Tan 'n Bull

[This is a complete four-chapter novelette that will complete posting by mid-January, 2020.]

"Tank, Yo, Tank. What am I going to do with you?"

"Hey, look, Craig. I got to the third level. And I zapped the Black Orc."

"Focus, Tank. I asked what am I'm going to do with you?"

"Uh, is this a trick question, Craig? You said you'd come home and give me a massage, then I'd give you sex, and then I'd go for a run in the park and you'd go over to the stadium and stock up the physio room for Saturday's game."

"Brilliant. That you can remember, but what I asked you to do while I was gone, you can't remember."

"Good thing I didn't forget the sex part, huh, Craig? You've always said that's your best part."

"I'm trying to be serious here, Tank. What did I ask you to do while I did the grocery shopping?"

"Huh, let's see. Gather the trash, put a load of laundry in, and start lunch."

"V-e-r-r-y good. And you did that, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Oh, look, the Red Lord of the Castle. If I can get him under my spell, I—"

"TANK! We were talking about getting things done around here without screwing up. Trash, laundry, lunch started, right?"

"Yeah, right, so?"

"So, I find the laundry in the kitchen wastebasket and two Lean Cuisines in the washer. What's with that?"

"You said we both needed to get a little more fat off, didn't you? Training camp is starting and I need to drop a few pounds—and you said you'd match me pound for pound. You're the one who bought the diet meals, aren't you?"

"In the washer, Tank? Why in the washer? That's the question."

"Huh. You're the one who bought 'em, didn't you?"

"Oh, for the love of Pete," Craig burst out. "I'll get lunch, but we've got to talk during lunch."

"Pete? Who's Pete? You told me you'd quit cattin' around if I moved in with you."

"I . . . will . . . see . . . you at the dinner table over lunch. I will let you know when it's ready, Your Majesty."

And then Craig was gone, into the kitchen to start putting matters right, while Tank shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his game. "Oh crap, the Red Lord's disappeared again."

Craig was afraid it was going to go like this when he asked Tank to move in with him. But Tank was so lovable and meant well. And Craig had thought he could do something for the young man, could get through to him and get his mind regulated and able to do what it needed to do for Tank to get to the next level.

Tank was a defensive tackle for the Virginia Hornets, a Richmond, Virginia-based semipro team in the Big North East League. And he was a damn fine athlete too—at least in physicality and natural position player ability. But he was a little slow—no, Craig had to call it what it was—Tank was a lot slow. He was just a big baby. A big, sexy baby with an ability to give Craig what he wanted in bed, but a perpetual adolescent nonetheless. He had the attention span of dragonfly and he had trouble remembering and focusing. And he was completely self-centered. As lovable and gentle inside as he was, he was completely lacking in discerning the needs of anyone else and of satisfying them besides the sexual satisfaction he could provide with his virility and the oversized endowments his genes had gifted him with.

Craig knew that he should have just let Tank take care of him in bed and face his wilting future in football by himself until he just dropped off the roster one day. But the kid had exceptional athletic talent, and once Craig had gotten him into bed, he lost all interest in Tank disappearing off the Hornets' roster. But something had to give. Enjoying him in bed didn't mean Tank had to live here. Maybe it was time to change that, if it wasn't working out—before they turned off to each other altogether.

They'd known each other for a complete season before Craig saw in Tank anything more than just another big bear with a pleasant disposition and some pretty dopey responses who the Hornets had on their squad. Craig was the semipro Richmond team's physical trainer. And Tank, a walk-on player who had only barely finished high school and who, after kicking around for a couple of years doing nothing but playing at football and other things he took a fancy to had lucked onto the first string of a semipro team by a miracle. All the other guys vying for that position had fallen by the wayside with injuries in the preseason.

By the time the season opened, the organization's scant budget had been spent, and there was little to be done about Tank's problem of having trouble picking the relevant signals and play patterns out when he got to the line of scrimmage. To some extent, his "I'm not in synch with the game play" worked to the team's advantage. It disrupted the opposing team's calculations, and Tank had a natural talent for homing in on the other team's quarterback as soon as the play was under way. That he was penalty prone because he frequently jumped before the ball was snapped was something the team had had to just clinch their teeth and bear. They certainly hadn't been able to train or beat the tendency out of him.

When the two finally did meet on more than a professional basis, it was by mutual surprise. In his "real" job, because semipro football didn't pay much, Tank was a doorman and bouncer at a local gay sports bar, the Barcode—a part-time job that didn't pay all that well either. Craig, who was gay but didn't exactly broadcast that to the team, seeing as how he had to work with them in various stages of undress, went to the bar one night. He was a little disconcerted when Tank was working the door when he went into the bar, thinking that now his preferences would be spread all over the team locker room and it was likely he'd have to move on. But not long after Craig had entered the bar, Tank's shift at the door was over, and, instead of leaving, he came on in and sat at the bar and let some guy chat him up.

When Tank left the bar with the guy, Craig's interest had risen to the ceiling. He'd given Tank massages. He knew Tank's body as well as Tank did, and he knew what Tank had to offer. It wasn't too many more nights before he was the one taking Tank home from the bar. And in pretty short order Tank had moved in with him.

The saving grace was that Tank hadn't whispered a word about what either one of them liked in the locker room. Which was one thing that gave Craig hope that Tank had some common sense going for him and could be trained to remember the play signals enough to move up into the pros.

This one anomaly in what Tank could remember and grasp, though, had proved to be just that—an anomaly.

At the dining room table, over the Lean Cuisine meals they lunched on, Craig did what he could to get through to Tank.

"I saw that you were talking to the recruiter from the Tennessee Titans on the practice field yesterday."

"Yep, he wants me. Listen, I've got to go to the park and run after lunch, and you always walk over to the stadium. So, how's about I take the Charger to get to the park today."

"The Titans don't necessarily want you, Tank. Coach has explained this to you. More than once. The Titans have a strong veteran defensive line. Chances are good he's just trying to tie you up until no one else can sign you. They do that. Coach told you about that."

"He said that if I got myself to Nashville for tryout season, I'd have a shot. He said it'd be a piece of cake." Tank was withdrawing into himself—it could almost be seen—him sucking himself in like he did on the field, into a mass without edges, without handles that anyone could grab hold of—either physically or in terms of getting into his mind.

"Yeah, maybe. But Coach says you need more work—and you've been offered a position at the Carolina Stallions—with enough pay so you wouldn't have to work another job. And they have an opening there at Rocky Mount for a physical therapist. It would be ideal for us. And, God, no, you can't take the Charger, Tank. The park's closer than the stadium, and the whole purpose of going to the park is getting your feet moving under you. And you don't have a license, remember? The court took that from you when you parked your own car up against one of the statues in the median on Monument Drive."

"Screw Coach," Tank said, completely bypassing the car issue, his chin hunkered down, his tone bordering as much on the petulant as he ever got. "The Stallions are just another semipro outfit. I've got a chance to go pro."

"Tank, Tank, Tank." Craig didn't know how to approach this, how much to say. The big baby bear was being sucked in and was sinking fast. What could Craig do to forestall this? He'd been charitable—truthful, but charitable—when picking up on Coach saying the Titans' interest probably was more strategic than fair to Tank.

When Coach had come to Craig, he'd said more than that. "Seeing as how you and Tank are such good buddies . . ." Craig had cringed at that and looked sharply at Coach to try to discern if Coach knew more about his relationship with Tank then Craig hoped he did ". . . I'd like to see you try to dig some sense into him. I'd be sorry to lose him—although God knows he's a handful and a half to try to teach the playbook to—but for his own good, if he goes anywhere, it should just be to another minor-league team, one that can pay him better than we can. He'll be chewed up and spit out in training camp on any of the pro teams unless he can learn to read plays."

"He's good. He's a natural, Coach. The Titan recruiter—"

"Was watching Tank real close in scrimmage, Craig. He could see Tank wasn't reading the plays right. He's no dummy; this is his profession. He's going to pull Tank in for two days of practice and put him on waivers and hope some close competitor team takes him up and wastes their training camp and picks roster in discovering he's not bright enough to be there at the opening day kickoff. If you feel for this kid like I do, you'll try to knock some sense into him."

Sitting across from Tank at the dining room table, though, Craig didn't think this was going to be possible. As lovable as Tank was, and as good a lover as he was, he just didn't have any sense to knock anywhere. And now Craig was beginning to see him as a lost cause—an albatross who would doom those around him in the process of going down.

"He said I'd have a good shot," Tank repeated in that stubborn "don't wanna; you can't make me" voice of his.

"And did he give you bus fare to get to Nashville, Tank? Did he show that much faith in your chances?"

This stopped Tank, if only for a moment, as he screwed up his brain for a killer retort. Both of the men were breathing hard, like they'd been wrestling, which pretty much had been the case.

"He said I'd have a good shot."

Craig said nothing.

"But you think I can't do it. You think I'm just some big dummy."

"Tank, I'm only thinking of you."

"Yeah, well, screw you."

"That's good for you, is it, Tank?" Craig was mad now. He was set up now to say more than he had before, certainly more than he should. "What you think is good for you is all you think about, isn't it? I go out to get our groceries and ask you to do a few simple chores, and when I come back you've screwed them up and can only think about zapping the Black Orc. You are totally self-centered, Tank. You think of no one but yourself, no needs but yours—and you can't think straight about what you really need, what's really good for you."

"Screw it." If Tank had seemed to be rolling into a defensive ball before, now he'd become a veritable armadillo under attack. Which, of course, only inflamed Craig.

"You think you can take my car even though you lost your license and can't even focus good enough not to pile up on a god damn bronze statue in the middle of the wide center-strip of a divided road? And all you can think about is you getting to the Titans, when there's no job there for me. There're jobs for both of us—better than here—in Rocky Mount, but you can't see the advantage of some place with something for both of us. It's you and only you and screw the world. Is that it? Well, I'm getting god damn sick of it."

"Well, maybe I should just move on then."

"Yes, if you're not going to start thinking of anyone but yourself and what's best for all—including you—that maybe is a good idea. It's something to think about. It would be a pleasant change of pace for you to think about something . . . anything."

Craig abruptly stood and took the empty plastic tray from his unsatisfying Lean Cuisine meal and jabbed it into the sink. Then he picked up his jacket and headed for the door.

"Where ya goin'?" Tank asked, not half as steamed as Craig was—used to this sort of brinkmanship yammering on the field and in the locker room and completely misreading how upset Craig was. "You was gonna give me a massage and then you said we'd have time to, you know, mess around. I could show you what I got that I don't keep to myself—that I give good."

"I'm not in the mood now," Craig shot back over his shoulder. "While I'm gone, do you think you can remember you were going to run a couple of miles in the park, or will you be busy burning the apartment down?"

"Hey, don't be like that," Tank said, trying to show that the tiff didn't really mean anything. "Come on back to the bedroom and all give you the good fuckin' you need and that I know you want."

"I can get what I need elsewhere," Craig answered in a low, jabbing voice. "Maybe I'll just look up Pete."

He was gone then. He was barely a block away when he realized that Tank probably didn't get the "Pete" joke—that it probably had gone over his head. He probably should go back and let Tank know it was just a silly fight—something that happened because he was so concerned for Tank, wanted what was best for him so badly. But he was already a block from the apartment, so he just shrugged and went on toward the stadium, which he could see already in the near distance.

He was right that Tank probably didn't get the "Pete" joke. He also was right that he probably should have gone back.

* * * *

"Well, if you were to have a dog, which one of these would you have?"

"I have all of these dogs."

"Yes, of course you do, silly boy. But if you could only have one of them, which would it be? I mean, if I were walking down the street with a dog, what kind of dog that I'd be walking would make you want to stop and—?"

"Ssst." Phil was standing behind the back of the kennel owner and was making wild, silent cutting motions across his throat. That was the basic problem with Casey, he thought—well, one of the basic problems. He had the subtlety of a train-crossing signal.

"You want a dog to catch men?" the kennel owner said incredulously, the light bulb of enlightenment flickering on over his head. "I breed these dogs for huntin'. These are huntin' dogs. I don't—"

"Well, of course you don't," Casey interjected with a big, placating smile on his face. "And of course that's not what we want a dog for," Casey added, although of course that was exactly what he and Phil wanted the dog for.

He more than Phil. Phil thought it was the most cockamamy idea he'd heard from Casey this week—and that was saying something. But Casey was Casey, Phil liked doing Casey in bed, and Casey had convinced him that having another guy with them would be twice the fun. So, Phil was letting Casey run with this idea. At least he was until he could think of a better or quicker way of doing this. He'd taken Casey to Nation's, a Richmond gay pickup bar, a few nights, saying he thought the direct approach was the best. But three nights in a row and Casey hadn't seen anyone in the bar who interested him.

"I think we need a hunky athletic type, Phil," Casey had said. "That's what I'd like. Isn't that what you'd like, Phil?"

"Yeah, sure," Phil had answered, although the longer they'd been at it, the less enthused about trying a threesome he'd become. "How about that one over there? He's muscled up."

"I don't mean a greasy biker, Phil. I'm not talking about anything painful or that kinky. Just three guys getting into each other at one time—with one of them being really athletic."

"And you don't consider that kinky?"

Casey had ignored that question. "An athlete, but clean cut. Like a football player. You got turned on at that Hornet's game a couple of weeks ago—at how the players fit in their uniform. You remember that, don't you?"

"Yessss, and?"

"And we need a guy like that. The kind of guy who runs in Reynolds Park, where a lot of the Hornets players go to do their running. You know, over near the stadium at Richmond U."

"I don't think they let the players go to bars like this much, Casey." Phil knew he shouldn't have said it as soon as he did. This bar had been his idea on how they could get a guy like Casey wanted to try out. Casey was about to speak; Phil knew he was going to point out that it was Phil's idea, not his, to try out this method. So, he pressed on. "I think you mean more like that great-looking bouncer at the Barcode. Remember him. You said you thought you'd seen him on the Hornets' roster in the program at the stadium."

Casey had been on a wavelength of his own, though. "If we want to get a guy like the ones running in Reynolds Park, then that's where we need to be rather than here. But we can't just run into one there—neither of us is a runner. We need a gimmick, something that will make them stop and talk to us long enough to get interested."

And that's why they were at the dog kennel out on the road to Petersburg—and it was also why Casey had asked the kennel owner what kind of dog he'd like best, one that would make him stop to pet it and talk to the dog's owner. Because as they were driving into the parking lot at the kennel and got their first glimpse of the kennel owner, Casey had declared, "There, maybe we don't need to go to the park. That's exactly the guy I had in mind. A real muscled-up hunk."

But while they were getting out of the car, the guy's wife—who looked like she could make a pretzel out of Casey all by herself if she wanted to—and the guy's two sons had appeared to get instructions on which kennels to start cleaning first. This certainly was enough for Phil to be called off him.

Casey being Casey, however, he couldn't keep from indicating an interest to the kennel owner, which had put the guy on edge and which, no doubt, led to how he answered Casey's "which one would you want?" question the way he then did.

"OK, I get cha. You want a real man's dog."

"Yep, that's what we want, don't we, Phil? A real man's dog. Something that would make a real man say, 'Now that's a real man's dog.'"

There was maybe a bit of a croak coming out of Phil in response, but he was too busy standing behind the kennel owner and rolling his eyes to jump in to try to save Casey from drowning.

The kennel owner turned and looked at Casey, trying to gauge whether the guy was putting him on or something. He could tell the young man was pretty light on his feet, but he wasn't screaming gay or anything—well, not exactly screaming it. He was good looking enough and trim and clean-cut in dress. Maybe a bit too clean cut. Loafers without socks and well-pressed khaki pants with a fancy dress shirt and a sweater reversed on his back and tied in front across his chest was maybe a bit showy. But he wasn't wearing ear rings or had spiked orange hair or anything. And the other guy, bigger and more sensibly, sloppily dressed, seemed OK. But the kennel owner was uncomfortable anyway, and, even upon thought, wasn't sure he wasn't being made fun of.

Well, if they wanted a man's dog, he had one for them. One that was a real handful. It would take a man to handle this one. It had had a rough life before it had gotten here, and the kennel owner assumed there was a breaking point with this one, but he hadn't seen it yet. Still, he thought it was there somewhere. He didn't really have the time to retrain the dog himself, and it would probably wind up at the pound and eventually be put down anyway.