The Movies

by George Gauthier

Chapter 10

Stalked

Earlier today I got stalked by two would-be muggers. Forewarned by my well-honed sense of situational awareness, I saw off the threat without violence or a direct confrontation.

It all started as I was pushing my shopping cart back from the local Harris Teeter supermarket, a monthly alternative to my otherwise weekly trips to a nearby Safeway. Their offerings are sufficiently different that I shop at both stores. The Harris Teeter offers steam tables with a hot foods bar, another with Asian foods, and a salad bar, plus a smaller bar of savories like artichoke hearts, mushrooms, and olives. You spooned the chosen amounts into plastic clamshell containers which got weighed at checkout.

Now this particular Harris Teeter stands nearly alone amid residential streets. The first stretch of my route back to our spooky old mansion leads north and uphill for a good long ways on Webster Avenue till I turn west onto Decatur Avenue, a wide commercial street which takes you past the Safeway, the CVS, 7-11, a liquor store, a boutique hotel, etc.

As I approached Decatur I drew the attention of two young black males walking on the other side of Webster who suddenly crossed in the middle of the street and fell in behind me. They were neatly dressed and not in the garb typical of gangbangers. It was their behavior rather than their demeanor or manner of dress which made me suspicious.

Pushing eight bags of groceries in my heavily laden car uphill, I moved slower than a normal walking pace. What made me suspicious was that such healthy young guys did not quickly overtake and pass me by but rather paced me, suggesting that they were interested in me, not in getting to their original destination.

Centuries of life experience have taught me that it is always wise to maintain situational awareness even in a safe neighborhood. So I do not indulge in day dreaming but stay awake and aware. With my checkered history I am quick to suspect the worst and will react to mere suspicion such as my two shadows aroused. I always trust my feelings when something does not feel quite kosher, nor am I ashamed that I might be guilty of racial stereotyping in evaluating potential threats. That does not make me a racist, simply a realist.

Statistics show that that young black males are disproportionately responsible for street crime. Maybe a third have had some interaction with law enforcement and the courts, maybe as a series of arrests, have served time, might be out on parole or on probation. Better wary and safe than careless and sorry.

Now a twink like me looks like a prime target of opportunity for theft if not for murder. There I was pushing a shopping cart, hands gripping the handle bar, intent on steering my vehicle to avoid the small obstacles and potholes in sidewalks which can wreck the small front wheels of the cart or bring it to a sudden halt tipping it forward and sending it to the ground and pulling me down with it if I don't let go quick enough, which I wouldn't -- not because of slow reaction time but from trying to keep it upright too long. In any event my preoccupation with navigating the sidewalks made me vulnerable as did my apparent age, slight stature, pretty boy good looks, and manner of dress which pegged me as gay. In short I looked like a victim.

Once I reached the commercial street I paused to "catch my breath" not that I really needed to. I was stalling, pausing long enough for honest folk who were not stalking me to walk right past and continue on their way. Instead the two young blacks slowed down and dawdled, looking me over appraisingly and even predatorily, clearly waiting for their chance when I might be caught out, alone or with few others around. Or maybe I misjudged them. Maybe they were just messing with Whitey without any criminal intentions. Maybe. But better safe than sorry.

I knew that as long as I stayed visible on a well-trafficked street I would likely not be attacked so I headed west on Decatur keeping an eye out for a cop car which I might flag down. No such luck.

I thought it best to first cross the street and see if the thugs crossed there too. If they did follow me, then, with my suspicions confirmed, I would push past the Safeway and the drug store and head toward the 7-11 convenience store, which was something of a cop hangout. If no cops were around, then I would carry on to the corner and enter the FedEx office. My two stalkers would not dare enter there because of the cameras. That would give me a chance to phone the police.

However, as I came even with the hardware store I thought of a way to develop the situation right away and to confirm my suspicions. Likely that move would prove to my stalkers that I was on to them, but at least I had found a temporary safe harbor. So I stopped and pretended that I had just remembered some item I had intended to buy. My two stalkers stopped too or rather one did and the other stopped only when he was a couple of paces ahead, the pair effectively boxing me in. So instead of going either forward or back I made a left turn and entered the hardware store. My two stalkers, for now I was sure that that was what they were, stationed themselves on either side of the entrance waiting for me to come back out. No way I would stick me head in that noose.

Inside I walked up and down the aisles, not even browsing though I do so love to browse in hardware stores. No, I was just stalling for time. When one of the staff asked if I needed help I explained that I was not there to make a purchase but was just trying to ditch a tail. I told the clerk that if my potential muggers were still lurking outside when I got to the front door, I would stay inside and call the cops.

When I looked out I saw that the pair had abandoned the chase and pushed on to wherever they had been going before a tempting target of opportunity presented itself. With my head on a swivel I made my way home safely congratulating myself on maintaining my cool in a dicey situation.

Just as well nothing really happened. Although I normally would not resist an armed robber and simply hand over my valuables, I could no longer be sure that my preferred tactic would work. News reports and videos of my various misadventures in recent years had gone viral. A robber might already know from video of the incident on the bus about my ploy with a fake iPhone and dummy wallet. Or he or they might not want to take chances with someone known to have killed bad guys like those murderous archers in the woods. Additionally robbers might even be wary that I could repeat on them the tactic I used against that pit bull, crushing its airway with my strong grip. Not for nothing had old Zeus given me tripled strength when he made me immortal, partly to better cope with energetic sex play as his personal boy toy.

Better then to plan for the worst. An assailant might reason that killing me would earn him bragging rights -- street cred -- as well as loot. With two assailants attacking from behind, one could seize and immobilize my dominant arm while the other held me and drew his blade across my throat or just shove the knife deep into my back.

Now with my nanites and an emergency call to Olympus I might have survived all that with nanites sealing the major blood vessels and directing what oxygen was available in my blood stream to my brain. Maybe.

But when a situation goes beyond mere threats to an actual attack I prefer an active defense to a passive one. There are tried and true techniques to deal with such situations especially given my unusual physical gifts of speed, tripled strength, and resilience, but success takes luck as well as strength and practiced technique. Nothing is guaranteed except maybe that with the last of my dying breath I would touch my foes and infect them with deadly nanites whose sole job would be to chemically synthesize potassium chloride. That is chemical used in public executions to stop the hearts of criminals sentenced to death. Those special nanites are programmed, after their job is done, to disassemble themselves leaving a medical mystery for the pathologist to unravel. It is just as well for them that those two stalkers did not get to close quarters with me for I was prepared to destroy them utterly. Whether it was win, lose, or draw, I would have taken them with me. When my life is at stake I do not mess around.

After this incident I started to wonder -- only half seriously -- whether my shopping cart was a jinx. In as many years I had twice collided and tripped over it inflicting injuries which left scars on my shins, though not for long thanks to my nanites which cleared them up totally. Those incidents were bizarre experiences, traffic accidents involving a collision between a vehicle and a pedestrian in which I was both that pedestrian and the driver as well. Go figure.

Happily the next incident with my cart was mildly amusing. Erly one Halloween eve I was returning with a cart full of groceries from a shopping trip to the Safeway. Clever Halloween displays graced the front yards of homes in the neighborhood with a particularly elaborate display at the last house at the corner just before I turned onto my street: skeletons, demons, monsters, cobwebs and a giant spider; the works. The homeowners were at the sidewalk dispensing complimentary beverages to passers-by including glasses of a pleasant red wine. Now I am not much of a drinker, but how could I pass up free wine? I complimented them on their decorations, and we chatted a bit. As I got ready to push off the husband asked if I wanted a refill. With feigned reluctance I told him:

"No, I'd better not. I'm driving..."

Suicide by Cop

Recently promoted Corporal Paolo Franco has made the news once again and for the best of reasons. The video from his own body camera and from surveillance videos in nearby stores told a tale of courage and coolness in the face of potentially mortal peril.

Called to a shopping strip by reports of a man brandishing a gun, He and his probationary partner Boris Pankov found a neatly dressed but obviously distraught man waving an automatic pistol though not aiming it at anyone in particular. Ruggedly handsome the man looked to be a few years short of thirty.

Paolo directed Officer Pankov to draw his weapon and to watch but wait but not act unless the man started shooting at people -- not just into the air. Pankov was to ignore shouts and threats and gestures and act act only in extremis.

Paolo was told by a security guard that although the man had had plenty of chances he had not yet shot at anyone. There had only been a single shot fired and that one was into the air. Paolo suspected that this man was suicidal and intent on committing suicide by cop, So he kept his own pistol holstered and closed to conversational distance.

Now Paolo's training told him that he should come on strong, to take command of the situation, to order the man to drop his weapon or else. Paolo did just the opposite. Instead of the usual assertive police tactic of shouted commands like "Drop your weapon" or "Get on the ground!" or even a less confrontational "I need you to put your weapon on the ground!" Paolo spoke in a conversational tone saying:

"Good afternoon, sir. I really need you to tell me what this is all about. Do you care to explain yourself?"

"What! You are asking what this is about? Can't you see that I have this gun in my hand? It's got fourteen bullets. I can do a whole lot of killing with that much firepower!"

"A fearsome amount of firepower indeed, but I have to wonder why you haven't fired already. It's been like seven minutes since we got the call, what with traffic and all. Plenty of time and plenty of potential victims like that old guy in the fedora crouched behind the dumpster."

"Huh? Why are you suggesting targets? Aren't you taking me seriously?"

"I do take you seriously, but if I just shot you down out of hand, I might never know what it was that brought you to this shopping strip today gun in hand and on such a fine day too: blue sky, puffy white clouds, sunny but only warm not hot."

The man snorted. "So? Any day can be a fine day to die!"

"Maybe so, but surely better a cold rainy day in November than a sunny day in May."

The man looked around in frustration.

"Seriously! Why are you making this so hard? Can't you see that I am a deadly threat? I could start blasting away at any second. If you are going to try to stop me then you had better act soon."

"Understood, but in the little time we might have left to talk, you need to explain yourself."

"What is there to talk about? My life is in the crapper. I've lost everything, my wife, my home, and my company. Even my car got repoed. There is nothing left. So no thanks. No more struggle, no more 'life of quiet desperation'. I'm going out in a blaze of glory. What is there to talk about anyway? Why should I explain myself when I could just shoot you right here right now."

"So you could, so what is the hold up? Could it be that, angry though you are, you really don't want to kill anyone. What you really want is to die, but it looks like you don't have the guts to pull the trigger on yourself. So you are trying to force a cop, me or Officer Pankov over there, to shoot you. Well we won't just shoot you. Not out of hand."

"In fact I really don't think you would try to kill me regardless. Oh, maybe fire in my direction, maybe shoot to wound. Though in either case you shots might well fly wild and possibly inflict a wound by accident maybe on an innocent bystander. I wonder if you have thought of that. Am I right? Or are you simply afraid to turn the gun on yourself and pull the trigger?"

"Porca miseria! E Dannazione!" ["For crying out loud!" and "Damn!"]

"No, I am not afraid. It's just that I'm Catholic. For us suicide is a mortal sin."

Paolo picked up that the man's exclamation of frustration was in Italian which had to be his native tongue. Under extreme stress, a man would not be cursing in anything else. So, switching briefly to his native Italian himself, Paolo told him:

"Lo so. Sono catolico anch'io." [I know. I'm Catholic myself.]

"Catholic and Italian but you were born right here in this country. Right?"

"No. Sono nato in Torino, ventitre anni fa."[No, I was born in Turin twenty-three years ago.]

That made the man complain:

"That is so unfair! Why did I have to draw a young good-looking Catholic cop and a genuine Italian like me to boot? I make a decision to end everything and this has to happen! What the hell am I gonna do now?"

"Why not give try giving yourself another chance? I sense that you don't really want to hurt anyone other than yourself, and certainly not a nice young fellow such as myself. Do you?

The man started to reply then deflated. Looking annoyed he admitted:

"No. I didn't want to kill anyone. I just wanted to die. Why couldn't you just let me?"

With that admission he lowered his weapon. Off hand raised he crouched down and placed his pistol on the pavement before stepping back three paces. Paolo let out a sigh of relief, took his hand off his own weapon, walked up to the man, and kicked the gun farther out of reach after which he answered what might have just been a rhetorical question.

"I could not let you die because I am a police officer. My job is to protect and serve. Today I protected you from yourself."

The man offered no resistance as Paolo locked the handcuffs around his wrists. As they walked over to the police cruiser the man shook his head.

"I guess I just don't have it in me to kill another human being. So what happens now? What do I have left?

"Hope!" Paolo replied softly. "Hope is what you have left -- since you can only go up from here."

The would-be shooter nodded then asked:

"So you are Torinese, Officer..."

"Franco, Paolo Franco."

"I'm Genovese, Giorgio Genovese, so Genovese in both senses, by origin and by surname. Which means that back in the old country we were practically neighbors."

Paolo nodded. Genovese was a surname of more than a few Italians, one derived from the toponym for Genoa, Genova in Italian. Genoa is a port city on the coast of the Ligurian Sea just across the mountain arc from the city of Turin inland.

[Trigger warning for a pet peeve. The given name Giorgio is properly pronounced with only two syllables, so JOR-JO, not four as is regrettably so often the case in the mouths of Anglophones in the U.S. of A even or especially Italian-Americans. In the orthography of the Italian language an i before a, e, or o indicates that the preceding consonant is soft, so the g's in the man's name were pronounced more like JOR-JO JE-NOH-VAY-ZE. No i and it would be pronounced with a hard g, something like GOR-GO GAY-NOH-VAY-ZE -- meaningless to any Italophone.]

The media and the public hailed Paolo as a hero. His precinct captain didn't know quite what to think or rather what he should think, whether as a stern precinct commander or as the beat cop he had once been. Should he come down hard on a young officer whose actions were so out of procedure, or should he act on his personal admiration for Paolo's courage and put the young patrolman up for a decoration? Much to his relief, the police commissioner took the decision out of his hands. So hero it was.

The story behind Giorgio Genovese's suicide attempt soon came out. Having nearly lost his roofing business during Covid, he had worked like a dog to keep it open and to save the jobs of his three roofers, family men all. Long hours and absences from hearth and home, and all the accompanying emotional turmoil put a strain on his marriage. The financial pinch worsened after his wife was let go by her real estate agency.

The last straw for her was the loss of their house after they fell behind on their mortgage payments or rather he fell behind. The house was in his name alone. Always one to pull her own weight and never a gold digger, she had left empty handed, not asking for anything in the divorce except a way out of their broken marriage and had moved two towns over to live with her widowed sister.

Genovese himself almost gave up entirely when his business premises burned down along with his two trucks and all his equipment. Then his insurance company denied most of his claim on the grounds of contributory negligence namely faulty wiring. The final straw was when his car got repossessed leaving him without transportation to job sites for such occasional work as he could find for himself.

All this earned him understanding and a degree of sympathy. Not wanting to look heartless in an election year, the public prosecutor charged him only with discharge of a firearm within city limits and creating a public disturbance. So Genovese did not serve time but was sentenced to probation and had to attend an anger management class.

Impressed once again by his lover Will's boyfriend the young police constable Paolo Franco, Franklyn Dyson asked his people to look into Genovese's background and to gauge his prospects.

Now it happened that, during Covid, Dyson had provided the seed money from personal investments for a public benefit corporation, a fund which made low interest loans to help local entrepreneurs of fundamentally sound small businesses survive the downturn and accompanying credit crunch. Not actually a non-profit but a financial business aiming only to cover costs, it replenished its coffers when the loans were paid off, making them available to help someone else. The trustees did not actually work for Dyson, but they did attend to their benefactor's suggestions. So they threw Genovese a lifeline which got him set up in business once again. The rest would be on him.

At the time Genovese had been far too overwrought to understand much less agree, but the ultimate outcome of his actions that day bore out the wisdom of the old saying that suicide is often a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Friends

One fine day that summer Dyson sat at poolside vicariously sharing the naked high jinks of his lover Will's circle of friends, four young men, boys in every way except chronologically, who had become Dyson's friends too, though of us all only Will and I ever shared Dyson's bed. On this occasion we had brought along our scamp of a chamber boy, Jaeden. As pretty a blond twink as you could ever wish for, the boy gave me a run for my money, and that was saying something, for was I not the immortal Ganymede, acknowledged by the poet Homer as being the loveliest youth born of mortals, not to mention that I had been chosen by Zeus, king of the gods of Olympus, as his naked wine boy cum cupbearer cum boy toy, the only human youth he ever brought back to Olympus to share his immortality.

Jaeden was as exuberant as anyone I have ever known. His antics, clowning around, and occasionally exasperating misdeeds notwithstanding, the boy was impossible to dislike. He even had a serious side to him, which is all well and good. Chamber boys employed in our spooky old mansion necessarily had brief careers in domestic service, working during the bloom of their youth but only till they aged out and were replaced by the next cohort of cute twinks. With plans for a career in IT Jaeden had signed up at a community college for a course in systems administration which would get him entry into the field with hopes of ultimately becoming a software engineer.

I remember the day he explained this to us while dressed in the skimpy almost exiguous part of shorts which, with non-slip shoes, were all that the chamber boy wore while on duty. Summing up what he had to offer potential lovers he adopted a grand pose and, sweeping his hands along his sides, said: "What I bring to the table is all this, and brains too!"

Now our building has always had a strict rule against fraternization, under which the help was strictly off-limits, chamber boys and garden assistants both. That policy protected the boys from importunate guests and also removed any temptation on their part to moonlight as rent boys. The policy thus safeguarded our building's sterling reputation as an upmarket residence for persons of means, rather than some downmarket, low rent, no-tell-hotel cum boy brothel.

Alas, the rules in our leases against fraternization with the help still applied to me and Kyle no matter that we were out of the building, but Paolo was another story. It was no secret that he had been instantly smitten when he come upon me and Jaeden relaxing together on my couch in the nude. Despite first impressions, ours was a chaste companionship. We were naked only because we had just showered after Jaeden's misadventure with the cat door.

Exploring the now disused and closed-off servant runs the adventuresome and mischievous boy had gotten stuck trying to worm him way through the small cat door leading into my fourth floor apartment. Trapped for more than an hour, helpless, and halfway to hysterical, he was covered with dirt and grime from the dusty and musty old passageways, all of which left the poor kid badly shaken. Once freed, trembling, sobbing and sniffling, he had sunk into my protective embrace till he recovered his equilibrium.

Our close contact in that embrace had transferred much of the grime he had picked up onto me so we both needed to clean up. To Jaeden's disappointment I refused to share the shower. I knew what the little minx had in mind, not just for me to scrub his back but to attend to him lower down for purposes other than hygiene. Good thing then that I locked the bathroom door since he did try the door knob hoping to slip in with me. Nice try Jaeden!

While he failed with me Jaeden he had no trouble enticing Paolo into his bed, mostly at Paolo's place. Jaeden shared rooms with two other guys, one of them straight, the other gay but rather shy. It was awkward for them to ignore the unmistakeable sounds of lovemaking coming from Jaeden's bedroom. Never especially promiscuous, Jaeden never saw any virtue in monogamy either. At least once a week and often twice he had overnight company.

Not out of any possessiveness on Dyson's part but wholly of his own volition Will Laurier concentrated his attentions on just two regular lovers, Franklyn Dyson himself to whom Will was so much more than a lover, and yours truly. In turn Dyson had bedded both of us, but though his gaze might stray, window shopping was as far as it went.

He had no objection then when Will and Paolo started keeping company. As busy as both guys were, and with their other duties and commitments, they did not get together very often and so far had not done so under Dyson's roof, though in the present instance, they intended to consummate their relationship in the great outdoors, in one of the four bowers laid out on the grounds just out of earshot of the house which were reserved for romantic assignations or trysts.

And more power to both of them!

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