My Super Boyfriend

MY SUPER BOYFRIEND

G.A.HAUSER

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2015

This book is dedicated to Patricia, Kage, Diana, Chimene, Margaret, Fernanda, Lorri, Donna, my sister, Joan, and so many others…Without you I never would have found my way back into the light.

Special thanks to my many fans who voiced their concerns, and well wishes for me, and their need for me to continue doing what I love, writing.

Life is odd that way. Sometimes you don’t know how many people you have touched, until something happens.

And all of you, so many I can’t even begin to name, have helped me through hell.

You are all my ‘superheroes’ thank you.

MY SUPER BOYFRIEND

Copyright © G.A. Hauser, 2015

Cover illustration by Arlen Schumer

ISBN Trade paperback: 978-1505-6921-9-8

© The G.A. Hauser Collection LLC

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WARNING

This book contains material that maybe offensive to some: graphic language, homosexual relations, adult situations. Please store your books carefully where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

First The G.A. Hauser Collection LLC publication:

February 2015

About the Illustrator

Arlen Schumer (http://arlenschumer.com) is the author/designer of the newly reissued The Silver Age of Comic Book Art Revised Edition (Archway Publishing); the original 2003 edition won the Independent Book Publishers Award for Best Popular Culture Book. He is also an award-winning comic book-style illustrator for the advertising and editorial markets, a member of The Society of Illustrators and a recognized expert on American popular culture— ABC-TV's 2020 called him one of the country’s preeminent authorities on comics and culture after interviewing him in 2010

http://youtu.be/_e634FDTBaI—presenting his VisuaLectures on those and other subjects (The Twilight Zone and the music of Bruce Springsteen) at universities and cultural institutions across the country.

http://arlenschumer.com

To order original posters of the amazing cover design contact me at ga@authorgahauser.com

ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: PLEASE READ-

Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

WARNING:

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Chapter 1

When Charles Dickens wrote, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’ I know what he meant.

Russ Jones sat on his bed in a center for behavioral health, which Russ often referred to as ‘the loony bin’, but only to himself.

Wearing light blue scrubs while his clothing was laundered, Russ rested his elbows on his knees and interlaced his fingers.

February. The crush of the holidays behind him, the punishing schedule of working in a large corporation’s shipping department, struggling with being alone, worrying about money, he had indeed hit rock bottom.

He looked around the stark white room. It was most certainly not a ‘resort’ with its two twin beds, one free standing wardrobe/closet, and one nightstand between the beds, which had two drawers.

The window took up nearly the entire far wall, but it was frosted so heavily, light was the only thing to pass through it, and that, barely. The curtain was heavy and blocked out what little light could shine through. Nothing hung on the walls, and everything was bolted to the floor and could not be shifted.

The pillows had plastic covers as opposed to fabric as did the mattress, and were dressed with clean white linens and thin bluish-green cotton blankets. There was a bathroom, but it accommodated four people; two patients on either side of it, and the doors did not lock.

At the moment, the second bed had been vacated and Russ wondered who was going to be there next. In a behavioral health clinic, beds were always filled. He knew that already since before he had landed in this care facility he had been brought to a holding center, where…he waited for the bed he now sat on.

How did I get myself into this mess?

But he knew. He just hated to admit it.

Without a clock in the room and not wearing his watch, Russ had to keep leaving his room to look at the time on a white-faced clock near the nurses’ station. There was a board on the wall opposite that station which had the name of each patient, their room number, their doctor and their caseworker. It also had a constantly changing schedule of events; such as group therapy, art therapy, meal times, and outdoor times.

He had just arrived the night before and was struggling to feel normal. He been placed into a holding facility once before, and the anxiety of not being free to leave, gave him a small dose of what prison must feel like. Hell on earth.

He stood, stretched his back muscles, and opened the door to his room. In a pair of socks which had rubber bottoms, he headed to the main area to read the time and see if he wanted to attend any of the group meetings.

As he did, he noticed the few individuals with more serious health issues, wandering, doing their OCD acts of pacing, or muttering to themselves. This facility was occupied by both men and women. The only division was the bedrooms, which on the right held women, the left side rooms were where the men slept.

The unit was small; limited to two community activity rooms; one quite large with a TV and long tables with chairs, and one with just a table and a few chairs. That was it. Other than those two dayrooms there were two tiny rooms which had showers, and again, could only be unlocked by a nurse, and were anything but luxurious.

Russ read the time, ten a.m., and then gazed at the schedule. He noticed the second bed, the one occupying the space beside his, had no name associated with it since the occupant had left yesterday.

Seeing there was a group event in fifteen minutes, Russ made his way to the nurses’ station to speak to one of the employees.

Excuse me. He leaned his elbow on the counter which separated him from the computers and paperwork. I just want to check if my clothing is dry.

Sure, Russ. One of the nurses stood, holding her keys. He followed her to a locked door, and she opened it. A stacked washer and dryer were inside the small closet.

He opened the dryer and felt his clothing, the clothing he had worn since he was taken away from his home.

They’re dry. He began removing his jeans, T-shirt, briefs, and socks. Once the warm bundle of clothing was in his arms, he asked, Can I wear my shoes?

The nurse inspected him. What kind of shoes were they?

Just loafers. No laces. He laughed, knowing why they removed shoelaces.

I’ll check.

Thanks. Russ brought his dry items to his room, removed the cotton scrubs, and dressed in his own clothing, which felt wonderful, not only because they were warm and the facility was cold, but…they were his. And walking around in scrubs was not making him feel like himself, it did the opposite.

He folded the scrubs, because they made good pajamas, and placed them in the wardrobe on a shelf.

Once he did, he returned to the main area. Can I get a cup of tea?

A different nurse nodded, and walked to yet another locked door. Any particular kind?

Chamomile? Anything herbal is good.

She nodded, entered the tiny room, and handed Russ a basket of herbal teas. He selected one and waited as she poured the heated water into a Styrofoam cup, and then he dipped the bag into it.

Thanks.

No problem, Russ. Are you going to the group meeting?

Yes.

Good.

Just as Russ began to walk towards the large dayroom which had a TV, he heard his name being called. Pausing, Russ spotted his caseworker, Crystal, and waited for her to approach.

The doctor wants to see you.

Okay. Russ had no idea why, but knew better than to argue. He followed Crystal to a small office room. She gestured for him to enter and he could see through the window on the door that a husky, middle-aged man was already in the room.

Russ held the steaming cup of tea and sat down as Crystal joined them.

How are you feeling, Russ?

Russ knew the name of the doctor was written on the wall but couldn’t recall it at the moment. His mind felt like scrambled eggs and remembering names had never been his strongpoint to begin with.

Okay. Hanging in there. Russ held the string of the teabag, dunking it, inhaling the pleasant scent of Chamomile.

I’m prescribing you a medication…

Russ didn’t like the thought of that, but he kept his expression passive.

It will make you drowsy, so take it before bedtime.

Nodding, Russ asked, When am I getting out of here?

Crystal kept silent, a folder on her lap, while the doctor read his own paperwork.

I have placed you on a fifty-one-fifty hold…but I think perhaps you should be here for a week.

A week? Russ fought to control his emotions. I can’t stay here a week. I’ll get fired from my job. How can I possibly stay for a week? He felt his hands tremble and held the cup tighter.

The caseworker sat quietly, as if she didn’t have a say in the matter.

You know why you’re here, right? The doctor raised one of his dark, bushy eyebrows.

Yes.

I simply want to allow you the time you need to—

Interrupting, Russ said, You have no idea how hard it’s going to be for me to take this time off from work. I mean, it will hit me financially if I don’t go in.

Finally Crystal spoke up. Dr Herazogue, how about a compromise?

Russ kept his mouth shut and tried to remember the doctor’s name. It was so unusual, he was struggling.

Dr Herazogue gave Russ a stern gaze. I will see you again tomorrow and will let you know if we can change the time frame. But for now, I want you here for a week.

Again that urge to argue washed over Russ, but he shut up. You did not get out by having a tantrum. That much he knew. So, no matter what I say in here now, I’m stuck.

You’re here for a reason.

Russ exchanged glances with the caseworker. She shot him a sympathetic smile.

He had no choice. He sipped his tea and said, Can I go now? I’m missing the group session.

The doctor nodded.

Crystal stood up and opened the door for Russ. As the two of them left, Russ tried to keep his voice steady, but he was angry. I can’t stay for a week, Crystal. I need to get back to work. My boss has no idea why I’m not there. I told him my mother was ill.

I know, Russ. Listen to me.

Russ gave her his undivided attention.

Attend groups, keep calm, write in your journal…Do everything right, and he will let you out sooner.

Promise? Russ tried to smile.

I can’t promise, but, I do know what works.

Thanks.

Russ! The nurse he had spoken to earlier appeared with a brown bag. Here are your shoes.

Great. Russ held the cup in his left hand and removed his brown loafers from the paper bag.

Crystal offered to take the hot tea, and Russ exchanged his slippers for his own shoes.

The nurse asked, Do you want to keep the slippers? They’re good for when you’re in the shower.

Okay. Russ watched the nurse leave and met Crystal’s gaze.

She said softly, Wear them in the shower. You don’t want to get athletes’ foot, or something worse. She reached for them. Go to your group session. I’ll drop the slippers in your room.

Thank you. He headed to the dayroom and opened the door. Since the group was already in session, at his entrance everyone turned to look. Sorry. He found a seat in back, behind a circle of soft blue cushioned sofa-like chairs which faced the TV.

Against the far wall, behind the cushioned chairs, were rows of tables with molded plastic chairs. It was a spot where they ate their meals, hung out, played card games or just chilled.

He sipped his tea as the group chat resumed.

Hearing each patient share their experiences, Russ was surprised that most of the stories were similar to his.

It gave him pause.

He was not alone.

Others had done what he did. And Russ knew there would be people coming in and out of this facility forever. That thought made him very sad indeed.

~

Are you fucking kidding me! Joe Thompson snarled as he was forced to lie on a gurney in an ambulance. You can’t do this! Fuck! He tried to free his arm, but several men began to strap him to the portable cot. His wrists and ankles were secured and the gurney was shoved into the back of the ambulance for transport. Unreal! he yelled, This is bullshit!

No one addressed him as they closed the back doors and the ambulance began to move. Seated beside Joe was a paramedic. The medic wrapped a BP cuff around Joe’s arm and took a reading.

Joe clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling of the truck. Where are you taking me? He was drunk, and that made him angry and violent.

To a hospital with a center for behavioral health.

Joe gaped at the man. Behavioral health? Is that politically correct for an insane asylum? Joe watched the BP cuff being removed and the man recording his information on a chart. I’m not insane, bucko! Now stop this fucking truck and let me out!

Can’t do that. You’re being held on an involuntary commitment.

Jesus! Joe tried to get his mind wrapped around why he was here. He struggled to recall how this happened.

The ride seemed long to Joe, and he didn’t have a clue what town they were taking him to. He pulled at the restraints but couldn’t budge. Joe closed his eyes and forced himself to think, but his mind was a jumble and time was warping. He couldn’t even remember what day it was.

What medications did they inject into me? He knew they had placed an intravenous tube into him since his arm was sore, bruised, and poked on the back of his right hand and inside the elbow. All this was done while he was either unconscious or in a drunken haze.

You’ll have to ask a doctor that. All we’re doing is transporting you.

Fuck. Being forced to leave his home, not work, and not be allowed to make his own decisions, he was trying not to go ballistic.

Knowing his complaining would get him nowhere, Joe shut up and stewed. This was not what he wanted out of his life. Oh, no. Not at all.

~

Russ held his empty tea cup and listened as members of the group shared their experiences or hopes for the future. Slowly he was retaining their names, and since he was going to be stuck here, he looked for someone he could relate to; a man, preferably, but at the moment, he’d accept anyone. He just craved a friend to hang out with.

Since he had just arrived yesterday, he could see which patients had already connected; they would sit together each time a meeting or event occurred.

At the start of each of these meetings, the counselor would ask each attendee, one by one, to announce their names. Then the counselor, who had a clipboard on his lap, checked who was naughty, (and did not show) and who was nice, (meaning- participating). Once he had noted all the people present, he would begin the session.

Since Russ had arrived late, he missed most of the beginning patients’ comments. Eventually, the time came and the man running the group met his gaze, and asked, What about you, Russ? How are you feeling today?

Russ scanned the room, seeing everyone look at him. After all, he was a newbie, and no doubt everyone was curious. He set the cup down on a table near his chair, and said, So-so.

The counselor nodded, prodding Russ to keep speaking.

I mean, I know why I’m here. It’s my fault. I just feel the urge to get home.

A muttering of agreement circled the crowd. It was obvious no one wanted to be locked up. You don’t know freedom, until it’s denied.

We all want you to go home, the therapist said, and our goal is to get you there.

Russ was going to continue protesting, as if asking the man to help him to get out was a realistic tactic. But he knew. After talking to Dr Herazogue, Russ knew he was stuck.

Can you think of a positive goal for today, Russ?

Russ again scanned the faces of his co-inmates. "I guess just thinking about what I