Through Other Eyes by Bill Tope and Doug Hawley

Through Other Eyes by Bill Tope and Doug Hawley

One Year Ago 

Royce shuffled from room to room throughout the large old farmhouse, looking for someone to talk to. He had arrived about an hour before, dropped off by a housemate who was bound for a party in the city. He had been lucky to catch the ride, as it was a three-mile walk from his home to the disused farm where the party was being held. But it was nearly two a.m., and the party was winding down. Little groups of friends had sequestered themselves in any of the home’s many rooms and were conversing soberly with one another. His footfalls were muffled by the bilious green carpet as he walked from room to room, in search of—he wasn’t sure what. 

This wasn’t really Royce’s class of friends, he thought. He was heavily involved in activities at school, whereas these people all seemed to be MFAs, doctoral candidates, and the like. Nobody appeared to be drinking, and no one appeared to be getting high, though there were the tattered remnants of a cloud of marijuana smoke hovering near the ceiling. Each time Royce would venture upon one of these small gatherings, the room’s occupants would glance up in mild annoyance and begin talking in low, measured tones, effectively excluding him. Royce wondered what they saw when they looked at him. Figuratively shrugging, he would silently move on. The crowd of partygoers was thinning out. Giving up on his search for company, Royce wandered outside and found people heading for their cars. 

“Say, could I catch a ride?” he asked one couple. They didn’t hear or pretended not to hear. He approached another small group, requesting passage into town. He was told they were headed in the opposite direction. He nodded and backed away, resolving at length to walk the several miles to his home. It was December and cold, though the predicted snow had not yet begun to fall. As he stepped out onto the side of the highway, he observed several cars of partygoers speeding off in the same direction he was headed. He scowled unhappily. After he’d walked perhaps a mile, Royce was startled to find a VW Bug slow down and then stop, unbeckoned, up the road just ahead of him. He hoped this wasn’t another of those sadistic drivers who stopped and then sped away before he could reach the vehicle. He’s had his fill of that nonsense. But no. The passenger side door creaked open, and he peered inside and saw the driver, a plump woman of perhaps thirty, clutching the wheel with one mittened hand. 

“Climb in!” she urged in a throaty rasp. It wasn’t until Royce slid into the passenger seat that he noticed that her other hand was clutching a fifth of bourbon. Before he could even mutter his thanks for the ride, the woman, who had reddish hair and mottled skin, drew the bottle to her lips and slurped down a great gulp. Without a word, she floored the gas pedal, and the little car shot down the street, gravel spitting backward in its wake. She swung her head wildly until she faced him and asked, “What’s your name?” Clearly, she was drunk. 

“Uh… Royce,” he replied. 

She laughed giddily. 

“That there’s a chick’s name, ain’t it?” She asked, slurring her words. 

Her breath, thought Royce charitably, smelled like a landfill. 

“No, I don’t…uh…search me,” he managed at last. She laughed again, a shrill cackle. 

“I might just do that, Lover Boy,” she offered, tickled at her own mirth. 

Royce’s eyes grew round with alarm. Not only was she wasted, she was horny! Yikes! 

“Where are you headed, Baby?” she asked, taking another swig of whiskey. 

He said, “You can just let me off at the convenience store,” and pointed to a Shell station at the next corner. But there was a policeman standing there, just looking for trouble, Royce thought, and she deftly passed him by. 

“I’m Dorothy,” she said by way of introduction. “But you can call me Dot.” She grinned, revealing yellowed, misshapen teeth. Suddenly the car veered off the side of the road, ran up an embankment, and descended again on the other side without further mishap. When she felt him staring at her, Dot held out the bottle and said, “You wanna hit?” Royce shook his head no. “C’mon, Baby, I ain’t got the clap or nothin’,” and she wiped the end of the bottle with the tail of her shirt. She held it out to him again. 

“Thanks, Dot, but I got really high at the party,” he lied. 

She nodded indifferently. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes from somewhere, she bit one off and pressed in the car lighter. She then began singing in a voice that sounded like she’d gargled with razor blades. At length, the lighter popped back out, and she grabbed it, touching the end of her cigarette. At just that moment, the Beetle hit a pothole and her hand was jarred, resulting in Dot touching the hot lighter to the end of her nose. 

“Shit!” she yelped excitedly. Royce shook his head and blew out an anxious breath. “What part of town are you going to, Darlin’?” asked Dot, removing her eyes from the road to concentrate on her passenger. The car suddenly lurched off the road, neatly decapitating three mailboxes lying close by. “Whoops,” said Dot, observing what she’d done; then: “Hell, I don’t know why they put them boxes so close to the road, do you?” Royce said that he didn’t. “Where are you headed?” she asked again. 

“You can let me off on Vandalia Street,” he replied, hoping they’d survive the journey. 

“Okie dokie,” she said agreeably, and she finally managed to light her cigarette. She stopped the car for a red light. 

In the illumination from the streetlamp, Royce saw that his driver was not thirty but closer to fifty. Is this what I’ll be doing in thirty years—driving around stewed and picking up strangers off the street? The car rocketed forward. 

“Vandalia Street, straight ahead,” bellowed Dot. Royce looked forward and saw with relief that his home was just beyond the next stoplight. The beacon was red, but that didn’t dissuade Dot; she drove straight through the intersection, leaving a fusillade of angry horns in her wake. She chuckled merrily, pulled up to the house indicated by Royce, and drove straight up into the yard. She missed the lawn jockey but did take out a flamingo and the bird bath. The displaced bowl left a little crack in her windshield. Hurriedly, the young man opened the passenger-side door and prepared to alight from the vehicle. He stuck one foot on the ground. “Ain’t you gonna invite me in, Sugar?” Dot asked, her words slurred. At the stricken look on Royce’s face, she roared with laughter. “I’m just kiddin’, Baby; my ol’ man’s expecting me home.” And she laughed again. 

God, thought Royce, if she’s this way, what must her husband be like? 

“Hey!” brayed Dot. “That’s one hell of a color for a house, ain’t it?” Royce sighed. He got it all the time. He looked back at the house, which was caught in the glare of Dot’s car lights. “What color do you call that, Royce?” Baby-shit yellow?” 

He smiled crookedly and nodded. “Thanks, Dot, I really appreciate the ride. Drive safe, now,” and he backed away from the car, heading inside. He looked back at Dot before she drove away. “Before you go, let me ask you do you love your husband? I wonder if you two lost the way. Why hit on some kid when you are married? Maybe you should show some affection on him. Maybe he’d return it.” 

Dot frowned and asked “What do you know, kid?” 

“That’s right Dot, I’m just a know-nothing kid. Forget about it. Thanks again.” 

Dot backed the car out of the yard at high speed, directly in front of an oncoming motorist, who had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. Grinding the Volkswagen’s gears ruthlessly, Dot soon set off back the way she’d come. She then slowed down and considered what she had heard. She thought to herself, maybe the kid knows something. 

Standing in the shadows, Royce observed one of his housemates, Eric Dweet, unsteadily scale the steps to the front porch and approach the door. Royce followed close on Dweet’s heels. Dweet stumbled into the door, which shook on its hinges. He then tried to fit his key to the lock, but it was futile: he was too messed up to negotiate passage into “The Big Yellow House,” as Dweet and his housemates thought of the old building, for its glaring mustard-yellow exterior finish. Finally, Dweet leaned against the door, and he fell inside, almost on his face. 

Having ingested a small handful of barbiturates prior to his excursion to the bar—in order to save money on the amount of alcohol he’d have to consume to effectively “get wasted”—he’d not bargained on the full effects of the chemical amalgamation. Seated at the kitchen table in the rear of Big Yellow, Stephanie, one of two co-ed housemates, looked up with surprise as Dweet entered the kitchen. He was taking tiny, deliberate “old man” steps, lest he stumble. Clearly, she had not seen him this drunk in at least a week or more. 

“Eric, are you alright?” she asked solicitously, making as if to spring to her feet to offer assistance. “Thash’s okay, Schteph,” he muttered vaguely, taking a seat at the table. Little white spots danced before his eyes. Dweet patted the air in Stephanie’s general direction, indicating he was okie-dokie. “I need a beer,” he croaked pathetically. 

“I think,” said Stephanie helpfully, “that I have some wine in the fridge; you’re welcome to that.” 

“No,” he said. “I’m hungry. “I’m going to make myself something to eat.”And suiting the action to the word, Dweet climbed to his feet and reached into the refrigerator to unearth some whole wheat bread, a brick of butter, and a jar of grape jelly. Royce brought up the rear and signaled to Stephanie that he was here to help if need be. 

“Do you want some help, Eric?” inquired the co-ed. She regarded the prospect of Dweet making even toast successfully with some skepticism. 

He shook his head no. Plunking two slices of bread into the antique toaster, he waited impatiently for the toast. Finally, it popped up. As Dweet reached for the toast with a metal fork, Stephanie quickly yanked the cord from the wall. Oblivious, Dweet next slathered the bread with butter and slopped copious jelly onto his toast. 

“Shit,” he muttered as he dropped jelly from the spoon onto the oaken tabletop. He started to pick up the little dribs and drabs of the jelly with his fingers, but everything was so slippery that he had little luck. He picked up a globule of the grape confection and brought it within inches of his face, closely inspecting it. Meanwhile, from her seat at the table, Stephanie was aghast at the pitiful spectacle and the total lack of dignity being displayed. Her heart went out to Dweet. She looked at Royce, and they exchanged a wan look and a shrug. 

Into the room walked John who, at six feet seven and one hundred seventy pounds, was the unofficial house manager. His raven-black hair cascaded three feet down his spine. He regarded the scene before him with dismay. 

“Did you get wasted again tonight, Dweet?” He asked rather judgmentally. “Third time this week, isn’t it?” His magnificent, tweezed brows arched inquisitively. 

“Yeah, but who’s counting?” remarked the drunk. He proceeded to lick the jelly from his fingers. 

“Who, indeed?” said John, shaking his head. “Is it just beer this time, or did you use something along with it?” 

Dweet scowled. Taking a bottle of medication from his denim jacket, he held it up and proclaimed loudly: “Listen, I’ve got forty-four Reds in this bottle, and I’m going to go upstairs and take them all!” He glanced around the room to check the others’ reactions. Stephanie looked horrified, but John, having gone through this before, merely tut-tutted and snatched the bottle from Dweet’s raised hand. “Hey, those belong to me!” said Dweet loudly. 

“You can have them tomorrow—after you’ve sobered up,” decided the house manager. 

Bridgit, Dweet’s long-suffering, sometimes girlfriend, entered the room next. “Oh, good, you got the Seconals,” said Bridgit, who was a nursing major. “I was afraid he was going to take more of them. How many did you take, Eric?” she asked him. He inhaled and released a deep, shuddering breath. “Just four,” he said dismissively. 

“Charlie was pretty freaked out,” she remarked, referencing her boss from the college. 

“At what?” asked Dweet, nearly unconscious now.

“You were all over me,” said Bridgit. “Your hands were everywhere. And I thought Charlie was going to punch you! C’mon Tiger, let’s put you to bed,” and she helped Dweet up from the table, where the sleeves of his jacket had smeared traces of jelly across the surface. After removing the jelly stains from the chair, Royce replaced Dweet in the seat. 

“How did your evening go, Royce?” asked Stephanie, closing the book she’d been reading. Royce made a face. 

“How did you get there; Betsy?” she asked, referring to their final remaining housemate. He nodded. 

“How was the party at The Farm?” asked John. “Were there any good-looking men there?” he wanted to know. 

“No one you’d have any interest in, John,” replied the other man. 

“They were all straight, huh?” inquired John, one of the few openly gay men in town. He sighed. “More’s the pity. Did you get wasted tonight?” 

Royce shook his head no. 

“Do you want some of these?” John asked, reading the vial he’d taken from Dweet. He pronounced it “Sexonals.” 

Royce shook his head again and said no. 

“We’re going to have to do something about that young man,” said John. 

“When he hits bottom,” suggested Royce, who majored in social work. 

“Any day now,” said John, nodding his head in agreement. “Good night, children,” he said, slipping a red capsule between his lips and taking himself off to bed. 

Stephanie and Royce regarded each other for a moment, and then the latter asked, 

“I suppose you’ve been reading Scripture all night, like always?” They both smiled. 

“Spencer left about an hour ago,” she replied. 

“We can’t afford to keep the wife waiting,” suggested Royce. Stephanie made a face. 

“He’s not staying married to her,” she said positively. Royce said nothing, and she asked, “You think I’m making a mistake, don’t you?” He tilted his head to one side and stared at her. 

“I had a dog that used to do that,” she told him. “Stop it! I’d really like your opinion, Royce. You’re the only one who knows what’s going on who doesn’t run around with so many drugs in his system that his hair is on fire.” 

All he said was, “I don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

Her face softened. “I’ll be alright,” she said. 

Royce only sighed. Suddenly the phone rang, and glancing at the clock on the stove, Royce answered, spoke several words into the receiver, and then handed it off to Stephanie. She accepted it with a frown and said, “Hello?”After a few moments, she said, “Okay, see you soon,” then handed the phone back to her housemate, who hung it up. He looked at her questioningly. 

“That was Spencer,” she said. 

“I know. I spoke with him, too.” 

“I Forgot.” She did an eye-roll. Lucille threw him out. He’s coming over for the night.” 

Royce decided he would butt in this time. “Steph, I changed my mind. A simple question: If he would cheat on his wife, would he cheat on you?” 

Stephanie initially looked disturbed and then responded weakly, “He said his marriage was a mistake, but this time it’s real.” Her expression showed that she had doubts. 

“Has he moved out yet?” asked Royce. 

“He’s been saying that he’s waiting for the right time.” 

“For how long?” 

“I’m not counting.” 

“Listen Stephanie, I’m not trying to burst your bubble. It’s just that I care for you, and don’t want you to make a mistake.” 

“I appreciate that Royce, and I care for you too.” 

Royce said “I’m going to take a walk.” 

“You don’t need to leave,” she began, but he stopped her. 

“Really, just a walk, to get my head clear.” 

Royce tripped down Vandalia Street for three blocks, stopping at the city park, where he took a seat on the concrete memorial bench donated by the Kiwanis. He let out a breath, watching the vapor rise into the air. The stone seat felt cold on his bottom. As he reviewed the events of the evening, he squinted up into the brilliant lights of an oncoming vehicle. It was a police car, pulling up to the curb; the rainbow of flickering lights flashed on, sending blue and red beams of light dancing across the park grounds. 

“Hell,” muttered Royce aloud, “what now?” The vehicle sat quietly, except for the radio transmission, which could be heard through the closed doors. At length, a figure emerged from the driver’s side door. He advanced purposefully toward the young man and stood there, just a silhouette in the lights of his police car. At last, he spoke. 

“Park’s closed.” Royce said nothing. Thirty seconds elapsed. “I said, the park’s closed,” repeated the cop. 

“I’m not in the park,” Royce pointed out. Indeed, the Kiwanis memorial bench was outside the confines of the park itself. 

The cop thought about this for a moment, then asked, “What are you doing here at this time of night?” 

Royce thought about playing smartass but then considered how it might look to an observer. “Sitting,” he replied. “Just sitting and resting.” 

“You got ID?” asked his interrogator. 

Royce stood and slowly reached for his wallet. He watched the cop’s nervous fingers hover over his firearm, and then relax as the young man removed his license and handed it over. 

The policeman read the document and asked with a smile, “Royce is a girl’s name, isn’t it?” Royce rolled his eyes. “No offense,” the cop quickly added. “Is this address still current?” Royce nodded his head. “What are you doing out here?” he asked again. 

“I like it out here.” “I’m not breaking any laws, am I?” The cop considered this for a moment. 

“Vagrancy?” offered the cop, as if to see how it sounded. Royce only shook his head in defeat. 

“Okay, I’ll… move along, all right?” 

As if detecting something in the other man’s tone, the cop asked, yet again, “What are you really doing out here, Royce? Where were you tonight?” Royce decided to just come clean. He was too tired to fight. 

“I was at a party, out in the country….” 

“The Farm?” asked the cop, stunning Royce. It was conceivable, he thought, that the cop, who couldn’t be more than a half-dozen years older than Royce himself, had frequented the party house back in the day. At Royce’s puzzled look, the cop smiled and said, “We keep an eye on it from time to time. You probably don’t know this, but underage people sometimes drink alcohol and then drive away from there.” 

Was he kidding? wondered Royce. Checking the officer’s grin, he was assured that he was. 

“Anything happen out there—that you want to talk about?” the cop inquired. 

Royce shook his head no. “I just got tired of the party, the whole scene, you know?” 

The cop nodded and said, “Listen, you can sit there as long as you want—all night, even—and nobody will bother you.” 

Royce blinked in surprise. This cop was, after all, a human being. All Royce had to do was level with him, show that he was himself human, and…Royce found himself grinning. The other man smiled too. As Royce’s father would say, everything was “copasetic.” 

“Thanks,” said Royce. “But it’s about time I turned it.” 

“Get in,” said the cop. “I’ll drive you. 

The younger man smiled again. “No thanks,” he said. “I can’t be seen getting out of a police car. Think what it could do to my reputation. None of my stoner friends would ever speak to me again.” 

Royce was surprised to see Stephanie waiting for him when he returned. She told him “OK, I’ve been thinking some things over. Sometimes when I’ve called him, I can tell that he’s with another woman, but not his wife. I’ve tried to ignore the hints. We may be breaking up. I feel so stupid now about possibly investing so much in something that may not work.” 

“Don’t feel stupid when you are talking to a guy that’s been through three painful breakups and was accosted by a middle aged woman earlier.” 

“Really, Royce? You seemed like a guy that had it all together.” 

Royce and Stephanie talked for another hour. At the end of 60 minutes, they found themselves leaning into the other and savoring a kiss. They’ve been together ever since. 

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope and Doug Hawley 2025

Image Source: Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay