up stairs to take a cool shower. Stepping out, he slipped on a
pair of fresh boxers and a t-shirt. Drifting into the familiar comfort of his home office, he
sank down into the big leather desk chair and switched on the computer. While he waited
for it to boot up he stared out the small window at the mild day. He loved being up here;
locked away with the World Wide Web wondering what kind of adventure it would take
him on today. But before he could travel away on some Ethernet thread, he had a few
emails from work he needed to respond to. He had learned it never hurt to answer certain
people on Saturday. It left a slightly, workaholic impression that was good for one’s
business reputation. Once he was connected, he straightened up in his chair, put himself
in his business mind-set, and opened his mailbox. The first one on his list was from
Maria sent a couple of hours earlier. Surprised, and more than a little apprehensive, he
clicked on it.
“Thanks for lunch. Think about what I spoke of. Better you decide what you want to do
than have others decide for you.”

Eric was stunned all over again. He sat back in his chair, anger and embarrassment
starting to rise. Yes, they were friends and maybe she was trying to help, but this was
business and she was his professional junior. Where did she get off? Why was she
pushing this so hard? Did she know something? Did she want him to quit? Maybe she
wanted his job? Besides, she was young enough to be his…
Downstairs, just inside the garage, Paul, decked out in gloves and a facemask, turned his
baseball cap around so its bill shaded his neck from the burning sun. Wadding up an old
t-shirt, he soaked it in the can of dark stain. Squatting down in front of the raw chest of
drawers, he lightly touched the wet rag to the virginal, blonde ash. Working across the
dry, thirsty wood in a slow, circular motion, he slowly infused it with the rich walnut
finish. Just enough, not too much, he didn’t want to create a gooey mess. He smiled, as
the swirling grain of the wood rose up, it was going to turn out fantastically.
An hour later, he stepped back and admired the four-drawer chest from all angles. The
finish was perfect; exactly as he had imagined it Tomorrow morning he would move it
up into the guest room; the final piece of that room’s three month, redecoration project.
He found a sheet of plastic and made a tent around the chest to protect it from any dusty
afternoon winds. Satisfied it would be safe, he pulled off his facemask and gloves and
left them on the workbench. He threw the rag away and ran upstairs to jump into the
shower.

Stepping out, he stood in front of the mirror and gently pushed through the strands of his
thick hair checking to see if any gray was beginning to show through the mild hair dye he
used. But the strands appeared as black as they had through his thirties. His secret was
safe. He smiled and thought about shaving his legs again, but they were still smooth
from the morning. He went into the bedroom and pulled on his spandex bicycling gear.
On his way out, he noticed that once again Eric was locked in his office. He wondered
fleetingly, how much of the time he spent in there was really work and how much of it
was playing games or checking out porno. Paul smiled and shook his head. He found
porno way too boring to spend any time looking at it. “I am doer, not a watcher!” He
would always say if the subject came up.
“Going for a ride. Back in a while.”
Eric grunted his assent through the door.
Paul lifted his red mountain bike off of its rack in the garage and mounted it on the back
of Eric’s Grand Cherokee and headed out to his favorite riding track on the northern
slopes of Mt. Tamalpais State Park.
Traffic was light and he made good time. He even found a good parking spot, shaded by
a swath of tall pine trees, near the start of the fire road. He lifted his bike off, slipped on

his red and white helmet and began peddling up the dirt road. He went slowly at first,
giving his muscles the necessary five minutes to warm and stretch. Then he began to
pump harder, working his heart rate up to the fat burning level. He pictured the big plate
of pesto and linguine he had eaten the night before to help keep him motivated. Eric
ought to have something like this to keep him healthy, he thought briefly, with a mixture
of worry and resignation.
The fire road sliced through a hillside of old growth oaks, madrones, firs and pines as it
wound its way up Mt. Tam to the fire lookout at the top. Younger trees, eager for open
access to the sun, crowded the edge of the road. Above them, the older canopy, just as
hungry for sunlight, sent branches out as far as possible over the open road shading the
dirt track from all but the highest, mid-day sun. There were hikers, dog walkers and
several other bikers all working their way upslope. Still more were coming back down.
Paul nodded to a few he recognized.
About a mile into the ride the hill steepened further and Paul crouched down and went
into his zone. His narrowed his mental focus and kept his legs pumping steadily, his
heart rate quickening and the cool burn in his lungs deepening. After a few minutes, the
nerves in his leg muscles were sending fiery messages to his brain. Ignoring them, he
continued the climb. Slowly, he began to move above the pain into a mild endorphin
high. After about a quarter of a mile, the road flattened out again and Paul straightened
up. He lifted head letting his lungs catch up as he headed toward the first large curve in
the road. There were no trees clinging to the road edge or spreading a protective canopy

here. During a recent grading of the road all of the trees on the down slope had been
either shoved over, or drowned beneath a tidal wave of scooped out dirt. But, because of
the dearth of the trees there was a spectacular view. Paul slowed his stride for just a few
moments, gliding effortlessly out of the shadows into the bright sunlight, his eyes
drinking in the green and tawny hills cascading down to the icy blue waters of San
Francisco Bay. The late afternoon fog was still far out to sea, thus the very tops of San
Francisco’s spires were visible behind the green shoulder of Mt. Tam. To the left, the
silver roadway and proud towers of the Bay Bridge gleamed in the misty distance.
Underneath it a fat black tanker lumbered toward the Golden Gate. He took a deep
breath and moved on, whispering: “Thank you God for bringing me out of Winslow,
Arizona and letting me live here.”
Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he stood up on his pedals, leaned into the curve and
pressed hard building up speed toward the next incline causing a rooster tail of dust to
rise in his wake.
Eric resisted the urge to fire back a response to Maria’s email. Instead, he turned to the
other, more mundane business issues awaiting him within his inbox. But as he worked
through his answers to them, part of his mind continued to churn over her words. What
did she mean by other people making choices for him? Was Maria really letting him
know there was a move afoot to replace him? But if that was true, why not just say it?

When he had finished with all his other emails, he leaned back in his chair and took a
moment to gather his thoughts. Feeling calm, he brought hers back up. He read over it
again, trying to parse out a meaning. But it remained as innocuously wise, and opaquely
foreboding to him as before. He realized he had no idea how to respond to her, no clue as
to what tactic he should use to deflate her sense that he was somehow losing his grip.
Fear and self-doubt began rumbling through his mind again.
He looked out the window trying to distract the rising wave of negative emotions. Was
her motive really friendship? Was this her way of getting him to leave, so, in the ensuing
shuffle, Carlos and she could gain control over their own marketing? Was she signaling
that she was about to force the issue of a separate European Creative Director position
and maybe land that plum job herself?
He clicked away from her email. He needed time to think. Worst-case scenario: he was
in a slump. But he had awards and recognized accomplishments far beyond what most of
his colleagues would ever be capable of attaining. He was a critical player, and had been
for years. She would never be able to replace him. She was a hack compared to him.
But then again… maybe she was just being a good friend? Telling him to get his act
together or he would be out.
He finally decided it was best not to not tip his hand; he needed to get her to tip hers first.
He would take a lighthearted, casual approach. Show her he wasn’t at all worried. He

typed back: “Tell me all you know or your next campaign will feature an American Flag.”
But then he hit delete. It just sounded stupid. Maybe he was losing it!?
“Are you telling me there is a vast right-wing conspiracy against me?” he typed and then
hit delete again. She might not understand. Very American, he thought ruefully.
Finally, he just let it go. It would be best to do this by phone. He could read her better;
reassure her better. He would call her on Monday.
He turned off his connection to his office computer and switched over to a free porno site.
He looked at images of naked men and couples for a few minutes before boredom set in.
Yawning, he turned it off. He wondered what Paul would cook for dinner and if he
would be up for sex.
Paul was breathing heavily and sweating profusely as he reached the rocky pinnacle that
was the goal of his ride. He glanced at his watch. He had made it in twenty-seven
minutes. That was one and half minutes less than his average. He came to a stop and
checked his heart rate. Perfect.
He looked around to see if anyone else was coming up the road or hanging about.
Reassured he was alone, he hoisted his bike up on his shoulders, and trotted down a
barely visible trail that wandered through the thigh-high, dried grasses, toward a dense
outcropping of granite boulders. Reaching the boulders, he stopped and looked around

again before slipping into the cool shade. He lowered his bike and leaned it gently
against the lichen-covered granite. Now hidden from view, he sat back against the rough
bark of a pine tree to catch his breath. From high up, a bird’s sharp call set a counterpoint
to the mesmerizing stillness of the early autumn afternoon.
Paul flipped open his sports bottle and poured some water over his head. The chill felt
good. He was proud he had made it in just twenty-seven minutes; it proved he was
getting stronger. He stretched his legs straight out to admire their shape. He stripped off
his shirt and poured cool water on his chest. His dark brown nipples stood up taunt
against his molded pecs. He was so ready. He glanced at his watch wondering if he was
too early.
He heard the crunch of another bike approaching. He quickly wiped his face with his
shirt and stood up. Stepping silently from behind his tree he peered up the dusty trail, his
mind buzzing with nervous excitement.
Up on the roadway a shiny bike slid to a stop. The dipping sun blinded Paul’s view of the
rider’s face, but he knew the bike and those long hairy legs well. The rider glanced
around, just as Paul had, and then he too lifted up his bike and ran down the trail into the
cool shadows. As the tall rider reached up to pull off his helmet, the dying sun glinted
off the thick gold ring on his left hand. He smiled and shook the sweat out his longish
brown hair. He set the helmet down, took a moment to check around and then leaned

down to kiss Paul. Paul arched up, shoving his tongue deep inside his lover’s mouth; his
heart pounding faster than it had all day.
Eric wandered around the house a bit aimlessly. He loved his time away from everyone
on Saturday afternoons, but today, maybe because of Maria’s email, there was a gnawing
uneasiness inside. I should be working on my book, he thought, his mind pulling up the
often started, but never finished, saga of gay life in San Francisco. But as usual, he didn’t
have the energy for it. Besides, he was beginning to think that kind of book has been so
done.
Finally, he just opened himself a beer and went out onto the deck. Settling down in his
warm lounge he looked across the bay water and smiled. I worry too much, he thought. I
have a great life.

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Out of Place - Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

sweater. Is it South American?”

him. “He is such a sweet boy.”

daughter with baby.

of the software company they both worked for.

Out of Place – Shepherd 1

scanning her computer screen.

hippies who had sold out to the Gen-X corporate world.

future direction of Internet marketing… Now that sounds exciting.”

“Crap, is that today?”

Out of Place – Shepherd 2

their marketing problems were.

surprised when Neil picked up on the second ring.

Out of Place – Shepherd 3

“They got here early.”

“How nice,” replied Eric trying not to sound too sarcastic.

“So, you are on your way?” continued Neil.

“Sure am!” He replied cheerfully and then hung up the phone.

Neil’s current staff didn’t.

Out of Place – Shepherd 4

turning around and just walking out the door.

grim and a bit angry.

opened his laptop and prepared for the worst.

“Well, that’s always a plus.”

twin blonde daughters.

Out of Place – Shepherd 5

executive model chair and stared at the ceiling.

and feel of the new Internet marketing campaign... as it pertains to Europe.”

again. “Maybe it is well done, yes, but is too American.”

Out of Place – Shepherd 6

down to hide his smile.

don’t you like; what exactly is… too American?”

Out of Place – Shepherd 7

in his most officious professional voice.

Out of Place – Shepherd 8

own damn jobs.

Carlos’s face turned a few shades darker.

other local offices.”

Steady boy she is your friend.

growing even darker.

Out of Place – Shepherd 9

Out of Place – Shepherd 10

around the room.

Out of Place – Shepherd 11

crowd, which set them off roaring and whistling again.

Out of Place – Shepherd 12

“Tom! Tom! Tom! Tom!”

weird, he thought, taking another bite of pizza.

Out of Place – Shepherd 13

sunlight and reclaim its city.

Out of Place – Shepherd 14

“Is that a good thing or bad?” He asked, trying not to shout.

She shrugged and pouted. “It’s ok.”

about men who make less than they do?”

Out of Place – Shepherd 15

angry expression. “I don’t care about these things.”

The goddess of the restaurant smiled and nodded.

the human din inside.

“So you ok?”

Out of Place – Shepherd 16

stability it. “He is good, working hard.”

that money was always an issue in any relationship.

economic sense of timing is weak at best.”

bubble in general. Don’t you?”