Jeffrey Adamson did not want to go to bed with another Vietnam vet. He knew how they got, and as much as he appreciated their intensity and the faint smell of grease on their jungle jackets, he couldn’t handle the ride. Never knew what was coming down that road.
He also wanted someone his own age. Everybody said that was plain normal. Jim Smith was old, in his thirties at least, judging by his forearms and the way his boots cracked concrete. He listened to the oldies station in his garage and never looked up when Jeffrey walked by. Always tinkering with his motorcycle which roared past his apartment building every morning and then again late at night. Jeffrey was usually sitting out front smoking.
“You want to go for a ride?”
Jeffrey hugged Jim’s waist, chest to back, leaning with him into wind and curves. They passed the night together and fucked on an old mattress covered in clothes and sweat and National Geographics.
Jim lit two Marlboros and put one in Jeffrey’s mouth. They stared at the dark ceiling. “I’m not much good, kid.”
He knew Jim wasn’t talking about the sex, which was normal for a change and even left him a little head-spun. No stupid porno talk or stories about someone that wasn’t coming home, just gut-grunts and skin that tasted like tools and motor oil.
Jeffrey’s hand fell on a snapshot near the mattress. He left it there. “I don’t want to know.” Jim’s tongue wormed deep inside Jeffrey’s ear and vibrated him into joy: “Get the fuck out of my house.”
Jeffrey marveled at the soldier smoking on the honest mattress, naked against the floor, as he pulled on his jeans and tossed his t-shirt to his vet.
*
Greg Beckman 