Chapter 6 Daddy Shamus

The door opened and Miguel stood there in shorts and the shirt he had given him. The sight of his bruised limbs made Shamus wince in sympathy.

"Hi!" Miguel smiled.

"Hi. I'm Shamus. I saw you last night in the lobby and wanted to check on you. I brought you a lemonade from the stand outside." With a smile, Shamus passed the ice-cold lemonade to Miguel, the sweet aroma of citrus filling the air.

"Thanks." Miguel accepted the drink. "Are you Shamus, the Seaside Protector?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for the gifts. I love this shirt and the bracelet. Do you want to come in?" Miguel asked.

"Do you always invite strangers inside your room?" The poor guy appeared downtrodden and desolate, as if he had lost all hope.

"Not really. I'd meet you outside or in the lobby, but I don't want to show off my bruises."

"How long are you staying?"

"My uncle rented the room for the summer. I'm looking for a job after I heal."

"Maybe I can help you find a job. I know lots of people here."

"This is the first time I'm in a place where I don't know anyone. You're the closest to someone I sort of know by sight from the lobby last night. Please come in." Miguel widened the opening of the door for Shamus.

With a nod, Shamus silently trailed behind him as they entered. He looked through the window at the boardwalk busy with people.

The afternoon sun cast an orange glow through the sheer curtains, painting dusty stripes across the faded floral bedspread. The room was small and stuffy, the kind that smelled vaguely of salty mildew. The furniture was mismatched—a wrought-iron headboard adjoining a cheap dark wooden dresser, a single threadbare armchair crammed into the corner next to a humming mini fridge. A tiny round table and two chairs were placed in front of the window. He could hear the distant shouts and laughter of people mingling with the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. The Seaside Heights boardwalk thrummed with its usual summer energy, a stark contrast to the tense quietude of the room.

"Please sit so we can talk," Miguel suggested.

Shamus pulled out a chair and settled around the quaint table. "How are you doing?"

Miguel sat across from Shamus and their eyes locked. "I'm lonely. Are you really a protector?"

In the quiet space between them, Shamus's thoughts were a mix of sorrow for Miguel's loneliness and a resolute determination to help. He recognized the vulnerability in Miguel's hazel eyes, a mirror to his own once upon a time, before he'd learned to navigate the world's harshness with a semblance of safety.

"Yes. You look like you need one."

"I don't have money to pay you, but I need protection."

Shamus listened intently to Miguel's words, his heart heavy with empathy for the young man's plight. The bruises on Miguel's skin were not just marks of physical harm, but symbols of the cruelty he had endured.

"I'm not that kind of protector. I don't charge money for my protection in the summer." Shamus's voice sounded a gentle but firm declaration of his intent to help without expectation of payment. It was a role he embraced, a silent vow to stand as a guardian against the injustices that Miguel faced.

"What happens after the summer?" Miguel asked.

"It depends." Shamus paused. "I have to leave Seaside Heights and work at my regular job."

"I have to leave Seaside Heights at the end of August for school."

"Where do you live?" Shamus asked.

"I guess no place."

"No place?" Shamus widened his eyes in disbelief.

"Well, I lived in a dorm at school but this year, I'm going to rent a room near the school. This room is my home for the summer. My mother and sister live in Brooklyn."

As they spoke of practicalities—of summer's end and the places they called home—Shamus's resolve only strengthened. He saw in Miguel not just a bruised young man in need of protection, but a reflection of his own past struggles. It was a bond unspoken, yet deeply understood.

"I'd like to protect you, but I need to know what you need protection from."

"Being gay seems to give thugs the green light to attack me."

When Miguel confided the reason, Shamus felt a fierce desire to shield Miguel from the world's ignorance and hate. "I'm gay too," he stated, a shared truth that forged an even stronger connection between them. "First, we need to work on dressing for unsafe environments."

"How do we do that?"

"No rainbow items in unsafe or unfamiliar places. I saw your rainbow keychain. That's why I thought you might be gay. I was hoping you were."

"Please teach me how to protect myself."

"Let me look at your clothes, shoes, and anything you have. I can see if they would draw attention."

Miguel got up and opened his two suitcases. "Everything I have for the summer is in these or on the floor. I was in too much pain to put them away."

"Miguel, please lie down and rest. I'm going to put everything away for you, then we'll discuss safety."

Miguel did as Shamus asked.

Shamus kneeled beside Miguel's open suitcases, the dim light of the cramped motel room casting shadows across the clothes. Miguel sat up on the bed, lower lip still swollen, watching him.

"Listen up, Miguel," Shamus said, his voice gruff but gentle. "You've got to learn how to dress safely. It's not about fashion; it's about survival out there." He pulled out a bright T-shirt. "This? This screams ‘target.' You wear this, and you might as well paint a rainbow on your chest."

Miguel furrowed his brow. "But it's just a shirt."

Shamus shook his head. "No, it's a statement. And in some places, that statement can get you hurt." He tossed the shirt back into the suitcase. "We're not aiming for flashy. We're aiming for blending in."

Next, Shamus pulled out a pair of ripped jeans. "These? Holes are fine if you're a rock star, but not if you're trying to stay safe." He set them aside and reached for a plain dark hoodie. "This is better. Neutral colors, nothing too eye-catching."

Miguel nodded, absorbing every word. His fingers clenched the edge of the bedspread. "What else?"

Shamus held up a leather jacket. "This is your armor. Tough, sturdy, and it hides a multitude of sins." He grinned. "Plus, I'm sure it makes you look like a badass."

Miguel laughed. "I've never been much of a badass."

"You will be," Shamus said, his tone unwavering. "Now, shoes." He pointed at Miguel's sneakers. "Those won't cut it because they won't protect you from someone kicking. You need something sturdy, comfortable, and inconspicuous." He pulled out a pair of plain black boots. "These. They'll take you places and give you needed protection."

As Shamus continued his inspection, he explained the nuances—the way a bandana could be both warmth and disguise, how a hat could shield Miguel's face from prying eyes. Miguel listened.

When they were done, Shamus zipped up the suitcases. "Remember, it's not about hiding who you are. It's about surviving long enough to be who you want to be."

Shamus scooped up the safe clothing items, methodically folding them and placing them in the dresser. Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken emotions.

He clapped Miguel on the shoulder. "Now let's get you out there, ready to face the world. Are you hungry?"

Miguel turned up his nose, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Not really."

"Come on," Shamus persisted, grabbing his phone. "We've gotta fuel up. You've gotta get some strength back."

A weak smile tugged at the corner of Miguel's mouth. "Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Shamus."

Shamus opened the window in the room, then tapped away on his phone, scrolling through the endless options offered by the local delivery apps. "Pizza? Burgers? There's even a place that does lobster rolls."

"Surprise me," Miguel mumbled, rolling onto his side.

Shamus placed the order, the confirmation beep echoing in the small space. Settling into the armchair, Shamus watched the light dance on the chipped paint of the windowsill. The ocean breeze carried the salty tang of the sea through the opened window, a welcome contrast to the stale air inside. But here, in this cramped hotel room, a different battle was being waged.

"When I saw you in the lobby, I wished you could be my daddy," Miguel said.

"What kind of daddy?" Shamus's heart practically jumped out of his body when he heard the word "daddy.". Too crazy to be true.

"I need a daddy who will protect me and make love to me. I had one, and he left without me. It lasted two years."

"Why didn't he take you with him?"

"He moved to California for his work. I didn't want to leave my family and I'm in my last year of my education too. So, I stayed behind."

"When did this happen?"

"During Christmas. So, he's been gone six months. I've been alone since he left."

"Are you still in love with him?"

"No. I don't think so. He's never contacted me since he left me, so I guess he's happy over there."

"I had a boy I was daddy to, and he left me last night. We have a lot in common. I know it's soon, but I would love for you to call me Daddy Shamus." In that moment, Shamus made a silent promise to Miguel and to himself: to be a protector, a guide, and a lover. For the summer and possibly beyond, he would stand by Miguel, helping him navigate a world that was not always kind, but one they would face together, with courage and hope.