II Hiding #3
Mitchell escorted everyone to a drawing room in his family’s home.
Mitchell wore a nice but casual Chicago Bears shirt - one from a Bears podcast - and was in perfect physical condition.
He wore casual gray pants with a rip towards the bottom.
He had a little bit of makeup to touch himself up.
Westfield wore blue jeans and a white comic book T-shirt and looked weak and hesitant for someone who worked out regularly.
They gathered on a couple of couches - comfortable gray leather couches.
There was no television in this room - it was a room for sitting and talking.
The coffee table had some art books on it - and a book by Armistead Maupin.
A pillow sat next to one of the couches in case someone wanted to sleep on the couch.
An exercise bike was just outside the drawing room and could be dragged into the room if one wanted to use it there.
Paintings of San Francisco lined the walls.
“Gentlemen,” Westfield said. “I bet you are wondering why I have gathered you here today.”
“A quest?” Turner asked.
“Could it be a quest?” Clayton asked.
“It could be a quest,” Westfield said.
Turner had been transitioning because he had always felt that he was a guy.
He enjoyed hanging out with the guys and chatting about movies and television and the arts and plays and the like.
He was medium height and had blond hair cut very short and was skinny but not buff yet.
He could run for many miles if needed. He liked - no, loved - to run many miles a week to stay in great shape.
“What kind of a quest?” Turner asked.
“To craft a one-act play,” Westfield said. “The perfect one-act play. The guys are writing one, the girls are writing one, and we’re accepting applications for the third one, seeing who writes a beautiful one.”
“Great,” Mitchell said.
“But we might get butchered by a slasher killer,” Westfield said.
“He kills people to punish them for having sex and having wonderful lives.”
“We should turn this into a play,” Turner said. “To commemorate Shotgun.”
“What kind of play do we want to perform?” Westfield asked.
“Comedy,” Clayton said. “Something ridiculous.”
“Comedy is really hard,” Westfield said.
“Comedy is wonderful,” Clayton said.
“Are you insanely funny? Can you make people laugh and laugh and laugh? Just uproarious laughter?”
“No,” Clayton admitted.
“Then you can’t write a comedy one-act play yet,” Westfield said. “Comedy is killer. It’s a brutal business.”
“So let’s write a tragedy,” Turner said. “A story in which everybody dies in the end.”
“I love it,” Clayton said.
“Agreed,” Mitchell said. “That will evoke some kind of dramatic tension, some sadness. Someone we care about will die. Several people, I hope, that we make the audience love will then die in the end, and we will feel sad that they have been killed. And we can try to include some comedy.”
“Good,” Turner said. “Should we write it as a group, or should Mitchell write it?”
“Yeah, Mitchell should write it,” Westfield said.
“Yeah,” Clayton said. “Mitchell, you should write it.”
“Okay,” Mitchell said. “I will write it. I will write a one-act play in which everybody dies.”
“I am also writing one of my own,” Westfield said. “Independent of this group, if that is cool.”
“Cool,” Mitchell said.
“I don’t understand,” Turner said.
“Yes?” Mitchell asked.
“Why do you feel justified being perfect?” Turner asked. “The rest of us are struggling. We can hardly function. Shotgun was my friend.”
“Yeah,” Clayton said. “He was our friend. He role-played with us every Wednesday evening at the gaming store. We miss him. You are just moving on with your life, writing a script, having the perfect life. But he’s dead, and he’s going to be forgotten in a few years.
” “No,” Mitchell said. “I will never forget him.”
“And then why did you say that you regretted mindless sex that night?” Westfield asked.
“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “That came out wrong. Shotgun was wonderful.”
“No, apparently, our friend was pointless to you,” Turner said. “Pointless and without merit. Do you even know much about your dead boyfriend?” “I don’t,” Mitchell said. “Not enough.”
“A lot of people are dying,” Westfield said. “He is the first drama kid to die, maybe not the last.”
“And what should we do?” Turner asked. “I’m not a jock, a fighter. What do I do if someone tries to murder me with a Japanese sword?” “You fight,” Mitchell said. “You should all fight back against this guy.”
“Or girl,” Turner said.
“I saw him,” Mitchell said. “It was a guy.”
“A girl could have done this,” Turner said.
“No,” Mitchell said.
“Girls can do anything that guys can do,” Westfield said.
“I know,” Mitchell said. “The person that I saw, masculine body, masculine features, not a female, sorry.”
“I just want to believe that we can stop this guy,” Turner said.
“We can,” Mitchell said. “We need to trust that the adults will catch him. That the authorities will solve this case.”
“I will write you guys a script to remember the fallen,” Mitchell said.
“Good,” Westfield said.
“I will eagerly await this script,” Clayton said.
“Of course,” Clayton said.
Clayton believed in watching all the romantic comedies.
Clayton had hair down to his shoulders, longish for a young man, and brown.
He hadn’t shaved in several days but didn’t have a full goatee.
He also did all his homework and volunteered with old people at the local retirement home where his grandfather stayed.
Clayton was mostly quiet but spoke up when something he cared about came up in discussions.
He loved winter and the cold because it made him feel alive.
Mitchell and Westfield joined Turner and Clayton for coffee for everyone, and much coffee was drunk, and it was delicious coffee.
The group talked as young men do: about movies, about television, about responsibilities, about friends and their habits; about life and its difficulties and its contradictions. They started the one-act plays that Westfield and Mitchell would write.
Everyone was getting ready for the spring play.