All Wrapped Up
  By Jesse Smith
  http://slicer69.tripod.com/


 Wrrr-grrrrr-wrrrrr. The sound wakes me up. No, it's not a runaway Tigger, it's
my roommate, grinding coffee. Wrrr-grrrrr-wrrrr. He drinks hot coffee and cold beer,
usually only separated by the time of day. Wrrr-grrrr-wrrrr. I hear him remove the grounds
and dump them into the filter. Soon, the smell of coffee will fill our little apartment.

 I hear a knock on the door. It's the milkman. He gives a hearty "Good morning"
which quickly fades as my roommate (politely) quiets him. "He's still sleeping," 
I hear through my closed bedroom door. This from the man who was, just moments before, 
grinding coffee.

 Well, good morning. My name is Robert Redmen, an obvious, but necessary alias, I
know. But "Robert" never the less, for now. I am an excommunicated Mormon, working (part-time)
in an Anglican church. I'm a tour guide.

 My roommate, blessed fellow, really, is Freddy Munich. "Fred" to his friends,
"Fredrick" to his parents. Splendid chap all the way. But this morning, like most mornings,
he has awakened me.

 I grab my black bath robe, the one with the flowers on the back, and head for
the bathroom. I grab a razor and...No, I'm not clear-headed enough for that. I grab
a toothbrush. That'll be safer. Afterward, I go looking for the razor again, only to
discover that I've thrown it in the garbage. Perhaps, next time, I'll start with some
of Freddy's vile, morning coffee.

 When I emerge from my room, dressed and hungry, Freddy greets me with a raspy
"'Morning." The cigarettes seem to have coated his voice over the years. Right now, I
am unable to manage more than a nod. My throat is dry and sore. Nothing to blame for that.
No product or company at which to point my finger. It's just life.

 Perhaps this would be a good time to mention just how I came to be excommunicated
from the Mormon nest. Now seems a good a time as any. I was kicked out, shown the door,
as it were, for coming out. That is, I told my family I'm gay. Amazing, in hind sight,
how badly that joke went over.

 It was Thanksgiving. A prayer had been said, the family was all gathered 'round
the table. My parents, my sister, an aunt and uncle and my dear, old grandmother were
all seated. The food was being passed around, and, during a quiet moment, I declared,
"Everyone...I'm gay. Pass the mashed potatoes?"

 As you might imagine, things got pretty quiet. Those "things" being my family members.
My sister made a face. My dad's eye twitched. My mother's stare could have bored a hole
through battleship armour. Granny simply got up from the table.

 I explained very (and I stress very) shortly after that it had been a joke. A little
jest to lighten the religious mood. To which my mother pointed out that a religious mood
is not something to be lightened. Sadly, my dear old grandmother didn't catch my reversal.
She'd already left the room, and being hard of hearing, missed my reverse-confession.

 So, in short, granny had me kicked out of the Church. Before I even knew it had
happened, she'd passed the tale along. I was shown the door, in front of the entire local
Mormon community, at our next meeting. Tragic, no? Well, no, really. That was years ago,
and the scars have all healed.

 So, perhaps it is mildly ironic that I ended up working in an Anglican church. I'm
a tour guide, only, no religious ties. No acceptance into the flock. It's a job and one that
fills my life with a blanket of boredom, flecked with moments of bizarre.

 As a side perk, as an ex-Mormon, I may now drink coffee. In this morning's
case, bitter, black coffee. It seems I forgot to go grocery shopping this weekend and
I'm out of both sugar and milk. This bodes ill for the coffee and any cereal that may
be in the apartment.

 "Toast it is," I mutter quietly to myself.
 "Eh?" My roommate is so very Canadian.
 "Just hunting up some breakfast," I reply, over my shoulder.

 The local Anglican church decided that a good way to attract positive attention,
was to give guided tours of its old, time-tested building. One of the oldest in the area,
the church has been sitting here, collecting dust and donations, for over two hundred
years. The draw back, at first, was finding a young, energetic person to provide this service.
This same, mind-numbing service, six days a week. Truly, how many young folk these days
want to spend their time that close to God?

 What can I say? I was broke. Besides, over the last few years, I'd added "other
religious beliefs" to my interests. Coming out (of a religious community) will do that
to a person. I was also well versed in the history of our tiny town. Bingo, score
one tourism job.

 Little did I know how amazingly slow my days would pass. Six days a week, eight hours
a day. The church was closed to tours on Sunday, affording me my day of rest. Thank God! Er,
yeah.

 Some days were better than others. For example, there was one day a tourist requested
permission to lick the stained glass. As the glass is leaded, I refused. He licked them anyway.
Why, in G-...er why would anyone want to lick colourful glass?

 I finished off my toast with peanut butter and went back into my room. 
Wallet, check. Coins, check. Watch....Watch. Shoot! I have this terrible habit of taking
my watch off to keep it safe while I do something. Then, some time later, I forget 
where I left it. Once, I misplaced it for two weeks and later found it in my jacket pocket.

 "Fred? Seen my watch?" I called out to the kitchen.
 A pause, "Yeah, it's on the shelf, above the sink."
 I most often take my watch off to do the dishes. "Thanks," I called back.

 Since I'm living with him, and he's an important part of both my life and my
story, I should introduce you to Freddy. Here, this is Freddy. What more do you want?
Alright, to sum up...

 Fredrick is an English major. No, wait, from the beginning. Freddy's mom and dad
got really close one night and then, nine months later...Okay, I met Freddy during my
first summer job. We both, somehow, got suckered into working in a kitchen one summer.
Kids, don't ever work in a kitchen during the summer. It's bloody hot. Anyway, we were
in pretty cramped quarters. It was either bond, or chop each other into little pieces.
Since we were working with a lot of sharp knives, I assumed the outcome would be the
latter. I was, thankfully, wrong. Fred and I became fast friends. That was about six
years and two graduations ago. Freddy graduated high school the next year and shipped off
to university. There, he majored in English (see above note) which qualifies him, he
says, to be the smartest burger flipper in town. During the university years, we kept in
touch, visited when we could, etc., etc. I'll keep it to a minimum to avoid boring you
further. The grand sum of all of this is that when we both ended up back in our home
town, we decided it would be in our best interest to shack up together.

 Fred is, physically, average. He's of average height, neither skinny, nor round.
He has medium length dark hair and blue eyes. Basically, think fade-into-background 
spy material. He's mind is another matter, which, I won't go into at this moment. 
More later on Freddy.

 Some people wonder why two young, single guys, such as ourselves, choose to
live together. I tell them that we both have terrible luck with chicks. That usually
puts a stop to the conversation.

 A little more about the current situation. Oddly enough, I finally got tired of
doing church tours, of finding lesbian pornography stuck in antique Bibles, of slow
rainy days and of tour buses. I got tired of viewing a white Jesus smiling down on
me from his cross. So I took Freddy's advice. I applied for a job at a new, and local,
call centre. Why, a call centre? It would be the first job ever, if I was hired, to
provide me with benefits, a career path and a salary over $7 an hour.

 To make a short story shorter, I got the job. Now, I would not only be living with
Fred-e-boy, but working down the hall from him. Which reminds me of something my uncle used
to say. He'd say, "Son, don't shit where you eat and don't screw where you work." Probably
sound advice.

 So, yes, I got the job. But, there is always a "but", isn't there? But, first, I
had to complete a month of training. Oh boy! A month of an adult-casted, re-enactment of
high school. It wasn't to my liking, until I heard the words "paid training". To boot,
Fred, who had already passed his course, assured me that it wasn't so bad. Armed with
that shard of hope, I set out the door that fine morning to work. Or rather to "job".

 People talk about going to "work", when in fact people often now go to jobs. A
job is a relatively new concept in this part of the world. Back in the day, people used
to work for a living. They'd plow fields, harvest corn, blacksmith. They were, in a sense,
jobs, but not the way society has formed them today. Today, I go to "job". I don't do work,
per se. I sit, I listen, I take notes. There is little "work" involved in this process,
yet I'm paid for showing up and looking attentive.

 Lunch break comes and we all file out of the .... class room, for lack of a better
term. Though I'm sure that this place has a special name for the room. This new age,
love-'n-feelings place has a special name for everything. It isn't just an interview
area, it's a "huddle room". We aren't just answering phones, we will become customer
service associates. Whatever. I go outside and sit at one of the picnic tables (I wonder
if they have a special name for that?) and breathe deep the fresh air. Air that is soon to
be filled. A stream of people follow me out, five, ten, twenty people, mostly women, 
form a cloud outside the building. Almost as one, they reach for packages of cigarettes.
As one, they flick Bic lighters and, as one, they take a drag from the fags. This is
mildly disturbing to watch in a sense, and yet completely commonplace. One part of my
mind views this as an everyday occurrence, which it is. Another part finds this
rapid, synchronized smoking a bit unsettling. "Just think," that part of my brain
tells me, "just think that you're conditioned by society to accept this. Smoking is
a normal, everyday thing. Right? Right. Now," continues my long-winded nervous system,
"what if society had conditioned you," why it says "you" and not "me" I don't know,
"to accept heroin use. What if these women had all walked outside, taken out needles and
shot heroin? Just imagine! What if that was thought to be normal?"

 That gave me pause. "Shut up," I muttered to my head and walked indoors.

 Some days are, naturally, better than others. Days when you discover that your
brand new, shiny paycheque won't cover your new, shiny Visa bill fall into the "others"
category. Of course, when fresh strawberries played a significant part in said Visa
bill, it's hard to complain. What sort of country -- no society -- do we live in when
one can complain about things like Visa bills, phone bills and car payments? We have
phones and cars, what is there to possibly complain about?

 I, however, don't have a car. Thus I feel entitled to complain from time to time.
Like this morning, as I ride the bus to work. It is, I believe, Friday. Sweet Friday. The end of
the white collar work week and the beginning of Hell for waitresses and evening cashiers.
Ah, glorious Friday, may your towers, representing Freedom, never fall. The bus starts up a
hill, the engine whining like so many of us upon seeing our bills. The automatic transmission finally
shifts down and the bus shudders, like a pony shaking off water. My fellow passengers are thrown
about like so many rain drops. This is the end of my second week of work at my new job. It is
also the end of the second week of living with Freddy. Ah sweet anniversary.

 Back home, items are finally finding their ways into their proper places. Order, such as
it is, is seeping into our lives. The books are on their shelves, lined up like peaceful soldiers.
Food lines the fridge and a stereo systems focuses on keeping the neighbours at just the proper
level of annoyance.

 This morning I look out the bus window at the grey sky and wonder at the funny quirks of
the universe. For example, a young lady came to our door last night. She ran inside, without
so much as a knock, and jumped on me. She, being tiny, wasn't even enough to throw me off
balance. Well, not physically so, though it did come as a surprise. All blonde hair and perkiness,
she wrapped her legs around my waist and giggled into my ear. Then she realized that
I was not the person she thought I was, and that she had made a mistake. I would have assured her that
I found nothing offensive about pretty, young ladies jumping on me, had she stayed. Alas, she
quickly departed and vanished into the rainy night; like so many missed opportunities.

 Dear reader, you may have started to wonder at the point (if, in fact, there is one)
to this story. I assure you, oh patient reader, that there is one. This is not merely a diary of
my happy life. It is, rather, a tale with some woe. Not the mere woe of Visa statements and
matching rent cheques. With those, I could be quite happy. I would invite a thousand car payments
to my in-box, if I could change the course of this story. But I cannot, and so, please, stay awhile
and listen a bit longer.

 Where was I? Oh yes, on the bus. I suppose there is little point in mentioning this, other
than to point out that I do not have a car. Fortunately, we have a good public transit system in this
part of the world. One more thing to be thankful of on this dreary day. Rather than bore you with
details of how slowly that Friday passed or how many mistakes I made while my mind wondered, perhaps
I should get on with the tale.

 It all began...No, wait. That sounds a little self-glorifying, doesn't it? "It all began"? No.
Rather my rambling thoughts return to this as a beginning point at those times when my angry words
keep me company at night. At any rate, it began with Terry. This seems like a good time to
introduce Terry Wudlas.

 Terry was -- or is, as you wish -- a nice girl. Petite, with coppery hair and a smile that could
guide a ship home. She was neither shy nor loud. Or perhaps both, depending on the situation. She was one
of those girls about whom guys would say "I noticed her eyes first" and mean it. Sparkling blue, like
light beams across the water, they were. Terry went about, dispensing kind words to friends and silence
to her foes. Charming, really, to sum up. I had been friends with Terry for a few years when I moved in
with Freddy. Three years, I think, give or take. Sadly, a while back, we'd both moved, lost track of
each other and never got around to getting back in touch. It came with some surprise, you might well imagine,
when I discovered Terry on my doorstep one afternoon.

 I was coming home from work, and she was walking up the sidewalk, just in front of my door.
We caught each other's eyes and it felt like a light switch being flicked. Or, rather, the first light
that results from the light switch being flicked. A flow of "Ohmigosh's" and "Wow, I had no idea's" 
fell from our lips. I invited her to come down to one of the local cafes (how a town of barely a thousand
people can support six cafes, I have no idea) and she readily accepted the invitation.

 Good coffee is hard to come by, but The Rock and Hard Place has it. Their muffins leave much to
desire, but I hardly noticed that as Terry and I chatted. From our conversation, I learned that Terry had
recently moved into the area. Not next door, by any stretch, but close enough to keep easy contact. I
also discovered, much to my happiness, that we were working in the same place. She'd been there for a month,
myself just a few weeks. Small world, indeed. Before we parted ways, full of warm coffee and stale muffin bits,
I scribbled down my number for her. Ah, what a lightening way to finish the work week. What a great new beginning
this was in the works. A new place, a new job and re-united with old friends. Life was, to be sure, looking
up.

 One thing I learned, among the many things I learned, while doing church tours, is that people
will do just about anything given enough pressure; enough need. Our new security officer touched upon
this point during the company's orientation. Enough need will drive folks to drink, steal, give up
religion or take it up, as the need changes. How else could one explain the depraved things that people
do? How else could one rationalize the concept of being twice born? After all, what is more traumatic than
birth? Why go through that twice? I think that if a fetus knew what lay before it -- trauma, pain and
being put on hold -- it would probably opt not to venture into this world. Another disturbing question would
be, what would it take to buy you? How much pressure, how much money, how much pain would it take to
break you? Morals are for the comfortable. Righteousness is for the well off, or the insane.

 Fred worked Friday night. Shift work has its down sides, I suppose. Working Friday nights is one
of those...unless one is trying to avoid a blind date. However, he still insisted on getting up early
Saturday morning to go to breakfast. It struck me as slightly amusing as we trudged into The Rock and
Hard Place that morning. It felt as if I'd just left, though it was twelve hours since I'd parted ways
with Terry. Freddy amused me with tales from the evening shift, while I shovelled pancake into my mouth. 
He couldn't tell me much, really. Our company's privacy rules are strict and we try to respect them. Consider 
yourself lucky, otherwise I'd be boring you with tedious details from my job. Frankly, I don't think I'm 
allowed to even share the company's name with you. Not that it's important. Another portion of the conversation 
was however.

 We'd just about finished the breakfast special -- pancakes and coffee -- when Freddy took out a piece
of paper from his pocket. With a little ta-da flick of his hand, he dropped it on the table. 
 "What's this?" I asked his beaming smile.
 "That," the smile replied, "is a phone number."
 Sure enough. Seven digits, the first three of which would be our local set.
 "Meet a new friend at work?" I asked, joshingly.
 Fred nodded as he slipped the paper back into his pocket. "That I did. Nice girl."
 I nodded, "Goin' to call her?"
 Freddy shrugged, "Probably," was all he said.

 That night, I dreamed of pancakes, of syrup and of thousands of telephones all going off at once.
Perhaps this job was getting to me a little too much. I tend to take my work too seriously, I suppose. I must,
why else would I spend nearly six years doing tours of a church?

 It is difficult to make a good impression, especially a first impression. It is even more so when
one has one's dick in his hand when that impression is made. I am happy to report that I have just one
example of this. During one particularly slow Thursday at the Anglican church, I became tired of
staring out at the rain. I hadn't seen a tourist in hours and boredom was slowly churning my imagination.
Figuring that I would be safe on such a slow day, I headed upstairs to the bell tower. There I was so
busy abusing myself that I failed to hear foot steps downstairs. In fact, it was not until I had relieved
myself, washed away my tension, that I heard a creak from the stairs. I whipped around to find a young
woman standing just ten feet behind me. After a brief pause that seemed to stretch toward an eon, she
quirked a smile.

 "Happy to see me?" she joked.

 That was my first encounter with Terry. She'd come in out of the rain to seek a bathroom and the
use of a telephone. While the church frowned upon visitors using either the head or the phone, I made
a special exception in the hope that my moment of embarrassment would not become public knowledge --
urban legend.

 As a foot note to that day, Terry returned that following Tuesday. At which point she (and I) performed
a formal introduction. She demanded a proper guided tour of the church and stayed, for a good hour after
I had finished my history lesson, to talk. We got along famously and a firm friendship was formed.

 I found a voice-mail on my phone the following week (I think it was Wednesday) from Terry. She said 
she'd be by that weekend. Since she, Fred and I were not on the same shift (in fact, Fred and I rarely saw each
other during the week) I forgot to mention the call to Fred. It seems he got the message anyway.

 Saturday morning, I awoke late and stumbled into the kitchen, my black, silk robe (the one with the butterfly on the
back) wrapped around me. It took me a few seconds to register, after I had grabbed a box of cereal, 
that Terry was standing next to the window. She looked somewhat surprised (or embarrassed) at seeing me 
and was wearing Freddy's bathrobe. Her jaw dropped and her coffee mug nearly
fell with it. A dozen little questions floated through my head: How'd she get in? Why was she surprised to
see me? What kind of tea (or coffee) was she drinking this fine Saturday morning? Why, in God's name, was
she wearing Freddy's robe?

 "Um?" I asked.
 "Ah?" she replied.
 "Hurmph?" I responded.

 The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place all at once. Terry and Fred worked the same shift. They'd
come home together. Somehow, Terry hadn't known this was also my apartment. Since we did not yet have a
couch, I had to assume that she hadn't slept on it. So, instead of all of the questions racing for first place
in my mind, I gave voice to a croaky "Good morning" and turned to grab a bowl from the cupboard.

 I think that it's time that I caved in and gave you, my dear readers, some information about
my home town. If you happen to be a romantic, dislike the suspense I'm attempting to build here, or
simply find background setting boring, by all means, skip this paragraph. I live in Riverview, which has (as
I've mentioned previously) less than a thousand citizens. Riverview rests, oddly enough, on the banks of
a small river, which empties into the Atlantic Ocean. It is an old town, full of history, the smell of
fish, fog and art. Art is everywhere here. We have museums (classic art), antique shops (art history),
historic costumes (art of fashion) and several churches (art of deception). We have a dozen little
cafes and restaurants. We also have (at least) four antique shops. The higher end of which sell imported
pieces from England. The lower ended shops trade local pieces back and forth with the public and
each other in a sort of dusty incest. It's a lazy, quiet retirement community. The perfect place 
to recharge one's batteries. There, with that out of way, we return to the story at hand.

 I turned back to regard Terry, a bowl now grasped in my hand.
 "Something for breakfast?" I asked, trying to force a smile.
 Terry shook her head. It seems the pieces were falling a little more slowly into place for
 her. Perhaps she hadn't yet figured out if I was crashing here or if I lived here.

 "I... ah," she began, "I...Good- Fred!"
 "Fred?" I asked.
 "Rob."
 I turned around at the sound of a new voice, "Fred."
 "Terry," he nodded.
 "Fred," she replied with a nod.
 "Rob," he greeted me again.
 "'Morning," I managed.

 Sometimes I find awkward situations funny. This wasn't one of them, so I went back to pouring my
cereal and tried to avoid looking at Fred's leopard print boxers. I added some milk to my cereal and
sat down at the table. Fred sat down across from me and Terry disappeared stage left.

 "'Morning," Freddy said as he sat down.
 I nodded, mouth full of artificial flavors.
 "...Sleep well?" he asked.
 "Yes."
 "Good,good."
 Terry returned from stage left, now dressed, hair a mess.
 "Well, I should be going. Um, it..."
 "No no. Stay," I motioned towards us. "Have some breakfast."
 "Yes," Freddy chimed.
 "I really should..."
 "Stay," I ordered.

 She stayed. We ate. Quietly. Later, I excused myself and went for a long walk around town. Or at least
as long a walk as one can take around Riverview.

 I left the apartment and took to the streets. A light rain, barely more than a mist, covered the
morning like a blanket. I knew I was over-reacting; Taking off like this was a simple, knee-jerk reflex.
But such thoughts rolled and broke against my jealousy. After all, why wouldn't a man feel a twinge at
finding his friend with the object of his love? What else would I feel?

 The thought crossed my mind that I wanted a cigarette. It had been a long time since my last smoke.
The thought triggered an old tune in my head.

 "Give another inch
 In this new world crises
 We're coming unhitched
 Goin' back to our vices-"

 The drifting melody came to a halt as I rounded the corner. I'd come back to my apartment door.
Inside, predictably, I found Freddy. No sign of Terry. He was sitting at our dinner table, cigarette in
hand. It wasn't lit, he was just looking at it, turning it slowly in his fingers. Some music played
in the background, though I failed to recognize it right away.

 I grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge (not from concentrate) and poured a glass
before sitting down at the table also. There was a moment of silence, just a bit too long to be comfortable.

 Fred broke the quiet first, "Something bothering you-?" he started.
 "Nah," I lied as I shook my head, "Just..you know. It was a bit of a surprise to see, well..."
 "Yeah. Terry told me that she knew you."
 If that was the half of it!
 "I didn't know you two were friends," he added. Almost like an apology.
 "Surprise," I murmured with a forced smile.

 Freddy, though he probably knew better than to take my mask at face value, nodded.
 "So, are you okay with-?"
 "Oh yeah," God, I sounded fake to myself, "Yeah," I added, more relaxed. "We're cool."
 "Cool," he repeated.

 Suddenly, orange juice wasn't the only bitter taste in my mouth. But...EOC.

 There is a term used in the computer programming world, called EOF. EOF (or eof, as it is
sometimes written) stands for "End of File". It is a marker, a flag, an indicator, if you will,
to let a programmer know when he (or she) has reached the end of a file, a document or other piece
of data. It would be as if you read to the end of a book and, on the last page, instead of "The End"
you saw "EOF". Perhaps this is an over-generalization, but I hope you get the idea. At any rate,
since learning this, I sometimes use EOF at the end of letters, at the bottom of pictures, or
even in conversation. I've also, much to some people's amusement and others' disdain, started
altering the abbreviation. EOL (end of line), EOC (end of conversation), EOR (end of rant).

 Life went on, work continued. Though, frankly it became frustrating. Answering telephones isn't
exactly exciting and fulfilling work. My work...environment was eventually made less comfortable by
a shift change. Was I transfered to nights? Weekends? No, rather Terry's shift changed. Suddenly I had
to share job space with both Freddy and Terry. Oh, sure, they tried to keep their relationship on the
down-low, at least when they were around me. However, their glances, their brief hand touches were there
and I noticed every one. It began to dig in under my skin; to sting like a fresh tattoo. I became
short with customers, my paper work became sloppy. No matter how much I tried to tell myself that
this wasn't personal, that they were happy and deserved to be, that I was at work, it continued to
grow in me like cancer.

 As much as I tried to keep it all in prospective, it filled my mind. As much as I tried to
push it aside, they were always in my face. I saw them, together, at work. I saw them at home. After
a few weeks, I threw up my hands and walked out of the call centre. Perhaps it was rash, but I needed an out.
Actually, it was quite rash. Suddenly I found myself without an income and I was still sharing living space
with the love birds. Chirp chirp. I wasted my days walking the streets of Riverview, job hunting. Job hunting,
as I'm sure most of you know, is a tiring, thankless, frustrating past time. It also doesn't pay well.

 All through this, Fred was very supportive. Perhaps all the more so, since he had guessed the primary
reason for my leaving the centre. He listened to my random rants, chipped in extra money when our rent
came due and generally left me be. He stayed out of my way during the evenings and I had the apartment
to myself during the days.

 I am now going to take a little short-cut to the fall of that year. Have you ever noticed how when
we save distance, it's called a short-cut? However, when we increase the distance, it's not a "long-cut",
it's the scenic route. Yet, the short-cut is never called the bland route. I digress. When we skip
ahead, we find me with a new job in a shoe shop. This appealed to me, partly because the phone rarely rang
and because I've always had a slight foot fetish. I have a natural appreciation of people's feet and how
best to show them off, make them comfortable and cater to the toes. But you're not interested in my job
status or the number of shoes or laces I've sold. You're probably wondering about Fred and Terry. Fair enough,
I'll step aside and push them back into the spot light.

 Fred and Terry had formed an overly cute, respectful and loving relationship in the few months I
have disregarded. I had to admit that they made a splendid couple, which, in all honesty bugged me. This
relationship was not going to simply run its course, or fade away. They were happy. In a way, I was happy
for them. If only the bitterness would flow out of my heart and into the tips of my new Tip Top Toes shoes.
Terry had, for better or worse, started to join Freddy and I for breakfast; our weekend ritual. I think,
in hind sight, it helped to ease the pain. Having to deal with the two of them, my friend and my desire,
together, forced a certain amount of acceptance on me.

 What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger. I'll never have a heart attack for as long as I live.

 Thanks to the beauty of the Internet, I once downloaded a porn clip (gasp!) which featured some
anal sex. Okay, so the entire clip was a close-up of anal sex in progress. What can I say? Anal sex is
the bread and butter of my fetishized mind. I personally can't stand listening to porn; the music is
silly and the sounds the actors make remind me of a cat being forced, balls first, into a blender. The
result was me sitting, watching muted porn. The only reason I bring this up is to explain my curiosity
to the Spanish sub-titles which, after a few minutes, began to appear at the bottom of the screen. Now,
dear and discussed reader, I read not a word of Spanish. My thirst for knowledge overcame my lust long
enough to rewind the clip and begin again with the sound turned on. The scene began anew and, much to
my relief, there was no music. However, my relief was short lived. For, over the static, came a girl's
voice. She spoke clear English, as did her partner.
 "Ow. Oh. No. Please stop."
 "Just a little longer."
 "Owww!"
 "I'm close. Just a minute."
 "Nooo. Please stop..."

 I had, shortly after viewing this filth, mentioned the incident to Terry. At the time, I felt dirty
and had hoped confession would clear my mind in a way a shower had not. Perhaps it was not the greatest plan.

 "Oh," she'd said. "What did you do?"
 I shrugged, "I came."

 Again, looking back, she was probably wondering if I'd deleted the file, if I'd reported the
video to the police. But I was deep in confession, and not thinking clearly. Terry, while supportive
of my disgust, was not supportive of my release. The subject was dropped, hard.

 I brought you this little side story to explain, as best I can, my view as to why Terry turned
down my suggestion.

 The door bell rang one Friday evening, around eight o'clock. I stumbled to the door, wearing my
black, silk robe (the one with the red tiger on the back), muttering and mentally washing novel plots
from my head. One cannot be reading a book by Tom Clancy one minute and carry on a conversation the next.
I opened my front door. There stood Jessie.

 Jessie is a co-worker of mine from Tip Top Toes. Tall, slim and dark of hair...and standing on my
doorstep.
 "If you're not here to ask me to cover a shift for you, you're welcome to come in," I joked.
 "Thank you."
 Jessie was not there to ask me to cover any shifts. In fact, there seemed to be no point in this
visit, other than to visit. We talked shop, drank some tea and watched traffic go by. It may sound
mundane, but I felt the stirrings of sexual energy in the air. Romantic fuel, just waiting for a spark.

 When I wondered, out loud, how I was found, Jessie smiled that adorable little smile and reminded
me that I'd told everyone on staff where my new apartment was located. Touche. My mind obviously
wasn't working at its full capacity. The blood was rushing elsewhere. I'd like to be able to say that
we stayed up all night and made love like yoga-trained dogs in heat. However, such was not the case. Jessie
left, having to work Saturdays. A loss, I felt, except that Jessie's weekend shift meant that I could sleep in.
I'm not enough of a gentleman to give up a lazy Saturday morning.

 All of this brings me back to my point: my conversation with Terry that Saturday morning.

 You see, Fred had been called in that fine fall morning. He was on his way out the door when
I arose, all wrapped up in my my black, silk robe (the one with the yin-yang symbol on the back).
He pulled on his shoes, grumbling about the sanctity of weekends and left. I made toast and wondered
what to do with my day. I didn't have to wonder for long. Terry, apparently, hadn't received
the news that Freddy wouldn't be around that morning. She showed up for breakfast, at ten o'clock,
as usual. Fine, off to The Rock for pancakes.

 Without Fred around, the atmosphere was more relaxed. Terry and I managed to talk and joke like we
did before they'd become a couple. We ate pancakes and drank cups of warm coffee. We both made
obvious attempts not to open the scars of my wounded heart that I was working so hard to heal. We walked back to
the apartment, laughing about old times. About the time I once got drunk and tried to rap Eminem's "The
Way I Am" at some party. About the time Terry stayed on my couch and sleepily answered my door the next 
morning in her underwear. I bet those Mormons had never seen the like of it; she standing, bold and proud, in her
red unmentionables. About the time Terry's parents nearly stumbled upon both of us swimming naked
in their pool.

 We arrived back at the apartment. Terry suggested that she had to go home. It was her day off,
a day of cleaning and washing and...
 "Come in anyway," I suggested.
 She did.

 I offered her a glass of white wine. Not accepted. I had a glass anyway.
 We sat and just enjoyed the silence. Well, actually, she may have been enjoying the silence. It was
killing me.
 "What did you want to tell me, Rob?" Terry broke the quiet first. She always could tell when
words were stuck in my mouth. I tried to scrape them out like peanut butter. The wine, finally kicking
in, helped. I bided time by pouring another glass.

 "Have you ever thought about, you know...Well-"
 "About what, Rob?" her tone was gentle, friendly. I searched her eyes for....something.
 "We've been friends for a long time, you know, Terr," I made a sweeping gesture with my hands.
 "Yes."
 I swished the wine. Took another drink.
 "I mean all of us. You, me, Freddy."
 Terry nodded, ignoring my poor grammar. I changed gears.
 "Have you ever thought about, you know-"
 "No, I don't, you know, know, Rob." Translation, cut to the chase.
 "The three of us...A threesome. I mean, we've all been friends for years," I was talking too
fast now, "I mean, wouldn't that be great? A thrill?" Her eyebrows were coming up now, perhaps not
believing what she was hearing.
 "Yes," she said. "I mean, yes I have. I mean, it has crossed my mind before."
 I stopped. Arms spread wide. I took another drink.
 "Cool. I mean. That's great. I wonder if-"
 "No."
 "No?"
 I think she blushed.
 "It wouldn't work, Rob. It might have under different circumstances. Back a few years ago. But, I think 
we're all just a little too wrapped up in each other right now and-" she didn't finish the sentence.
 "But, hey, it's us. It's Fred, you, me," I was talking slower now.
 "No."

 In short, Terry walked out. Confusion and hurt written all over her face. Whatever she thought
my motives were, she didn't like them. Honestly, I couldn't blame her. I was, I admit, surprised when
Fred came home that Monday and told me he was moving out. He and Terry would get an apartment together and,
see how well they handled living together. I, bitterly, knew they would do fine. They were practically
living together anyway. How I was going to make rent, on the other hand, was a different question. I
came up with a solution though.

 "You and Terry take the apartment," I told him later that night.
 "What?" he looked up from his book.
 "You and Terry. You guys should have this place. I mean, it makes the most sense. You two can
afford the rent, it has lots of space."
 A frown, "You sure?"
 I nodded, "I've been a dick. Let me make it up to you guys and save myself the financial worry, okay?"
 Another frown...or maybe it was a deepening of the same one, "Are you sure about-?"
 "Yeah, buddy," I laughed. "Maybe I can get Terry's old place...you know, if she moves in here."

 So, that's how it all wrapped up. Terry and Freddy kept our Riverview apartment. I moved into Terry's
old place, just outside of town. The move, the solution, seemed to work. It gave us an excuse to stay out
of each other's way while remaining on good terms. Really, I can't complain about the way things turned out.
As an added bonus, Jessie came over after work one night to help me...unpack. I'd love to give you all a warm,
happy ending and say we'll live happily ever after or some such. But, in all honesty, we probably won't. Jessie
isn't the soul mate I left behind. However, we do have fun together. Oh, and for the record, Jessie looks 
fantastic in my black, silk robe. The one with the Peace sign on the back.