Silver Heat

Lance had not left the house in three weeks. Even so, the freezer remained stocked to overflowing with those thrown-together concoctions that, in other parts of the country were called casseroles, but here were called "Minnesota hot dishes". There was one, he knew, that contained soggy tater tots. Well meaning friends had dropped by for the first three days, bearing food and flowers and condolences. Several of the women, Martha's friends, had even proffered more intimate consolations, but he had declined graciously. In his younger days, Lance would have welcomed advances from many women, but now, the way things were, he had scarcely any interest in things sexual. Even though this six week period of Martha's final illness and death, was the longest he had been without sex for more than 30 years. For sure he was still desirable, even though he was past sixty. He was fit and trim. His graying hair still held a hint of the fiery red it had once been. And he had the biggest cock he himself had ever seen, or heard of. And it would still rise when called upon, sometimes with the help of a little blue friend. Actually, he wasn't sure how easily it would rise any more. Martha had always been able to get him up, keep him up, but Martha, dear, dear, Martha had practiced for over thirty years at ways to arouse him. And he had learned, too, over the years, how to please her soundly, even quickly. Sometimes she had been the one in a hurry. But love, practice, arousal, all was gone now, gone with everything Martha. Gone forever. God, how would he make it?

Sooner or later, he knew, he was going to have to get it together, move on. But not right now. People: family, friends, associates, editors, publishers, kept asking the same rotten question. "Are you all right?" He badly wanted to scream, "NO I AM NOT ALL RIGHT!" His Martha was gone, dead. Passed on, passed over, gone to her fucking reward. He sometimes wondered what would happen if he merely decided to be 'not all right', to just collapse and let someone take care of him. But, in truth, quitting was not his style. He would go on. What choice did he really have? His piddling comforts were too important to him. What would anyone do; what could anyone do but park him in some nursing home where he would have to wear clothes all the time? Where he would probably have to hide in the bathroom to masturbate, like an eleven year old.

Oh Shit! Oh Fuck! Martha. Marthamarthamartha. Fuck! If he didn't get up, get moving, he would slip into an enormous black hole waiting to suck him in, suck him down, down, down.

Fucking Minnesota winter was really killing him this year. "Ha, listen to me 'killing me' hmm do I wish it were me instead of my Martha? Sorry dear, dear Martha. What good would that do? I still wouldn't have her, be with her."

Everything he did, every move he made, only intensified the bleakness of his loss. Their big Tempurpedic still smelled deeply of her. In her chair beside his, the cat now sat alone instead of curled on her legs. "Oh damn it Martha!" For perhaps the fortieth time since that awful day, tears streamed down his face. After about fifteen minutes, he rose and wiped his face. Where could he go? Was there a place, someplace warm, but where he and Martha had never been, some place where the only reminders of Martha would be in his heart and in his head?

He crossed the room to the phone. Dialed. "Anderson and Smyth, literary agents. How may I direct your call?"

"Hi Jacklyn, it's Lance."

"Lance, how are you? Are you all right? I was so sorry to hear about Martha."

"Thanks Jackie, I appreciate it. The flowers you guys sent were lovely. I know Martha would have appreciated them, mums were always her favorites. Tell Ed and Larry thanks for me too, would you Jackie? Listen, Jackie, I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure Lance, anything. What can I do for you?"

"I need to get away from here. Could you book me on a plane as soon as possible to someplace in Florida. Any place warm will do. Small, out of the way. Use the company account, I'll expense it to a novel, maybe Uncertain Seasons. Oh and I'll need a car, too okay? I'll find a place to stay after I get there. You won't be able to reach me for a while, then I'll get in touch with you. I guess I will stay at least two weeks. There should be a jillion miles in the account from all those book signings. If there is a problem with Ed or Larry, just tell them I'll reimburse from my account if necessary. I just thought this would be the quickest easiest way."

"No problem Lance, I'll do that right away. Are you at home?"

"Yeah. Thanks Jackie, I owe ya one."

"Nonsense, Lance, I owe you a lot. Just the pleasure I got from your last book is worth it."

"Thanks for sayin' that Jackie. You are a world class liar. Call me when you've got it set up, okay."

"Will do, Lance."

He tried to watch TV, but he was too restless. He considered going for a walk, but was reminded of their long walks together. Exhausted, but unable to sleep, he stopped off at the bathroom for a sleeping pill. He eyed the bottle, thought of taking the whole thing, but was not really tempted. He still would not be with Martha. He left a trail of clothes on the way to the spare bedroom and fell naked on the bed. He used the old trick of not closing his eyes until the pill took effect but he didn't think it would work.

"Lance, look honey, it's that pileated woodpecker. I just know he's nesting around here somewhere. Isn't he great." Lately he and Martha had taken to birding. It had just sort of flowed naturally from their daily walks and longer hikes. They took photos sometimes, but mostly enjoyed seeing the various thrushes, pine siskins, warblers and finches. She had given him a bird identification book for Christmas, but he thought she was more interested than he, especially since she had seen that giant woodpecker a few months earlier.

As she spoke to him, she touched him often, as was her custom: a short pat on the shoulder, a lingering caress on his back, or her hand resting lightly on his thigh. Her delight was child-like, endearing and contagious and reminded him why he had married her thirty-five years earlier. He grinned at her like the fool he always became when she touched him. He wondered if he should kiss her. After all, it was Saturday! Just the idea made the old monster start to twitch in his shorts, and he marveled at the utter femininity that washed out from her to engulf him. He reached. . .

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring Ring Ring Ring. Lance crawled across the spare room bed and picked up the receiver, glad he had installed the phone in this room a few months ago, even though anyone who stayed probably had a cell.

"Hello? Hello?"

"Hello Lance? It's Jackie. I got that flight for you."

"Wait, what? You did that so fast, I just spoke to you."

"Are you sure you're okay, Lance, It has been six hours since I talked to you."

"I'll be fine, Jackie, I just fell asleep."

"Well, anyway, I got the first flight with space available. It leaves at 8:30 in the morning for Daytona Beach. Now I know Daytona in the spring is probably not the place you had in mind. But, I also ordered you a rental and didn't book a hotel. I thought you could drive from Daytona, south would probably just get more and more crowded, but you could drive north along the coast there until you found someplace small and quiet, it's beautiful country there. Anyway, I am faxing you the e-tickets. That's United flight 205 non-stop to Daytona. 8:30 A. M. tomorrow. I know it is a bit early in the morning, but you said as soon as possible. The next opening wasn't for two more days, except for that stand-by shit, and I couldn't see you sitting in an airport for hours and hours. Did I do good?"

"You did great, Jackie. Do me one more favor and don't tell anyone where I am until I contact you. If one more person asks me if I am all right, I think I will just fall to the floor and let everyone take care of me. Or I will shoot them and be taken away to a nice prison."

"Oops, sorry Lance, I said that twice."

"It's okay Jackie, you couldn't know. Thanks again for your help."

"No sweat Lance, anytime."

The flight south in the morning was uneventful and boring beyond belief. By ten A.M. Lance's arthritis was acting up in every joint in his body and his restless leg syndrome was driving him crazy. Does medication ever help? The only thing medication ever did was kill a good hard-on. He remembered when his beloved first born, his ici ban, had killed herself. His doctor had said he was situationally depressed and prescribed pills. The pills had further depressed him by killing his ability to orgasm for over three years.

During the flight, the stewardess had wheeled up in her clattering cart and offered drinks. He almost started, but knew if he did, especially now, he might never stop. How much alcohol is enough? Pints? Liters? Gallons? Oceans? No amount mankind could ferment, would ease this pain. Lance knew only time would ease this one, lots and lots of time. But he sure hated flying. Collecting the rental car was a hassle as usual, but soon he was pulling out of the airport.

He was very happy to be driving. Using all the miles in his account, he had upgraded to a powder blue Volvo C-70 convertible. He took the turn-off for the A1A. The little car jumped as he floored it; his long gray hair billowed out behind him. Would his search lead him to serenity? What was he was doing? Was it an escape or a quest? What was that saying? 'Reality is what happens to us while we are busy planning something else?' Perhaps that was what he was hoping for, for something to happen.

He made a resolution, a promise to himself, then and there. Whatever happened on this trip, however unplanned, however spontaneous, he would go with the flow. What is it they say in Dead Poets? Carpe diem! That is exactly it. He would seize the day. What did he have to lose? At that moment he said a secret prayer. (secret because he didn't believe in the power of prayer, only in the power of action). He prayed whatever happened, something would. The one thing he could not, would not stand for, was nothing happening. He was terrified of being bored, because he would have too much time to think, to wallow.

He took the turn toward the coast and, after some confusion, wound up on the A1A headed north. He was not far out of town when he began to notice some heavily wooded areas and signs for state parks. "Wow forests and coastline." He had not expected that. "Good old Jacklyn. She knew what he liked." As he drove farther north, the flavor of things still held a touristy touch, but became decidedly more down home. Down home was all right, but..... "Oh shit," Lance thought, "I hope I am not going to have to put up with a bunch of red neck, racist bullshit! I made a vow when I was in this part of the country years and years ago that I would never abide that bullshit without speaking out. It will be such a chore if I have to deal with that shit now among all the other stuff. Could I just keep my mouth shut and let it go? Well, maybe I could put up with a rebel flag or two, but not much else. "Okay Lance Hunter," he said to himself, " judging before you even get there? That's prejudice you know!"

Tooling along with the top down, he decided that, while he probably wouldn't need sun block, he had better purchase a pair of sunglasses pretty quick. He saw a sign for a place called Ormond Beach, then immediately a large billboard advertising GIANT RV WORLD, Ormand Beach. "Wow, what a great idea," he thought. He didn't have too much trouble finding the right place, even though it seemed half the world here consisted of trailers and RVs.

"May I help you sir?" the salesman asked, almost before Lance could get out of the car.

"I want to rent an RV for a couple of weeks, right away if possible."

"What did you have in mind, sir?"

"Nothing fancy, there's just me, but it would help if the bed were somewhat spacious and I could cook and wash and pee and all that."

"Follow me sir."

The first "Camper" the salesman showed him was one of those houses on wheels with a sales price of more than six figures. "Uh, What's your name," Lance asked, "I hate saying 'sir' or 'hey you' or 'mister' all the time."

"Hi. I should have introduced myself right off. The name is Greg." Shaking hands.

"Well Greg, how about we skip about thirty or forty trailers here and you show me something way down the line, something small."

"You know what sir? I think I have just the thing. In fact you may not believe it. I have this little trailer, uh, over this way. . . .was used, made for, I think, a movie production company for one of their stars to use on location. There! There it is!"

Lance had to laugh when he looked at it, it was the oddest looking trailer he had ever seen. It was a little like an airstream, but white, and it had this square looking box on the end. Lance was about to turn away, but Greg was already standing with the door open, motioning him in. Two steps later, lance was convinced. He noticed that the total asking price was $2,500. "Say Greg, how much would it cost to rent this thing for a week?"

"Let me see," calculating. "Eight fifty a week, everything included."

'Well Greg, here's my problem. I'm down here, don't know anyone. Maybe I'll do some fishin', some camping. But I don't know how long I'll be stayin'. Say I rented this monstrosity for three weeks. That would come to $2,550. But you are only asking $2,500 for the whole thing. So suppose I just offer you two grand cash, we'll go back to the office and fill out the paperwork and I'll pull that little piece of crap off your lot this morning?"

"How about $2,300 plus tax and license."

"And I'll bet that takes me up to $2,500 which is what you were asking to begin with. Twenty-one fifty, you pay the tax and license and we'll close the deal right now." Lance held his hand out for Greg to shake.

"Okay, okay you got me you dirty crook, twenty-one fifty it is!"

They shook hands on the deal, but Greg didn't let go immediately. The Young man stepped back and Lance could swear the salesman was checking him out. He had to admit that Greg did not look bad. Lance guessed he was around thirty-five, an aging surfer perhaps, deeply tanned, as Lance suspected everyone around here would be, with longish blonde hair made almost white by the sun. He had tight tight pecs and abs and, as the salesman turned and walked to the front, Lance noticed a pair of nice tight buns moving gracefully around in faded jeans. "What are you doing?" his conscience asked. "You haven't looked at a man that way in thirty-five years."

It took a little time to finish the deal. The dealership wasn't so keen on a cash and carry for that kind of money, but a bank transfer would take quite a bit of time and Lance was in a hurry to get on. Finally he suggested that the manager Google his name and, after a few minutes, the sale was approved. In another fifteen minutes, Lance was on his way, towing the weird looking trailer behind the convertible. He made his way to the coastal highway again and headed north. He drove through several national and state parks, all without losing sight of the sea. Soon the area began to take on almost the look of Fort Walton Beach on the gulf, where he had spent three years in the military. The sand here, though, was a deeper hue, not the startling white of gulf beach sand. As he drove along, his mind began to fantasize about Greg, the RV salesman. "Even at my age, I must still have it," he said to himself. "I'm sure Greg was checking me out." Lance surprised himself by getting the beginnings of an erection. He shook the daydreams out of his head, pushed down on the center of his crotch, put the pedal to the metal and roared up the coast highway toward his future, laughing for the first time in a month.

Driving was good, driving was healthy. While he was driving he could not break out in tears. He knew in his heart it would take much, much longer for the pain to lessen, but he thought, hoped, it had now lessened enough to allow a semblance of normal activity. On his phone he did a search of places to park the silly little trailer and found a place called Bull Creek Campground that claimed it had the best fresh-water fishing in the state. Bass it said. "Well, there is plenty of ocean to fish in if that doesn't work. Sounds like only about thirty miles from the coast. Anyway," he told himself. "The idea is not necessarily in catching fish, but in trying to catch them."

Lance suddenly realized he was starving. Breakfast had been coffee and a banana. He didn't, wouldn't, eat airline food, so he had munched the free cookies and downed a diet 7up. That was it. And now it was almost three in the afternoon. Some of the beachfront places reminded him a little of the places where he had danced and tried to meet girls in the 60s in Fort Walton. That made him think of Neal Bradley, his best friend in the Air Force. His "good buddy". That's what they had always called one another, "good buddy". He and Neal, still underage at nineteen, had found a liquor store that would sell to them. A couple of times a week, he and Neal would buy a bottle of vodka and pass it back and forth on the beach, gulping it warm, right out of the bottle, swimming and splashing in the surf, listening to the eerie sounds beneath the sea, and kicking up luminescent trails as they ran up and down the beach. Their play had been gay only in a very distant sense. It was sexual to some degree, that is, they always swam naked together, and there was a good deal of grabbing and fooling around, but it had all seemed perfectly normal and natural. He vaguely remembered, that. despite the liquor, they had both been erect much of the time. They also had spent hours lying on Neal's bed, listening to Brubeck, and Ahmad Jamal, and Jimmy Smith, and about a thousand other greats of progressive jazz. Sometimes, when no others were around, they would touch one another, but only in those asexual, punching pushing, male "acceptable" ways. One day Neal, while they were listening to some jams, Neal had said to him, "Hey Hunter, Check this out!" The music he put on had sounded to Lance like sick caterwauling, but it was Neal asking, so he had stayed and listened to a young folk singer. After that, they had spent many more hours, stopping and rewinding Neal's Sony 500 Reel to Reel, to pry out the meaningful words behind the wailing voice and sharp blues harmonica of Bob Dylan, Lance's favorite artist ever since.

The whole thing had come to an abrupt end one hot summer night on the beach. He and Neal had been passing the bottle back and forth for about two hours, talking about all those subjects that seem so important in youth, but go unremembered later. One common subject, Lance remembered, was sex. Both he and Neal had been virgins, so most of their waking hours had been spent trying, or thinking about trying, or planning to try, to 'get laid'. Anyway, all the talk of sex, the camaraderie, the semi-intimate touching, had always caused both he and Neal to experience major erections. They did not go unnoticed: even at nineteen, Lance had been very well endowed. On all their beach "outings", Lance had noticed Neal constantly looking at it, at 'him', at his very large penis, until one night, Neal had reached out and touched 'him', had very briefly caressed Lance's raging erection teasingly, then run off down the beach. Lance had pursued, laughing, finally catching up and tackling Neal playfully to the sand, landing full on top of his back, Lance's hardness nested between Neal's taut buttocks. They both held their breath for almost a minute. It seemed that time and space had stopped. The gentle sussh, sussh of the gulf waves breaking on the shore was the only sound other than the roaring of Lance's pulse in his ears. Lance had impulsively pressed forward, downward, pressed hard; his large cock had begun to penetrate his "good buddy", but fear had stopped him. He had chickened out, pulled out, run and plunged into the sea. After that night, their friendship had remained intact, but they made no more nighttime trips to the beach, shared no more bottles of vodka, and never touched one another again Lance remembered that time of tight male bonding with great awe and reverence. Never before or since, had he been so close, so intimate with another male. Lance had regretted for more than forty years, that fear had kept him from consummating his love for Neal, for in retrospect, he had recognized what he had felt for Neal as love.