Something About Sammy. Blaine Sims

running from the top right to the bottom left. I asked him what it represented.

      “Oh, nothing,” he replied.

      Enter a guy named Robert. A strapping man in excellent health, I learned he's 72 but doesn't look it. A retired airline mechanic originating from Kansas, he relocated to Bluewater Springs four years ago.

      He often keeps to himself. We started exchanging greetings but never engaged in conversation. Now and then, I'll buy him a beer and vice versa. The look of pained loneliness envelops his face. I discovered he lost his wife the prior January. They were married for 36 years.

      "I don't like that man,” Allison once said. “He struts in here like a peacock and he’s nasty to me."

      I saw no interest from Sammy in him or vice versa.

      On the day of my birthday, both Sandra and Jack joined in celebration. Allison gave me a marker for a beer.

      “This is on Jack,” she said.

      I knew Sammy bought it but didn’t want me to know. It remained the first and only time he bought me one.

      Sandra presented me with three dozen fresh clams to steam at home, and a Granny Smith apple pie she baked from scratch. They turned out scrumptious.

      Sammy’s turn to celebrate came Saturday. A large number of his friends were present. The liquor poured, and in a blink of an eye, got gulped. I told Allison to give him a shot. She put it on the bar in front of him.

      “Samuel, you’re going to get fucked up!” a guy standing behind him said.

      It dawned on me; it wasn’t much of a birthday party. No food, no decorations, no presents, or cards. I overheard soon after they were taking him to a strip club.

      When it came time to leave, I approached and set three packs of cigarettes I’d purchased in the morning on the bar.

      “Happy birthday, Sammy,” I said.

      “Oh my God!” he gasped.

      The next day, Sammy’s car remained in the same spot from the night before, but his absence didn’t go unnoticed. As time moved on, I started to worry.

      Around 2:00 pm, I asked Allison to please call or text me if she heard from him after I left, so I’d know his status.

      “I just got off the phone,” she said. “He asked if I had his credit card, he can’t find it. I told him it’s not here.”

      As she spoke, her face reddened. He walked in a little later, looking rough and worn out. Allison asked him how he got to the bar.

      “Fucking Uber ride,” he groaned in a muffled voice.

      I never saw him so disheveled, yet he looked so cute. On Monday, I leaned over.

      “Well, your birthday’s tomorrow,” I said. “Will you be here after work?”

      He turned and looked at me with puppy dog eyes

      “If you want me to,” he said in his gayest voice.

      I told him I'd see him then and asked if I could treat him to dinner. He replied he planned to go with his friends for Tacos.

      “You can come along,” he said.

      I suggested I treat him another time any place he'd like. I’m not a big Taco fan.

      “I'm a cheap date,” he replied.

      Ever since I contributed to his fund, Allison pestered whether he thanked me. I told her he hadn’t and didn’t need to. I reminded her I didn’t want him to know.

      “He knows,” she carped. “Oh, he knows!”

      The day of his birthday was joyous. We shared time together. I bought another pack of cigarettes earlier and gave it to him. When it came time, I again wished him a happy birthday and told him goodnight.

      I stood close behind to his left. He turned and put his arms full around underneath mine. He placed the left side of his face tight against my chest. I put mine around his back in a full, firm embrace. I closed my eyes, and as my entire body absorbed his, all sadness, anxiety, and pressure departed mine.

      "Thank you, Andrei! Thank you!” he said, as we continued to hug.

      Upon stopping, he embraced me again.

      “Thank you, Andrei, thank you,”

      Then, a third time. Without exaggeration — I never received a hug that way by anyone, not even my son. I’ve never seen a guy hug another guy in such a manner. I never saw Sammy hug anyone, male or female, with the same enthusiasm and robustness.

      Although Allison had the next day off, she stopped by. It was rare she did. Melissa approached with a bottle of beer.

      “Have you gotten any news?” Allison asked.

      Melissa shook her head side to side.

      “The love has passed,” she said before smiling.

      Thursday, I told Allison I received the thank you and mentioned the embraces. It transpired after her shift while she finished paperwork in the office. Cameras dot the ceiling and walls throughout. We talked, and I expressed the fact of the age difference between us. I reiterated the inability to perform sex.

      “If you love each other,” she replied. “Those things shouldn’t matter.”

      I received a Facebook friend request from him. Ecstatic, I poured through his page and Timeline. I looked at photos, saved a few, read posts, and gathered bits and pieces of information.

      In reference to pictures of him with another person, a girl was the norm in most cases. A number of them pretty. Photos of him shirtless on a beach with a girl; pictures of him and a girl in a city, along with written references to homosexuality, filled his Timeline.

      I discovered he lived in San Francisco in 2013. While there, he joined and became active in a local Gay Pride organization. He traveled to North Dakota in 2015 to attend a display conference as a representative for his company.

      I discovered his Instagram page through an internet search. Again, photos of buildings, him in North Dakota, a few of him with girls, his dog, objects, etc.

      One Saturday, he mentioned to Allison, Flora, and me a headlight cover on his car sustained damage. He claimed he'd come from having the oil changed, and the workers must have broken it.

      He continued to drive on bald tires and needed new rims and hubcaps and hoped his boss gave a generous Christmas bonus. Concerned over the bald tires, if finances allowed, I would have given him the money to get new ones.

      Two days later, I set $23 on the bar.

      “You can use this,” I said. “Consider it an advanced Christmas present.”

      He lifted the money.

      “No, Andrei,” he replied.

      He handed it to me. I placed it on the bar again.

      “Andrei, no!” he said more forcefully.

      He put the bills in the pocket of my windbreaker. I threw them on the bar.

      “All I ask is for you to use it for your car,” I insisted. “It needs work.”

      By this time, I spent close to $600.00 on him in less than two months. I considered him well worth the expense.

      When I met my wife, she was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The same sensation struck, but with greater intensity, when I met Sammy. Never did I yearn for the closeness and company of another person as with him.

      It would be easier to comprehend becoming mesmerized and obsessed if it occurred in my teens or twenties. Attributed to youthful indiscretion and immaturity, there’d be a logical explanation.

      One evening, Sandra and I stayed late. Sammy departed, having extended a goodnight and patting me on the back. The fact