Page 67 of Cleats and Pumps

“Okay, we’ll set a date for the trial… Mr. Pierce?” the judge asked his assistant to set up the date. Of course, it was months out. Meanwhile, the jackass still had the fucking laptop. When he’d been arrested, the cops had gone through his car and even his hotel room. They found a key to what they thought was likely a safety deposit box, but there was no way to tell which bank it belonged to.

I went home, exhausted. This was all too much. Amos was being sweet, telling me that I should publish the book. There was just no way—I could imagine the backlash.

I immediately pulled my computer out and did the final edits on the article comparing dancing with other sports activities. I was really enjoying this new approach to athletics. When we reported on sports, it was always the main ones we focused on. Even hockey and soccer in the US didn’t get the attention football, baseball, and basketball did.

To my embarrassment, I hadn’t paid much attention to dance. Sure, I liked a good Broadway show, but I hadn’t noticed justhow intense the athleticism was. The same for other things like swimming, running, sports… well, anything, really.

I had already scoped out a few other things I wanted to study, investigate, and write about. These articles I was writing forProudestbarely brought in any money. That was a shame because I liked their online magazine.

They were attentive to the gay community without being boorish or stereotypical. My articles didn’t focus just on gay men, although I definitely pointed out how many gay men chose dance in comparison to straight men.

They seemed to appreciate my style. So, unless my future employer prevented it, provided I could get another company to hire me after I finished suing my last boss, I would continue to send articles to them. Sometimes people just did what was right, not for money, but because they liked doing something.

I fell asleep after sending the article and woke up really early. Grandma tended to eat her breakfast around seven in the morning, so I had time to get a shower before heading to the nursing home to spend time with her.

Lately, she’d been getting weaker. The doctor had told me on the phone last time I spoke with her that they considered Grandma in hospice care at this point. “We’re doing what we can to keep her from falling.”

In other words, my grandma was giving them a ton of shit about not wanting to stay off her feet. She might have dementia, but she loved the same things she’d always loved: walking, visiting with friends, and stirring the shit when possible.

Knowing my time with my grandma was limited meant I tried to be here for her as much as humanly possible. Before Amos and I had reconnected, the thought of losing the only family I had left sent waves of grief through me.

It still did, in a lot of ways, but now, at least, provided we still worked out, I wouldn’t be alone. The thought of that depressed me more than anything else.

Grandma had no idea who I was, but that was okay. I sat with her as she hummed an old gospel song I didn’t even know she knew. She was moving her fingers like she was knitting, and I wondered if she remembered those days.

I often wondered what Grandma’s life had been like back in her youth and young adult days. She didn’t talk about them much. Mostly that it’d been hard times in Texas back when she’d been young. Her dad, my great grandpa, talked more than her. He liked to tell of plowing the dusty fields with one mule that would almost kill him in its haste to get to the barn when his mom rang the dinner bell, announcing it was time to eat— both for people and animals.

I watched as she seemed to see the yarn in front of her. It made me think of my life. Or more like what I was going to do with my life. I didn’t have a clear direction. Times had changed since Grandma and Grandpa had started their lives together on the farm they’d inherited from his parents.

They’d farmed until the savings and loan had foreclosed on it during a farming crisis in the 1980s. Then they bought the sweet little house that I lived in until Elliott had destroyed it in his greedy search for dirt he could use against Amos.

I guess each generation has its own crisis, and that gave me some perspective on my own troubles. I hadn’t invited that jackass into my home. Hadn’t even left any evidence I’d written the fucking book. He’d just assumed I had. Fuck him for being right about that.

But then, Grandpa and Grandma hadn’t known the prices of their livestock would crash either. The loan they’d taken out was to save the farm, but it’d ended up being the very thing that’d taken it away from them.

I stared out the window until Grandma stopped humming. I glanced at her and caught her staring at me. “Perry, why do you look so glum?”

I smiled, even if she’d confused me with my father, the son of a bitch that he was. “No reason, Grandma. Just thinking about hard times.”

“Oh, don’t do no good pondering that. The future’s always gonna happen. You can’t fix the past and ain’t gonna stop the future just by pondering too much on it.” She sighed and went to stand. When she fell back, I quickly got up to help her. “Oh, I’m a bit tired, sweetie. I think I’m gonna lie down. Why don’t you go on into the kitchen and fix yourself a sandwich,” she said patting my hand.

I tucked her into the bed and left. Of course, there was no kitchen. She must’ve thought we were back at her home. I understood what she was saying though. It was time for her to have some space. Even with dementia, my grandma had good strong boundaries. I always appreciated that about her.

I’d just gotten back to the house, when my attorney called. “Hello,” I answered.

“Hey, Tommy, I have good news.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yeah, Elliott Godfrey has agreed to plead guilty, provided he doesn’t have to spend time in prison.”

“Ugh, I don’t know. He deserves it.”

“He does, but you have bigger fish to fry, son,” he said, catching my attention. “Elliott has admitted that your employer sent him to the house to stalk you, and he was on the phone with his boss when he broke in. No, technically, he didn’t tell him to break in, but according to Elliott, he didn’t tell him not to either.”

“Shit. I hoped they hadn’t been in on this too. Um, what about the laptop?”

“It’s supposedly being delivered to the prosecutor even as we speak, along with the two copies Elliot said he made.”

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