Title: Some Kind of Beautiful
Author: Katie
Email: meboja90@yahoo.com
Fandom: MASH
Pairing: OMC/OMC, and one mystery implication
Series: A Miracle Everyday
Warnings: Drug use, swearing, mild violence, mild sexual content, mild
prostitution, statutory rape, prejudice slurs.
Rating: R
Archive: To lists, everybody else can ask.
Disclaimer: I own everyone mentioned with a name. The implied are owned by
somebody else.
Summary: In Vietnam era, a runaway is brought back to whom he ran from.
A/N: This is relevant to MASH. I promise. An actual canon character shows
up next chapter.
Dedication: To my mommy. She lived this out. Minus the penis. Plus a
schizophrenic husband.
---
Jen traced his vein up and down his arm with the needle. He figured it like skating on thin ice-- you never know when the plunge is going to come. He halted his game and made a clear incision. Jen savored the pain for a second, pulled back and saw the blood mix with the clear liquid. His teeth let go of the belt, and infused the drug. He could feel the coolness enveloping his body, making him whole again. He lay there, just to feel the rush.
A knock thumped on the bathroom door. "In a minute," Jen yelled. He grabbed his things and opened the door. A grubby guy with long hair stood on the other side. "Yes?" Jen asked.
"You got any 'shrooms?" the guy asked, groggily.
"Why don't you try Sal?"
"Sal left, man." The guy trudged over to the toilet and sat down.
"What?"
The guy started sniffing shampoo bottles. "Yeah... he said the police were trailin' him, man."
"Shit! He was my ride to Idaho!"
"Tough luck, kid. Hey... maybe you get a ride with Cecil. He's goin' to Ohio."
Jen leaned against the wall. "Where's he at?"
"I dunno, man."
"Thanks."
Jen walked through the hall and to the kitchen. A wave of smoke clogged his lungs; he peered through the fog and saw about a dozen people sitting around a table. "Hey, you see Cecil anywhere?"
The group looked up. "Yeah... he said something about goin' outside..." a blonde girl, who Jan was certain he fucked last night, answered.
"Thanks."
Jen walked pass the table and slid the glass door open. The night was cool, but after sleeping outside for several months, Jen could bear it. His eyes searched the spacious backyard, and didn't see Cecil anywhere. He noticed a record cover lying on the lawn table. "Shit, Cecil. What did you take?" Jen mumbled. He meandered over to the table, bringing the powder and papers into view.
Jen got nervous. He knew that if Cecil just snorted angel dust, he should immobile right now. This could turn out badly.
A falling leaf flicked against the nape of his neck, making him turn toward the tree. Jen gasped. In the periphery of his vision, Jen saw the pool and the floating body of Cecil Arcadia.
---
Sweat dripped down Jen's face, cooling with the night air. His bones ached, and his heart stung, yet his knowledge told him to keep running. He was a dead duck, if he were found anywhere near that body. The neighbors would probably call the police and that dumbass Ivan would I.D. Jen and tell them he was going to California and... they would catch him and send him home.
Jen felt as if was in a constant race with himself. A race to get away from home, a race to get away from the party, a race to get away from himself. He was always on the run. Whether it by car, truck, or foot, Jen was always going somewhere else. Somewhere Else was never a designated destination, just "not here, not home."
He usually knew someone in Somewhere Else. Or knew someone who knew someone in Somewhere Else. He found Cecil's place in New Hampshire through these two dairy farmers in Vermont, who said this guy Sal was there who was going to Idaho. Jen was looking to go to San Francisco and hit Berkley and Haight Street, and if Sal would get him to Idaho, he would be almost there. So, Jen hitchhiked to some one-horse burg, where he met Ivan who was going to Concord and needed a hook-up. Jen assured him that Cecil was very generous and would hook him up. Luckily for Ivan and Jen, Cecil *was* very generous.
Jen continued running, wondering whom else he knew on the Eastern Seaboard. There was Rona, the introverted factory worker from New York, but she moved to Tallahassee. Paul in Connecticut was incarcerated. Samara in Rhode Island ran to Canada. There were people up north but Jesus would have to come back before he stayed with them. It looks like Bench Boulevard, Jen grimaced.
Jen slowed to a walk. He turned left and surveyed the park area. The benches were all taken at this hour, so he found a cozy spot at the top of a slide. He slipped his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around his pocketknife. Jen never knew what he might need protection from.
---
Jen's thumb stood erect for twenty minutes, while he walked backward. He made his way to the interstate, and planned to hitch a ride westward bound. He prayed that some friends would pass and pick him up. Jen didn't think it was likely, though. It's do-or-die again, he thought. It was one the situations where he had to sell what he had to keep himself. It was either do that, or go home. And like hell was he going home.
Jen didn't care what degrading act he participated in. It was all the same, morality aside. He could go back to the white picket fence and Mommy and Step-Daddy. Or he could do what he really wanted, and shoot heroin up his fucking arm. Both arenas were of equal fantasy, and he might as well enjoy his ride.
A semi tracker trailer pulled up three yards away from Jen. He walked up to the cab, putting on his best game face. The burly driver opened the door and leered. He gave Jen the once over and said, "You lookin' for a ride?"
"Yeah," Jen said, smirking. He climbed in and slammed the door. "Where you headed?"
"Maine," the driver said, staring the machine up.
"What's in Maine?"
"Tanner Cannery. I make deliveries to New York. Only the finest fish for them."
"Great. I'm going west, but I'm a little strapped for cash. Does Tanner have any openings?"
"Always a few, but I could put a good word in for you," the truck driver said, unzipping his pants.
"That would be great." Jen mustered up his courage and...
Jen wasn't like his dad, though. Hell, no. He did this to survive, not because he was some fairy. He wasn't some corporate phony who bent over for every man willing. He wasn't like his mom, some fucking whore so desperate for love that she'll pay for it. Jen wasn't like either of them. He just wanted to get away.
---
Gene, the trucker dropped Jen off at the Sinclair two blocks from the shore. Jen studied the town, taking the friendly vibe it gave off. It reminded him of the idyllic civilizations the Children of the Land described, except, here nobody want him to donate all of his material belongings to Mother Earth. He took a breath of the salty air and set off toward the ocean.
Jen had seen the Atlantic before, but he had never seen a fishing town. The hub of the village was the ocean. Unlike the dunes he visited as a child, the water wasn't for tourism, but for survival. Back then; they used the lake for water, yet it was taken for granted. In this small community, the people lived for the Atlantic. It was a phenomenon new to Jen.
He wandered into the cannery, recoiling at the scent of metal and salty seafood. The factory was buzzing with activity; no one noticed Jen. He walked over to the back, where a small office stood. He could see through the glass that no one was busy. He knocked twice, and a tough-looking fellow opened the door.
"Whad do yah need, kid?" he asked in a thick accent.
Jen tried to mimic it, but couldn't point his finger on the rule. "I was lookin' for a temporary job. I wander if yaw need any help?"
"We got a few openings. Have yah worked in a factary before? Ah, don't matteh. We got a good guy in packaging, he'll show yah the ropes."
"Thanks."
Jen turned to leave when the man in the office called back to him. "Whehe's that accent from, kid?"
"All over, sir. All over."
---
Gil Hardeay was a small fellow, but his presence was bigger than his mass. He was tan, and had black hair and even blacker eyes. Jen noticed his limp right away, and how it made Gil even rougher. He also noticed that Gil could see what would happen before it occurred. Like, once, when a conveyer belt jammed and the crates were about to spill off, Gil's arms were out to block the mess. It was as if he was apart of the machine.
"Yo, Gil," Jen shouted over the machines. It was his third day at the cannery and was not getting used to the noises.
"Yeah," Gil replied, nailing a crate closed.
"Um..." Jen's palms were sweating. He didn't know if Gil would welcome him or be repulsed.
"Hmm?"
The younger man slid next to the other, and said, in a hushed tone, "Do you know where to score?"
Gil snickered. "What are you looking for?"
"Heroin."
"I know a guy who dedicates himself to designers. He's having a party at his mom's house tonight. Mostly for him to laid. Gonna be lots of chicks. But you wouldn't mind that, would you?"
Jen leered.
"I guess not. We'll head over after we punch out."
---
The house screamed Americana. It was like Ozzie and Harriet found a house in Maine. Jen felt guilty for destroying that image.
He and Gil sat out on the front lawn, tearing grass from the earth. "How'd you hurt your leg?" Jen asked.
"Ever heard of the Perfume River?" Gil answered, mid-toke.
"In Vietnam?"
He nodded. "I got shot in a tree. I fell and killed my knee."
"Damn."
"You're telling me," Gil said, passing the joint.
Jen inhaled. Pot wasn't his drug of choice, but it eased his withdrawal nausea. Turns out the host couldn't tell cacao from cocoa. He puffed the smoke into the night sky.
"What's your birthday," Gil asked.
"Why?"
"When they play bingo with birthdays, I'll look out for you." Gil tousled Jen's hair.
"September 12th. But you won't find me up there anytime soon."
"Why's that? Make a deal with the devil?"
Jen laughed. "I'm-I'm fifteen."
"Really," Gil pulled the hair out of Jen's face. "You do not look fifteen. You do not act fifteen."
Jen realized how close his body was to Gil's.
"I-I..."
"You're alright."
"Yeah."
Jen never kissed another man before. The truckers weren't that sentimental, and were primarily in it for the head. It wasn't like kissing girls, though. With girls it was rough and primal, rushed into the action. With Gil it was... pleasant. It was comfortable.
Jen knew what happened next. He ran his hand down Gil's stomach and to his zipper. The zip noise awoke Gil from his lethargic state. "What are you doing?"
"I-I..." Wasn't this what he wanted?
Gil stood up. "Get away from me. Fucking faggot." He began kicking Jen's left shoulder. Jen lay like a log. Gil spit on him and stalked off.
Jen couldn't move. Jen couldn't call for help. All Jen could do was try not to hate himself.
Gil was right; he was a fucking faggot.
---
Jen traced his vein up and down his arm with the needle. He figured it like skating on thin ice-- you never know when the plunge is going to come. He halted his game and made a clear incision. Jen savored the pain for a second, pulled back and saw the blood mix with the clear liquid. His teeth let go of the belt, and infused the drug. He could feel the coolness enveloping his body, making him whole again. He lay there, just to feel the rush.
A knock thumped on the bathroom door. "In a minute," Jen yelled. He grabbed his things and opened the door. A grubby guy with long hair stood on the other side. "Yes?" Jen asked.
"You got any 'shrooms?" the guy asked, groggily.
"Why don't you try Sal?"
"Sal left, man." The guy trudged over to the toilet and sat down.
"What?"
The guy started sniffing shampoo bottles. "Yeah... he said the police were trailin' him, man."
"Shit! He was my ride to Idaho!"
"Tough luck, kid. Hey... maybe you get a ride with Cecil. He's goin' to Ohio."
Jen leaned against the wall. "Where's he at?"
"I dunno, man."
"Thanks."
Jen walked through the hall and to the kitchen. A wave of smoke clogged his lungs; he peered through the fog and saw about a dozen people sitting around a table. "Hey, you see Cecil anywhere?"
The group looked up. "Yeah... he said something about goin' outside..." a blonde girl, who Jan was certain he fucked last night, answered.
"Thanks."
Jen walked pass the table and slid the glass door open. The night was cool, but after sleeping outside for several months, Jen could bear it. His eyes searched the spacious backyard, and didn't see Cecil anywhere. He noticed a record cover lying on the lawn table. "Shit, Cecil. What did you take?" Jen mumbled. He meandered over to the table, bringing the powder and papers into view.
Jen got nervous. He knew that if Cecil just snorted angel dust, he should immobile right now. This could turn out badly.
A falling leaf flicked against the nape of his neck, making him turn toward the tree. Jen gasped. In the periphery of his vision, Jen saw the pool and the floating body of Cecil Arcadia.
---
Sweat dripped down Jen's face, cooling with the night air. His bones ached, and his heart stung, yet his knowledge told him to keep running. He was a dead duck, if he were found anywhere near that body. The neighbors would probably call the police and that dumbass Ivan would I.D. Jen and tell them he was going to California and... they would catch him and send him home.
Jen felt as if was in a constant race with himself. A race to get away from home, a race to get away from the party, a race to get away from himself. He was always on the run. Whether it by car, truck, or foot, Jen was always going somewhere else. Somewhere Else was never a designated destination, just "not here, not home."
He usually knew someone in Somewhere Else. Or knew someone who knew someone in Somewhere Else. He found Cecil's place in New Hampshire through these two dairy farmers in Vermont, who said this guy Sal was there who was going to Idaho. Jen was looking to go to San Francisco and hit Berkley and Haight Street, and if Sal would get him to Idaho, he would be almost there. So, Jen hitchhiked to some one-horse burg, where he met Ivan who was going to Concord and needed a hook-up. Jen assured him that Cecil was very generous and would hook him up. Luckily for Ivan and Jen, Cecil *was* very generous.
Jen continued running, wondering whom else he knew on the Eastern Seaboard. There was Rona, the introverted factory worker from New York, but she moved to Tallahassee. Paul in Connecticut was incarcerated. Samara in Rhode Island ran to Canada. There were people up north but Jesus would have to come back before he stayed with them. It looks like Bench Boulevard, Jen grimaced.
Jen slowed to a walk. He turned left and surveyed the park area. The benches were all taken at this hour, so he found a cozy spot at the top of a slide. He slipped his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around his pocketknife. Jen never knew what he might need protection from.
---
Jen's thumb stood erect for twenty minutes, while he walked backward. He made his way to the interstate, and planned to hitch a ride westward bound. He prayed that some friends would pass and pick him up. Jen didn't think it was likely, though. It's do-or-die again, he thought. It was one the situations where he had to sell what he had to keep himself. It was either do that, or go home. And like hell was he going home.
Jen didn't care what degrading act he participated in. It was all the same, morality aside. He could go back to the white picket fence and Mommy and Step-Daddy. Or he could do what he really wanted, and shoot heroin up his fucking arm. Both arenas were of equal fantasy, and he might as well enjoy his ride.
A semi tracker trailer pulled up three yards away from Jen. He walked up to the cab, putting on his best game face. The burly driver opened the door and leered. He gave Jen the once over and said, "You lookin' for a ride?"
"Yeah," Jen said, smirking. He climbed in and slammed the door. "Where you headed?"
"Maine," the driver said, staring the machine up.
"What's in Maine?"
"Tanner Cannery. I make deliveries to New York. Only the finest fish for them."
"Great. I'm going west, but I'm a little strapped for cash. Does Tanner have any openings?"
"Always a few, but I could put a good word in for you," the truck driver said, unzipping his pants.
"That would be great." Jen mustered up his courage and...
Jen wasn't like his dad, though. Hell, no. He did this to survive, not because he was some fairy. He wasn't some corporate phony who bent over for every man willing. He wasn't like his mom, some fucking whore so desperate for love that she'll pay for it. Jen wasn't like either of them. He just wanted to get away.
---
Gene, the trucker dropped Jen off at the Sinclair two blocks from the shore. Jen studied the town, taking the friendly vibe it gave off. It reminded him of the idyllic civilizations the Children of the Land described, except, here nobody want him to donate all of his material belongings to Mother Earth. He took a breath of the salty air and set off toward the ocean.
Jen had seen the Atlantic before, but he had never seen a fishing town. The hub of the village was the ocean. Unlike the dunes he visited as a child, the water wasn't for tourism, but for survival. Back then; they used the lake for water, yet it was taken for granted. In this small community, the people lived for the Atlantic. It was a phenomenon new to Jen.
He wandered into the cannery, recoiling at the scent of metal and salty seafood. The factory was buzzing with activity; no one noticed Jen. He walked over to the back, where a small office stood. He could see through the glass that no one was busy. He knocked twice, and a tough-looking fellow opened the door.
"Whad do yah need, kid?" he asked in a thick accent.
Jen tried to mimic it, but couldn't point his finger on the rule. "I was lookin' for a temporary job. I wander if yaw need any help?"
"We got a few openings. Have yah worked in a factary before? Ah, don't matteh. We got a good guy in packaging, he'll show yah the ropes."
"Thanks."
Jen turned to leave when the man in the office called back to him. "Whehe's that accent from, kid?"
"All over, sir. All over."
---
Gil Hardeay was a small fellow, but his presence was bigger than his mass. He was tan, and had black hair and even blacker eyes. Jen noticed his limp right away, and how it made Gil even rougher. He also noticed that Gil could see what would happen before it occurred. Like, once, when a conveyer belt jammed and the crates were about to spill off, Gil's arms were out to block the mess. It was as if he was apart of the machine.
"Yo, Gil," Jen shouted over the machines. It was his third day at the cannery and was not getting used to the noises.
"Yeah," Gil replied, nailing a crate closed.
"Um..." Jen's palms were sweating. He didn't know if Gil would welcome him or be repulsed.
"Hmm?"
The younger man slid next to the other, and said, in a hushed tone, "Do you know where to score?"
Gil snickered. "What are you looking for?"
"Heroin."
"I know a guy who dedicates himself to designers. He's having a party at his mom's house tonight. Mostly for him to laid. Gonna be lots of chicks. But you wouldn't mind that, would you?"
Jen leered.
"I guess not. We'll head over after we punch out."
---
The house screamed Americana. It was like Ozzie and Harriet found a house in Maine. Jen felt guilty for destroying that image.
He and Gil sat out on the front lawn, tearing grass from the earth. "How'd you hurt your leg?" Jen asked.
"Ever heard of the Perfume River?" Gil answered, mid-toke.
"In Vietnam?"
He nodded. "I got shot in a tree. I fell and killed my knee."
"Damn."
"You're telling me," Gil said, passing the joint.
Jen inhaled. Pot wasn't his drug of choice, but it eased his withdrawal nausea. Turns out the host couldn't tell cacao from cocoa. He puffed the smoke into the night sky.
"What's your birthday," Gil asked.
"Why?"
"When they play bingo with birthdays, I'll look out for you." Gil tousled Jen's hair.
"September 12th. But you won't find me up there anytime soon."
"Why's that? Make a deal with the devil?"
Jen laughed. "I'm-I'm fifteen."
"Really," Gil pulled the hair out of Jen's face. "You do not look fifteen. You do not act fifteen."
Jen realized how close his body was to Gil's.
"I-I..."
"You're alright."
"Yeah."
Jen never kissed another man before. The truckers weren't that sentimental, and were primarily in it for the head. It wasn't like kissing girls, though. With girls it was rough and primal, rushed into the action. With Gil it was... pleasant. It was comfortable.
Jen knew what happened next. He ran his hand down Gil's stomach and to his zipper. The zip noise awoke Gil from his lethargic state. "What are you doing?"
"I-I..." Wasn't this what he wanted?
Gil stood up. "Get away from me. Fucking faggot." He began kicking Jen's left shoulder. Jen lay like a log. Gil spit on him and stalked off.
Jen couldn't move. Jen couldn't call for help. All Jen could do was try not to hate himself.
Gil was right; he was a fucking faggot.