Tales from the Birchfield farm

FILM FEST AT THE FARM

C.E.O Alan Ecks traveled to The Birchfield Farm in company with his newest associate, investor Duane Wilderforce and Wilderforce’s “boy,” Hassan Yasamin. Their drive from headquarters consisted of conversations about management and profits. Constant interruptions from the backseat consisted of Hassan’s exuberances of delight over this or that scene from immersive videos enjoyed via his iPad and Bluetooth ear buds.

“Ce n’est pas possible. Oh-la-la,” broke the air often. Sibilants of surprise. Outright laughter. Giggles of “Comment drôle!” and admiring phrases - “Une telle coordination!” and “Comme c’est courageux!” – amused both men. Ecks caught the drift, Duane knew the language.

Hassan entered Duane’s life at sixteen. Now eighteen, he figured in all aspects of Wilder-Force Investments, Inc. Explanations had been provided. A sharp mind and good instincts, despite minimal education, were in process of being honed. If prompted, he spoke English distinctively, selecting words carefully from his limited vocabulary – his accent a mix of French and British. Business courses in London accounted for the latter. Women found him boyishly engaging. Men of certain bent grew tight-crotched at his exotic Sino-Moroccan features, raven-black curls, Cupid’s-bow mouth, dimpled cheeks, and miniature boxer’s trim body. The way his tailored pants fit fore and aft took away even the breath of straights. Duane’s friend Nicholson Duval, had dubbed him repeatedly, “a walking fantasy,” always with a sigh.

“Certainly having a good time, isn’t he?”

Duane chuckled, “Well, he, too, starred in some films…back when. Understands what he’s seeing.”

“Before you knew him?”

“You bet,” came the avuncular reply. “And a few very personal ones involving an American in Paris. A boy of eighteen. I’ll tell you about those sometime.”

Ecks nodded. Something vague in his memory tried to surface but failed due to noise from the back seat. He must proceed cautiously with this man. Immensely wealthy and a past source of interesting connections, Duane Wilderforce had insisted on inspecting the operation and meeting its employees. Hence, this trip. And its disconcerting intention to involve Hassan.

“Mon bien-aimé, look!” Hassan’s excited discovery was thrust into Duane’s view. On-screen, brief footage of a fabulously developed Amerindian – “He’s a Tarzan!” – screwing a wildly resistant man – in a blindfold, blonde wig, and wedding gown. “Je nais jamais…I mean, I never saw that!”

Ecks knew what it was, and explained slowly as he tried to keep his eyes on the road. Hassan’s jocularity was a mirrored distraction. He was rolling around holding his iPad to his stomach, looking again at what it showed, and laughing. “That one’s a sample,” Ecks spoke to the rear. “The whole thing’s a couple of hours long after they cut out the dross. Say, have you seen the one in which a recruit is taken to task by a U.S. Navy Ensign, your Duane’s friend Duval?”

Uncertain what “taken to task” meant, Hassan perked up and waited.

“It was your friend Nicholson, wasn’t it, Duane?”

Duane nodded.

“M. Duval? Oh yes! He was having a merveilleux time, je pense.” He lowered his voice, “Not the sailor.” After a moment’s consideration, “Possibly, he was, too. He always had the erection.”

Duane snorted, nodded again, cleared his throat, and asked, “What’s the file name of the scene of that Russian boy acting the part of a reluctant serf? What’s it called?” Duane interrupted himself, “He’ll love that. It’s Nicholson, too, if I recall.”

“Hassan,” Ecks said aloud, “click on Konstantin – with a K. That one’s complete.”

The next twenty minutes glued the eighteen-year-old to his screen. The men took up their business discussion. Miles flew.

Eventually, a question from the back, “What could I teach Konstantin? He’s a man of excellence. Or those other guys?”

Him? – teach? What’s going on here?Ecks kept those questions for later, saying, “All our Providers are excellent, my dear.” He used ‘my dear’ as a means of connecting, not because it came easily to him. “So are our Trainers, or we wouldn’t have the successful operation our clients demand. Once you’ve been introduced to everyone and seen some of the final edits and other work of Mike Manleigh’s team, you’ll be free to explore every idea in your beautiful head – and theirs.” ‘Your beautiful head,’ another phrase uncommon in his usage.

This is business.

Ecks made the sudden turn off the highway effortlessly, his road-hugging, customized Excaliber Cobra sedan tossing a cloud of dust and gravel to the South.

*

If meant as an entrance, it failed. No one was on hand to see the cloud of road dust behind nor their arrival into the empty parking area. In fact, no one was visible at all. Nor much of anything else as the sunlight waned. Silence reigned while the trio wheeled overnight bags through a woodsy footpath to the town square, led by Ecks.

“What nice scale there is to everything,” blue-jacketed Duane spoke in his velvety, resonant tone, looking from building to building. “Notice, Hassan, it’s just like the photos you saw. The grass is neatly mowed.”

Hassan’s loose, shiny coils were what Duane and Ecks could see as the young man’s head rotated from them to dart toward Earl’s Diner, City Hall, the Police Station, Poole’s Gymnasium, offices for a doctor and a dentist, The Hotel Shellman, and the small Firehouse. “Just like an American movie set,” he admired.

Duane’s gesture indicated that Ecks should expound.

“It was a movie set, Hassan, years ago. And around back, that way,” he pointed, “are our Farmhouse, Bunkhouse, and Barn. We got the lot for a song – that means a bargain, my dear, in English – and most of our land, although,” he rambled, “we’ve added more. The Birchfield Farm now encompasses slightly more than a mile square.”

“How many hectares is that?”

“Someone else asked. About 260 hectares, I believe.”

Hassan whistled.

Ecks went to lengths describing how each building had been ‘repurposed’ – by being rebuilt extensively behind its unprepossessing façade, how the bunkhouse was tripled in size and equipped with a medical office and two-bed infirmary, individual rooms and baths for each Trainer and Provider (on different floors), three two-bedroom suites, two offices, and a cafeteria, how the secrets of the Barn were concealed – “It really looks its part, as you both will see later.”

Streetlamps at the square’s four corners came on. Twilight.

Duane was curious, “Didn’t you tell me there are basements under all these structures?”

“Indeed. Underground passages connect certain ones. And the Farmhouse has offices and special accommodations for special people.”

Hassan asked, “Are we special?”

Ecks shed his usual dour manner of speech, “You bet your cute butt.” He smiled, “But we’ll stay in that place, The Hotel Shellman.”

“There is a sign for the Film Festival,” Hassam exclaimed, a finger in the direction of City Hall.

*

Bags dropped with Charles at the front desk, the trio looked about questionably.

“We’ll take care of everything, gentlemen. You just hurry over there,” he pointed.

Once inside and down a flight of stairs, the little party found a festivity set up. Every staff member who wasn’t standing rose to join the others. “Mama” the cook flung her arms wide as if to display her bosom and its neatly ironed, spotless apron. She charged at Ecks, letting out a cheery, “You’re here at last, and you’ve brought handsome men with you!” Within a second, she veered to clutch Hassan like a returning prodigal, “We’re so glad you’re here, and you,” she reached a hand to Duane, whose dark silk blazer she stroked. Her lips bussed his cheek. She returned to Hassan, “I could just eat you up.”

He blushed. Thought – I will play the gallant – and, with a short bow, kissed her hand.

Her turn to blush.

Randy-James McLeod rescued Ecks and the visitors with handshakes, “You must be famished. Mama has food for you. For all, not too long from now. We need to make introductions first, though.”

Diminutive Hiram David McLeod’s toothy, almost-thirteen-year-old smile and firm grip jolted Duane and Hassan, whose eyes popped. “Hiram’s my boy,” Randy-James said, “not a member of our staff.”

Hassan spotted the resemblance and did the right thing: he kept his own counsel. Duane thought something different and wondered, silently as well. Rapidly, the newcomers met faces they had only seen in hot-trotting videos as well as all the others. Ecks let himself be convivial, reminding Trainers and Providers that Duane was “an investor” but not to what extent. To say that the majority of those present could not take their eyes off Hassan would understate his effect. There were reasons….

As people claimed their seats, Mike Manleigh took the floor. His introduction made clear that there were to be “films of short duration made entirely by our Providers after the projection of stills from our Photography Class.”

Four photographers, limited to five examples each, displayed on-screen and described briefly their work.

Local Flora and a Faun appeared as a title. Cosmo spoke brightly of his two views of flowers and plants in the “tiny park between where we live and where we work,” of his landscape of the old wire fencing along the property’s South side and of an angled view through two branches of a leafy tree at an unusual cloud formation – “which looks like an eagle flying” – but was proudest of his portrait of little Hiram regarding a photo of his parents.

The last, which Randy-James had never seen, gave him a start. “Why that’s terrific – and you took it in Hiram’s bedroom?”

“Yes, Dad,” Hiram spouted, “under natural light.”

Trainer Mike said, “Very good, Cosmo. Ting, you’re up.”

Ting rose, a finger in Cosmo’s direction, “He deserves a hand.”

Cosmo was applauded.

A Bug amid Rolesappeared on-screen. “I will show this, my self-portrait as a Boy Scout, and this, of me as a Geisha.”

Quickly, Mike interjected, “Both are for projects we are working on,” he nodded to Ecks, “in acting class. Plays, you know.” He looked at Hassan and Duane, “Projects in the works.” He smiled, “Tell them, Ting, about the costumes and makeup.”

“Well, the uniform we ordered from a catalogue and altered a little. The kimono came from that opera company in Chicago, thanks to Mr. Wilderforce’s connections there.” He noted Duane’s nod. “The makeup, we bought a kit for that, and it took hours to put on right – following a demonstration on You Tube.”

“Ahmed and I helped Ting with it,” Mike volunteered. “Took us three tries and me a couple of phone calls to the Lyric Opera before we got it right and the kimono to fit the way we needed – with Ting’s role in mind.” Before anyone could interrupt, he prompted Ting to go to his remaining photos.

“This shows a close-up of Mama’s herb-and-flower garden, of the mint growing densely beside the kitchen door. To get it just right, I had me and my camera on the ground. If you look right there,” his finger’s shadow pointed, “you can see a ladybug.”

An image appeared that initially puzzled the visitors. Ting laughed, “That’s a close-up looking through Hiram’s old straw hat which was falling apart. He held it up for me against the light and stretched the weaving open so the bits of white and blue you see between the straw parts are bright sky peeking through. It was hard to get the focus right.”

There was applause, especially vigorous from several staffers who had not seen it before.

“My last photo is this portrait of Mama as a judge in a courtroom with her gavel. It’s from one of our plays. She did her own makeup.”

“Oui!” Hassan let out. “Je…I mean, I saw her in a video.”

Hiram turned to see Mr. Wilderforce kick Hassan’s ankle and whisper something urgent. Randy-James’ face went pale. Mama’s head was thrown back. Expressions of a general “Oops” moment.

Hassan blurted, “Oh, sorry! I meant that I’d seen a lady judge like that in a movie. So intense.”

The rest in the room kept silent in relief. Hiram was not supposed to know what went on other than pro-health farming. Somebody remembered to acknowledge Ting’s work with rapidly brought together palms. The rest followed suit.

Ahmed’s name was called, but he reminded Mike that it was Lon’s place in the sequence. Lon, jumped up, introduced himself as working currently on a project about “our newest resident’s participation in growing our crops. He’s learning to farm, so my photos – they’re photojournalistic – which he never knew I was shooting, show him like this.”

Hard to follow, Ahmed spoke too quickly.

Hiram, watching Hassan from the corner of his eye, wheeled around to see the title, Hiram in Action, disappear and himself appear wearing the silly straw hat, bent over next to Sydney pulling weeds. His high voice blurted, “You sneak! That was my first day out there. I look…stupid.”

Mama, feeling herself very Italian, reached from her row to his and patted his shoulder, “No, you look-a so cute. Everybody love-a you.”

Some applause. One whistle.

“Wait till you see this,” Lon cut in. “Here’s Hiram shucking corn with Uncle Vas and here he is helping his Dad and his Uncle Uldis mulch the tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, squash, cucumbers, beans, peas, and okra. This is Hiram on his own, shirtless, fertilizing Mama’s garden.”

With a quick turn back to the guests, Hiram said, “Mama taught me how to do that. And,” he boasted, “every time I did a good job I got a piece of chocolate cake.”

Ooh, he’s going to be hot, Hassan thought in French. On the cusp, nearly ready. If they had him in Marseille, he’d already bring many euros. That he kept to himself, but Duane sensed the need for a talk if the growing boy and Hassan were to encounter one another during this visit. He would speak with Alan Ecks first.

“My finale is this one where Hiram is showing off his skill in the kitchen with pizza dough.”

All laughed at the sight of the kid in a flurry of flour twirling a future crust just over his head with the look of innocent hope on his face. Then everyone clapped their approval. No one mentioned that, after Lon’s split-second photo, the crust had sailed to the floor like an old movie spaceship.

The crowd whooped. Hiram hid his face, bright red.

They like this kid, Ecks surmised. They act like he’s one of them and he likes that.Not something he had imagined when begrudgingly agreeing to Hiram’s residency.

To Hassan’s interest, Ahmed strode to the center to stand rather stiffly, one leg slightly forward, arms to his sides. He’s from where – Egypt, maybe? Further East? No, pharaonic nose. Very sexy.

Ahmed’s project, Close-Ops and a Thought, he announced, was “all about shadows and highlights. I’ve been studying Ansel Adams, so these pictures are in black-and-white. I worked with color before, doing just flowers, vegetables, and fruit. Oh, and straw baskets. Now Mike has me looking at brights and darks and what they reveal apart from color.”

Ecks’ mouth opened at the first photograph: A complex desertscape of deeply mounded sands under a starry black sky? What exactly was it? His knit brow met Duane’s while Hassan began to bounce excitedly on his seat. Several faces watched.

Finally, Hassan, who had caught on, raised a hand. Ahmed’s dark eyes flashed in his direction. “It’s your friends’ arms, chests, and stomachs, n’est-ce pas? Je pense. I think.”

“Give our guest a gold star. He’s right. That’s Big Ben, there’s Uncle Belamy, and in the distance is Clyff. They posed for me separately, then I merged all three with a sky I shot at night.”

“C’mon guys, let’s show ‘em.” It was Belamy who stood and pulled off his shirt. Benjamin and Clyfford jumped up to shuck their t-shirts. Clyfford twirled his. Mama’s fingers held her mouth just so to let go her loudest whee-whew. She liked the display of masculine pulchritude. She would have whistled again but thought better of it.

They’re-a showing off for our fancy visitors.

Hiram wondered what the fuss was about, since he’d become used to seeing them in the field, in the gym, in the pool. And yes, they all had muscles but they looked more like themselves in color. This black-and-white stuff makes ’em look like some sort of hills. He did not know why this way made him feel funny. He crossed his legs.

He, however, was not impressed until Mr. Ecks said how “great” it was, and asked to see Ahmed’s next.

It was – what? – one of the guys’ chin at the top, his neck stretched straight beneath, focus on the Adam’s apple, hair on each side covering all the area except his ear lobes, and ending at the exposed collar bone. “I placed my light narrowly going up to bring out this” – he pointed to the center – “and his raised chin.”

Duane asked, “And whose throat is that?”

“Mine,” Ting said, rising and tilting up for all to see.

Cosmo could be heard, “He’s got the best throat of all.”

A couple of swallows bobbed Ting’s Adam’s apple like an elevator.

Loud approvals and a knowledgeable whistle or two.

As he sat down demurely during murmurs of agreement, Ting said, “Thank you, sweet friend.” Cosmo hugged him.

Hiram stared at nothing. They’re always calling each other that. ’N’ hugging each other. I guess they’re what Dad calls ‘special friends.’Gays had been on his mind lately, more and more. A month’s residency had raised certain suspicions beyond what Dad had confided to him.

Next appeared a tiny waterfall pouring concentrically into a little moss-lined pool and flowing over pebbles. “That’s in our park, the one where Cosmo took his flower pictures. Mike really likes this.”

“I do because, if you study the reflections on the rills, you can clearly make out parts of trees and bushes and sky. Ahmed did a perfect job of capturing that instant. Nothing’s blurred. It’s black and white but it feels green and wet. Go ahead, Ahmed. Project your other two.”

Another mystery of the moment was found to be a single, angled wedge of light piercing an opening in the roof of the Barn’s hayloft with motes of dust suspended in it. One voice in the dark was heard saying, “That’s a beauty.”

“My last,” Ahmed announced, “is sort of psychological.”

On the image’s left was half of Big Ben’s handsome face, its eye looking as far right as possible to a figure it couldn’t possibly see. Some distance behind, diffuse in mid-value shadow, stood a blindfolded bride holding a bouquet. “You may think of it as surrealistic. I was trying for something like that.”

Duane’s hand hushed Hassan.

“Bravo, Ahmed,” Ecks exclaimed before the applause broke out, “and congratulations to the four of you. I’m very pleased.”

A standing ovation.

Mama stood, “It’s refreshment time. Come, help yourselves. I’ve-a got plenty-plenty.”

“Just a second,” Hiram’s piping voice caught everyone’s attention. “There’s one more, isn’t there, isn’t there, Mike?”

Heads swiveled.

“Actually, yes. But I thought you wanted to keep it a secret.”

“I did, until tonight. Now I want everybody to see my Dad,” he piped proudly toward the screen.

Ahmed, who was in on the plan, held the projector’s remote. He pushed the button.

What filled the screen was spectacular image of Randy-James in a white speedo viewed straight-on from the far side of the pool into which he was about to take a dive. His hands were above his thrown-back head, his chest fully expanded in full definition, his legs straight together as he prepared to spring. It had been cropped narrowly on either side so that the viewer saw diver, board, space, and water as a strong vertical – electric with the captured energy of an action about to take place. Perfect symmetry. A strong effect.

Not a sound broke the silence as Randy-James gawked at himself. Totally dumbfounded.

“Your Hiram took it,” Mike said softly. “He’s been in our class. It was a secret.”

When Randy-James was heard to say, “No shit?” – pandemonium broke out. Big Ben grabbed Hiram, placed him squealing with pre-teen glee on his shoulders, and paraded the grinning boy in and among his thronging admirers. Finally, lowering Hiram to his father’s arms, Ben urged him on, “Tell him.”

“Dad, it was for your birthday next week, but I wanted everybody today to see how great you are. You know, like,today!”

Caught in the middle of his father’s intimate hug and Mama’s publicly all-inclusive one, Hiram had scored big. The group’s collective emotion was not lost on Ecks nor his guests as they observed the highest level of excitement ever at The Birchfield Farm.

Eventually, people turned to Mama’s plenitude of comestibles and beverages. Hassan, in line, stole several repeat glances at Hiram’s photograph, his mind turning over various thoughts about the man and his attractive son.

*

Everyone fed and the merriment having died down to a dull roar, seats were taken for the Festival’s film portion.

“Remember, son,” Randy-James knelt so that no others could hear him remind Hiram, “you’re to go upstairs to your computer now. Work on your History report. I’ll come for you – or send someone for you – when it’s time for dessert.”

“I know. I promised,” Hiram admitted, although reluctantly.

Hassan’s eyes trained with envy on the father-son thing. He caught the boy’s mood. Lights lowered.

Mike began to describe his students’ recent work. Mama, not needing the explanation, idled, the busied at covering her table’s leftovers against stray flies. Randy-James joined the audience next to Duane. The lights dimmed further. Hiram headed for the stairs, his path directly toward Hassan, leaning on the handrail.

No one, Mama included, noticed a hushed exchange or the unlikely pair heading together upstairs.

*

Ecks pumped the Trainer’s hand, “Impressive work overall, Mike,” and moved to Clyfford whose eight-minute film had starred Mama daydreaming about her young son Giovanni (played by Lon) having been thought lost in a distant, unnamed war only to turn up as an adult (played by Uldis) who worked on an American farm where she was being interviewed for a job as a cook by a heavy-set supervisor (played by Sydney) and was daring to imagine that a handsome, bare-chested worker who passed by the office could be – miraculously – her Giovanni. In the end, brokenhearted, she wiped away a single tear over her loss as the farm hand assured her that he, although a refugee, came from Northern Europe.

“You showed unusual sensitivity, young man. That plot could have turned saccharin. It moved me just when I thought it couldn’t, or wouldn’t.”

Clyfford, the staff’s only albino – and all the more striking for it – blinked pinkly and was grateful. He held his breath when Ecks asked, “Are you happy working and learning here?” With nothing to say, he looked through watery eyes and nodded. Then managed, “Oh yes, sir. I feel I should be doing more. I use a lot of sunscreen to work in the fields – and wear my dark glasses. I don’t want to get sick. I’m learning, too.”

Duane moved in with his compliments, not without noticing the wasp-tiny waist and flaring buttocks, the high-cheeked face and radiant smile. He wanted to know how the switch from young to mature had been achieved so well, “I couldn’t tell that the older Giovanni wasn’t actually the same person as an adult.” An appropriate explanation about makeup was followed by the admission that Clyfford had convinced Mike to let his two actors “fuck each other to discover how much they had in common, so they were, like, one person when they were before the camera.” An even heartier laugh was produced when he learned that “Mama gave them some lovey-dovey lines in Italian to say while they were, you know, rehearsing to be her son.”

Aside to Duane, Mike whispered, “We have all of that on video. They were unrehearsed and really into each other.”

*

Samuel’s story needed a cast of four older guys, all Trainers – Blaine, Charles, Javier, and Sydney. They were uncles in a complex family situation, playing Poker at a card table and discussing the sole nephew they had in common. It came out that, in individual ways, each worried about the boy’s tendency to dote on feminine apparel and to look longingly not at girls.

“I know,” he wanted Ecks to understand, “that we are never supposed to disclose anything about our past but I did it anyway and played myself because I wanted to work through what led me here.”

“Nurse Rockwell asked me for permission after Mike arranged for your discussion with him,” Ecks said. “I approved in the hope that, if it turned out well (and it did), you’d settle in and be more useful.” To the stricken look on Samuel’s face, he counseled, “You can’t progress until you get past playing yourself and graduate into other characters. There are ways to butch it up. At least make you credible. Both you and Wade had better dedicate more time to that. Versatility’s important to our teamwork, or haven’t you been made aware of that?”

He started to walk but turned back, “Your text’s lines showed genuine insight into your queeny character, especially at the point – after that nonsense about taking up football – when you had one of your uncles advise you to find a boy who was more of a swish than you to set an example for by being his ‘man.’ Make your next film about that – and make it explicit.”

*

Randy-James had been listening worriedly with one ear to that nearby exchange while chatting together with Duane and Konstantin about War & Piece, the Russian-born’s nine-minute epic parody. His other ear tuned in while Duane was commenting, “Your creative contrast of three raucous spats being resolved by each couple screwing harmoniously – well, I loved the contrast of emotions. ‘Piece’ – heh-heh – of tail, indeed.” He was beside himself at the humor. “You filmed the sex really well. I’d like to see more of that. You know, that expanded.”

Longing marked Konstantin’s face as he looked into Duane’s potent eyes. This man could really put me in my place. Bolshoi air of authority. He hardly heard the questions about the number of cameras used, the night scene’s lighting, the hours spent filming and editing. Super baritone voice. Ominous undertones. Oh…..

Randy-James, who sensed Konstantin was getting lost in tryst-worthy speculation, fingered him in a ticklish place. “You two can talk about all that later. We’ve got others to congratulate.”

“Yes,” Duane acknowledged. “I want to meet the boy who played your Olga so well – and kept her clothes on convincingly. Honestly, I thought it was a girl.”

“Sammie, I mean Samuel,” Konstantin managed, a hand covering his crotch. “He’s alone over there. He’s our best girl, with Ting coming a close second. Cosmo’s only been little girl – I mean, a little girl – once.”

Duane left. Randy-James stayed, one hand holding Konstantin’s shoulder, the other beckoning Ecks. “What?” the CEO asked. Whispers were confidential. Once finished, Ecks frowned, cleared his brow, spotted the Provider’s wilting erection and the wet spot it left on his pants leg, gave him an appraising eye, took his chin firmly, and asked, “Is your backside completely free of marks?”

“Sir, yes sir. Nurse Rockwell checked me yesterday.”

“Okay. If Mr. Wilderforce wants you, I’ll put the wheels in motion.” He released the Provider’s closely-shaven, delicate chin and told Randy-James, “This one sleeps alone tonight. See to it.”

*

Although the lights were on fully, no one paid attention to two figures slipping from the stairs into the rear of the room, Hassan and Hiram. Mixing, mingling, and chitchat by all the staff were primary, especially with Ecks and Wilderforce on hand. Hassan took stock and, with a finger to his lips, pointed Hiram to a now-exposed tray of cookies. He darted toward Duane.

“Did you enjoy the films? I did not see where you sat.”

“I was in the back, Maître,but I missed the last one,” he lied. “I had to use the loo.” Time in England had left its mark on Hassan’s growing vocabulary.

“Too bad, it was the best. His…” he indicated the staff’s only “person of color.”

*

To see Duane and Hassan – My god, he’s hot. – engaging Félix in conversation (initially in English, then in French) flashed Ecks’ mind back to the account, forwarded to him by Duane a year earlier, e-mailed to him in Paris from Chicago by “an old and trusted friend.” Duane vouched for the assessment’s reliability, “Ex-Professor of Sociology Dalton Brawne is the lover of a deliciously bright young man (read, genius), Edwin Owen, who works at the Art Institute. It was there in a gallery that Edwin met Félix Patrice, found him to be ‘fabulous,’ and, without precedent, took him home to meet Dalton. I will omit the particulars in favor of coming to the point: Dalton had every reason to believe, from what he knew of my investment in the Farm, that a talent had been found – suited exactly to your needs.”

Duane had forwarded Dalton’s flowery description:

Black as soot but agleam in the right light with skin that looks polished, Felix stems from a mixed-race family – maternal grandparents Franco-Haitian, paternal grandparents Haitian-Norwegian. The result, the features of a fine-boned European with startlingly iceberg-blue eyes and perfect pearl-white teeth in a setting of maximum contrast. At first sight, one’s heart stops. It is impossible not to stare. His shapely body (imagine a slender Greek kouros with a high-hung African butt), he carries with statesman-like dignity, rare beyond rare in a teenager. Finely tailored pants reveal one great part of his heritage from the rear but which, from the front, are structured to hang such that what lies beneath, well-secured against intrusive speculation, cannot distract the viewer. Bilingually- and finely-educated, incredibly sexed and eminently personable, Félix adores the idea that he might encompass the most sophisticated forms of gratification for other, older men. His functionality has virtually demolished my lover, our roommate, and me. Me! If he is not what you want, then, with avarice aforethought, we will keep him with us while he completes his university studies. That is, if we can survive.

Telephone calls to Paris and Chicago netted a Skype conference then a face-to-face interview on, in, and off a bed (conducted by a trusted colleague from another ‘institution’). Eighteen-year-old Félix had been taken to The Birchfield Farm for further testing by Blaine and Randy-James. Disbelieving themselves, they had enlisted the superb abilities of Benjamin Arrowsmith, ‘Trainer Extraordinaire’ according to reports, for confirmation. The blazingly statuesque Native American said, “The fertility dance we executed probably did a lot for our season’s crops.”

Musings aside, he would have gone over to the little group had not Trainer Javier Bardeleben tugged at his sleeve, “Mr. Ecks, please. You’re needed.”

Miffed, Ecks trailed Javier to where Charles and Sydney stood, arms crossed. “What is it?”

Eldest, Sydney spoke, “Blaine’s off to calm down Sammie. Why were you so hard on him?”

Ecks glared.

Charles spoke up, arms still crossed, “We worked with him and Blaine on that film. It was a good production. It needed to be done. Sammie needed to do it.”

“He’s better for it,” Javier said. “Now you’ve hurt his feelings and even threatened him, it seems.”

“You’re telling me what to do?”

“Not at all,” came back the usually soft-spoken Charles. “We’re telling you what you have done.”

Ecks crossed his arms. Glared.

“Mr. Ecks, you’re not here often and you aren’t aware of all the care we take with our Providers. Blaine’s concerned as we are that you’re not very interested in the individuals who work here.”

“It’s my job to run a business – and to see that it’s profitable,” Ecks said ve-ry-lev-el-ly. “I praise results, not individuals. But if individuals such as Sammie, as you call him, and your special interest, Wade,” he closed on Charles’ face, “don’t pull their weight, they hear about it from me, you got that?”

Javier tried to conciliate. “Sir, Sam-u-el…” – He stressed the name’s three syllables, the last particularly – “…has a lot of talent, much untapped, but he’s willing and he’s making progress. Don’t you even remember how well he did as the harem slave and the nurse in the O’Keefe punishment scenario?”

“Yes,” Sydney provided the answer, dropped his arms, and crowded Ecks’ space, “progress you have just interfered with. I remind you that you have broken your own protocol. Your comments are meant to go through Randy-James to the team and we know nothing of any instruction from you about our Sammie.”

The situation’s growing heat caught Randy-James’ attention. Any situation potentially unsettling of the order he was responsible for, and he was on it with alacrity. “Gentlemen, let’s all take a few breaths. A lot’s going on, what with our two visitors. We don’t want them upset, do we?

His benign face and open hand to be shaken in turn by each man, Ecks included, calmed the group. Defused some of the anger. “Let’s concentrate on winding up this celebration, settling down for the night, and preparing for tomorrow. Until breakfast, then?”

*

The commotion so occupied Ecks that he failed to observe Duane and Hassan abandoning Félix in favor of the lingering Konstantin and leaving with him to tow.

*

Hiram felt guilty about taking his father’s hand for the walk back to their quarters in the Farm House. Randy-James could tell there was something on the boy’s mind. Ask, or wait? He was unsure how best to handle a twelve-year-old’s possible dilemma. “You are had a good time tonight, didn’t you?”

“Dad. Um, yes.”

“I was touched by your birthday photo and the way you tricked us all.”

The boy looked up as they mounted the porch steps and entered the front door, “Mike and Ahmed helped me a lot. They’re really nice.”

Up the stairs to their second-floor suite of three rooms, footsteps echoing on the polished wooden floor, Hiram fidgeted, dropped Randy-James’ hand, and ran ahead quickly using his key. A bathroom run. His father waited on the big, brown leather sofa.

Hiram returned, shamefaced. “Dad, have I been good since I’ve been living here?”

“Essentially,” Randy-James patted the cushion next to his. “Why? Is something bothering you? Something you did that you ought not to have done?”

Hiram lifted his head not to answer – yet – but to ask, “If I did, would I get punished?”

Without a word, Randy-James sat pondering the question.

“I mean, what would you do? Would you spank me? I hear that people around here sometimes get spankings.” His voice had grown smaller and his head hung back down guiltily.

Who told him that? I’ll have their ass. But later.“Are you thinking that you ought to be spanked, Hiram?”

Followed Blaine’s advice – asked another question. Often a way to an admission.

“If I did, what would it be like?” His voice was shaky.

“Lie over my lap. I’ll explain it.”

“You’re not going to do it?”

“I’m going to show you what you need to know about it before you decide to answer that question.”

Warily, Hiram spread himself across his father’s thighs and waited.

Through the stretch of his trousers, a broad palm cupped each plump, boyish cheek. “My hand is meant to strike each of these or here, right in the center. The best way to receive spanks is to lie quietly, without tensing up to protest or even to say anything. Now, show me how you might tense your butt. That’s the way. Hold it. Feel how much strongly that makes my hand contact on this side, this side, the middle?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Clench them again and tell me how this hurts.”

Before Hiram could process the idea that his tightened buns were going to be struck, they were – hard. A center-placed, single, flat-palm smack. “Ow,” he exclaimed not too loudly.

“Good. Relax this area I’m rubbing – yes, like that – and take this.” Randy-James’ hand came down – same force, same place.

Hiram wriggled slightly, adjusting. “It wasn’t as sting-y.”

“Exactly. So, if you understand that you’re to be spanked as punishment for something you did, lie still, relax, accept it like a man would, and realize that it’s a symbol of correction that stays in your mind after it stops hurting. If you think you need to feel a lot of hurt, then tense up, act out – and the man who’s spanking you – in this case, me – will respond even harder and for much longer to beat all resistance out of you. You’ll eventually give in and the spanking will stop. You’ll have learned your lesson about whatever it was.”

Face down and scared, Hiram asked, “What if I didn’t do what you told me to do this evening upstairs – my homework?”

Wisely, Randy-James said, “I think it would depend on what you did instead.” His palm was on Hiram’s legs and moving slowly over his butt and back, gingerly.

Hiram’s smallest voice said, “Hassan and I went upstairs and he asked about my photography and whether I’d take pictures of him like the one I took of you, only for his friend Duane. Mike’s camera, I’d left it under my computer space in the lab, so Hassan showed me how to use his cell phone’s camera. He stripped off his clothes – he wears real funny, black shorts I guess you’d call ’em with, like, strings on the sides and snaps or something, you know, down there– so you can see more of him than when you wear your Speedo suit. He looks great. I posed him at the top of the stairs ’n’ went halfway down to look up at him like he was on a diving board ’n’ about to dive like you were. We took a bunch of those while you guys were downstairs. We did some back shots, too. He’s really built all over and did you know he’s got little gold rings in his, you know, nipples?

Flabbergasted, Randy-James held on to his son’s bottom, considering whether to whale the daylights out of him or to take stock and ask further, “What did you learn from that?”

“I learned that Hassan’s been, like, a model before. He knows how to pose just right. And he’s friendly. He told me that Duane has bought – um – a ‘controlling interest’ in the company stock, or whatever, and that he’s really the boss of X, only nobody’s supposed to know that, and that that’s why they’re really here, you know, like, to check out everything ’cause he’s got so much money in it. Are you going to spank me?”

“Yes, Hiram. Three strokes on each side part and six here in the middle. Ready? Loosen your muscles.”

No one outside the apartment heard twelve smart swats delivered and accepted in silence. No one but Hiram, when the punishment ended, heard Randy-James say as he rubbed the soft space (He’s stayed relaxed!) between his son’s buttocks, “It’s over. Your slate is clean. To your room now and take care of that erection before you go to sleep. I’ll see you with a smile in the morning for breakfast. Dad’s proud of you for telling the truth.”

*

Uneasy sleep produced a hard-to-please Alan Ecks the morning after the Farm’s Film Festival. Wade, waiter in The Hotel Shellman’s restaurant, tried his antsy best, but Ecks griped about the coffee’s temperature, did not want to read The Times while waiting for his breakfast, disliked the eggs when they arrived – “I ordered over-easy, these are over-medium” – and sent them back, disdainfully eyed Charles at the front desk talking on the phone, sneered at the potted plant next to the lobby (That thing ought to be replaced – like some of the people who work here.), and begrudgingly accepted as edible the second plate delivered to him.

Wade, in his name-embroidered, new jacket with its phrase AT YOUR SERVICEin capital letters, turned on his heel to make a hasty exit just as a smiling trio entered from the lobby stairs. Duane Wilderforce brought in a blushing, oddly confident Konstantin, whose hand he held tenderly, and was followed by bright-faced Hassan Yasamin, ever-eager in appearance, now sporting an apple-green silk shirt. Duane smiled knowingly at Wade and asked for “A table for three” before greeting Ecks.

From his position in the lobby, Charles watched the proceedings. Little came from Ecks other than a pleasantry or two before he gobbled down the rest of his meal and drank the coffee that now did not burn his tongue. “Got to go,” he said. “Speaking about the morning schedule to our staff. Charles will direct you to your ten-o’clock meeting.”

He darted out of the lobby, telling Charles, “See to it.”

How’d Konstantin end up spending the night with those two? Somebody usurping my authority? His walk to the Bunkhouse was very determined.

*

The Bunkhouse cafeteria’s conversational buzz died the moment “X” walked in. Everyone knew what had transpired the night before. Mama was in the back unaware of the executive’s arrival and Randy-James had not shown up. Ecks looked for him but noticed only the little boy, Hiram, seated beside Nurse Blaine Rockwell. No one greeted him – until (after a whispered, “Oh crap”) Blaine rose and headed swiftly in his direction, right hand extended.

“Welcome. It’s so nice to have you back with us.”

Their handshake did not cover Ecks’ unsubtle, formally worded, “Where’s Trainer McLeod?”

In the second of silence before Blaine could think of an answer, Hiram’s voice distinctly called out, “He’s on his way. We had trouble with our plumbing.”

A few chuckles rose to audible level. Most of the staff wanted to applaud the boy’s swift response. Mama, however, burst from the kitchen, “Ah there you are! We are so happy. I’ll-a get you a cup-a coffee. I remember just-a how you like it.” She didn’t, but a call from The Hotel Shellmanhad informed her of a lot – and suggested a blueberry muffin already warmed.

Both were produced as the man was shown a seat at the head table. Uncertain for the moment, he nodded and sat.

Randy-James, a handful of papers held high, came in. “Sorry to be late. I had some problems.”

“Dad,” Hiram piped, “did you finally get the hot water to work right?”

His Father’s face bore the look of bewilderment before he reacted with understanding to Blaine’s definitely stated, “We heard there was something wrong with the plumbing.”

“Yes, uh, and I had forgotten to print out the interview schedule. I have it here. Copies for all.”

Helpful, Hiram distributed the sheets, as his Dad said, “Our special guests, whom you met last evening, are interested in speaking with each of you individually this morning for ten or so minutes. In my office. Nothing to be concerned about. Just be on time or slightly ahead. Otherwise, go about your regular duties. Mr. Ecks will address you now.”

“Listen up, people,” X took the floor. Under their tables, several boys crossed their index fingers at right angles. “Mr. Wilderforce is here to get acquainted, now that he’s an investor in our operation. Treat him with respect as you know how to do. Bear in mind that some of the clients you’ve dealt with came to us through his friend Mr. Duval. Remember him?”

Nods here and there.

“Mr. Wilderforce’s companion, the young man Hassan, whom you also met, will be present as an observer. His youth belies his experience. Do not take him for granted. Do not air any grievances. That would be out of place and unwarranted. Concentrate on positives,” he slowed for emphasis, “because some changes no doubt will be in the works, such as additional property to the South, some new equipment, and a special film project. You will be told at the proper time. What you say to and may do for Wilderforce and Hassan must be regarded as for…this…team. Our team. Am I clear? Questions?”

Clyfford’s pale hand shot up, a schedule sheet in it. “Some names aren’t on this list.”

Nonplussed, Ecks scanned his copy, looked at Randy-James, then realized how up-to-date the schedule was. “I see that Konstantin, Wade, and Charles are missing. They’re all at the hotel.”

He smirked, “Konstantin had his interview last night, I surmise.”

“Whoo!” someone crowed. Even Ecks joined the knowing laughter. “As for the other two….”

“He’s interviewing them at the hotel,” Randy-James interjected.

Ecks’ eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“What about Mama?” Mama asked, beaming broadly. “I will tell ’em good-a things.”

“Tomorrow, I’m sure,” Randy-James answered.

The meeting broke up, the complainants of the night before drifting toward the cafeteria’s rear door with Sammie, the three assigned to kitchen duty starting their work, the remainder disassembling.

Ecks took Randy-James and Blaine by their arms. “We’ll go to the Infirmary to discuss policy for the rest of this visit.”

Hiram waved, “Dad, I’m going to my studies,” and exited, his small hands rubbing suggestively at his backside. A joke? Some wondered.

***

No one writes without indebtedness to others. In my case, friends known on various sites for their quality stories – MC VT, Bill Jonners, and here, particularly, James Rozo – have kindly read and critiqued my stories before I have offered them for posting – and for your eyes. Gratitude to all three men, then – aplenty. Errors and shortcomings are mine alone.

Also on gaydemon.com: my short story "DOUGLAS IN RESIDENCE" and my on-going series "THE ALEXIA CHRONICLES."

My generously proportioned, erotic novel awaits your pleasure at Amazon.