The Apology Letterman
by Golden West
At Starros College, we students are forced to engage in “community outreach”.
"Community outreach" refers to the practice of engaging with a specific community to provide resources, information, or support, often in areas where those services are not readily available. It involves building relationships, understanding community needs, and delivering programs or services that address those needs. Our college had been built smack-dab in the middle of one such community. My dormmate’s turn was up to do the outreaching to the rednecks and lowlifes who surrounded us, but were not students of the college.
“How’s Charlie?” my girlfriend, Brooklyn asked me.
I sighed. "At the moment, unconscious. He's got to do community outreach service over in Tulip Springs today and he can't even manage the strength to do his scheduled yardwork. I talked to one of the professors and managed to convince him to give Jer another day before sending him into the Lower Hollows though."
"Well, if he's sleeping now, who's taking over his chores this morning?" She asked.
"You know, I hadn't thought of that. He's got the rest of that football field to mow."
"He doesn't have much time to do it either." She spoke. From the moment she met Charlie, Brooklyn had taken a liking to the bashful, polite young Englishman. Like me, she was concerned for him. THIS part of America could be rough on a Bristol-raised teetotaler from across the pond. "I suppose you'll have to do it for him."
"How do you figure?"
"You're his friend." She said simply.
True enough. I mean, Charlie was certainly more animated with me than with anyone else on campus. I think he gravitated towards me because I was younger and not as intimidating as the other students. "Well, friend or not, there's no way in hell I'm going to break my back mowing that football field!"
So, after making my way to the campus utility shed, I spent a full ten minutes cleaning the lawn mower's blade and checking the oil. Then, cursing beneath my breath, I pushed it over to the football field. I had absolutely no idea in which direction I was supposed to mow--horizontally, vertically, or perhaps perpendicularly? I decided to take the horizontal route. Good decision or bad, I wound up pushing that heavy, antiquated, mechanical monstrosity half-way across the field, and all the way back. Energy, not unlike that which I expelled while cutting the ivy vines, radiated out from my heaving chest and shoulders. It coursed through my arms. And my hands, which were curled securely (thought not comfortably) around the rubber handlebar grips, tingled with electricity. It was quite a rush.
But it wasn't long before the thrill was gone. I ran over rocks that had a tendency to shoot out from the bottom of the mower and pop the heck out of my legs. There was a numbness now in my fingers, and every new direction I took with the mower sent jolts of pain up my wrists and arms. Drops of sweat stung my eyes before rolling down my chest and back in irritating rivulets. The vapors from the mower filled my nose and made it throb, and I'll be danged if my asthma didn't start acting up. By the time I returned the mower to the utility shed, I had blisters on top of blisters and I could hardly breathe.
I was just about to take off when Richard Donaldson, who righteously assigned the student work schedules, asked me where I was going.
"Back to the dormitory, Dick. To grab a quick shower and spruce myself up in order to delve into my rich, rewarding career of waiting tables at the Brooks Tavern." Normally I wouldn't have been so caustic--people who indulge in sarcasm tend to be imbeciles--but I was dead tired and not in the mood for stupid questions. Especially when said questions were being posed to me by someone like Richard Donaldson. I mean, this guy was everyone's stereotypical image of a fast-food establishment's nerdy supervisor.
He glanced at his clipboard. "It says here that you're scheduled to chop the remaining ivy and creeper vines from the western wall."
This statement was true enough, but for the past two days my chores had been taken over by members of The Fraternal Order of Omega Omega Omega . . . while the workhours were still credited to me. I hate to admit it, but I had grown rather used to them taking over my chores for me. And I was thoroughly ticked-off that they hadn't done so this day. A day when I really would have appreciated it.
I sighed deeply, knowing there wasn't a chance in hell that I could muster up enough strength to chop ivy. I couldn't have done so even if I'd had the strength, for Rod would be expecting me at the Brooks Tavern within the next twenty minutes. "Okay, reschedule me for tomorrow morning, all right?"
Richard glanced at his clipboard and frowned dubiously. "I don't think so, fella. You've been playing fast and loose with your work schedule for a couple of weeks now. I know it isn't all your fault--you've been taking a bit of the load off Charlie Canfield's shoulders. Still, I can't keep changing things around. It isn't fair to the other--"
"Just do this for me one last time, Dick." I said, trying to appeal to this jerk's common denominator. "Look, you're into the X-men, right? Well my sister sent me a book-format edition of the entire Dark Phoenix saga. You cut me some slack here, and I'll think about letting you borrow it."
Richard's eyes lit up. "The Dark Phoenix saga? The whole thing?"
Oh, I don't think I mentioned the fact that I am furlong into comic books. Have been since I was a kid. I'm a guy in that lucky age province who was able to bear witness as comics grew consistently in levels of sophistication. It was almost as if the industry was growing up right along with me. Richard was a collector himself, and since he recently became a bandwagon fan of the X-men, I knew that he would salivate for a chance to read the classic early 80's Dark Phoenix storyline in it's entirety.
"You've got a deal, Donny!"
I hated it when people called me that. But I didn't, as Charlie would say, "kick up a fuss" about it. I just dragged myself back to my dorm to get ready for my night job. Along the way I happened to spot Kenneth Stone. He was over near the student resource center macking with some girl from one of the pottery classes. I pulled him aside and asked him--politely mind you--why no one had taken over my chores at the western wall.
"Oh, you broke one of our rules, so we had to cut back on one of our little extended favors as a punishment." Kenneth declared calmly.
I was confused. "Which rule did I brake?"
"This morning, in the courtyard, you actually gave a little snot-nosed redneck some food."
"Yeah. So what?'
"Tri-Omegas don't play that, little brother. Every act of kindness, of charity . . . of mercy we direct solely towards those who are compatible with us. Our own class, if you know what I mean."
I was startled. "You mean I'm getting marked down because I gave a kid who happened to be poor a half-eaten breakfast burrito?"
"That's precisely what I'm saying." replied Kenneth, folding his arms. "But don't worry, that little incident hasn't damaged your chances of becoming a full-fledged member. I mean, if your homosexuality and foot fetish hasn’t disqualified you, nothing will"
"But you've marked me down for breaking a rule that I wasn't even aware of." I protested, already beginning to re-think the idea of becoming a Tri-Omega.
Kenneth shrugged. "That's life, little brother. It isn't fair, but men like us always make our way in a world where the rules are either hidden, or are always changing to suit the whims of the almighty elite. You're just going to have to adjust."
"But to suddenly withdraw from doing my chore duties just because I broke some stupid rule and gave a hungry kid food--"
Kenneth suddenly grabbed the front of my shirt and slammed me hard against the wall of the student resource center. He lowered his voice and whispered really dangerous-like, “Listen, you little fuck, you're going to have to play by our rules. And our rules don't leave any room for being soft-hearted towards those beast-like townies. Do you understand me, shithead?"
I nodded vigorously. Not because I was completely overcome with fear, but because I honestly did understand.
He smiled, released me, and even smoothed down the wrinkles he'd made on my shirt. His voice had returned to its satiny sleekness when he said, "Good. And now that you've gleaned some understanding, things should run even more smoothly for you."
I was still stunned. I mean, my whole image of this group was changing. Suddenly I was beginning to wonder if all those horrific rumors about the Tri-Omegas were true. "I-I though you guys were my friends."
Kenneth laughed out loud. "What the hell made you think that, Donald? We need you in the Tri-Omegas, but not as a friend. A ‘brother’ who will always have your back, maybe … but not a “friend”. You see, someone with your potential is a useful instrument that will be beneficial to the whole. The whole, as you may have already guessed, is our people. We might become friends later, little brother, but for now we just need someone who's down for the gold team. For your sake, Donald, you'd better be."
I wondered if he was threatening me with these words. Before I could query, however, he calmly strolled away. I let him go.
You're wrong, Kenneth, I thought to myself as I watched him fade into the distance. My heart was just beginning to return to a normal beating rhythm. We'll never become friends. Never.
What happened later that night was TOTALLY unexpected.
It began with a knock—not loud, not demanding, but purposeful. The kind of knock that makes your heart skip, even when you're not expecting anything unusual. Charlie, my English dormmate was asleep right across the room. But he was dead to the world and would most-likely remain so well beyond the breaking dawn.
I was in sweats, holding a half-melted cupcake my friend Rory had shoved into my hand with a vague “enjoy tonight.” The day had been low-key: texts, memes, and quiet well-wishes. I assumed that knock was just another late visit.
But when I opened the door, the hallway spun a little.
He stood there like something impossibly handsome and out of a music video I never admitted to liking—broad shoulders, damp blonde curls, a knowing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His black shirt clung like a confession. And then he said it, smooth as silk:
“Hello. I’m a living apology sent by Kenneth Stone of The Fraternal Order of Omega Omega Omega. Me and my big size 15 feet are all yours for the night.”
I laughed. Because what else do you do when fantasy collides with fluorescent dorm lighting?
“You’re... kidding.”
“Nope.” He shifted, revealing a small envelope tucked in his back pocket. “Your future frat brother booked me. Said you’ve he’d dealt with you a bit unfairly earlier and wants to make ameds. I do... whatever you want. Nothing is too weird. Even male foot fetishes and the like.”
His voice was low. Casual. Practiced?
I stared. Not at his body, which was uncomfortably perfect, but at the slight twitch in his jaw. Like he wasn’t sure how I'd react. Like he’d done this before and never knew whether laughter or tears would follow.
I stepped aside. “Come in. But wipe those humongous feet. I have dignity and an expensive rug.”
He chuckled. “Yes, sir.”
Inside, I offered him tea. Not wine. Not music. Just chamomile. He seemed genuinely surprised. Sat cross-legged on my floor while I tried to remember every etiquette rule that applied to being “gifted” a person.
“I don’t want anything from you,” I said eventually. I was lying. I wanted to rip the Adidas sneakers and white socks from his feet. “Not like that.”
He looked up. “That’s okay. Some people just want someone to talk to.”
And so, we talked.
His name was Mark Letterman. He used to study dance, then stopped after an injury. Did this gig not because it thrilled him, but because it paid and no one asked too many questions. He was funny—in a quiet, sideways kind of way. Quoting films I loved but never spoke about. Noticed the unfinished painting on my wall and asked what the missing part was meant to be.
“A pulse,” I said. “Something that makes the whole mess feel alive.”
That night, we didn’t touch. I never even asked him to stay after midnight. But when he was about to leave, he paused at the door and said, “For what it’s worth, you’re one of the few that made me feel human. So human that I want to offer you my feet. Not as a business transaction, but because I’d be proud to feel your wet tongue probing between my toes.”
I immediately dragged Mark back into my dorm room and then down to the carpeted floor. After stripping him of his sneakers and socks, I moved down to the young stud’s big bare fate and shoved my nose against foot—just at the base of his perfect toes. He wiggled his foot as I touched it with my nose, and it released that wonderful moist sweaty foot fragrance. I inhaled deeply. Then I began tonguing the blond stud’s sole wildly. Mark Lettermsn giggled like a kid half his nineteen years… and his toes wiggled faster and faster from the tongue-tickling, as that smell continued to waft from his foot to my wanting nostrils.
I continued to lick as giggling Mark’s blue eyes seemed to roll in his head. It was intense. I stopped the foot-licking and pulled away from the helplessly laughing youth. But instead of the stud pulling his feet away from the tickle-torture, he positioned his bare feet closer to me—practically begging me to continue with the tickling foot-worship. I moistened the Mark Lettrman’s sole, licking every square inch from heel to toe, lightly tickling the foot as I went along.
This foot-worship session didn’t stop until my dormmate Charlie woke up and demanded to know what was going on.