Good Old Boys

1 - A Truly Stupid Bet

William Poulet stared at his first acceptance letter and knew that he'd been had. He'd just graduated Princeton University magna cum laude, with a degree in World Literature. He'd spent months interviewing at the finest prep high schools that New England had to offer. He'd traveled abroad and interviewed in schools in England and France. He'd gone through almost a ream of paper and spent a small fortune on sending resumes with numerous letters of recommendation.

All for naught. Somewhere, his frenemy Charles Le Boeuf III was enjoying a good laugh at Will's gullibility. 'The Beef' had choked 'The Chicken' in a most embarrassing and thoroughly inescapable manner. And it was William's own fault for taking that stupid bet.

It was the night after final exams and the soon to be graduates were out on the town, partying in the normal manner. For some, it was licentiousness. For others, drunken revelry. And for most, a mixture of the two.

He'd somehow ended up sharing a hotel room with two queen beds with his academic rival and former high school best friend. Their Grinder pickup studs were passed out beside them, but Will and Chuck were still conscious. Chuck was going on and on about how lucky he was to be inheriting his dad's gym franchise, and all the hunky employees he'd be supervising in imaginative ways.

"I can't believe you came here just to show me up. The only reason you got into Princeton, Beef, is because..."

"...because my family's given a million bucks a year, every year since 1750. Chicken, that's old news. And someone had to push you to get that cum laude...although you always cum loudly!" Chuck reached over and played with his one-nighter's junk. "Can you believe this guy's handle is Ever Ready? Still, there's enough here to share, if you want."

Will's family was 'new' money – his father's stock brokerage firm was a hot Wall Street success. Mr. Poulet had been more than happy to send his son out-of-state, making a ludicrously large contribution just so he didn't have to put up with Will's LGBT posse. His current stepmother thought he should seek conversion therapy.

"As you can see, my own hands are full, thank you very much, Mr. Copycat! My dad wants me out of the suite a week after I graduate. He thinks I won't get a single job offering. I'm worried, Beef Boy. What if I don't get any offerings? Where will I live? I don't want to be in food service or retail sales!" Will pushed his free hand through his thick black hair.

"Christ, man! You're top of the class, best of the best -stop me before I puke, 'kay? – cream of the crop, a sure thing! I'll bet you that you get an offer in the first week. If you don't, I'll give you a million dollars from my trust fund. That should set you up somewhere in NYC for a year or two..."

"Beef, you can't possibly..."

Chuck's manipulation had aroused his bed partner, who began tending his tender parts. "There's a...catch, Chicken. If you do get one, you agree to accept it. The very first offer, no backing out...oooh, yeah, like that!"

"It's a deal!" slurred Will, who decided against shaking Chuck's hand, which was...busy at the moment.

He should have foreseen that Chuck would be thinking ten steps ahead. The envelope from Boxton Military Academy in Mississippi had no postage or postmark but had been dropped off with the building's concierge. Which meant The Beef had somehow arranged the whole job thing, probably through his family's thousands of worldwide contacts...

He received three other offerings after that, but Boxton was the first. He could have lied, and said a different one had been the first, but Chuck probably had a spy in the building. But William Poulet was proud. He wouldn't have lied, even if he could have. He notified Chuck, who sounded genuinely relieved that he wasn't about to drop Will a check for a cool million.

"So, what's the lucky institution?" Chuck asked. When William gave him the answer, he almost choked on whatever he was eating (or whoever, you never knew with The Beef) and managed to spit out, "You? A gay pacifist, teaching Lit in a Mississippi military school? You poor b*st*rd!"

Will felt obligated to tell him about the other offers – Loyola School in NYC, Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts and The American High School of Paris. Chuck responded in a predictable way, saying, "But you're going to Boxton, right? Because a bet is a bet, Chicken."

"Up yours, Beef," Will replied.

"You wish," said Chuck and laughed.

Will ended the call and boarded the American Airlines jet to Gulfport. I'm leaving the Big Apple for the Deep-Fried South. May the Gay Gods protect me, and keep me from harm, he prayed. Before takeoff, he looked at Grinder in Mississippi, and had to log off after viewing too many chewed pieces of hay, barns, truck beds and strategically placed bottles of Jack Daniels.