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Date Posted: 01:08:21 12/24/03 Wed
Author: Deucalion
Subject: Drowning Angels, Chapter One

Drowning Angels
Chapter I

I’ll tell it. All of it. I’ll tell you everything this time, I swear it.


I looked over to the passenger seat. Finally pre-dawn lit the sky enough to see him in color, or a vague hint of color, in any case. He’d been asleep the last hundred miles or so. The CD he’d put in had repeated three times, maybe more, and every time “I miss you” came on, I made the song itself repeat a few times.

It’s horrible, driving across the country with the only man you’ve ever loved, the man you know is the only one you ever will, ever can love, right beside you, and not knowing whether he’ll ever love you. There he slept, wrapped up in my coat, and there I was a foot away missing him.

“Hello there, the angel from my nightmare…” Way too appropriate. I felt that way almost every time I saw him. Especially these days.

I lit one of the champagne-flavored cigarettes he’d given me, cracked the window a little bit, and smoothed the coat over him to make sure he stayed warm. The very thing I was running from, the very thing I hoped I was running to, was right here in the car with me. I had no other choice; for me, there was no escape. I queued the song back up, and kept driving.


I’m cursed with a strange brand of luck. If you look at my life, and who I am as a product of it, you’d likely be confused. Maybe you know me. I’ve always been dealt the worst hand. That’s one thing, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

On the other side of the coin, though, I’ve always been able to play that hand and win. Just about every horrible thing that’s happened to me has turned into an incredible boon, something I couldn’t do without.

I don’t want your pity, but I’ll be honest. Abuse, poverty, loss, betrayal… it’s all happened, and with plenty of repetition. I’ve got no family to speak of. They all brushed me off long ago, even though none of them ever knew I got dealt some faulty genetics, too: I like guys. They never even suspected that.

Not like it’s easy to tell, I guess. I’ve been told I’m bad at being gay. I don’t really care. In fact, most gay guys don’t like me (and trust me, the feeling’s usually mutual). They think I’m “repressing myself” or “trying to deny my identity.” It’s just the opposite. I like guys, I’ll admit it right out, but I won’t change myself to “be gay.” I’m the person I’ve grown into, and my sexuality’s always been the same, so why should I change now?

No, I suppose most folks can’t tell. They could if they paid any attention, to some of the things I say, or to my eyes. But then, not many people pay attention these days.

That strange brand of luck hasn’t extended to relationships. Maybe I’m relentlessly picky: I need someone who can match me wit for wit, who’s as insanely, blindly loyal as I am, and who stirs my heart as much as my mind.

I found one, once, but I got to know him. It was close, but a bad match. I’m twenty two years old now, and if I’ve only found one poor match… well, you have to start wondering about odds, probabilities.

This past August, though, I got hit hard. I was on duty at the Transit Terminal, right next to the student union. It was my job during my last two years of college (I graduated in May), and I kept it in my gap year while I applied for grad schools and saved up some money. Instead of driving transit buses, I coordinated the night shift, and made sure everything ran smoothly.

It was going to be a routine break, I figured. The sun was just now going down, and it was Friday, which meant the University Programs people would be setting up for Friday Night Live, a bunch of activities designed to give students something to do besides go out and get drunk.

I walked in, heading across the lounge toward the eastern half of the union, to grab some coffee from Patsy’s. Coffee helps me deal with the boredom of watching buses drive around in circles.

There’s a fireplace in the large common room, near the entrance to Patsy’s. What I saw there that night nearly killed me on the spot. In the months since then, it’s come even closer.

Well, I guess it wasn’t so much “what” as “who.”

I don’t believe in “love at first sight.” What happened, though, has made me a believer in “pain at first sight.” Because this certainly wasn’t love. How did it feel? It was exactly like having the breath ripped out of you, being dunked in a near-freezing lake in the middle of winter, being jerked out, and then being punched in the gut.

Of course, I reminded myself of something I’ve always believed to be true. One’s capacity for love is only as high as one’s capacity for pain.

It took a good deal of composure to keep walking, poker-faced. All I’d done was look at him. My stony resolve failed, and this odd grin crept onto my face. To my surprise, it was mirrored in his. I didn’t say anything to him, but I looked away, and proceeded to Patsy’s.

What the hell was that? And who is he? A timid bit of hope and glee crept into my murky mood, but soon vanished. I’m a skeptic, and I figured it was just hormones, or something of the like.

After I’d gotten enough caffeine to kill a horse (“two shots in the dark” – two shots of espresso dumped into sixteen ounces of their darkest-roast brew), I went back out and sat down at one of the small tables along the edge of the lounge. I pulled the paperback I’d carried with me out of my pocket and set to reading, studiously keeping my eyes away from the man I’d just seen. He was standing talking to some others, and a couple of people had come and gone. Those I did watch. From appearances, it seemed he was in charge of coordinating some of the night’s activities.

You’d have been proud of me. I stilled the adrenaline, the curiosity, the odd flecks of hope and happiness, and was finally able to immerse myself in the book. Better not to risk the pain that comes with that sort of thing, you know? It’s a good philosophy, most times.

Somewhere in the lower half of the fourth page I’d gotten to, I was cordially informed that my tactic wasn’t going to work.

“What’cha reading?”

Fuck.

“ ‘String Too Short to be Saved. A friend demanded I read it, so I figured I might as well get to it.” I turned the book over in my hand, cover up, holding the place with my finger.

“Any good?”

I finally risked a glance up at him. It hurt again, but I didn’t want to look away. It’s rather like the pain of a wound, one that, regardless of the pain, you can’t help but prod.

“Eh, I really wouldn’t know. I just started it, but I guess I’m not concentrating too well tonight.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I had no clue why he’d come up and talked to me, but I knew one thing for certain: I didn’t want him to leave.

“You working?” he asked. The question confused me, and my face showed it. He pointed at the handheld radio at my waist. It had spit out the morse-code station identifier a few moments before. I hear it so often that I rarely even notice it.

“Well, I saw the walkie-talkie and figured…”

“Oh! Yeah, I work for Transit. Help run the new night shift, keep the buses running.”

“Right, it’s cool that they’re running so late now. It’s nice to know you can stay late at the library and not have to walk home.” In years past, the buses quit running at 6 p.m. Now, they ran until 11p.m., which was a lot more convenient for most students who lived off campus.

“Yeah, when I was on ASG trying to push it through, I never figured I’d end up having to help administrate it,” I said, laughingly. I was among the many students who had campaigned for the late bus service. A string of rapes had happened around campus, and our extra pressure made the board of trustees cave in, and grant our request to extend the service.

“I don’t know whether to congratulate you on the victory or console you on the loss.”

I laughed. I was feeling a lot less guarded about talking to him.

I stood up, and we made small talk for a while. He recommended a few books, and then had to leave to run a quick errand. As it turned out, he worked in the Student Involvement Office, which was sponsoring the night’s events. He promised he’d find some info on the books and bring it to me when he returned.

Ten minutes went by, and I was there waiting, doing my best to appear to be patiently reading my book. That actually amounted to reading a sentence, getting distracted, rereading the sentence, and repeating the whole process ad nauseum.

Another five went, and the skeptic in me was gaining a good foothold. I wasn’t just going to up and leave, but I had to radio one of the buses. I’d arranged to meet him on his next return to the terminal.

I got up and walked out the door, taking the handheld radio from my belt. I’d have stayed inside to radio, but the union was big, and while the handheld can pick up signals from the tower and the buses, it wasn’t powerful enough to transmit through all that stone, metal, and wiring. I needed to buy a little time, so I gave the Green bus some quick instructions that would assure I didn’t have to visit it personally. At least, not yet. Soon the driver would need a break, and if my break driver didn’t return, I’d be stuck driving the bus.

When I’d returned, the man was still nowhere in sight. On the table, under my book, was a computer printout. It was five pages, detailing information on several books, with a synopsis of each.

Shit. Damn it, he came and left. Damn it! Blah, he’s probably just some weird extravert, anyway, talks to just about everyone, but doesn’t really go much deeper.

Skepticism reigned. I sat at the table for a minute, glancing over the printout, and then staring at the abandoned page of my book. After a moment, I gave in, and started gathering my things, prepared to go back to the terminal.

“My name’s John, by the way.”

I growled to myself. I pride myself in being aware of my surroundings. I’m usually impossible to sneak up on, no matter how immersed I am in what I’m doing. It wasn’t so much a credit to him as a knock against myself – by this point I was very distracted.

“Grey. Like the color, with an E. I thought you’d left or something. The books look pretty good,” I said, holding up the papers he’d left me. “I’ll try and track down one of them to start as soon as I finish this one. With my job, I usually have plenty of time to sit and read.”

He started to say something, but I didn’t catch it, as my handheld belted out “Tan to 314.”

I motioned for John to follow me to the window, where I could transmit, and signaled that it’d just take me a moment.

“314, go ahead,” I spoke into the radio’s microphone.

“Did you still need to 49 at RTF?”

“10-4, wait there for me on your next arrival, I’ve got 10-50 for you.”

“10-4”

In plain English, the Tan bus driver asked if I still needed to meet with him, and I confirmed, and let him know I had a change of assignment for him.

“Sorry about that. He’ll be here in about five minutes, so I’m going to have to leave for a bit.”

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. They scared me, those eyes, partly because they reminded me a lot of my own. An irish girl that I met once did her best to flatter me, and told me I had “Dublin eyes.” I didn’t understand, but she explained that Dublin, or “Dubh Linn,” meant “black pool” in Gaelic. His were just as dark, intense, and I couldn’t help but remember the girl’s phrase.

“Will you be back later? I’ll be around all night for FNL…” he trailed off, looking toward the lounge, where balloons were being tied to some of the chairs.

“I may have another break. I’m usually doing nothing between 10:30 and 11:00, and all I do after that is take the van down back to the bus barn by the soccer field. I’ll come back then, and try and find you.”

“Sweet.

Through the window, I saw one of the buses turning through one of the far gates. I glanced at my watch. “That should be Tan.”

We both watched it approach, and, of course, the lit marquee proved me right.

“Right on schedule, huh?” He asked, sarcastically.

“Yep. Duty calls. See you soon, I hope.”

I bolted out the door, toward the transit station. “Denver St. Transit Facility,” or DTF for short, it’s essentially a large, stone block, with a hollow room inside, surrounded by what looks a lot like half of a rather small race track, all built on top of a parking deck. The buses stop at various sections around the small building, marked with signs for the colors of each route. I waited beneath the Tan sign, of course.

Logan, the driver, unbelted himself and took the stairs down out of the vehicle. Before he uttered a word, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it expertly. Like most of the non-student, full-time drivers, he was a creature of habit. Unlike the majority of them, however, he had no problem having a young college student as his superior, and he was always striking up friendly conversation with me.

“Running late? I saw you dash over here.”

I laughed, and held up my coffee. “I really needed some caffeine tonight, and the lines were long at Patsy’s. They’re having karaoke later, so the place is getting pretty full.”

He nodded, and took a drag off his cigarette. The breeze shifted, and he moved with it, making sure I wasn’t in the line of his smoke, as he knew I didn’t smoke. A simple man, he was very considerate, and competent, to boot – definitely one of my favorite drivers.

“You’re always on time. If you’d been a minute later, I’d have thought you might be dead or something.”

I grinned. He was right; the way I saw it, if I was early, I was on time. If I was on time, I was late. If I was late… something must have gone horribly wrong. Call the S.W.A.T. team.

I quickly explained a change that was being made to his route for the night. A late night festival in the downtown area was going to have traffic blocked off, and if he didn’t change his route, he’d probably get stuck down a street he couldn’t get out of. We chatted a bit more, and he boarded his bus and departed.

Over the next couple of hours, I immersed myself I my job. I tried not to let myself be distracted by the weird meeting from earlier. I knew, though, that I had to track him down again. Hell, I might even bring myself to ask the guy out. I’d never done that before. I always swore I would if I met someone that seemed like a possibility.

The only thing was, by now I was firmly convinced that no such possibility existed.

What I’d give to be proven wrong.

By some strange miracle, time kept flowing, and eventually it was finally time to leave. I braced myself, did a final check on the departing buses, and made my way back to the union, where I could hear the band FNL had booked playing from thirty yards away.

I’ll admit that it was one of the few times I felt afraid. Believe it or not, though, I wasn’t afraid of rejection. I was afraid he might actually say yes.

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