Mirage

by Perry Brass

  They materialized out of the heavy air. They weren't walking fast, but sauntering dangerously. Their voices cut the night with guttural, slashing sounds. Their shoulders pitched from side to side, taking up as much of the sidewalk as possible. Suddenly, I wanted to become invisible. I looked over at Wright, who was wearing indigo jeans and a white polo shirt. His face and neck darkened. His shirt looked cut out, pasted against the dingy buildings on either side. His beautiful blue eyes disappeared into his brow.

  When the guys approached us, he slowed down. They walked around him. I couldn't look up. I could feel the vibration itself of violence: a memory I had stored from when the Off-Sexer approached us in the forest. The memory went through my small tense ear bones; it resounded a few seconds later with the crash of garbage cans thrown against cars and buildings.

  "Queers! FAGGOTS!" They directed the words right at us.

  "Don't look back," Wright whispered to me. "Go on ahead."

  "Suppose they're getting the car?" I asked. I'm not sure why I said that. Was I directed by something deeper than myself?

  Wright stopped. His body stiffened. He turned around and began walking back towards them. This was true madness, but I followed him—or had I actually led him on by mentioning the car? But what else could I do, except follow him? There was no one at the car. It was still safe. "Let's get in," I said.

  "No!"

  "No?"

  My feet followed Wright again. We started walking slowly away from the bar. Two blocks away, in the shadow of another building recessed from the street, we saw the three little shits attacking another man. Beating the hell out of him. He was flat on the sidewalk by the time we got there. They were kicking him and punching his face against the pavement.

  "Shit! It's the queers again!" one shouted. "GETTHEFUCKOUTAHERE OR WE'LL KILL YOU!"

  I stared at them. I felt like a piece of film clipped out of another movie and pasted in this one. I wasn't a part of this, yet I knew I had directed us to it.

  Wright grabbed a zinc garbage can they'd tipped over. It was heavy. Crammed full. He lifted it over his head and aimed the trash directly at them. Bottles, tin cans, dirt, nails, vacuum-bag dust vomited out at them. The noise was killing; rapturous. They were stunned, but the leader of them—a kid with red hair cut with a lawn mower, tried not to show it. Wright kept the can in his hands as a shield.

  "Fuck you! We'll kill you, Queer!"

  Wright pushed in closer, the can out in front of him. "Leave now," he said, his voice dead-calm. "If I ever hear about you attacking one of my friends again, I'll come after you myself."

  He raised the garbage can again and aimed it, so that it was leveled right at their throats. Then he edged closer to the red turd who was making all the noise. His two friends were scared; I saw that. It registered on me like my own fear. They started to go. "Get outta here, Joe," one said. "Come on, we done enough."

  They left.

  Like most violence, when it was over, it left nothing of itself except the pieces. Suddenly, the dirty side street seemed very bright and quiet. Like someone had turned the street lamps on full blast. Maybe I had stopped being terrified.

  Wright dropped the can. It's ringing punctured the silence.

  He sat down quietly on the curb. "God, I'm tired. I feel like everything's been taken out of me."

  I told him I felt that way, too, and I hadn't done anything. Wright smiled. "You did enough. If you hadn't been here, I might have been scared myself. I might have run away."

  "You wouldn't have run; Greeland wouldn't have run."

  "Greeland?"

  His eyes closed. When he opened them, they looked different: dark, but very, very clear. "Yeah," he said. "Greeland... "

  He sighed. His body went limp. Exhausted. Suddenly he smiled and said, "I hope the cops don't come. They'd probably try to bust us for disturbing the peace, or something. Wow . . . imagine?" He shook his head.

  "What?"

  "People'll murder you here, just 'cause you're gay."

  "Yes," I said. "They will."

  He stood up. I realized at that moment he was neither Wright nor Greeland, but completely lost. His eyes refocused. He made a slight smile and sheepishly became Wright again.

  I turned back to the man lying on the sidewalk. He was not that short; about five-ten, I would say. About my age, in his early thirties—but boyish, he looked much younger. He was thin; run down. His eyes were closed. Literally beaten shut. His hair—short, dark, streaky blond—had blood in it. His bottom lip was cracked. His blue striped, short-sleeved, oxford shirt was torn to shreds. Most of the buttons had popped off. His fair skin looked pale, like it bruised easily. It had already turned four or five shades of red, blue, and yellow. The boys did a lot of damage in a short amount of time; but three jerks could. His eyes opened. I gently put my hand on his face, and he held it.

  "Thanks. Who are you?"

  "Alan. Can you get up?"

  He tried to, but he was in severe pain. Wright came over. He remembered his Air Force first aid training. "He might have something broken. Maybe we'd better get him to a hospital."

  "No," the man moaned. "Can you just help me home?"

  I asked him why he didn't want to go to an Emergency Room.

  "No money," he answered. "I'm really busted. I shouldn't have even come out tonight. This was crazy. I don't know why I did it."

  I didn't know why we did, either, I said. "Suppose something is broken?"

  "I'm okay. I've been through worse than this. If I go to an Emergency Room—the truth is, I've got AIDS. I know what they'll put me through. Hell. The last time I went to an Emergency Room, I had to wait four or five hours before somebody saw me. Orderlies laughed at me. Called me names. I don't need that. I'm staying in a room around here. It's a dump, but it's okay. I got tired of being by myself. I thought I'd just go to the Eagle for a drink."

  "Let's get him in the backseat." Wright said. He and I formed a carry-seat with our interlocked hands, and he grabbed our shoulders. We got him back to the car. He rested against it, while Wright unlocked the door.

  "I can't believe you parked around here," he said, lying in the backseat. "Not exactly the safest spot."

  "I'm glad we did," I said.

  "The place I'm in is only a few blocks away. See, I can walk over to the Eagle. Usually I walk so fast nobody bothers me. I was slower tonight."

  I turned back to him, while Wright started the Honda. "What's your name?" I asked.

  "Robert. Robert Hetzak. It's Hungarian." He looked up and told us to make a left turn at the next corner.

  "Why don't we take you back to our house?" Wright asked. "We have a lot of room. Honest. And if something really is wrong, we'll be able to help you."

  "Thanks. But I don't want to put you guys out. I don't even know you."

  "I'm Wright Smith. This is Alan Kostenbaum. We're new in Washington. We don't know that many people."

  I turned back towards Robert. I felt so many vibrations from him coming towards me: vulnerable; tender; warm. "Please come back with us," I said. "I'd really worry about you, if you didn't."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "My sides hurt something terrible. I have some pain killers in my room. Can we stop by there first?"

  I told him we could. He directed us to his rooming house. It was as close as he said it was. He got up slowly to pull a key out of his pants pocket. I could tell he was in too much pain to leave the car.

  I said I'd go in and get the painkillers for him.

  "All my medicine's on the top of my bureau. Can you grab my toothbrush, too?" I told him I could. He handed me his key. "Tell Mabel you need to get some medicine from my room. She'll lead you to it."

  I got out of the car. There was no place to park, so Wright began to circle the block slowly. The area was seedy. Wright didn't want to double park. He felt like a sitting target. We were justifiably nervous after the incident with the kids only a short walk away.

  The rooming house sat by itself at th
e tail end of the street. It was a broken-down, frame building. A group of black men in loose pants and faded tee shirts leaned near the door. Their clothes seemed cheap, but they wore expensive athletic shoes, the kind athletes don't wear. Hot flashes of color—like tropical fish—wiggled through stitched tiers of soft black leather. The shoes were high-topped but left untied to show that nobody ever ran. My eyes followed these color squiggles as they slowly parted for me to enter the CAPITAL PALACE—the place's name—spelled out in grimy neon in a window.

  There were no chairs or people in the small lobby. The Formica counter was half-hidden behind a flight of stairs. By it was a Coke machine that said in large letters: "Instant Refreshment."

  "Can I help you?" A big dark woman in a tight pair of pink cut-offs came out of a small office. Her Afro'd hair and blousy work shirt looked slept-in. "Sorry. I just caught a nap. You want a room?"

  "Are you Mabel?"

  "I am. What of it?"

  I told her I needed some things from Robert Hetzak's room. Her face fell. "He ain't sick again, is he?"

  I told her he wasn't. "But he's had a hard time outside."

  She asked me if someone had tried to beat him up again, and I didn't answer her. She must have read my face, so she told me she was sorry and led me up a flight of stairs. "Welfare's been payin' for his room. He's a good boy, but he's havin' a sad time of it."

  I unlocked the door with his key, and she flipped on a light from a wall switch. Several mice immediately shot out of view. "Damn, them mice again! He keeps the place nice, don't you think?"

  She was right. The room was neat and organized. A line of books were set up on a cheap desk. I scanned them for an instant. They were mostly old design and architecture books. There was also something called Your Introduction to Latin. I went over to the bed. It was made-up, with the cover pulled tightly over it. Sitting next to the pillow was an old, squushy teddy bear, with a faded, red bandana around his neck. "I wish we had more guests like Robert. Too bad, don'cha think?"

  I had to agree with her. She told me she had to hurry back down to the desk. "Running this place ain't easy." I agreed, again. She left. I found his medicine on top of the bureau where he said he'd left it. I also found two pictures in a double dime-store frame. One was of an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard. The other was of Robert and this man, taken on the back of a motorcycle. They were both wearing evening clothes—elegant tuxedos—and carrying motorcycle helmets. I went into the small bath, and found a plastic toiletries kit. I put his toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, hairbrush, and a couple of plastic, sample-size bottles of cologne in it. Next to the bed, I saw a small canvas gym bag. I stuffed the toiletries kit into it, put all of his medicines in it, and added the framed pictures. I took one more look around the room, then grabbed the bear from the bed, and left.

  They had circled the block twice when I got back in the car. "Was Mabel there?" Robert asked.

  I told him she was.

  "Did she help?" I told him she did. "She's great. She drives a motorcycle and has a Spanish girlfriend named Xaviera. Xaviera works as a waitress at a yuppy restaurant in Georgetown, but she's trying to go through Washington Community College. Sometimes I help her with her homework. Mabel reads all the time, and writes poetry. Some of the guys at the hotel call her a bull dagger. She just laughs. She once told this asshole who was hassling her, 'Didn't your mother ever tell you, don't pee on something you can't afford?' I think that's the best advice I've ever gotten in Washington, don't you?"

  I told him I did. I thought he should get some rest, and didn't say anything else till we got back to Seventh Street. We helped him out of the car. He noticed the sign outside, but didn't say a word about it. He was tired. By the time we got him up to the second bedroom, he was almost asleep.

  There was no bed up there, but we carried a couch up from downstairs in the office and made it up for him. I decided we'd see the next day if Reggy had some sort of cot or bed for him. The only light in the second bedroom was an overhead fluorescent one. It was fairly revolting. We helped him get his shirt off, which gave Wright a chance to look at his wounds. His chest and shoulders were pale, hairless, and badly bruised. Wright gently felt his ribs. They didn't hurt, which meant, luckily, none were broken.

  "Are you having a hard time breathing?" Wright asked him.

  "Not anymore than usual," Robert answered. He broke into a sudden, wild smile. "You can touch me all you want. Now I'm sorry they didn't break anything."

  "No, you're not," Wright said. I got some peroxide from the bathroom, and Wright applied it to Robert's face and chest with a cotton ball. "Peroxide's good," Wright said. "It shouldn't sting at all."

  I got some apple juice from the kitchen, and gave Robert his pills. He took all of them, including a Percodan tablet for pain. "This'll make things a lot better," he said. Then he took off his pants. He wore clean cotton briefs underneath; they made him look smaller, almost babyish. His legs had large, dark lesions on them. They looked like part of his skin, like the camouflage markings on antelopes. I tried not to stare at them, turned, and pulled the bear out of the overnight bag. "He's called Oliver Blivier, " Robert said. "My boyfriend gave him to me five years ago."

  I showed him the framed picture. "Is this him?"

  "Gene's his name. Yep. That's him. Why'd you bring him?"

  "I wanted you to feel comfortable here," I said.

  He nodded his head. "Thanks, but I'm not going to live here, okay? I need a life of my own. It may not last very long, but it's mine. That's why I went out tonight. You gotta be crazy to walk around Washington when you're sick. But shit, it's my life." Suddenly he broke down a bit. His body shook, and I went over to him, and held him and helped him get under the covers on the couch. I gave him Oliver Blivier, and he clutched the bear to him. "I'm tired. You guys have been wonderful. I didn't mean to go on like that. I know your hearts are in the right place. But now it seems like everyone's heart is in the right place—that's why they all want to tell me what to do with mine. 'Why don't you go back to your parents?' 'Why do you still try to pick up men . . .?' "

  "Why do you?" Wright asked.

  "Because I'm not dead yet."

  "Make's sense to me," Wright said. "We're going to let you get some sleep now. If you need anything, we're in the other room."

  Wright left the room and started down the hallway. I switched off the overhead light. It really made the second bedroom look like an interrogation chamber.

  "Can you do one more thing?" Robert asked. I told him sure. "Would you kiss me goodnight?"

  I leaned over him and kissed him on his cheek. He reached up for my face and held it.

  "Thanks," he whispered.

  "Sure."

  I left him and closed the door to the room.

  "He's perfect," Wright said triumphantly, downstairs in the office. "He even looks like Ert."

  "Ert?"

  "Don't play dumb with me. Don't tell me you don't remember Ert. Did you see his body. He is a looker. I bet before he got sick, he was a hunky little bastard."

  "Shut up!" I said. "Just shut up."

  "Why are you pissed off, Alan? This is going to get us off the hook. We can get out of here. I can stop going nuts. I can stop pretending to be something and someone I'm not." Suddenly he grabbed me with so much force it almost took my breath. "Alan, we're almost out of here! I am so damn sick and tired of this place! He's right for us. It'll happen soon. Let's go upstairs to bed. Thank God, we found him!"

  He held me and started kissing me, nibbling my ears, throat, and neck. He started to pull my shirt off. "Off to bed now—we've got to get back to Woosh. I can tell this time we'll be able to reach him. He'll tell us what to do."

  I held him back.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know if Robert's the right one. He's not all that interested in us. He doesn't seem cooperative. He's—"

  Wright grabbed my wrists tightly. "He wants to stay alive—don't you see that's what makes him perfect
? Tomorrow, we'll do a complete run-down on him. We'll take his history. I'll see to it that he moves in here with us, so we can keep an eye on him. I think he broke a rib anyway. I felt it when I examined him."

  "Wait a second, you told us everything was okay."

  "For the time being. If it weren't, we'd have to take him to a hospital. And you know he didn't want that. He's going to need complete rest. At least for the next few days. One thing is certain—"

  I asked what that was.

  "If we hadn't been around, he would have ended up in a morgue."

  I turned out the lights downstairs and we went back upstairs in the dark. Wright opened the door slightly to the second bedroom, and we could hear Robert breathing heavily. "The Perc must have knocked him right out. How wonderful, Alan ... and to think, it was your idea to go out tonight."

  I gave Wright all the seed from my third ball that night. It seemed fitting. We hadn't shared seed from the Egg for a long time. He was ravenous for me, sucking every last bit of my syrup, squeezing my ball-sac until the pain went right up into my stomach. I wasn't used to this. There were no visions. Just blackness. He was so greedy and selfish. Why was he acting this way? He kept confusing me—I wondered where he was, which lover was I in bed with now? Wright McClelland Smith whom I adored, or the dark hunter from Ki, who could be so brutal.

  He thrust his male pipe into my mouth, but I knew he was holding back. I got almost nothing from his seed. Perhaps it had been the strain of the fight with the three punks, and he needed more strength. Sometimes that happened. You held in your seed, to replenish yourself. You needed your partner's seed, but you couldn't spare all of yours. After seeing him with those monsters on the street, I didn't feel any resentment. I was physically crazy about Wright. His cock was so beautiful, slick, clean, the head almost pearly. It filled me with voluptuous happiness kissing, licking, sucking it. We embraced head-to-crotch. Why were people so afraid of this they'd kill you on the street? Was it the fear of pleasure itself? Or simply surrender to another man—an idea as terrifying to them as it was to the Off-Sexers back home.