Sushi Central

by Alasdair Duncan

  3. I meet Anthony. We walk to the Valley; duck up to the top floor of this parking lot, kiss for quite a while. The sky is overcast, a silvery grey. I can see Chinatown, the tops of a lot of the older buildings; an ocean of glass and corrugated iron. Anthony has a joint already rolled, and he says he really needs to smoke it before he can face out there again. I’m not a hundred percent sure what he means by ‘out there’, but whatever, I smoke it with him, and the whole time there’s this abstract feeling I have that keeps bugging me, and I realise it’s fear, fear that someone might come up here and we might get caught, but I manage to put it out of my mind. We kiss some more, smoke another joint and I kind of drift away into the moment.

  4. We’re in a shop looking for clothes or whatever. The girl behind the counter has strange, sharp features and her hair is cropped very short and bleached. Anthony tries on a pair of sunglasses — which make him look really hot, predatory almost, but he doesn’t buy them — and a shirt, with blue checks, which he buys even though it’s two hundred dollars or something. I wonder where he gets the cash but after a while I forget to worry about it.

  5. This coffee shop at New Farm. An older woman dressed all in black, sitting at one of the front tables smoking a cigarette. Her hair is dyed a very severe shade of red; a pair of Gucci sunglasses are sitting on the table in front of her, next to a tiny espresso. She stares at me, gives me this hungry look and she doesn’t stop even when I look right back at her and make eye contact; she continues to look at me and she then licks her lips, which freaks me out a lot, and suddenly I can’t deal with it at all and when Anthony finally chooses a table, I sit with my back to her. I can still feel her eyes on me and it gets to me more than it should.

  6. Our waiter is also dressed in black. He is also cut and dyed to the point of perfection, and his nametag says ‘Sean’. He and Anthony keep trading sneakily meaningful looks and whenever Sean comes past the table he lingers for a few seconds longer than he should. As he is taking our menus away, he touches Anthony’s finger with his, and lets it slide all the way up. Anthony does not seem to be bothered by this. I hate to think what kind of history they have, if they know and/or have fucked or if this is just a random event or what, and the possibilities kind of split off from one another like fractals, but I don’t want to say anything, mostly because:

  a) Things are going well with Anthony and I don’t want to fuck them up.

  b) If I said anything it would probably come out wrong anyway.

  7. We’re both drinking our long blacks. Mine helps ground me a little, but not a great deal. Anthony and I don’t talk. There’s a strange, intricate ballet going on with our eyes; he will stare right into mine, hard enough and long enough that it seems he’s trying to see right inside me, and then suddenly he’ll look away and stare off into the distance for a while, then back to me, then back out again, etc.

  8. Wondering if Anthony likes me as much as I like him.

  9. Wondering if it isn’t stupid of me to be getting like this over him.

  10. Deciding that yes, it’s definitely stupid, but I don’t care, because he’s so hot and that’s all that really matters.

  11. Sitting in the passenger seat of his mother’s Audi, which is in that big parking lot where we were getting high before, and there’s this faux new-wave music on the stereo, a French or possibly Swiss woman moans lyrics about how everyone wants to be Hollywood above this loud and sinewy and sexy bass line, and I’m totally lost in Anthony, and he begins to play with the gear stick, moving it around and around, into neutral and back into park, running his fingers around the ball of it and staring straight into me the whole time, and I think I’m blushing but I’m not entirely sure, and I’m only catching vague threads of the conversation we’re having, and he asks me if I want to and I ask him do I want to what? and he leans over the shift and kisses me, a cold afternoon front seat of a very warm expensive car, hope we don’t get caught but then again who gives a fuck if we do? kind of a kiss, and the French woman on the stereo is saying that maybe one day I can visit her in her condo on a big hill, you know, like 90210, and Anthony reaches over, takes my hand and sets it down on his leg, and I can feel his cock through the fabric of his pants, and I notice it’s becoming extremely hard as we sink deeper into the kiss and he pushes me back into the leather seat with as much force as he can and he moans a little and I can feel his hand in the small of my back, and he makes me press down harder on his cock, which elicits a series of incredibly, like, guttural noises from him, and we break the kiss off but I stay close enough to him that we’re still breathing on one another, and he’s into it, I can tell, but the expression on his face is still a little, like, other, like it was at the cafe, and it’s like …

  12. Somehow arriving at the decision that we should drive back to his house and continue getting high, and there’s an implicit promise of something else in there, though I couldn’t say for sure, but something in the tone of his voice … I don’t know, but at that point, going back to his house seems like the best idea in the world. I’m still very high and everything is passing me by in a blur. We’re stopped at a set of traffic lights when I suddenly get the urge to lean over and give him this mad/passionate kiss. His hand moves to the small of my back and we sink right into it and we only start moving again when the car behind blows its horn at us.

  13. Arriving at Anthony’s house in Windsor. Tripping out. Confused. But happy.

  205

  When we were walking up to Anthony’s, I saw his neighbour, a woman, standing in the driveway of a big, new-looking house. Hurrying on the way to something, or maybe back from something. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, stepping out of a sleek four-wheel drive and slipping a high-heeled shoe on her foot. She looked up and saw me; we stared at one another for a second. She had the strangest expression on her face when she saw me; it felt as though there was a connection between us. An ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t’ kind of a connection. We were joined by our secrets, or whatever. I don’t know. But it was a very grown-up look she gave me. Sardonic, kind of. Hard to explain, but it made me feel part of something bigger, a secret world of desires and things unspoken.

  206

  I am now sitting on the floor of the living room; big, and kind of airy, with glass windows that stretch right up to the ceiling. The executive toy is sitting in front of me and for second I’m trancing out on it. Everything in the room is immaculate, sterile almost. There are prints of some kind of Japanese scene hanging by the window. The sofas are huge and white, the kind you’d be afraid to sit on unless they were covered in plastic. Anthony is flopped down on one, his legs crossed underneath him, and giving me this ‘I want to rip you open’ look that is extremely sexy. He tilts his head back, moves it to the side a little, as though he’s appraising me.

  Certain secret things connect in my mind, and suddenly I’m seeing him as he was in that photo. The one where he’s standing on his own, his head cocked to one side and his hands behind his back. The product in his hair, the tightness of the shirt, the expression on his face, was the look just an accident or was it all contrived?

  The look in his eyes. I mean, on the surface, it’s all ‘come on, I dare you’, really sexy, but there’s something underneath that. It’s weird. Like the way he’s sitting now. That ‘rip you open’ posture; the look in his eyes. Is it real or is it a carefully contrived fake? As far as Anthony goes, is anything real?

  This is the time. Now. I have to do it. Ask him.

  The photos. All of it.

  Hey Anthony?

  207

  Me: Anthony?

  Anthony: Yeah?

  Me: I need to … Okay. This is going to sound weird.

  Anthony: What?

  As he’s talking he’s pulling a pre-rolled joint from his pocket. Lighting it up.

  Me: I saw these … Like. Okay. You’re going to think I’m crazy when I tell you this, but I’m not. I’m being completely serious.

  Anthony: What is it?


  He takes a huge drag from the joint. Holds it in for a long time, then passes it to me. I take it.

  Me: I saw some photos. On this guy’s web page.

  Anthony: … Photos.

  Me: Yeah.

  I take a drag. Make sure I keep the smoke in for as long as possible, to fortify myself or whatever. Prepare for what’s coming. I hand the joint back to Anthony.

  Me: I saw some photos. But the thing is, the guy in them … He looked kind of like … you.

  Anthony: What were they like?

  Me: The photos? What did they look like?

  Anthony: Yeah. What did they look like?

  Me: Normally this would be the part of the conversation where you tell me I’m crazy. Ask me what I’m talking about.

  Anthony: Would it help if I did?

  Me: I don’t know.

  Anthony: Seriously. What did they look like?

  Anthony takes a drag. He’s hot when he’s smoking.

  Me: I don’t know, you were … No. It was a guy who looked like you … Just with this other guy. A couple of other guys.

  Anthony: Where did you find it? Where did you see it, I mean.

  Me: There’s … A friend of mine showed me the page. His name’s Jeremy.

  Anthony: Jeremy, as in …? Wow. Okay.

  Me: You know him?

  He passes the joint back to me.

  Anthony: If it’s the same … Yeah, look, I know the photos you mean. Fuck. Dude. I can’t believe you saw those. Oh wow …

  Me: So … that … was you?

  Anthony: It was. Fuck. That was such a long time ago. I can’t believe he put those up on his site.

  Me: It wasn’t Jeremy’s page. It was just some guy’s. I guess it must have been the guy who took them.

  Anthony: Oh. Right.

  Me: Who was he?

  Anthony: The guy who took the photos?

  Me: Yeah, who was he? Did you know him? Was he just …?

  Anthony: Just … a friend of Jeremy’s.

  Me: Why did you? I mean … Why did you let yourself …?

  Anthony: Calvin … Are you’re okay?

  Me: Yeah.

  Anthony: You’re not acting like you’re okay.

  Me: I’m … Like, I’m just … It’s just … This seems … like a really big deal.

  Anthony: It’s not. Not really.

  Me: It doesn’t bother you that there are photos of you …?

  Anthony: Not really. I don’t know.

  Me: How did you do it?

  Anthony: How did I do it?

  Me: I mean, didn’t it get to you or anything? Didn’t you feel, like, I don’t know. Weird or whatever when you were doing it?

  Anthony: Not really. Why would I have felt weird?

  We have somehow between us smoked the joint right down to the end. I don’t recall exactly how this happened. I watch as Anthony puts it out.

  Me: The … Some of the photos on the page, I mean, some of them weren’t just you. Not just you and Jeremy. Some of them had, like … other guys in them. And they were … You … Didn’t you feel … like …? Did you know those guys?

  Anthony: No. They were just some friends of … Well, whoever. I don’t remember his name. The guy who was taking the photos.

  Me: So … What were you thinking?

  Anthony: I wasn’t really thinking anything.

  Me: You were thinking about nothing at all?

  Anthony: I was just thinking it felt good.

  Me: It felt good?

  Anthony: Calvin, it was just something I did, okay? Just something I did for fun. Because I could do it. You know? I did it because I could.

  Me: Because you could? That’s the only reason?

  Anthony: Calvin, we … Well, you have to enjoy it while you can, you know? Being young … good-looking. It doesn’t last forever. You should have as much fun with it as you can.

  Me: I don’t get how you could …

  Anthony: Calvin, fucking … It was nothing to me, okay? I did it because it was easy.

  Me: How could you not think …?

  208

  ‘I want to show you something,’ he says. There is an edge to his tone, something, I don’t know, weighty.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Just … I don’t want to explain it because I’ll fuck it up. You need to see it first.’ He’s looking right at me, with that unknowable expression on his face.

  ‘Anthony, you’re being weird. Don’t.’

  ‘Come on,’ he tells me. He stands, raises an eyebrow in a way that half intriguing, half disturbing. I can’t help but follow him; over the course of the day he seems to have become even hotter. I mean, even that conversation we just had, confusing as it was, only made me more attracted to him. I follow him, watch him — the way his hair sort of stands up at the front, the angle of his nose, the impossible way his shirt hangs from his shoulders — and I want him so much it’s almost, like, overwhelming.

  209

  Kind of a sideline issue: It’s probably wrong to get so wrapped up in a person’s looks, but, like, what else is there really? I think about what he said. About being young and good-looking. Making the most of it. It doesn’t last forever. It sort of made sense. Anthony’s young and pretty, I’m young and pretty, and maybe nothing really matters beyond that.

  210

  He leads me into what must be his parents’ room. There is a big four-poster bed in there, and the carpet is white, like, immaculate. There is a huge flatscreen TV set at the end of the bed and the room is so perfect it’s almost too perfect, and it’s virtually impossible to believe that people actually live here, that this is where Anthony’s parents sleep. The only sign of life in the room is in the corner; there is a shoji screen, one that looks as though it’s made out of real silk, and on it, on a coathanger, there is a red dress. A cocktail dress, I guess. It’s a burst of violent colour, of passion; it looks as though it’s a chance happening; its placement there is accidental in a room where everything else is deliberate. Seeing it there makes me feel good; makes me feel as though not everything in here is hostile.

  ‘Sit down,’ Anthony tells me. ‘Sit on the bed.’

  ‘Anthony, you’re being really weird. What is this?’

  ‘Just sit,’ he tells me. ‘Please.’ I’ve never heard him say please before, and something about it is so sudden, so strange that it knocks the defiance right out of me.

  I kick off my shoes, sit down cross-legged on the bedspread. For a second I see myself reflected in the screen of the TV set, this blank, twisted, like other Calvin; his features are blurry, and his eyes are two infinite black hollows.

  Anthony flicks the TV set on and for a second there is nothing but angry static. It startles me, and out of it as I am at this point, it still makes me jump a little. The static shuts off as Anthony slips a videotape into the machine and the screen reverts to black. There’s a hissing noise now. Something like a warning. Or whatever. I don’t know.

  The video begins to play.

  211

  The videotape: There’s static and fuzz for a second then the picture comes in halfway through a scene. The whole thing is awash with grey, and there are shots of council estates and hospitals and for a second I have no idea what’s going on or what it’s meant to mean, but eventually, after a few seconds in limbo, I realise it’s a documentary. The narrator is a man; he speaks with a foreign accent, it might be German or something, I don’t know, I think it’s probably German, but his voice is extremely deep and he sounds very serious. It cuts to another shot, inside a nightclub, two boys — one of them highly pierced and both kind of slutty looking — are kissing underneath a strobe light, with crunchy nouveau electropop playing on the soundtrack, then the music suddenly stops and it cuts to a shot of this boy who looks to be, I guess, in his early twenties, and he’s lying in a hospital bed and I realise that he’s sick with something; with what, I can’t quite work out, even though I do have very definite suspicions. (I mean … What’s everyon
e worried about nowadays? Why is it you can’t even go out, meet a boy, without this vague worry that the drinks and the pills can never quite push away, this worry that you might be about to …) It’s still showing the boy in his hospital bed and the narrator is explaining all sorts of AIDS statistics in his deep, solemn voice, then some still photos come up on the screen, one of the boy, the patient (whose name is Benni or something), as a little boy, then one of him with his arm around this other guy, who is poking out his tongue, pierced, at the camera, then back to a shot of Benni in the hospital bed, and he looks incredibly weak, his arms are thin and he’s covered in purple blotches, and he’s having difficulty speaking, though when he does it’s subtitled, obviously, because he doesn’t speak English, and the subtitles are this incredibly bright shade of yellow, and Benni is talking about how we live in a world where ‘even the things you’d never expect can kill you, where you can die from love’, and the fact that he’s so young and so good-looking, especially in the still photos, and he looks like he could be one of my friends, one of my exes, a guy I’ve slept with, really gets to me, and suddenly the skin on the back of my neck is starting to prickle, then there’s a shot of a funeral — I guess it must be Benni’s — shots of snow, because it’s winter, and crying relatives who are all wearing black, and this extremely mournful string soundtrack, then it cuts back to a scene inside a nightclub, same crunchy electronic music playing, but this time the two boys are different (or they might be the same two boys — it’s difficult to tell, but it doesn’t matter, because ultimately we’re all the same two boys), and the final shot is this grainy shot of Benni as a little boy, walking in the snow, in this hooded parka or whatever, carrying around a huge sled, or I think it’s a sled, then looking up at the camera and smiling, this totally innocent smile, and all of this played in slow motion, then finally it fades into the credits, white text on a black screen, silence, and it’s like …