Stay Real
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CHAPTER 1:
STAY REAL
Based on (well, nearly plagiarized, really) characters and situations created by Patrick Wilde
for the screenplay GET REAL
By (sort of) Kevin Carney
"Be happy." It was the last thing Steven had said to him.
"Yeah, right," John thought. If he stretched, he might be able to reach as high as miserable.
He didn't think he could remember happy. John stood slowly, lit another cigarette, and
turned from the sports field toward the school. He failed to notice his trophy sitting on the
ground by the bench.
Kevin and Dave came running. "Oi, mate," Kevin greeted him. "Can you fucking believe it?
Carter really is queer! Can you believe he just blurted it out like that?"
"Oh, shut it," John replied without force or conviction.
Kevin looked John over, unable to read his friend's expression. "Well, you've got a load of
shit to clean up in there."
"What?" John asked.
"The whole bloody school is talking about you and Carter. Everyone knows you were mates.
It's what you get for being a nice guy."
"A nice guy?" John asked blankly.
Dave picked up Kevin's line of thought. "We know you're the Head Boy and all, but you
didn't have to take a git like Carter for a mate just to prove what decent bloke you are."
John looked at Dave, then at Kevin. "What are you sods . . ."
"Anyway," Kevin interrupted, "how were you supposed to know that Carter really was
queer?"
John's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh, right, how was I supposed to know?"
The three teammates started toward the school. "Bloody hell!" Kevin couldn't let go of it.
"Carter really is queer!"
John stopped. He looked back where Steven had disappeared over the crest on the far side of
the sports field. His eyes turned liquid. He took a puff of his cigarette. Then he caught up
with Kevin and Dave with a few long graceful strides.
___________________________________________________
"Fucking bastard," a crying Steven mumbled as he collapsed onto his bed. Now that he was
alone again, his elation at coming out had crystalized to grief. His left hand fell upon a white
shaggy teddy bear. He clutched the bear's face and threw it viciously across his room into the
open closet. "Fucking bastard!" he exclaimed in a near wail. He pitched onto his stomach,
buried his face in his pillow, and wept fiercely. Then he slept.
___________________________________________________
Steven had been sitting on the bench for over forty-five minutes, nursing an ache he would
not have predicted he could bear. He didn't come for sex. Not today. He kept intending to
leave, but was held by a need to be there.
As Steven stared across the sloping field a handsome sandy-haired man stepped out of the
lavatory and approached him from behind. "No Romeo and Juliet this time?" the man asked.
Steven, a bit startled, looked over his left shoulder. "Glen." He acknowledged the visitor with
a flat voice.
"I hoped I might get another chance with you," Glen said as he took a seat beside Steven.
"You can always hope." Steven returned to staring across the field. Glen held a package of
cigarettes toward him, but, as before, Steven brushed them off. "How can you come here
when you have a wife and kid at home?"
"Two kids," Glen explained as he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. "The one you
saw in your father's shop was the most recent."
"Bastard," Steven mumbled as he rose and took a step away from the bench, keeping his back
to Glen.
"Listen," Glen said exhaling smoke, "you have the right to be angry."
Steven spun, cutting Glen off with a silencing stare. Glen recoiled as Steven leaned into his
face. "I bloody well don't need your permission to be angry," Steven said with a rising voice,
"and I sure as hell don't need the world's fucking permission to be gay!"
___________________________________________________
Steven peddled his bicycle toward home and smiled. Then he laughed. There's something
exhilarating about having nothing left to hide.
___________________________________________________
"A married bastard with kids," Steven said with disgust.
"Steve, babe, I think we've been around this ring road before," Linda said with a smirk.
They lay side by side on Steven's bed, staring at the ceiling as they talked. Linda held a
chocolate bar toward Steven. He leaned to the candy and took a bite. They looked at one another with warm affection. They paused a beat, then laughed together.
The phone rang. Steven sat up, but somebody else in the house answered. "Steven, it's for
you," his father called up the stairs. Steven picked up the phone by his bed. "Yeah?"
Linda watched with concern as Steven's expression grew tense.
"Johnny, no. . . Let it go, John. Let me go. . . It can't work. You said so yourself. . . You said that before Johnny. Then, I seem to recall, you kicked me in the gut and called me a 'queer
fuck'. . . Oh right, 'queer bastard.' Sorry, I didn't mean to misquote you. . . Johnny. . . OK,
at the canal in an hour. . . Right, just to talk. In an hour then."
"Steve, don't," Linda said as he hung up the phone.
"Linds," Steven's sad eyes pleaded for understanding.
___________________________________________________
"So, what did he say then?" Jessica asked as she and Steven walked from their English
Literature exam.
"He asked me to forgive him," Steven replied.
"Well?"
"Jess, he doesn't want forgiveness. He wants permission to act like nothing has changed."
"I guess you didn't fling yourself into his desperate arms, then."
"Don't think I wasn't tempted," Steven admitted.
Kevin and Dave approached. "Oi there, Jess," Kevin sneered," having a bit of a chat with your
new girlfriend are you?"
"Grainger, leave her alone!" Steven demanded.
"Get fucked, Carter!"
"I'm working on it!" Steven's eyes flashed. Kevin, appalled into speechlessness, passed by.
Dave followed silently.
"My, being gay has made such a man of you," Jessica teased.
"Jess!" Steven turned to her with feigned shock. He hooked his arm in hers. They continued
walking.
"Steve, what are you going to do?" Jessica asked. "John really loves you."
"God, I know," Steven sighed. After a few more steps he added, "Bloody hell, if my life gets
any more ironic I'll barf."
___________________________________________________
John walked slump shouldered to the bench at the edge of the track. He noticed the trophy
he had forgotten on Saturday. He gave it a fierce kick and watched it fly apart in several
trajectories over the field. Why the hell had he come here? He would never meet Steven again
here. Not at this cursed place where John always felt so at home, but Steven such an alien.
Perhaps the park.
___________________________________________________
John sat on the bench outside the lavatory. He stared blankly ahead, remembering. A
notebook lay open on his lap. In it he was trying to compose a letter to Steven, betting on one
last heartfelt plea.
"Doing your homework?" Glen asked as he took a seat next to John.
"Homework? Ah, no. Writing a letter." John met the handsome stranger's eyes. They locked
just long enough to arouse discomfort, and interest.
"A love letter is it?"
"No!" John replied a bit too sharply. "Um, no, not a love letter. Just a letter to a mate of
mine." John closed the notebook.
"No need to stop. I could help you if you're having trouble," Glen offered.
"Trouble? What?".
"I'm a writer," Glen explained with an expectant smile.
"A writer? That's, um, intriguing." John met Glen's gaze again and ventured a tentative
smile.
"Cigarette?" Glen offered.
"Sure, thanks."
Glen slipped the cigarette between John's lips and held his lighter to it. John took at a deep
satisfying drag and settled back into the bench.
"So, a writer," John said. "What sort of things do you write about?" . . .
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