Those Weekends In New England

Chapter Three

A sad song can be disguised as a happy one.

"This isn't too bad, right, Denny?"

Denny stopped the drink halfway to his lips and raised an eyebrow, part in amusement, part in annoyance. "Cut me some slack, Al. We haven't been here twenty minutes. I have to admit, though, feels a helluva lot better being on this side of a stage for a change."

"Only thing which could make it better, eh, Denny, would be to have a woman with you. Right? You should really be ready for some wild sex by now." Vern had started drinking before they'd left the hotel and was well on his way to oblivion.

Denny's answering smile was tight and without humor. He brought his glass back to his lips and finished off the second half of his drink in one rapid, fluid gesture.

Vernon's remark brought about a sudden revelation, forcing Denny to reflect on his own slow, daily loss of composure. This feeling had been building within for some time, since the accident, but he'd done his best to ignore the truth. His emotions were closing up on him and his needs had become little more than an irksome malady. He had pushed the physical stuff far back into neglected pockets of his mind, consciously reducing their importance, telling himself he had little time or patience for sex. His work, a driving substitution, had made such behavior easy, simple to a point. He had been able to keep his sexuality and genuine emotions at bay.

Until this moment.

Now, a traitorous, brutal buildup suddenly, without warning, threatened to spill over. He felt the unwanted tension below his belt, pushing against his trousers. This finally had to be reckoned with and so did Vern, but Vern would have to wait. Denny didn't have the stomach to deal with both situations at this moment. At the same time.

But physically relieving himself wasn't an option right now, either.

"I won't. I won't have things be this way." He twirled his glass back and forth and scowled at his companions. Speaking against his own mind, he needed to try and deny himself one more time. "Hell, Al...." He cut off his sentence to order the waitress to bring another round of drinks. Fast. He might as well join Vern in getting drunk. He didn't drink a lot these days and if he did, liquor always dissipated his desire quite nicely, and quickly.

"Al, don't look at me as if I'm some damned crazed lion about to eat my tamer." He turned his entire body in his seat to face his manager. "All these frustrations—Elaine and her condition, my 'comeback' after the accident, fatigue and limitations and," he pointed to his crotch, "and the strain. I've had enough of this shit, enough of being so damn frustrated." Drinks came and, before they could be placed on the table, Denny grabbed his and tossed the entire contents of the glass down his throat without as much as a simple thank you.

Al regarded him with a frown, but spoke directly to the obviously stunned server. "Please excuse him." His glance turned into a glare daring Denny to utter another word. "He's working too hard. No excuse, I know, but this is an explanation. Accept my apologies for him, will you?"

"Sure," she answered, her voice cracking with forced nonchalance. She mutilated a piece of gum between her crooked front teeth as she stared at Denny, eyes defiant. "He's always rude, I hear," she spit out. "I'd have been surprised if he was any different."

As she turned to leave, Denny grabbed her arm. He'd crossed a line and only he could make things better. The surprise for him was that he still cared. "Listen, honey, I'm sorry. Truly no excuses because I don't have any...." He shook his head. "Anyway, I promise to behave the rest of the night." He shot her what he hoped was his most endearing smile.

"Don't worry about things, sir. Doesn't much matter to me. Only don't," she shook her arm free, "touch me again, and don't call me 'honey.' I'm certainly not your honey. I've never liked your singing, and now I don't like you." She stomped away.