The Year of the Bull

The Year of the Bull

(What do you do when your childhood vows come back to hold you to your word?)

By

HAYDEN CHANCE

Smashwords Edition

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The Year of the Bull

Published by Dorje, Inc

2533 N. Carson Street Suite 4907

Carson, City, NV 89706

Copyright © CW Press, 2012

All Rights Reserved

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.

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Massive gratitude to the following people without whom this book would not exist: Paul McDowell, Don Jarrett, Ricki Linnenkohl and Deana Schwark

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"It's never too late to have a happy childhood."

― Tom Robbins

"No matter how far you have gone on a wrong road, turn back."

― Turkish Proverb

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Chapter One: You Got Problems

Brian Cooper woke up that Friday at noon but wished he hadn’t. His head was pounding from the previous night’s activities. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his thick brown hair felt sweaty and crunchy and his whole six foot frame felt shaky and weak. The sun was out and he could see Lake Michigan through his open RV window. The lake was wide and blue and dreamy like moving glass. It’s back and forth motion made him want to puke, and the sound of the waves and screaming seagulls made his head throb. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. The late September breeze made him feel a little better.

He’d parked his RV at the Belmont Harbor the previous night so he wouldn’t have to try and find street parking for his monster mobile home, but would still be walking distance from the restaurant where he was meeting his date. He usually didn’t park his home so close to the city, but his date had insisted on eating at a trendy Chinese joint on Chicago’s North Side. Brian hated the city. It’s traffic jams and one-way streets and overcrowding and urban-provincial elitist attitudes made him want to puke more than this hangover did. Oh, this hangover—why had had he drunk so much? He never drank that much.

He noticed suddenly that his head was facing the end of the bed. He rolled over to find a foot in his face.

Shit. He wasn’t alone.

He considered how he could most quickly arrange it so he was alone as he stared at the foot. It wasn’t an attractive foot. It was bony and long and its toes were misshapen and unevenly hairy. He wondered if he could get the guy to leave by waking him up and telling him he had an ugly foot.

Brian stared up the line of the leg that was attached to the foot and saw the guy from last night’s date sleeping on his pillow. The PhD student. Halfway through their meal Brian had started calling him Sigmund Roid in his head because the guy was a real pain in the ass.

He kept analyzing everything Brian said. And because he was a PhD student and Brian had dropped out of college, he knew everything and all of Brian’s experiences were completely invalid.

What was this guy doing there anyhow?

He remembered. Around the time he’d started calling the guy Sigmund Roid in his head, Brian started ordering gin martinis. Lots of them. Hence the hangover and unattractive foot in his face now.

Brian looked down on the floor at the base of the bed and saw a half crumpled placemat from the restaurant. Sigmund had insisted on bringing it with them because Brian had doodled a picture of their waiter on it. He was holding a plate of crispy wonton and had a big, silly grin on his face.

This is really good, Sigmund had said. Are you an artist?

No, I told you, I paint houses for a living.

This is really good. It looks just like the waiter. We have to bring this home with us.

Home with us? One Pu Pu platter between them and there was an us and a home and a with all mashed together like a plate of egg fu yung? Why were these guys always so damned greedy and needy at the same time they were so arrogant and cynical?

Brian flipped the placemat over. It was printed with the Chinese zodiac. Brian remembered now that right about the time he’d ordered his third martini, the waiter had told him it was the year of the Bull, Brian’s zodiacal sign.

It your lucky year, the waiter said to him and gave him the next drink on the house. So long as you live through it. Ha ha ha!

Here’s to living through the year! Brian had said and pounded half his martini. At which point Sigmund had suggested that maybe Brian might want to consider addressing the deep issues that made him want to drink so much. Perhaps in therapy.

Brian responded by saying that he only drank when he was with a wet blanket, which of course, Sigmund attributed to buried hostilities that could be cured, Perhaps in therapy. In fact, everything Sigmund had suggested to Brian was followed by, Perhaps in therapy. To which Brian responded by ordering another martini. Hence his current delicate condition. And the unattractive foot in his face.

Brian read the legend for his zodiacal sign on the placemat in his hand:

Born 1973. Bull:

You are quiet, soft-spoken and inspire confidence in others. You are a patient leader and slow to anger but when you do…watch out! You love working with your hands and would make an excellent hairstylist or general. You are most suited to the snake, rooster or rat. The goat brings trouble.

Brian rolled over and poked Sigmund in the head with his toe.

Hey! Hey...um… Shit, he’d been calling the guy Sigmund Roid so much he’d forgotten the guy’s real name. Hey! Wake up.

The guy rolled over and mumbled.

Hey! What’s your sign?

Sigmund rubbed his eyes and looked over at Brian in confusion. He was still half asleep.

What? he mumbled.

Your sign? Brian held up the place mat.

The guy shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Brian stared at him. He was blond and a little heavy, but not in a bad way. He had pretty blue eyes and a boyish quality that was kind of endearing when the guy was half asleep, but his personality was even more unattractive than his foot.

I—don’t— Sigmund shook his head. The goat, I think.

You gotta go, Brian said. We’re not compatible."

What?

Brian stood up. He was naked. Oh, shit. Did they? He leaned forward and whispered: Did we… do it?

No. I was giving you a blowjob and you fell asleep.

Oh, thank God! Brian said.

What? Sigmund had a deep look of hurt on his face.

Oh, it’s not you. Brian held up the place mat. It’s just, I’d hate to make a compatibility mistake this big.

You know, I’m a person. With feelings.

I know. I’m such a douche for doing this but I’m very superstitious.

I deserve more than this. I’m a PhD candidate at U of C.

Yes, I know in Psychotherapy. And you’ll be great at it. But the whole bull-goat thing just isn’t gonna work. I really need a snake. The placemat says so.

No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, I can help you. You don’t have to run away like this. I recognize the issues you’re grappling with. I grappled with them too. You use superstition as an excuse to avoid intimacy. There are medications that can help with that.

Brian grabbed a pair of shorts from the little dresser next to the bedroom door and slid them on. Are you on them? he asked, zipping his fly.

Sigmund sat up onto the pillow. He adjusted his glasses awkwardly and Brian saw the unsure cute guy that he’d originally asked out.

Yes, I am currently under treatment for some anxiety issues, he said.

I’m sorry, Brian said, sincerely. I don’t want to make light of your problems.

"I don’t have problems, Brian. I am in control. You have problems. And I want to help you. It’s what humans do to show love for other humans."

Brian shook his head. Who said anything about love? We had Mongolian beef.

Everything you’re doing is diagnosable.

I prefer life to be a bit more unpredictable.

I know, I saw your bookshelf in the other room. After you fell asleep. And the pictures of you as a teenager. You were a wrestler?

Yes.

For how long?

Four years.

Brian walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. While he was taking a piss he said: What does my bookshelf or the fact I was a wrestler have to do with anything?

Sigmund took his glasses off, rubbed them on the sheet, held them up to the light then put them back on. It’s all a bit…barbaric don’t you think?

Brian appeared in the doorway of the bedroom holding a glass of water and four aspirin. He popped the aspirin in his mouth and chased them with the water. I’ve had those books since I was a kid. They’re better than anything anyone’s writing now.

"King Arthur? Sleeping Beauty? Brer Rabbit? Misogynistic, violent and racist. And I don’t even want to talk about what the wrestling means."

Are you a lesbian?

That was an offensive statement.

It was meant to be.

Why don’t you have a TV?

I don’t like what’s on it.

So, you spend your time reading those books?

I keep myself busy. Privately.

Privately? What does that mean?

It means I do other things besides sitting in front of a TV watching how the powers that be are crushing everyone and destroying this country. And, yes, sometimes I read those books. They inspire me.

Inspire? Sigmund asked with a look of disgust on his face. Your reading material shows deep insight into your psyche, Brian. You’re afraid of reality and of contemporary mores and ethics. You can’t just deny the rest of society and it’s needs. Nor can you drop out of it. You, as a citizen of the world, have a responsibility to everyone else.

To conform to their mediocrity?

That’s your uneducated opinion.

Yeah, well, this is my uneducated life. Tell me, Sigmund. What’s so great about this thing you call reality when you gotta be drugged up to experience it?

My name is Jeff.

Brian winced. Sorry.

Brian’s cell phone went off in the kitchen. Brian shook his head. Look…just…put your clothes on, please.

He turned and walked into the kitchen to answer his phone. When he pressed talk and said, Hello, he heard the deep baritone voice he’d been avoiding all week. He winced again.

Mr. Brian Cooper?

Um…yeah? He looked back in the bedroom to make sure that Jeff was getting dressed. He was relieved to see that he was. Brian was suddenly afraid that the guy had decided to move in.

Mr. Cooper, I have left you several messages.

Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t got your money, so there’s really no reason to—

Mr. Cooper, you’re not listening, the voice on the phone said, interrupting. I’m sure if we could just meet we could solve these very important issues quickly. I have to explain. It’s very important that you not be shocked by what I have to tell you. You have certain obligations based on your agreements—

Brian hung up.

Who was that? Jeff appeared fully dressed in the kitchen. He was wearing a striped polo with the collar up and a pair of faded jeans He looked somewhat vulnerable and cute again.

Bill collector. My student loans are in default. You know, from that great education that was going to make me an artist.

That’s because you didn’t finish.

Just so you know, I was in the art program at Northwestern. I wasn’t a community college drop out. You know, big, bad Northwestern that everyone’s all crazy about how great it is? I got a scholarship there. For wrestling, by the way—the barbaric sport that isn’t worth anything. But my scholarship still didn’t cover what it cost.

Well, of course, Jeff said, now sounding unsure of himself. Education is very expensive. Because it’s so very valuable. But I saw what you drew last night—you’re a very good artist. It had to be worth it.

Yes. That’s what all my teachers said. You’re very good. That’s all they ever said. Brian Cooper, you’re so good. An incredible painter and sculptor. And my classmates all said the same thing too: Brian Cooper, you’re such a fantastic artist. Someday, I’m gonna say I knew you when.

But that’s great. People liked you. That’s important.

Maybe to you it is. But I was doing more than my teachers ever did. They couldn’t teach me anything. They were full of shit. And by the time I’d gotten through my first year of ‘attaboys’ from people who had nothing to teach me I was 100 grand in debt. And around that time, beauty and art sort of fell out of the world. There weren’t any fine artists anymore. That stopped being an option in the eighties. And the only thing I was qualified to do then was paint people’s houses and businesses. The privilege for being liked by the losers who wear a professor’s badge.

No, that’s not why you left, Brian. You left because you were afraid to develop your potential. I’ve seen it a million times.

Man, the only thing you’ve ever seen is your own reflection in the sunglasses of the world.

"Avoidance. This irresponsibility of yours is a disorder Brian. You have a menial job and live in an RV. Why not a house and a steady job and children?"

I like living in an RV. I like being able to go wherever I want whenever I want. I like being mobile and out of the system. And I don’t want children.

Why? Because people say we can’t be parents? Because we can, Brian. Don’t believe their lies. Don’t let them control you.

Brian leaned on the kitchen table and his triceps stood out on his strong, muscular arm. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe the only reason you want children is because some dickheads are trying deny you them?

No, because I’m an independent thinker.

How can you be so sure?

Because I am… Before he could finish Brian joined him and they both said: A PhD candidate at U of C.

Yes, I know," Brian said in exasperation.

Why are you making fun of something I worked so very hard to achieve? Just because you couldn’t cut it—

I left school because it was bullshit.

Maybe you could have been the artist you really wanted to be? Jeff smiled as if he’d just called check mate.

Is that your professional analysis?

Yes.

Tell me. Why are you so jazzed to get me to agree with you?

Jeff answered without skipping a beat: Because I like you.

Brian leaned forward. As he did, Jeff got a really good look at him. His strong blue eyes, his dark eyebrows and five o’clock shadow. He saw that even though Brian had bedhead that his hair was slick and dark and thick. He looked at Brian’s strong shoulders and classic frame and he wanted to own it. All of it.

I like you, he said again.

"No. People who like other people don’t do what you’re doing. You like you. And want me to be just like you."

Jeff started to shake a little from the intensity of Brian’s statement. That’s—that’s your opinion.

And this is my home. Until the government comes and takes it or me away like they’re doing with everything else. So, please leave. You have ugly feet.

Oh, so now we’re going to get personal?

Brian nodded and smiled. Very.

You’ll be sorry you did this. Throwing out people who care is a sickness.

I’ll take my medicine when it comes wrapped in a racist, misogynistic, un-politically correct fairytale.

Jeff shook his head and left the RV. There was a look of superiority and arrogance on the face that had earlier looked cute and vulnerable.

Who knew ‘ugly feet’ would be the thing that would make him leave? Brian said aloud to himself.

Brian opened the cabinet above his sink and pulled out a box of Peanut Butter Crunch and a bowl. He poured some cereal. The sound of it hitting the bowl made his head throb. He sat down for a minute and stared across the kitchen table at the bookshelf a few feet from him in the living room. It really was full of fairytales. He’d always loved them. When he was younger he’d hoped to make a living illustrating them. He almost starved trying to make an inroad in that industry. Most of the publishers weren’t buying new art. They were doing it cheap because it gave them bigger profits to simply recycle old pictures. And now…

There was a knock at the door.

He sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. It made his headache feel a little better.

Sigmund, I’m sorry about the ugly feet comment. Just...please go home.

The knock came again.

Man, I’m not interested in being studied or drugged for your thesis. Please, go home.

A voice that was not Sigmund’s said: I am not leaving until I speak with you.

Brian recognized the voice. The deep baritone from the phone. Since when did student loan collectors make house calls to RVs?

Who the hell are you? Brian shouted.

"Mr. Cooper. It is urgent that I speak to you. And