Page 3 of Spread Your Wings

CHAPTER TWO

Sammy and Harold worked together through the weekend.

Sometimes, Sammy wrote copy to go with Harold’s videos from the streets of Sarajevo.

Other times, he and Harold hopped in the rag-top Jeep Wrangler and drove to bustling public areas.

By Saturday evening, they’d toured the library, museum, and the Olympic Stadium.

There, they interviewed people. When English didn’t work, Sammy dusted off his French skills.

He translated into a microphone while Harold focused on the people of Sarajevo.

Most of their interviewees expected life to go on as usual, as it had since the dissolution of Yugoslavia.

Despite their optimism, Sammy felt the pressure of “political unrest” as he had never experienced.

The tension between the Serbs and Bosnians was so thick, it seeped into his chest. He couldn’t take a deep breath.

Harold guided him back to the Jeep. He clasped the camera case to his body, probably to ward off the pickpockets that had checked Sammy’s empty pockets already.

Once Sammy had regained his breath, bent over his knees, breathing into his hands, Harold patted him on the back.

“Is this your first war?”

“They’re not at war.”

“I heard the same thing you did,” Harold said.

“They will be.” Harold’s deep bass rang with certainty.

Sammy hoped he was wrong. In the two days since they’d landed, Sammy had seen beautiful relics and statues restored to their glory before World War II.

He’d also found a Kebab House serving more delicious flat bread laden with lamb, vegetables, and tzatziki sauce.

He wanted more of a chance to enjoy the city, before the referendum, at least. He wanted the war to hold off until then.

Nicole broadcasted their stories late Monday night, in time for the Monday evening news back home.

Despite the late night, eager to complete his first assignment, Sammy showered, shaved, and started a pot of coffee.

He was still at the coffee station in the newsroom, a ballroom converted into office space, when Howard stumbled from his room in pajama bottoms and a USC sweatshirt.

His eyes were still sleep-blurry from an evening nap.

Sammy gave him the first cup of coffee to drown his morning breath.

“Jeez, Harold, could you at least try to look professional?” Nicole asked after she signed off and they disconnected from Atlanta.

“I’m just the cameraman,” he said, taking another gulp of coffee.

Sammy handed Nicole a Styrofoam cup of black bean juice, and she huffed. “I take mine with cream. No sugar.”

Sammy waved her to the counter. A row of creamer packets framed a ceramic bowl of sugar and artificial sweeteners. “Help yourself.”

Nicole rolled her eyes as she pranced past in a cloud of perfume.

She still smelled like the clay cake make-up they used for filming.

That odor was another reason Sammy hated being on camera.

He loved a little eye-liner now and then, but he drew the line at pore-clogging clay.

He already had a baby face. With acne on top of that, he’d be carded at every bar in the States for the next twenty years.

“Fantastic first show,” Tol, their producer, said. “You have the rest of the day off. Tomorrow, we’ll start interviewing the political leaders.”

One interviewee, an eleven-year-old girl, had called the politicians “kids.” Sammy had found the term endearing and ironic. Tomorrow, they would interview the “kids,” and learn more about Harold’s impending war.

Back in his room, Sammy slept until ten. He took another shower to wash the gel from his hair and let it air dry, leaving it soft. The air from the heating vent blew it all out of place. Sammy donned an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and his leather jacket. He headed out to see Sarajevo.

He made it as far as the front desk.

“Mail for you,” Mustafa called from behind the bulky computer monitor. Sammy had a tough time reverting to the silly nickname now that he knew Mustafa’s proper name. Every time he thought of it, he got the Queen song stuck in his head.

“Thanks,” Sammy said, taking the two envelopes, trying not to touch Mustafa’s fingers.

“Today, I work the early shift,” Mustafa said, his smile warm and inviting. “Let me know if you want to go sight-seeing this afternoon.”

“I would love to,” Sammy said, backing away, expecting Mustafa to grab his jacket collar and hold him back.

“But I’m…” What? He wondered. Seeing someone?

How is that going to come across to this straight guy who probably doesn’t even know you’re gay?

“I’ll think about it,” he said, trying to keep the anguish of his indecision from his face.

“Oh.” Mustafa’s eyes hardened above his fake smile.

“See you around,” Sammy said, turning away before his face told more stories his words could never say.

He headed back to his room to deposit his mail, his hands sweating through the envelopes in his hands.

Gavin would never know, his brain reasoned.

I would know, Sammy reminded himself. He’d cheated on a math test in the eighth grade by copying answers from another student’s paper behind the teacher’s back.

A high score on the test, one he hadn’t deserved, set him up for AP Math courses throughout high school.

He’d struggled through all four years, with his mom grumbling about his B-/C+ grades every quarter.

When he died, AP Math would be one of the seven circles in his personal hell.

He didn’t need another reason for guilt.

He would stay true to Gavin. Maybe during the next call home, he and Gavin could talk about their relationship, now that sex couldn’t get in the way.

Every time Sammy had tried to talk, Gavin had lured him into bed.

The sex was great, but always left Sammy feeling empty and unfulfilled after he came.

He parted the daylight-blocking curtains and sat down at the desk to read his letters. The first one was from his mom. He flipped to the other one and opened it first. It had a strange return address in College Park, and no name. Weird.

Dear Sammy , it started in Gavin’s large, messy script.

His heart lifted. Gavin had taken him up on his plea to mail early and often. He hadn’t expected a letter from Gavin for another week or two, if at all.

I moved out of your apartment. I realized I don’t want to be alone nine months out of the year. I need you here with me, and if you’re not here, I need to find someone who is. I’ve already met someone. I left my new address in case you want to stay in touch.

Thanks for the memories, like leaving me alone on Valentine’s Day. I hope you get to see Queen in concert. You always loved Freddie Mercury more than you loved me.

Wishing you the best,

Gavin

Sammy stared at the letter until his eyes burned. He even angled it sideways and flipped it over, searching for more of an explanation. Sammy had only been gone five days. He glanced at the postmark on the letter. February tenth, a week ago. What the actual fuck?

I’ve already met someone. Sammy wondered how long Gavin had been planning to move in with someone else. Worse, he wondered how long Gavin had been fucking around behind his back.

I have to get tested. Now. Today.

Sammy remembered New Year’s Day, when he’d mysteriously come down with the flu, two weeks after Gavin had it. Gavin had blamed it on unsanitary theater conditions when they’d gone to see Hook . Now Sammy wasn’t so sure.

“That bastard,” he said aloud.

Condoms. We used condoms, every time. The fact did little to reassure Sammy. He had to know.

He walked back to the front desk where Mustafa watched him with guarded eyes. Alone at the desk, he didn’t even attempt a fake smile for Sammy.

“Hey,” Sammy said, passing a fifty-Mark across the counter. “How can I get a doctor’s appointment for some blood work, no questions asked?”

“Blood work?” Mustafa asked, taking the Mark. “CNN has a physician on staff.”

“No questions asked,” Sammy repeated.

“What kind of test?”

“The big one.”

Mustafa’s eyes widened. “Hepatitis?”

“The other H. They hold hands. You know?”

Mustafa nodded. He laid the fifty-Mark on the counter and slid it back toward Sammy. “I know a place. It will cost you more than fifty.”

“How much more?” Sammy was still milking his advance for another three days until he got paid.

“Another one hundred.”

Sammy would be broke for three days, but he could manage if he ate meals at the hotel. “Okay.”

Sammy spent the next two hours in the hotel lobby.

He read Stephen King’s third installment in The Dark Tower series, The Wastelands .

The fantasy violence and dark humor did little to calm his fear of death.

He glanced up between chapters to find Mustafa staring at him.

Mustafa’s thick brows gathered over his eyes like storm clouds.

Sammy didn’t have a problem with Mustafa’s religion, but Mustafa sure as shit had a problem with him being gay, or at least for announcing his risk of HIV.

That stung worse than Gavin’s infidelity.

To think, earlier that morning Sammy had sworn his loyalty to Gavin.

How long had Gavin been fucking around on him?

By February tenth, Gavin had already had plans to move in with someone else.

Sammy had fucked him twice a day for those last three days!

Gavin’s guilt tactics had worked on Sammy, telling him he’d need a lot of sex to tide him over until June.

What an asshole!

Sammy growled and snapped the hardcover novel shut around a CNN business card he used as a bookmark.

“Are you ready?”

Mustafa’s voice in his ear startled him out of his anger. He nearly fell out of his chair. Mustafa offered him a hand, and he was up. He followed Mustafa through the lobby and down a service corridor. Once outside, they walked to a German sedan parked in the lot behind the building.