Jack of Diamonds

Jack of Diamonds: Trent Long

Trent rubbed his eyes and took his last swig of Coke. He was exhausted; he’d driven from St. Louis, and only the incessant pressure of his bladder was keeping his eyes open. He needed to find a motel and a bathroom, not necessarily in that order. He could always just pull over if he became more desperate, but the road had a moderate amount of traffic and no cover. With his luck, someone would report him for indecent exposure. He was in Texas after all. This was not a country he wanted to be found with his pants unzipped.

Trent had thought the magazine that had commissioned the article on sport shooting in Texas realized he was gay. He didn’t advertise it, no gay pride stickers on his car nor rainbow tie tacks, but he’d never hid it, and he’d written several articles targeted to the gay audience under his byline in various publications. Being sent to the Republic of Texas was not the highlight of his career. He planned to keep his head down, go on this hunting safari, and get the hell out of Dodge. He didn’t plan to enjoy Texas hospitality any longer than necessary. 

The famed hospitality didn’t seem to include roadside rests. Trent knew that Texas took a different approach to government services, but he hadn’t imagined they would eliminate public bathrooms along with state supported education and health care. The guns were another crazy novelty of the Republic. Trent hunted; he was comfortable with a wide variety of firearms, but he’d never passed giant billboards advertising discount ammunition and liquor before. One stop shopping. Lethal one stop shopping. Trent reminded himself not to venture out into unknown neighborhoods at night. He didn’t want to be the target of a liquored up lone ranger. 

Finally he spotted a tiny sign pointing to a roadside rest. He pulled off the pavement, the rental car bouncing wildly as the road disintegrated into potholes and gravel. Trent hoped he’d still have four tires and an oil pan as he pulled into the dimly lit, weed infested parking lot. No wonder they advertised liquor and ammunition along the highway. This looked like muggers’ paradise. Trent grimaced; a swig of liquid courage and a cold piece of steel on his hip wouldn’t be amiss at this moment. With the light of the miniature flashlight that he always carried on his key ring, Trent picked his way down the crumbling path to a small tumbling down wooden building. A breeze had picked up, and in the dim light Trent watched sheets of newspaper and crumpled fast food bags blow and skitter in the unkempt grass and weeds. The door of the wooden shack banged in the wind, each swing sending a stronger smell of unclean pit toilets to assault Trent’s nostrils.

Duty fulfilled, Trent hurried back to his vehicle. Next time he would use the side of the road; the good Christian folk and police be damned. At least the assault on his senses had fully awakened him; he was in no danger of dozing off, only of hallucinating about the joys of running water.

*******

Trent carefully disassembled his shotgun and stowed it in his locked case. The Texans had looked incredulous at his precautions in between long diatribes about the unhindered right to bear arms. Considering the copious amount of beer these gentlemen had swilled every evening in front of the campfire, Trent was more than a little relieved to be leaving this country without a foot blown off. The wildlife had been safe. With their crashing around and stellar marksmanship, a barn would have had time to reduce itself to a pile of lumber and hide, and any target smaller than an aircraft hanger would have been an insurmountable challenge.

Trent could have easily shot the birds that the beaters had chased toward him, but somehow that felt like a massacre, not sport. It hadn’t stopped the men from bragging to their wives about their hunting prowess and the bounty of the slaughter. His hosts had gone off to celebrate their success, their over jeweled wives draped on their arms. Trent had begged off, insisting he needed an early start. He didn’t actually need to leave at four in the morning, but the sooner he saw the border the happier he would be, plus the thought of enduring one more sexist, homophobic, or racist joke was beyond his endurance. He doubted the presence of the women would improve the men’s choice of dinner conversation. Maybe at least they wouldn’t talk about their prowess in bed with their wives present. Trent had known a few guys who liked to brag about heavenly blow jobs or the conquering power of their dicks, but the last few days had been an eye opener. While he would write the requested article on the game preserve, Trent was already planning a humor piece on Homo texanis, the Texas native, in his home range.

Trent itched to pull out his laptop and start typing the adventures of the fine Texan citizenry, but a potential search by the border patrol forced Trent to be patient. He’d have to be content with the safe topic of the hunting lodge until he was back under the forty-nine stars of the United States. Trent zipped his case and headed downstairs. He’d promised his host he could manage his own dinner. Trent knew his way around a kitchen. He was sure he could find something edible in the monstrosity of granite and stainless steel appliances he’d seen earlier.

Trent froze as he crossed the foyer to the kitchen. In the great room, Levi, his host’s son, was entwined with another boy. It was beyond obvious that they were not watching the basketball game on the oversized television screen. The boys each saw Trent simultaneously and jumped up in a tangle of half removed jeans and thrown aside shirts. Levi blushed crimson before paling to a sickly gray.

“Uh,” Levi stutter. “We were watching the game.”

Trent didn’t bother to tell them that their state of semi-undress gave them away. “I was going to raid the kitchen. If I can find the ingredients, I make a mean pizza. Would you boys like some?”

“No thanks,” Levi muttered, still trying to organize his shirt and pants.

“Are you sure? Boys your age are usually hungry.” Trent smiled softly, trying to reassure. “I’m a damn Yankee. All I saw was two boys watching television. Just be safe, boys, please. Next time your audience might not be so sympathetic.” Trent took a deep breath. Both boys color had returned, not to a robust tan, but better than gray. Their expressions warred between hope that their secret was safe and utter terror. “I’m not just a damn Yankee; I’m a queer damn Yankee. Come help me figure out the kitchen.” Trent dropped an arm around each boy’s shoulders and surprised himself by kissing their foreheads in turn. “Breathe. You’re safe for now.” They might be safe, but what in the hell had he done? They tossed people in jail for being homosexual, and Trent didn’t think his US passport was protective. Now he was exposed and as vulnerable as these children, but they needed to know they weren’t freaks. Tonight he could try to give them a little hope.