Remember Me Not, My Love

  By J.D. Walker

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 J.D. Walker

  ISBN 9781646561179

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Remember Me Not, My Love

  By J.D. Walker

  “Excuse me. Can you tell me where to find the batteries?” I didn’t have much time because my lunch break was almost over.

  The store clerk had his back to me where he kneeled on the floor, since he was stocking items on a lower shelf. As he straightened from his stooped position, I noticed he wore his hair closely shaved on the sides, with a blond mohawk that was about two inches tall. His uniform shirt was short-sleeved, so I could see the tattoos he had inked on both arms. They were really cool Celtic designs. He had an earring in both ears, but holes for more metal ran up and down the cartilage. For some reason he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  When he turned to face me, I saw he had bright green eyes. I thought he was kinda hot, actually. But then, a look of recognition and shock came over his face, and he stared at me like he’d seen a ghost.

  When he didn’t say anything after about ten seconds, I said, “I’m sorry, man, but I’m kind of in a hurry. Just point me in the right direction, okay?” I didn’t want to be rude, but I was in a hurry.

  He lifted a shaky finger and pointed behind me. When I turned to look in that direction, I saw an end cap near aisle six that was full of batteries. Duh.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I hurried over there, grabbed a packet of AAs, and headed to the cashier. After paying with cash, I thanked the woman behind the counter and jogged to the exit. Before I left the store, though, I felt eyes on me. I turned my head and saw mohawk-dude still staring at me. I didn’t have time to figure out why, since I had only a minute to dash across the street to get back to my job on time.

  “Maureen, I’m back,” I announced fifty seconds later as I entered Shoe Haven.

  Opening the door always triggered a bell to let the employees know when someone came into the store. My boss left the register stand and walked briskly toward me, her handbag swinging from her left shoulder. “It’s about damn time,” she said as she grabbed the batteries and cash from my hand. A ‘thank you’ would have been nice, but I didn’t hold my breath. “Clean up the kids’ shoe area and put the fifty percent off signs in the window while I’m gone. I’ll be back in half an hour.” Probably a lot later than that, actually, but it wasn’t worth my job—or her temper—to complain.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I responded as she left the store in a hurry.

  It took me most of the hour and a half she was actually gone—no surprise there—just to clean up that part of the store. It was totally trashed. We got a lot of foot traffic from moms, dads, and nannies hauling recalcitrant kids into the store, looking for bargains. Maureen was always conveniently absent when the noise level ramped up, claiming paperwork duties in her office. I found that hilarious, since I did most of the paperwork anyway. I was always covering her ass.

  As I placed the signs in the window, I thought about my life and just shook my head. Why was I working in a low-end shoe store for such a bossy, thankless bitch? Oh, right. I’d screwed up my life by daring to be gay.

  * * * *

  I thought back to my childhood. Once a rich kid, I’d never had to worry about money. Everything was paid for. The house I’d lived in was totally sweet and my room was practically an apartment on the upper level. If I needed money, I had a huge allowance.

  But when I came out to my family the summer I turned eighteen, they cut me off and threw me out of the house.

  I, who knew nothing about paying bills or making anything besides coffee, was thrust into an unbending world. My life as I had known it was gone in minutes. I had nothing but the clothes on my back—not even my wallet. I couldn’t go to my so-called friends in the neighborhood because they were cut from the same cloth as my parents. I was now a pariah in this world. But I wouldn’t change my mind. Faking my way through life had gotten old. I wanted to be able to respect myself, if nothing else.

  The streets weren’t real friendly to a clueless guy like me, and I was taken advantage of quite a bit. Desperation made me learn real fast how to get by, though. Cardboard boxes to sleep on, garbage bags for protection against the rain. Church missions for a shower and food, sometimes a bed. When it was warm, there were places to sleep on the grass in parks, mostly hidden from security patrols. I learned to sleep lightly, and still did so even now.

  I got odd jobs when I could—moved furniture, landscaped, painted. Hell, I even got calluses. Sometimes, I sucked a guy’s dick for cash. Being hungry and homeless doesn’t leave too many choices, and I did what I had to. Whatever cash I got was stretched out for as long as possible. A fast food joint was a luxury. I learned to trust no one but myself. When it was winter and bone-chilling cold, I found warmth wherever I could. Sometimes, it was sharing a fire barrel with someone who was bat-shit crazy. I took my chances, especially when it was zero degrees outside.

  Once in a while I would run across some of my old high school “buddies” at a gas station where I panhandled until management told me to leave. They didn’t recognize me, or maybe they just pretended not to. Perhaps that was easier. My hair was a long, scraggly brown and hung to my shoulders and in my face. I hid behind it a lot. I’d gotten real skinny, too, though I’d never been a big guy. It was hard to see my peers with their fancy cars and loud music. Expensive clothes and pseudo-macho cool. Even harder to walk up to them and beg for coins. I saw my dad once, though I didn’t approach him. I remembered his attitude toward the homeless, nothing but disdain and self-righteous opinions about not trying hard enough. Like he could talk after what he did to me.

  Finally, one of the missions I visited regularly had told me about a program that helped homeless people learn skills to help get them back into society. It was a new initiative through a nonprofit funded, ironically, by wealthy people like my parents. I entered the program and eventually found this job, got qualified for a housing voucher under Section 8, and moved into my tiny studio apartment.

  Life was now tolerable. I had a job, shelter, a prepaid cell phone, and used public transit. Believe me, I was grateful. My eating habits weren’t the greatest, and I had difficulty sleeping at night. However, I spent a lot of time in the library reading books or magazines and watching movies. My hair was still long, but it was clean and neat now, worn in a ponytail when I went to work.

  I checked the time and saw it was three o’clock in the afternoon. Maureen had finally returned to the store, only to shut herself in the back office for the rest of the day. This left me to deal with the customers. I knew she was napping; I heard the snores a time or two when I went back there. Thankfully, it wasn’t so busy out front. A few senior citizens browsed the shoe aisles.

  I was working on a display when I heard the doorbell. “Welcome to Shoe Haven!” I turned to greet the customer and stopped in surprise. It was the mohawk guy from the convenience store where I’d bought the batteries. That feeling of familiarity came over me again, but I just couldn’t place him. Still, he was a bundle of hotness.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, slowly walking over to stand near where I worked. He had a deep voice. I liked it. In fact, aside from the creepy, almost stalkerish behavior he exhibited, if I thought I was worthy enough to date someone, I’d probably ask him out, though I didn’t know if he was gay. But who would date a dude that lived in a shoebox apartment and earned barely above minimum wage?

  “No, man, I don’t. Sorry. How the hell did you find me, anyway? Should I be freaked out?” Not that I was really worried. I’d learned how to defend myself against guys bigger than he was. We were about the same height, though he was maybe twenty pounds heavier than me, since I’d remained kind of skinny after being on the streets for so long. I didn’t eat much, probably from the hard-learned habit of needing to be satisfied with little.

  “Your shirt has the store logo on it,” he replied, pointing to the left side of my polo.

  “Right, duh. Sorry. Are you feeling all right, though? You looked at me back there like I was a ghost or something.” I kept on working with the shoe display, trying to decide if red, yellow, and blue would be too overpowering a combination for s

andals.

  “Umm, I’ve been better, yeah. Wow, you really don’t remember me. Huh.” I looked up to see him brush a hand over his mohawk. He seemed apprehensive.

  “It can’t be that bad, can it?” I asked, removing the yellow sandals and replacing them with green.

  “We went to the same high school in Candler. My name’s Ishmael Gregory.”

  I thought for a second. The guy did look familiar, but it still wasn’t ringing any bells. “Nope, I got nothing.” I finished the display, then stood back with my hands on my hips to see if I was happy with it.

  “You don’t remember your buddies beating me up behind the bleachers senior year, while you just stood there, doing nothing? They called me a ‘faggot’ and ‘cocksucker’? Any of this getting through to you yet?” He stared at me, hands clenched at his sides, furious.

  I stumbled backward in shock. No wonder he was familiar. I’d pushed that memory so far down, I’d almost forgotten it. The guy I had wronged. The reason why I came out, if I were honest. Oh hell yes, I remembered.

  Bruce, Kenny, and Roger were the guys I used to hang out with in high school. They weren’t very nice to people who were different. If a kid didn’t fit in, or came from the “wrong side of the tracks,” look out. Why had I hung out with them? Mostly, I’d been scared of standing out in any way, and I could hide myself with them since we shared the same class. I didn’t like how they picked on other kids, but it had been easier to go along with the crowd than stand up for anything or anyone. Let them pick on someone else so they didn’t pick on me. I had already known I was gay by then, but it hadn’t been something I could admit out loud.

  Ishmael had been a small kid, even at seventeen, though to look at him now, you wouldn’t know it. Real slender, he would wear tight, pastel-colored T-shirts and black eyeliner, sometimes sparkly jeans. Metal lined each ear. He’d lived in a trailer park with his aunt, who, rumor had it, was more interested in alcohol than his care. So, definitely the wrong side of the tracks.

  As I thought about it now, he had been really cute, with his hair cut in a short mohawk frosted a vibrant green that matched his eyes. So different from me with my blue eyes and brown hair, cut in a kind of mid-length, layered style. I guess my denial of myself had diminished any attraction I might have felt toward him or anyone else, probably out of fear. It had been squashed down as far as it would go.

  One afternoon in the spring of our senior year, Bruce and the guys had cornered Ishmael behind the bleachers as he cut across the football field to get to the trailer park a few streets over from the school. I had walked behind them, not knowing exactly what was going to happen, but I’d had a really bad feeling all the same.

  Suddenly, Kenny had grabbed Ishmael’s backpack and hauled it and him to the ground. Bruce kicked him in the ribs, while Roger yelled homophobic slurs over and over, spit flying everywhere. They’d never been this violent before, limiting their vicious ways to shoving people into lockers. I just stood there and stared at the scene in shock. I couldn’t move as I watched them kick and punch him so hard, there was blood. I heard his bones crack. He tried to protect himself and begged them to stop, but that just made things worse. Finally tired, or maybe just bored, Kenny and the others turned to walk away, high-fiving each other like it was some kind of victory moment.

  “Come on, Terry. Let’s go catch a movie,” Kenny had said casually to me, like what just happened hadn’t changed someone’s life forever, including mine. To my shame, I’d slowly turned and walked away, though I was numb inside. A week later, I’d heard through the grapevine that Ishmael was still in the hospital.

  He never came back to school, and he never told anyone who was behind the assault. Even if I’d had it in me to apologize or see how he was doing, the opportunity had been long gone. It wasn’t too long after that when I came out to my parents. Was it penance? Did I think I could take it all back, soothe my conscience by doing it? Maybe.

  And now, he stood before me, handsome even in righteous anger.

  “Fuck! Jesus, man, what…?” I covered my face for a moment and then dropped my hands. I looked around the store, watching the customers as they searched for that perfect, cheap shoe. I wanted to escape my reality, but I couldn’t. I needed to make this right.

  I took a deep breath and said, “You know, there are a million things I’d like to say to you about what I did, or rather, didn’t do back then. I’d like to start by saying I’m truly, truly sorry for what we did to you—what I let them do to you. I realize that just saying the words will never take back or change my lack of action, or the brutality you endured. I can’t even imagine what you went through. But more than that, would you be willing to hear me out a little, maybe try to explain?”

  He stared at me for a long time, fists clenching and unclenching until he said, “Why should I?” His voice had a nasty edge to it.

  “You probably shouldn’t, and you certainly don’t owe me anything. But I’m asking—no, I’m begging you to give me a chance. Please.”

  He looked at the floor for a moment and then raised his eyes to meet mine. “Okay, I guess I could hear you out.” He took a deep breath. “When does your shift end?”

  “We shut the doors at six o’clock, and then I close out the register, do a final cleaning, and lock up. Want to meet over at Coffee or Bust?”

  “I can do that,” he said. “How’s seven o’clock? My shift ends at six-thirty.”

  “Sounds cool.” I noticed an older couple standing at the register. “Look, I gotta go ring up some customers. You don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’ll be there. Thanks for being willing to listen.” I put my hand out to shake his. He stared at it for a few seconds, then placed his hand in mine. One pump up and down, and he was gone.

  As I rang up the customers, my mind tried to process what just happened. How would I explain myself? He was still so angry after all these years, and I couldn’t blame him. If I’d needed any more proof of how messed up I was back then, here it was. I guessed I’d just try the truth.

  * * * *

  When I walked into Coffee or Bust, I noticed the place was moderately busy. There were a few empty tables, though. Ishmael came over to me from one of the tables by the window.

  “Hey,” he said, face carefully devoid of all expression. Probably a defense mechanism. I knew all about those.

  “Hi.” Clearing my throat, I adjusted the backpack on my shoulder. I was nervous. “You want some coffee or tea, decaf?” I had enough cash on me to splurge for two small drinks. “I’m gonna get a small black tea, probably orange.” Realizing I was rambling, I turned and walked over to the register and hoped he would follow. He did.

  “Peppermint tea for me, please,” he said.

  “Sure thing.” I placed our orders and paid the cashier. The wait wasn’t long, thankfully, and I grabbed our teas when my name was called. He led us to the spot where he had been seated when I arrived, since it was still available.

  We sat down, and I placed our cups on the table and my backpack under the chair. I fussed a little to buy myself some time. My reluctant companion wasn’t talking, though, so I guess it was definitely up to me to get things going.

  “So you work at PharmX?” I asked.

  He took a sip of his tea. “Yeah, for about a year now. Floor manager. Look, I get that you want to talk, so talk. It’s been a long day.”

  “Right.” I set my tea aside and began.

  “You don’t know how sorry I am for what happened to you. I was an asshole back then, and maybe I still am. Who knows? I don’t have friends to tell me otherwise. It was easier to survive in high school by not rocking the boat. If someone else was getting picked on, then it wasn’t me.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “So, that’s somehow an excuse for not standing up against something that was clearly wrong? You just fucking stood there, man. I was the loneliest I’d ever been in my life, and in so much pain. I could have used a friend—and medical attention.”

  “I can never apologize enough for that. And no, it’s not an excuse. All I’m trying to say is that I was scared. I coasted through life. Everything was so fucking easy. I realized I was gay around the time they attacked you, but I couldn’t say it out loud. I was a coward. I freely admit that. And when I saw what they did to you, I went into shock. I couldn’t do anything, so I just stood there. I thought to myself, ‘that could have been me’, and it scared me shitless. I don’t know how else to say it. Just know that I’m truly, truly sorry.”

 

1 2 3 4