I, Prince Charming         by: Becca Reed, 2001     http://www.geocities.com/the_werewoman

 

Chapter One – The Beginning

The next morning, I rose shortly after dawn, and stepped under the warm freshness of the shower without a thought in my mind as to the boy – young man – I’d picked up alongside the road the night before. I’d dreamt of happy things: fine foods, good wines, and pleasant company, and by the time my alarm went off at 6:15, young Beck was completely out of my head.

Rather comically … it turned out that Beck was also, at that moment … out of his bed. But we’ll get to that later. For right now, let me take this lull in the story (created by the soothing backdrop of the shower) to explain who I am to you.

My name is Keith Richard O’Brian, and I am – or at least, I was at this point and during this story – a 23 year-old graduate from Loyolla University in Chicago with a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing and working on the second of a series of fictional novels depicting the lives and struggles of notable figures from history. I was currently writing a fictional adaptation of the story of Hannibal, and reaping the benefits of my first book: the New York Times Bestseller Socrates.

The ‘benefits’ of my first novel included, among their number, the salary figures necessary for a young writer to afford a small townhouse in Oak Park, (a suburb of Chicago), my car, a hefty bank account, and a great deal of Oak Park Businesses offering me their wares at discount prices or on special orders. (Being a writer living in a highly-literate community helps a great deal.) In addition, I was a handsome young man, as normal men go: I had a lean and good-looking build, if vaguely on the healthy side of the line, a crop of short, well-groomed brown hair, and I always dressed in stylish shirts, khakis, or jeans.

I was happy. I was fit, groomed-well, well-to-do, well-respected, well-situated … well in almost every way.

In fact, the only area of my life in which I was registering any disappointment at all was my love life. In that regard, at least in my life, it was all too alike the old saying "Luck at cards, unlucky in love." In all my 23 years, I’d had fewer than five girlfriends, and only one more than two. But it wasn’t that I hadn’t had the offers. Those came and went in numbers too high for either hand alone or even both together, every year without fail. And even more than usual since the release of my book, Socrates. No, it wasn’t willing women for which I had a lack, it was a lack of willingness on my part to accept the offers when presented. I was just too damn picky about the women I dated. I liked one woman’s personality, another woman’s smile, a third woman’s shape where the previous two did nothing for me, and then there was a fourth who would have been just perfect, had she spoken any English.

 

Ah well, I figured philosophically, c’est la vie.

In fact, and this will finally bring us back to the story at hand, It was love – or rather the lack there of – that had put me on the road just in time to discover Beck. I had just finished taking home yet another woman (this one a Candi something-or-other, and I’m sorry, but how can ANY self-respecting guy date a woman who’s name suggests the promise of ‘treats.’) in a long list of blind-dates, when I had seen a waving, rain-soaked figure on the side of the road and pulled over to see what I could do to help the poor bugger out.

And this, of course, takes us back to the story at hand. Beck. Now … let’s see, where were we…? Oh yes!

As I was saying before I not-so-rudely interrupted myself, Beck was also awake already, and that I discovered as I stepped naked from the bathroom and strode brazenly down the hallway, toward my room. Now – I know what you’re thinking, I’m sure, but c’mon. (And this is an appeal to the guys out there!) how many of you bachelors or former-bachelors have NOT walked naked down the hallways of your own, private abode – completely assured in the knowledge that no one was watching and being not-so-dainty that you required a towel to protect your modesty against the unwanted gazes of the flies and ghosts? Hmm? You know what I mean.

Well, I had totally forgotten about Beck at this point, and so here I am, walking nude down the hallway of my townhouse, when I hear behind me a small gasp, and it all comes rushing back to me.

 

Godfuckshitfuckdamn-SHIT!-thrice-damned-piece-of-holy-hell!

I must have blushed a trillion shades of red at that moment, I’m not sure now. All I clearly remember doing is high-tailing it down the last few feet to my room, ducking hastily inside, closing the door behind me and locking it with the key. Then I sagged back against the wooden frame and did not move for sometime.

 

When, at last, I felt the freedom to move about my own home again without – well, too much, anyway – embarrassment, I managed to amble my way down into the kitchenette of my small, cozy townhouse. Faint, pleasant aromas had been wafting up the stairs toward my room for sometime now, and after I’d built the courage up to peer beyond the frame of my door (or, more truthfully, after the hungry demon living in the cave I called my stomach came up to my brain and beat my sense right out of me,) I came downstairs to investigate.

"Hello?" I hazarded softly, still blushing a bit as I moved into the kitchen, "Beck?"

"Mister! – sir! – ah!" There was a clattering of pans behind me, and then a crash of something gooey against the floor with a dull sploosh! and when I turned around to face the oven, behind me, I saw young Beck, decked out in a pair of the jeans and a shirt I’d left out for him the night before, cursing over a small pile of scrambled-eggs that had managed to leap off the plate on the counter beside young Beck, and suicided-dove headfirst into the floor. I winced as I realized I must have frightened young Beck all to heck by coming in so softly, and that the accident was more my own fault than his, but before I could bend down to help with the eggs on the floor, Beck had already scooped the mess into his hands and dumped it in the trash. He kept muttering, on and on and on "I’m so sorry, sir, I’m just so sorry…."

Suddenly, the heavy aroma of the kitchen caught up to me, and I must have blinked my own surprise and amazement as I turned to my left (where an always-open door led to the dining-room, and through which I could see the dining room table,) and saw a hefty spread laid out before me. Eggs, some sunny-side up, others scrambled; toast, lightly-browned and buttered; and bacon, nice thick strips neither too oily or too crisp; and a pitcher of orange juice, sitting beside a pair each of plates, forks, spoons, and glasses.

"Beck," I said slowly, and in awe, as I moved out of the kitchen and into the dining room beyond, "did you make all of this?" Behind me, Beck (who had been apologizing without restraint for nearly a whole minute now,) suddenly silenced, and I could hear his sock-clad feet shuffling across the tile floor of the kitchen as he followed me into the dining room.

"Yeah," he said softly, in that high, un-manly voice of his that sounded so like a pre-pubescent boy’s, "I was cooking it while you were," he coughed slightly, and I could almost feel the blush returning to my cheeks, "getting dressed. I hope you like it. It’s all I know how to do to say thank you."

I glanced quickly over my shoulders at Beck, who turned away from my keen eyes, and blushed a deep shade of pink. "You can cook?!" I demanded imperiously. Beck winced a bit, and I regretted my tone, but at least this time he didn’t flinch away from me.

"Well, yeah," he mumbled, stepping past me to the table, and filling one of the glass plates with a small helping of scrambled-eggs, "I’m not very good, I know, but the place is so clean, there’s nothing I can do to make it better, and I noticed you had the breakfast food waiting to be fixed, so …" he timorously extended the plate and a fork to me, and raised deep, midnight-black eyebrows in supplication toward me.

After one bite, I practically inhaled the rest of the small helping. My eyes must have lit up with pleasure, because when I looked back up at Beck, he was fairly glowing. "Not very good?" I demanded, more softly this time, "with food like this?! This is excellent cooking, Beck, I can hardly wait to try the rest!"

"Thank you, sir," Beck shone like the sun under my praise of his cooking, finally daring to raise his eyes to meet mine, just before blushing and turning away. I pulled out one of the table chairs and dropped into it, helping myself to some bacon, toast, and more of those delicious eggs, and poured myself a tall glass of orange juice. I was about to take my first drink of that when I looked up and saw Beck shrinking back into the corner while I ate – trying to be inconspicuous.

"What are you doing?" I asked him in confusion, the glass halfway between the table and my lips.

Beck blushed, and turned pleading eyes toward me. "I don’t want to disturb you while you’re eating, sir-"

"Beck," I interrupted softly, but with a firm under-note to my voice, "my name is Keith Richard O’Brian, not sir. You may call me Keith." I paused for a moment, recalling some of my memories of Star Wars with an inner smile, and then turned back to my house-guest. "Not sir Keith, either. Just Keith."

"Oh-okay … Keith," Beck mumbled, his eyes dropped toward his feet.

"Furthermore," I continued, all the while wondering just how in the hell I was ever going to reach this shy, timid young man and get him to confide in me, "you cooked this meal, and you will share it with me, now, at this very table." Beck glanced up with what looked like a protest or denial in his eyes, but I cut him off, "I insist, Beck. No exceptions. Now," I pointed at the chair to my right with a fork, "sit."

Beck sat. He did not make a move toward the food at all. This bothered me, but I decided to ignore the behavior for a moment, and see if the young man’s stomach would do the work I could not.

Beck sat. I ate.

A few more minutes went by.

Beck sat. I drank my juice, and helped myself to more.

"Mmmm…. Golly, Beck," I intoned innocently, with a purely angelic look of contentment on my face as I savored the taste of a piece of buttered-toast, "this food sure is going fast. I hope there’s enough left for you when I’m done."

Beck took a long look at my face, his brows knit together in concentration while he attempted to determine if I was kidding or not. I played my last card – and reached for the last three pieces of toast.

"Hey wait a minute!"

 

By the end of the meal, we were both full and happy, and Beck – for the first time since he’d arrived – seemed inclined to talking a little while he finished his O.J. I took advantage of his relaxation, and pushed the question of what had brought him out onto the road the previous night, begging for a meal.

"It’s my father," he grumbled irritably, gulping some of his juice down. "He’s so provincial and hide-bound! He acts like a Puritan, Keith, you should see him! ‘Proper Decorum and Decency,’ that’s all he cares about. And if you don’t fit into his rules of ‘Decorum and Decency,’ you’re either sent from Satan or possessed by him, and since you can’t just go around burning people at the stake anymore, well – hell – ‘you’ll just have to beat the devil out of the man!’

I tried to make sense of this new information, and sought clarification, "Your father’s a minister?"

Beck nodded glumly, taking another drink in silence.

I ventured another question. "He’s old-fashioned?"

Another nod.

"And you’re not?"

"NO!" Beck exploded, slamming his now-empty glass so hard down upon the table top that I winced and flinched in fear that the fragile base might break, exploding shards of glass flinging themselves all around, and likely as not – into us. But the glass held, and Beck seemed not to notice a thing. "No, damnit, I’m NOT old-fashioned. It’s a new world, full of new kinds of people, and I just happen to be one of Them!"

The young man fumed silently, his face darkening with rage, likely as he replayed any number of past conversations held between minister-father and Generation X’er-son. But I smiled to myself, relaxing from the glass-slamming incident, at Beck’s outburst. Ah, I said to myself, slowly, now we’re getting somewhere.

"Beck," I queried, "Who’s ‘Them’?"

Beck froze, his eyes seizing on my face in an instant of fear, and his whole body tensed. He didn’t say a thing then, he just held himself stock-still, as if expecting a beating, a scolding, or to be sent to the streets again.

"Beck?" I leaned forward a tad, peering into the younger man’s eyes, "Who is ‘Them’?"

The young man wilted, dropping his gaze and turning away, as all the color drained from his face.

"You know," he whispered hoarsely, as his eyes began to brim with tears, "Them. They."

"No Beck, I don’t know. And … and I need you to tell me. I need to know before I agree to letting you stay here." That was true, so far as it went. I couldn’t well have a psycho living with me – who knows whether I’d wake up in bed with a knife one morning? Or just not wake up at all? If this boy was dangerous, somehow, I needed to know about it.

But … somehow, just by looking at the kid, if anyone had ever told me that the boy in front of me was dangerous in anyway, I wouldn’t have believed him. And yet, I had to know.

"Beck."

He started shaking his head, slowly, rocking from side to side, tears threatening to flow again.

"Beck. Tell me."

 

"I can’t." He whispered. "I just can’t."

I sighed, and leaned back in my chair, and began to say: "Well, then I suppose we’ll have to –"

"Please, please Mr. O’Brien! Please don’t toss me out again! I can’t – I don’t – I can’t live out there, I don’t know how!" Beck launched himself across the table at him, grabbing desperately ahold of my right arm, and clamping down. Involuntarily, I lurched back, melting back into the cushion of the chair, but I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid. I was just startled. This kid – Beck wasn’t trying to hurt me, scare me, or intimidate me … he was just in terror, afraid of being tossed out into the cold again. That had not been my intention when I started out saying we’d just have to post-pone his revelation, but it was what he feared the most, and what he assumed I must have meant. He just kept rambling on and on and on, he couldn’t stop.

"Please! I’ll tell you anything! Please, Mr. O’Brien! I promise, I’ll tell you, just please – DON’T SEND ME BACK OUT INTO THE COLD!!"

Alright, I said to myself, seeing the petrified look in Beck’s blue eyes, this has to stop.

"Beck!" I bellowed above the noise of the young man’s terror-drawn cries, "STOP!"

Beck froze.

"Kid, listen to me," I started slowly, and softly, pushing the kid lightly back to his seat, "I’m Not gonna toss you out. I don’t care what you are – I just need to know. That’s all. I promise." I saw the beads of tears threatening to flow in the light reflecting off of Beck’s eyes, and I handed him a klenex from the center of the table. "Here."

Beck blew his nose, slowly, daintily, and then dabbed his eyes with the opposite end, before setting the used tissue on the plate in front him. He turned red-rimmed eyes away from me.

"You’ll hate me." He sobbed to himself. "Everyone does. You’ll think I’m a freak."

I sighed again, quickly becoming tired with the young man’s self-loathing and fear, but not knowing how else to help the kid out of this rut. "No," I promised him, "No, I will not. Not hate you, not think you’re a Freak. No matter what you tell me." I laid a finger alongside Beck’s cheek, and turned his face toward mine. "I promise."

We locked gazes.

"Tell me," I whispered.

He stared at me for a moment longer, his eyes wide, red, and blood-shot, though no longer full of fear or dismay. There was just resignation there, and sadness. And more reluctance than I thought I could conquer today. But he surprised me. Beck could read the candor in my eyes, and he could see that at least a part of me believed that he wasn’t a freak, and would never be in my eyes, and, well … whether he believed what I said or not, he was willing to chance it to keep me as a gracious host. He swallowed deeply, took a deeper breath, licked his lips, and said:

"I want to be a girl."

 

 

© 2001
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