by Gregory Ashe
“Don’t tell me,” Tean shouted. With a little more control, he added, “Also, I’m sorry I’m still shouting.”
“I’m sorry, Jem. And Tean, I’m sorry too.”
“Well, now I have to say I’m sorry or I look like an asshole,” Jem said. “So I guess I’m sorry.”
Tean covered his face.
“But if you had to pick one of us,” Jem said. “Like, a desert-island type of situation. Just in theory.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“It would really speed things along if you could just tell us.”
“Neither of you. I would pick the moldy skeleton in the shipwreck.”
“He’s already in a relationship with the mermaid statue thingy on the front of the boat.”
“It would probably be a ship,” Ammon said. “Not a boat.” When Tean and Jem both looked at him, he raised his hands and said, “I’m trying to be helpful.”
“Then I’d swim out into the ocean. That would be better than this conversation. I would throw away my Julia-Child brand shark repellant, and I would swim straight into a garbage current, and I’d paddle until I ran out of strength. And then I’d drown. And my bloated corpse would float there until a shark came along and ripped me apart.”
Ammon made a face and reached for a beer.
“What about your guts and stuff, though?” Jem said. “You didn’t talk about your guts.”
“They’d get sucked up in a ship’s engine, obviously.” Tean considered it for a moment. “Some kind of gull might get my eyeballs.”
“Ok,” Ammon said, and the Bristlecone hissed as he opened it. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“But your bones would probably jam a ship’s propeller, right?” Jem said. “And then a Carnival cruise ship would be stuck adrift for months on the garbage current. And they’d eventually have to start eating each other. And then they’d get smeared in the news as the Cannibal cruise lines.”
“New topic, please,” Ammon said and took a swig of beer.
“There’d definitely be some executive suicides,” Tean said, his eyes narrowed in thought. “And a trickle-down effect. Maybe huge swaths of coastal regions shut down because the cruise industry has collapsed. Are you happy? You just shattered Port-au-Prince’s economy because the two of you had to measure your, um. You know.”
“All right. There. You got it out of your system.” Ammon opened a box, and steam and the aroma of garlic and sausage wafted up. “Can we eat now?”
“Cocks,” Jem said.
Ammon choked on pizza.
“He was talking about our cocks,” Jem said.
“I wasn’t talking—you two were the ones—” Tean jerked a slice of pizza free, slapped it onto a plate, and shoved it at Jem. “Eat. And be quiet.”
For a few blessed moments, the only sounds were chewing, beer caps pinging against the counter, and Scipio’s drool dripping. Jem kept sneaking the Lab pieces of sausage when he thought Tean wasn’t looking, and Ammon kept taking long drinks of Bristlecone.
“I thought you were Mormon,” Jem said.
“Don’t—” Tean began.
“No, it’s fine.” Ammon held out the brown-glass bottle, eyeing it, and then he shrugged. “I spent a long time convincing myself I could have everything I wanted. Turns out, I can’t. So I’m picking the things I want the most and trying to be honest about it, which is what normal, healthy people do. Or so I understand.”
“God, I wouldn’t have any idea,” Jem said. “It sounds awful, though.”
The laugh must have caught Ammon by surprise because suds burst out of his nose, and then he staggered to the sink, coughing and wiping his face while Tean patted him on the back. Then he got him a wet cloth, and Ammon wiped his face, still chuckling. Jem was letting Scipio lick invisible traces of sauce from between his fingers, and he was wearing a small smile.
“I haven’t seen you laugh that hard since you convinced Clyde Kerry that he got his girlfriend pregnant by letting her wear his 501s.”
“Oh my God,” Ammon said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I was such a dick in high school.”
“In high school?” Jem murmured.
“What was that?” Tean said.
“That was a private conversation with Scipio. I was telling him about . . . something.”
Tean fixed him with a glare. Jem smiled and stroked Scipio’s ears.
“You’re not going to tell me you were a saint in high school, are you?” Ammon said.
“Jem probably doesn’t want to talk about—”
Waving Tean to silence, Jem said, “I was in juvie. We had classes. Kind of. A lot of workbooks, which, well, I could make fuck-all sense out of. You were supposed to get a GED or high-school equivalency diploma if you finished everything.”
“You don’t have a high-school degree?”
“Ammon!”
“It’s a question, Tean. If you want us to be friends, fine. But if I can’t even ask him a question, we might as well go back to measuring our cocks.”
Tean groaned.
“No, no degree.” Jem played with Scipio’s scruff. “And in case Tean hasn’t told you, I can’t read either.”
“He can read. You can read.”
“He didn’t tell me that. He doesn’t tell me anything about you, just so you know.”
“He didn’t tell you how much better I am at sex?”
“That’s not what—I never—”
Ammon’s hand settled on his shoulder, and he squeezed once. “He’s just messing with me.” Then, to Jem, “God, you really know how to wind him up, don’t you?”
“It’s too easy.”
“I just want to point out,” Tean said, “that Jem Berger is the one who got drunk and called me last weekend to make a series of indecent proposals, and so if anyone is easy, it’s him.”
“I wasn’t drunk. I was high. And I put a lot of thought into those ideas.”
Ammon gave a tiny half-shake of his head, and he was smiling as he turned to Tean. “Do you want to watch Daniel’s baseball game with me tomorrow?”
“Wow. Is—are you sure?”
“Is Lucy going to be there? Is that what you were going to ask?”
“I think it’s a fair question.”
“It’s completely fair. Yes, she will be. But you’re my friend, and I can ask my friends to do stuff with me.”
“He’s my best friend,” Jem put in.
“Casual, you-had-high-school-shop-together-and-didn’t-see-each-other-again-until-your-twentieth-high-school-anniversary level of friends,” Tean said, unable to look away from Ammon’s eyes. “I can’t, Ammon. It means a lot to me that you’d ask, and I’d love to go another time, but I can’t.”
“Another time,” Ammon said. “Sure.”
“He’s got a date.”
The only change was a slight furrow between Ammon’s eyebrows.
“Well,” Tean said, his face heating. “Yes, actually. Maybe Jem could go with you.”
“No!” they both shouted at the same time.
“I’m sure he’s got better things to do,” Ammon said.
“I do.” Jem nodded vigorously. “I’ve got to pick lint out of my crotch hair.”
Ammon didn’t seem to hear him; his gaze was fixed on Tean, and the struggle on his face was painful to watch. Finally, with what seemed like remarkable control, he said, “Am I allowed to ask questions?”
“Half a question,” Jem said. “And you have to say it backwards.”
“Will you stop it? You can ask questions. I might not answer them.”
“Did you meet him on Prowler?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Name his?” Jem suggested in what he obviously thought was a helpful tone.
“Where are you going?” Ammon asked.
“Going you?”
“Enough,” Tean s
napped. “I’m not answering that one either.”
“I’m not being nosy for kicks and giggles,” Ammon said. “Online dating isn’t necessarily safe.”
“He’s right,” Jem said. “You should borrow his diaphragm. And his asshole-bleaching kit. Ammon, be a pal and lend him your asshole-bleaching kit, please?”
Tean leaned against the counter. He glanced at the lower cabinet where he’d hidden the cider. He rarely wanted to be drunk, but the thought was a parachute right then. “Fireflies—”
“No,” Jem groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “You made him start with the firefly thing again.”
“Please don’t tell me this is more animal trivia,” Ammon said. “I’m being serious right now.”
“I’m being serious too. Fireflies of the species Photuris prey on fireflies of the species Photinus. The females mimic the light signals of Photinus fireflies. When they show up to mate, instead of sex, they get murdered. And eaten.”
“Great. Right now, I don’t want to talk about fireflies. I want to talk about you being safe.”
“Put a condom on a banana,” Jem said. “Show him how to do it.”
“And it’s not just interspecies violence.” Tean grabbed a Bristlecone. “Open this, please? Sexual cannibalism is rife in the animal world. Chinese mantises. Black widow spiders. Some animals kill their sexual partner before consummating the act. Some consume them during sex.”
“It’s like having a sandwich in bed,” Jem said. “Like on Seinfeld.”
When Ammon handed back the open Bristlecone, he said, “Fine. We’ll do this the little-kid way. What are you going to do when a praying mantis tries to eat you after sex?”
“I’ll probably pretend to have a heart attack.”
At the table, Jem choked on something and managed to wheeze, “Please record this.”
“That’s not going to stop a crazy person from killing you.”
“It worked when I went to Try-angles. This guy kept trying to buy me a drink, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I pretended to fall asleep.”
Jem’s eyes were huge and bright. He was biting his lip. Ammon covered his face with two big hands.
“It’s a proven tactic,” Tean said, trying to square his shoulders. “Female dragonflies fake sudden death to avoid male advances.”
“Never stop,” Jem breathed.
“Stop what?”
“Any of this.”
“You don’t have to stop,” Ammon said, “but if we could press pause for a minute. I’m going to ask you again: what’s his name, and where are you going?”
“I don’t—”
“I’m your friend, right? And we’ve been working up to this. You’ve gotten more comfortable telling me when you have dates—”
“I don’t know about that,” Tean murmured.
“—and now we’re taking the next step as friends. You’re not going to go out with a stranger without providing some basic information in case something happens to you. You could have a stroke. You could get hit by a car. You could get mugged. And nobody would know where you’d been.”
Tean closed his eyes. Then, after letting out a slow breath, he said, “Ammon, please don’t make me regret trusting you.”
“If we’re going to figure out how to be friends again, we have to start somewhere.”
“His name’s Ragnar.”
“Oh my God,” Jem said.
“For fuck’s sake,” Ammon said. Then, almost immediately, “Sorry.”
“See? This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. And where are you guys going?”
“Stanza.”
Ammon’s eyebrows went up. “A little pricey for a first date, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, well,” Tean pulled on his collar, “I finally have disposable money for the first time in my life, and I want to spend some of it on myself.”
“Buy some sex toys,” Jem said. “Some really scary ones.”
“Will you be quiet for five seconds?”
“What is a scary sex toy?” Tean said. “No, please, don’t answer that.”
“Too late—”
“Thank you for trusting me,” Ammon said. He downed the rest of his beer and met Tean’s eyes. “Will you tell me if you go home with him? I’m not asking for details. I just want to know if I should come down and take care of Scipio.”
Scipio raised his head at the sound of his name, his expression wary as he studied Ammon.
“That seems like too much.”
“If we’re friends—”
“No, Ammon. I don’t feel comfortable talking to you about that yet.”
Something Tean couldn’t describe flitted across Ammon’s face. Then he nodded. “Thanks for being honest about your feelings. I appreciate that you respect me enough to do that.”
Jem pretended to throw up into his beer bottle.
“Enough,” Tean said.
Jem continued the gagging noises.
Tean pegged him with a crumpled-up napkin, and Jem slumped sideways on the table, dead.
“Now,” Jem said, “can I please ask one question?”
“No.”
“Ammon got to ask questions.”
“Ammon isn’t going out of his way to make my life more difficult.”
“I think I should get a turn. I want to ask a question.”
“Fine, jeez, before I lose my mind.”
“I want you to be completely, devastatingly honest: does Ragnar have a better beard than me?”
4
The next day was Wednesday. Jem took two clients on showings of high-priced homes. One was a gay couple with a wide age gap, and the older man cornered Jem in the bathroom and put his hand between Jem’s legs, his whole face wrinkling when he winked. After that, Jem had given them a song and dance about insider information, a fault in the house’s foundation, that their agent could use to chop the asking price almost in half. He even offered to put them in touch with a structural engineer who could fix it for pennies on the dollar, for an immediate return on their investment. The old gay counted out a thousand dollars on the front porch, licking his lips. His partner was in the car playing a Nintendo DS.
After paying Tinajas her money, Jem still had a nice chunk of cash from the last two days’ work. He was already starting to think about the next game; it was important to keep moving, and while the client broker thing had been fun, something in his gut told him he was running out of time. Better to come up with something new. He liked it best when the people he took were thieves and assholes; for some reason, the mental voice that had started to sound a lot like Tean gave him less grief when he pulled one over on those types. Maybe a collections broker. He liked the sound of that. Hardly anybody even knew what a broker was, and he could spin the idea a lot of different ways.
He parked the Kawasaki a block south of Tean’s Central City apartment. He got street tacos from a cart, and then he stood in line at a mochi truck. The day was hotter than hell, the air shimmering over the asphalt, but in an hour, maybe less, it would be bearable. Once the sun went down, the temperature dropped significantly, and most evenings the mountain breeze made things almost pleasant. He ate his mochi on the curb outside a Sinclair, in a growing pool of shade, licking the melted ice cream that had run down the inside of his wrist.
When Tean came out of his parking lot driving the white Ford, Jem got on his Kawasaki. He started counting. He hadn’t gotten to thirty before Ammon pulled out in a silver Chevy Impala.
Busted, motherfucker.
Jem kick-started the bike and followed. True to his word, Tean headed to Stanza, a restaurant and wine bar only a few blocks north of his apartment. It was close enough to walk, and the fact that Tean was driving suggested he thought he—or they—might be going somewhere else after. Jem could picture it: they were laughing over wine, they were laughing over their food, they were laughing as they t
alked about grad school and books and science. Ragnar was probably some brilliant geneticist splicing pufferfish DNA into pomegranate seeds or something like that. And he’d be a Viking sex god too, of course. And after all that wine and all that laughing, after both of them being oh-so-impressed at how smart the other one was, Ragnar would ask if Tean wanted to keep talking, and the doc would do that thing where he tried not to smile and pushed his glasses back up his nose. Jem gunned the bike to make it through a yellow.
That was a mistake. The Kawasaki didn’t exactly roar, but it was loud, and Jem spotted movement inside Ammon’s car. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe the detective was checking the mirror, seeing who was behind him. Sure enough, when Tean turned into Stanza’s tiny parking lot, Ammon slowed the silver Impala.
Jem swore under his breath. He wasn’t ready to break cover yet, but his heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat soaked his hair under the helmet. Then, after another agonizing moment, someone honked, and Ammon started forward again. Jem let out the knot of air in his chest. He rolled forward. As he pulled even with Stanza, he coasted and risked a glance. Tean was standing in front of the wine bar, staring at him. Jem kept his cool, barely, and continued coasting. He trusted the helmet and the lack of context to keep Tean from recognizing him. When the doc looked away, Jem accelerated slowly.
He went to Whiskers, a gay bar near the Marmalade District, and ordered a Campfire whiskey. He drank. He got cruised twice. The first was a Latino guy in a tight white shirt that displayed some very nice muscles. His coloring made Jem think of Tean, though, and Jem put down two more Campfires after the encounter. The second guy was blond, skinny, and had a beard. Way too bushy and wild for his build. He said something about coding, and Jem just nodded and drank more. It was the beard. Ragnar probably had a beard.
They fucked in the blond’s SUV, the seats down in back. When the blond tried to work a finger inside Jem, Jem laughed and flipped the blond on his back. He shook his head and said, “I don’t think so.”
The blond moaned and touched himself, and Jem figured that meant he was ok with the switch.
After, while Jem tied the laces on his ROOS, the blond asked for his number.
Jem kept laughing about it, laughing on the dark streets, laughing when he squinted against the brightness of the traffic lights, laughing when he made a bad turn and the rear tire skidded, laughing every time it popped back into his head, until he got to the little brick bungalow in Federal Heights. He retrieved the key from the lockbox on the door and let himself inside. Even drunk, he navigated the bulky old furniture without turning on the lights. When he got to the back of the house, when he was sure the blackout curtains that he’d hung were closed, he hit the light switch in the bedroom.