by John Inman
When my phone rang, I forced myself to casually amble back inside while Clutch was strolling out. He ignored me like I was the help, which wasn’t far from the truth. Clutch enjoyed stalking the hummingbirds that occasionally dared soar this high to sip from the hummingbird feeder I had wired to the railing in a fit of optimism shortly after moving in. It was one of my few fits of optimism that had actually paid off, I might add, since the hummingbirds did indeed seek out my feeder on occasion, much to Clutch’s great joy.
I was sufficiently pulled together emotionally to pluck up the ringing phone like a normal, angst-free human. Only a teeny flurry of neurons way in the back of my brain were sparking and buzzing in the hope it might be Jason on the line. But wherever the common sense part of that organ is located—frontal lobe, posterior fossa, who knows—I still retained the wherewithal to realize it probably wasn’t my ex calling to beg me to take him back.
I was right. It was my agent, David Beems. And just when I thought the day was improving.
My agent was in New York, thank Christ, otherwise he’d be pounding on my door and annoying me in person.
“Happy birthday, Bobby!” he sang out, forever cheerful, which was one of the things I hated most about him. “How is my oldest client holding up? Heard from your ex?”
Oldest client? Oldest client? I sighed. “No, David. The prick is gone and good riddance.” Can I lie or what?
“Great! Now you can move along to the next lucky fella!”
“No, thanks. And I’m not that old!”
“Of course not. You’re still a young whippersnapper in the blossom of youth, fresh from the cradle. Better?”
“Marginally.”
“So seeing anyone yet?”
“No, David. But I’ll get right on it. Just let me douche first.”
He roared with laughter, which was another thing I hated about him. He laughed all the time. And I mean it. All. The. Time.
“You cheeky devil! That was sarcasm, wasn’t it, Bobby? Oh, don’t try to deny it. That was sarcasm all right. Men don’t douche. You’re such a card.” His laughter bubbled out of the mouthpiece like lava spilling over the lips of Mount Fuji. I held the receiver away from my face so he wouldn’t slop any on me.
Actually men do douche. Gay ones anyway. But I was hell and gone from the place in my life where I wanted to stand there and explain it to my agent. I heard him take a breath, which was nice because when he breathed he had to shut up for a second, but the silence didn’t last nearly long enough.
His voice dropped an octave, which put me on high alert. This was his agent voice. I knew it well. “How would you like to do a book show, babe? Sign a few autographs, sell a few books, meet some old fans, hopefully make a few new ones? Maybe even do a reading. It’ll be fun. You’ll have the time of your life. You need to get out anyway. It’ll be good for you.”
Yeah, right.
I found my voice—sans enthusiasm—somewhere down around my kidneys. “I’m sorry, David. I’m in the middle of a new manuscript. I really have high hopes for this one. The creative juices are flowing, and any interruption now in the story’s birthing process could—”
Lord, I just keep lying to this guy.
“That’s great, Bobby! Great. Glad you’re writing. Glad you’re using the little gray cells. You could stand another bestseller. I need the money to pay for a couple of new toilets. My fucking wife wants to redecorate the bathrooms. The bloody cow. Ha-ha. Just kidding. Well, no, I’m not. But enough about me! Right now I need you to do some face time with the reading public. It would be good for your image. People are starting to think of you as the new J.D. Salinger. Not talent-wise, I’m afraid, but because you never want to leave your fucking house.”
A martini-swilling Truman Capote, stumbling around in his cups, shouting zingers at waiters, couldn’t have said it better.
“It’s a condo, David. Not a house. And I’m sorry about your wife. Sorry about your toilets too. Maybe if you weren’t so full of—”
“Whatever. Babe. It’s just a couple of bathrooms. Let’s not get maudlin. So whaddya say?”
I groaned, but I tried to do it quietly. “Where is this book show to be located?”
“Belgrade.”
I blinked. Well, golly, I thought. That might actually be interesting. I hate to fly, but still, a jaunt to Europe would be nice. Partake of a bit of fine dining. Hit a few museums. Scratch up a little continental gay poontang. Who knows what might happen? “Belgrade, huh? Actually Serbia sounds intriguing.”
David giggled. “It does, doesn’t it? Unfortunately this show is in Belgrade, Montana.”
“Montana? You want me to go to Montana?”
“Yeah. Apparently the book show is connected to a bigass rodeo they have there every year. Literature and cow shit. What a concept, huh?”
This time I didn’t try to hide the groan. “And oddly apt. It takes intriguing to a whole new level.”
David missed my sarcasm. “Doesn’t it? You’ll have fun, Bobby, baby. You’ll get some fresh air, smell some cow poop, buy some spurs, make a few new cowpoke friends.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, the conversational equivalent of a nudge in the ribs. “Gay guys love cowpokes, or so I’ve heard. Yeehaw.”
“I can’t go. My chaps are at the cleaners.”
“Good one, Bobby, booby!”
I gave him my best Maxwell Smart impersonation. “Would you believe my Stetson’s being reblocked?”
“Another good one! Maybe you should write a fucking comedy. So can I book you a room at the Belgrade Motel 8? Hopefully the weather in Montana will cool off soon. Right now it’s over a hundred there. A hundred and eight to be precise. Their local weatherman actually had a heat stroke on live TV. It was a ratings bonanza. Whaddya say?”
“Uh, no. If I wanted to roast to death I’d just throw myself in the oven here and save the airfare. I’m not up to a rodeo either. I’m allergic to cows unless they’ve been processed down to suede vests and Quarter Pounders with Cheese. I even hate the way they moo. I grew up on a farm, you know. I’m well aware how annoying a Guernsey can be.”
David guffawed at that, but it was one of those generic guffaws agents use when they can’t really tell you to fuck off like they want to. “It’s not like you’ll be signing books from the back of a bull, Robert. At least I don’t think you will.”
“Sorry, David. Gotta run. The building’s on fire.”
“That’s a lie, you little scamp. You’re lying to me. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. But I have to go anyway.”
He gave one of those sighs that agents use when they wonder why they ever signed you as a client to begin with. This particular sigh sounded like it came all the way up from David’s toes, and it didn’t surprise me at all. I’ve always wondered why he signed me as a client too.
“Oops, there’s my doorbell,” I said.
“No, it’s not!”
I tried again. “My beans are burning.”
“You don’t cook. Hell, you barely eat!”
I glanced desperately at the clock. It was almost seven. “Thanks for calling, David. Really. But I have to go. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”
“Yeah, right. How stupid do you think I am?”
The man had me for a client. How could I graciously answer that question?
“Oh, fine,” he relented. “Enjoy your dinner, Tolstoy. Happy birthday!” In lieu of saying good-bye, he bellowed, “Think about Montana!” That was the last thing I heard him say before I dropped the phone on the cradle, severing his ass completely.
The growl and grumble of my empty stomach ripped me from my ponderings. I hustled into the bedroom and began to dress. Something casual. Slacks, a light sweater, a teeny loop of silver in my left earlobe. I considered packing an umbrella but knew I would forget it and leave it behind somewhere if I did, so why bother. Grabbing cash and credit cards, I scooped Clutch into my arms and gave him a smooch good-bye, which he haughtily ignored. “Well, then, fuck y
ou,” I said, and tossed him on the couch. I headed out the door, all the while brushing the cat hair off my chest.
Living the cosmopolitan life in downtown San Diego is a godsend for people like me who hate to drive and are allergic to lawn pollen. Oddly, the smell of asphalt and other people’s exhaust fumes don’t bother me at all. Restaurants, theaters, shopping centers, movies, bars. They are all a stroll away. Add to that the bonus of residing right on the bay with a heart-stopping view from twenty-three floors up that encompassed Coronado Island and the grand Pacific Ocean in the distance, and even I had to admit I was a lucky man.
The Gaslamp area of the city where my high-rise stood was a beehive of activity twenty-four hours a day. It never rested, never slept. No matter what one craved, one could find it there at any hour of the day or night. And the humanity! The rich, the poor, the homeless, the hookers, the working, the idle, the sly, the shy, the cruel, the kind, the predators, the prey. They were all there. And they were all clearly labeled. One glance and you could see which category they fell into without any pesky moments of doubt to get in the way. There were no surprises in the Gaslamp. What you saw was what you got. Usually.
Little did I know tonight would be the exception to that rule. Tonight I would most assuredly be surprised. Holy crap. Would I ever.
And it would all begin with a chimichanga platter and a forgotten bowl of guacamole.
Chapter Two
THE GASLAMP never disappoints.
As always, the swarming crowds gathered me up and left me contentedly wriggling in a cozy cocoon of sensory overload. Sights, sounds, scents. After stepping into the night, I immediately lost myself in the buzz and swirl of this urban dance, all manner of unhappinesses tossed aside without a backward glance. My agent? Forgotten. My stalled career? Put on hold. Even my anger at Jason was set aside long enough to take in the night around me. I was pulled and jostled within the ebb and flow of countless souls spilling onto the street, ducking through doorways and crying out to each other in annoyance, in need, in greeting, in revelry. The throng absorbed me even as I absorbed it. With the crowd milling about, sweeping me along, I was a child gratefully burying his face in the fragrant folds of his mother’s skirt. I was home.
Yet even in the midst of it all, I had never felt more alone. The looming promise of approaching storm clouds hung in the sky over my head, seeming to isolate me even more, making me wish I had someone to share it with. Someone I loved.
I drifted through the crowd, my hands stuffed in my pockets. I was headed for the Mexican restaurant up the street where Chaz and I had agreed to meet.
At the sensation of a touch on my arm, I stopped and turned. It was Bucky. Years ago in another lifetime, we had tricked, Bucky and I, spent a few steamy hours appeasing each other’s youthful hungers. Since then the fates had not been kind to him. His face, which had once been young and alive and filled with hope, was now splotched with eruptions from a years-long methamphetamine habit. He was approximately my own age, but looked decades older. His body, once strong and agile, was now bent and spindly, like a stunted sapling twisted by a never-ceasing wind. His hands shook. His eyes wept continually from some sort of infection. His teeth had darkened. I saw him now periodically. Sometimes he drifted mindlessly through the downtown crowds, mumbling to himself, lost in a haze of drugs. At other times, he could be found curled against the edge of a building, sound asleep, his knees drawn up to his chest, his filthy shoes tucked under his head for a pillow as people flowed past unseeing. Uncaring.
The only aspect of the man that had not changed since the one night of passion we shared, back when he perhaps still understood what passion was all about, was the color of his eyes. Those beautiful azure eyes. Even now, as I was once again struck by the heavenly blue tint to those world-weary eyes, I could see the emptiness peering out from behind the beauty. Bucky’s eyes no longer gazed upon the world in wonder, as they had when he was young. Now they gazed at the world from the depths of a soul-deep pain, a bottomless well of hurt and craving. It was a misery I was pretty sure the man would never be free of. Not now. He had borne the need for drugs too long, and he understood their hold on him far too well.
“Are you lonely? Want to have a little fun?” Bucky asked, his voice an empty shell of need, not for sex, really, just for a friendly nod of companionship, perhaps—a confirmation of the fact that he was actually standing there, a living member of the human race. Maybe he needed to see the recognition in my eyes. To relive memories. To renew a time he knew he would never see again. And to garner it all, perhaps, from a man who had once found him beautiful. For he remembered our night together as well as I did. We had spoken of it off and on over the years, while his demons slowly dragged him down.
Poor Bucky. The reek of his breath washed over me like a foul tide.
He tried again, pushing his unkempt hair back off his ravaged face with a trembling hand, trying to make himself more presentable. “Do you want some company…?”
Bucky’s eyes dimmed as I watched him grope for my name in the wasteland of a mind devoured by meth. Then he found it, and his eyes brightened, if only for a weary moment. “Bobby,” he said. “You’re Bobby.”
I patted his hand and smiled, my heart breaking a little for the wasted life in front of me. “I’m sorry, Bucky. I can’t join you tonight,” I said, drawing him into a hug and closing my eyes against the stench.
He pressed his face into my shoulder for a brief second, then resignedly pulled back. When he did, I reached into my pocket and hauled out a few bills. Maybe a five and three or four ones. I wasn’t sure.
Bucky eyed the money hungrily.
“Buy yourself some dinner, kid,” I said. I always called him kid, for that’s what he had been to me once upon a time—a beautiful, sexy kid. A contemporary. Now neither of us were kids anymore, but what did that matter? In his mind, I hoped, he still saw himself as he had been back then. Young, bold, stunningly gorgeous. Maybe that would be nature’s way of offering him a bit of kindness to see him through to the end, which I had an uncomfortable feeling would not be far in the future.
I pressed the money into his hand.
“Be sure you buy something to eat, now,” I lectured, patting his nonexistent gut. “You need to put a few pounds on before you disappear altogether.”
Bucky did not smile at that. His eyes darted from one to another of the faces surrounding us—faces gliding along on their individual journeys, most of them not seeing Bucky and me at all, or if they did, looking quickly away.
“I think I’ve disappeared already,” he said. He brought his blue eyes back to mine, and a shimmer of pain sparkled in their lonely depths. Both of us tried to ignore the people milling past as we stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, parting the passing crowd like Moses cleaving a path through the Red Sea.
“No, honey,” I said gently, laying my hand to his cheek. “You haven’t disappeared. You’re still here.”
He gave me a doubtful look, as if not quite believing what I had said, then clutched the money to his chest. Nodding a vague thank-you, he turned and disappeared into the crowd. Off to buy drugs. Off to hasten his day of his departure from this world. Maybe he knew it, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure. Hell, maybe he even longed for it.
I stood there, staring after him, wondering if I would ever see him again. As I always did.
A young woman whom I had never seen before in my life tapped me on the shoulder. “I saw what you did. You can’t help these people, you know. Being an enabler won’t get them off the street.”
“Being a heartless fuck and pretending they don’t exist won’t get them off the street either,” I said. “Now excuse me.” I spun on my heel and continued my journey toward dinner. I had the pleasure of hearing her gasp as I walked away. Bitch.
Up ahead I spotted Chaz through the crowd. He was leaning on a lamppost with a wily look in his eye like the Artful Dodger about to perpetrate a scam on the innocent schmoes traipsing blithely past.
If I were him, I would have shot me a long time ago. Or simply bowed out. Not Chaz. He apparently lived on perpetual hope. It was sad, really. God knows he could have done better than me. Plus he was a stockbroker, for Christ’s sake. Loving me was the equivalent of sinking his money into a municipal bond that had never paid a dividend in its whole miserable life, and the entire financial world damn well knew it never would.
Not only was I a sorry investment, I was also a fool. Chaz was a handsome guy. He stood six feet tall, possessed dimples and a thirty-inch waist, the bastard, and had a couple of astonishingly green eyes stuck in the front of his head. I knew because he was aiming them at me right now.
“So how’s Bucky?” he asked, as if the mere act of asking the question was boring as hell.
“Bucky’s Bucky,” I said.
Chaz grunted. Ages earlier, the three of us, Bucky, Chaz, and I, had attended college together. That lasted only until Bucky dropped out to pursue a career in excessive drug consumption. To my knowledge Chaz never spoke to Bucky again. Chaz wasn’t big on other people’s weaknesses. He could barely tolerate his own.