by Gred Herren
“All right, are we ready?” I checked the little camera bag I had painted gold and tossed over one shoulder. I took inventory: house keys, ID, cash, joint for maybe later to relax a bit to help the descent from the drug heights. I had everything I needed. “You guys got everything? Check again to be sure.” They both rolled their eyes and checked their own little camera bags and gave me a thumbs-up. “Okay then.” I handed the boys their pills. “Okay, ready for blastoff?”
I usually don’t like to take Ecstasy before leaving the house, but Frank had made that a condition of doing it again, which made perfect sense. No sense risking carrying it around, in case something happened and we got stopped and searched. Better to carry it on the inside. I could still remember the feeling of those pills burning into my leg while Venus and Blaine questioned me that morning. Better safe than sorry wasn’t a bad idea. The joint was my little secret for later, and besides, it was just a joint; nobody gave a rat’s ass about a little pot in the Quarter. There was always someone smoking pot on the balconies during Mardi Gras.
Frank looked at his pill for a minute, before popping it into his mouth and washing it down. He gave me a weak little grin. “All righty then.”
“It’ll be fun.” I kissed his cheek. “Remember how much fun it was last night? Tonight’s going to be even better.” I touched his ass and went on. “Everyone is going to be so jealous of me with my hot guys.” Sunday night was always fun on a nonholiday weekend—and during Carnival it was even better than Saturday night. Traditionally, Mardi Gras continued to build every night until Fat Tuesday. Every night the crowd got larger, louder, and more festive. Mardi Gras and New Orleans was working its magic on the tourists. Each day, they would be less and less inhibited, more relaxed, and even friendlier. That was the thing I loved the most about New Orleans. People for the most part were just out to have a good time and be friendly. It wasn’t like that in other cities, but that, I guess, is just part of the magic of New Orleans. Guys who, in other cities, went out dancing with a major attitude and looked down their noses at everyone else came to New Orleans and seemed to leave the attitude back home. The crowd of gorgeous men out last night in the gay bars certainly hadn’t seemed inhibited, and there would probably be even more of them out tonight. And we were definitely dressed to be noticed. I took my pill and washed it down with some of my screwdriver. “Let’s go, boys.”
There was just a hint of chill in the damp night, and I shivered as I closed the gate behind us. It wasn’t uncomfortably chilly, probably in the high sixties—the tourists from up north would think it springlike—but I would have preferred a few more degrees of warmth. The night sky was filled with clouds, and I could hear the dull roar of Bourbon Street seven blocks away. Bacchus was rolling down Canal Street about now, which made this the perfect time to get to the bars. Later, after the mad crush of the thousands on the parade route descended on the Quarter, the lines would be around the block to get in.
We started walking up Barracks Street, and some drunk girls in their late twenties whistled and cheered at us from across the street. I grinned, and Frank turned and gave them a bodybuilder pose, which led to more cheers, and Colin and I joined in. All four of them ran across the street, slopping their drinks out of their cups, and bestowed beads on us, each one reaching up to kiss us on the cheek as she placed her bounty around our necks. “You boys gay?” one of them drawled drunkenly. I placed the accent as Southern Alabaman.
Colin cocked his hat to her. “ ’Fraid so, ma’am.”
“Well, that’s a goddamned shame. If you change your minds we’re staying at the Wyndham. Room six fifty-seven.” She winked, then grabbed Colin’s butt and gave it a good squeeze, and then they scurried off, laughing and hooting.
We looked at each other and started laughing, then kept walking. Several times we got stared at, but never in a look-at-those-freaks-Martha kind of way. Most people smiled, others yelled “awesome costumes!” and still others threw beads. Every time we passed a crowded balcony of partyers, we got requests to show more skin than we already were and got beads anyway after we declined. Some were more than happy to let us flex for them instead, before raining down beads on us. Both of the boys had these great big happy grins on their faces. It was like, somehow, they had no idea just how handsome and sexy they really were before tonight and all this appreciation for their oh-so-tender flesh. I watched them, returning smiles and saying “Happy Mardi Gras” to strangers like they’d lived here their whole lives. They were having a great time, like I knew they would, and we hadn’t even gotten to the bar yet. And they were gorgeous men, and I loved them and they loved me right back.
I knew they’d get the true spirit of Mardi Gras, and I couldn’t have been prouder.
We met David in front of the Clover Grill. He’d chickened out on the Mercury costume and was just wearing jeans and a white tank top. He just shook his head at us. “Look at you whores.” He shook his head again. “Once again, showing yourselves to be true representatives of the gay community—putting your best face forward. Is it any wonder people think we’re all going to hell and are out to seduce their children?”
“Fuck you, David,” Frank said, winking at me, and I knew what he was thinking. I laughed.
Obviously, the Ecstasy was starting to hit him—and he was awful cute and sweet when he giggled like that. He really was a handsome man, and so was Colin, and I was so lucky to find these two guys to share my life with. A big burly bear walked by wearing just overalls with one strap down to reveal his massive hairy chest, and he smiled and I smiled back and said, “Happy Mardi Gras,” and he reached out and touched my chest and said it back to me. He moved on, and the crowd on the balcony at Lafitte’s cheered. I looked over and saw beads raining down on a drunk fraternity boy holding his open pants up with one hand while he held a big cup of beer in the other and his girlfriend was catching the beads for him, and then a breeze came along, and the overpowering smell of frying grease from the Clover washed over me, but it smelled good, and I smiled at David and . . .
Okay, Frank wasn’t the only one it was hitting.
We started up Bourbon Street, pausing under the balcony of the AMBUSHmag office. The fabulous drag queens up there cheered and tossed beads at us, and we waved and flexed for them, and a gaggle of hot shirtless guys in jeans walked by and grinned at us, and then we kept walking up the street, and there wasn’t a line, so we paid our cover and went inside. When we got to the top of the steps I recognized the song playing, “Easy as Life,” by Deborah Cox, whom I just loved, and I dragged the boys with me out onto the dance floor.
“Nothing in life is ever easy, nothing in life will ever run true,” I sang along with Deborah, throwing my arms up in the air with joy. We started dancing, and then Deborah Cox mixed into another song. We climbed up on the stage and I stood next to a guy wearing jeans that were so low his big, hard dick was the only thing keeping them from dropping to his ankles, and we danced together. At some point he kissed me, and I just smiled back at him. The songs kept melting into each other, and I kept dancing, no track of time. This was some fucking awesome X. At some point, Frank made a signal that he was going to get some water, and I watched his head bob through the crowd on the dance floor. He kept getting stopped so people could grab his butt or pinch his nipples or stroke his chest and he had this huge smile on his face.
Then the next song was “I Want to Know What Love Is,” by Wynonna, and I went into performance mode.
“It’s gonna take a little time,” Wynonna and I sang, and I raised my hands up toward the ceiling as the drum beat began, and the crowd down below me let out a cheer. I noticed Colin was dancing with some pretty young Hispanic boy who looked like he’d never eaten a French fry or cookie in his life, and I didn’t know where David was; this Hispanic boy was totally his type. I kept dancing . . . and as the chorus crashed into gear, smoke flew out from the ceiling and the crowd cheered again and I was bouncing, jumping up and down. “I want to know what love is... . I want
you to show meeeeee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee!!”
And I gave myself to the music and the dance.
The high stopped rather suddenly, as it is wont to do sometimes, but I was still dancing, moving my feet but not as crazed as I had been. I realized Frank still hadn’t come back. I looked at my watch and was stunned to see it was two-thirty; we’d gotten to the Parade around eleven. That’s strange, I thought, and turned to ask Colin if he knew where Frank was.
Colin was nowhere to be seen either.
I kept moving but started looking around the dancing bodies to my right, in case I’d missed them. No, they weren’t on the stage, and I looked to the left. Not there, either. I squinted and peered through the flashing lights at the dance floor. It shouldn’t, I figured, be hard to spot them, even if they’d taken the winged caps off. I mean, how many people in the place were painted gold?
But they weren’t on the dance floor either.
Okay, this was beyond strange—this was fucking weird.
They wouldn’t have just left me, would they?
Of course not, I reasoned. They probably just went to get water or something, ran into some hot guy, and were probably in a darkened corner of the bar making out. I couldn’t believe that both of them would just take off with someone without telling me, though. They never had before, after all, but other than last night, they’d never been on Ecstasy before, either. Maybe I should get down and go look around. But then what if they came back and I was gone? It had never occurred to me that we might get separated, so I hadn’t come up with a contingency plan. That was, sadly, a real rookie mistake. You always have a contingency plan in case you get separated. It was entirely possible they’d hooked up with guys and were gone for the night.
Which made me feel like an ugly stepsister.
I pulled away from the guy who had his arms around me and was grinding on my ass. I turned and gave him a smile. “I’m going to get some water.” As soon as I said it I realized how dehydrated I was.
He gave me the lazy grin of the happily drugged. “Coming back?”
I nodded, knelt down, and stepped off the stage. I made my way through the crowd and stood on the edge of the dance floor. The bar section was crowded, but not so bad I wouldn’t be able to get around it. I walked around and saw no sign of them. I ordered a bottle of water and asked the bartender if she’d seen two guys dressed like me.
She gave me my change and shook her head. “You know the rules—hold on to your husband, honey!” she shouted over the music.
I gave her a sardonic grin and walked to the other bar in the back. Not there. I checked the bathrooms and then went out onto the balcony. It was packed, and I had to fight my way through, but they weren’t out there either. I managed to fight my way to the railing and glanced down into the crowd in the street. They weren’t there either.
Another wave started to wash over me as I stood there, and I started bouncing a bit on my feet, dancing in place. Where the hell could they have gone?
I finally turned away from the railing, took a big drink from my water, and walked back inside. I walked over to the dance floor, but there was no sign of them. Ditched by my boyfriends, I thought, starting to get more than just a little bit pissed off. They could have at least had the decency to tell me they were leaving, the rat bastards! I considered going out onto the dance floor, but somehow, the joy of the evening was gone. I was still high, but I wasn’t in the happy place anymore. I bummed a cigarette from a leather man even though I don’t smoke, but I didn’t want to just stand there looking deserted either. I looked at my watch again. Just past three. It was just so not like them to do this.
I decided to go down to the street and look around a bit for them, hoping against hope they’d be coming up the stairs when I descended, but no such luck. I walked out the exit and looked into the mob of people on the sidewalk and street.
My heart stopped for a brief second.
Misha was standing across the street. He was standing by the NO/AIDS table, which was abandoned for the night. He was smoking a cigarette and scanning the crowd at the intersection. He was wearing sand camouflage army pants and no shirt. What the hell was he doing down here in the gay section? Did Aunt Sylvia know he was down here? What was he up to?
I took a swig of my water and started walking across the street. Someone in a group of guys reached out and pinched my nipple. I grinned at him and kept walking.
“Misha?” I asked, as I got close.
He peered at me for a second. Then his eyes grew wide and he started backing away from me.
“Misha, it’s me, Scotty.”
He turned and ran.
What the fuck?
I took a deep breath and started running after him.
He wasn’t going as fast as he probably could; he was wearing those big, thick army combat boots. He headed up St. Ann toward Dauphine Street. Was he heading toward the house on Burgundy? I wondered. But when he got to the corner, he turned to the right. Every running step was agony. I was in a lull from the drug, which meant that I was now fully aware that, in my feet, calves, and lower back, I’d been dancing nonstop for hours. But I kept going. Why was he running away from me? Why had he reacted so strongly to me? He hadn’t reacted like this when Colin and I had seen him at Aunt Sylvia’s house this morning.
Or had he? I wondered, trying to dig through my drug-addled brain to remember how he’d acted.
He had seemed ill at ease and uncomfortable, now that I thought about it. But I’d just assumed it had been the news about his brother, and having us show up unexpectedly the way we had.
But he hadn’t acted afraid—which was exactly how he was acting now.
Afraid of me? Why?
It didn’t make any sense.
I got to the corner at Dauphine and saw he was halfway down the block on his way to Dumaine. The street was fairly deserted, and I sped up, my feet and calves begging for mercy.
He turned right onto Dumaine, heading back toward Bourbon Street.
When I reached the corner he had made it to the crowd spilling into the street in front of Lafitte’s. Great, I could lose him there.
I took a deep breath and kept running.
I slowed down, trying to catch my breath when I reached the corner at Bourbon. He was still running, now heading down Dumaine toward Royal Street. I took a moment to take another drink of water—I was dehydrated—and started running again.
He slowed when he crossed Royal.
I don’t fucking believe this.
He stopped at the gate behind the Devil’s Weed and pulled something out of his pocket. He unlocked the gate and stepped through, slamming it shut behind him.
Another coincidence? How the hell did he have a key to my parents’ back gate?
What in the name of the Goddess was going the fuck on around here?
There was no need to keep running, so I stopped and tried to catch my breath. I took another gulp from my water bottle, emptying it and putting it on top of a full trash receptacle. I walked casually down to the gate, using my own key to let myself in. I climbed the steps and unlocked the kitchen door and walked into the kitchen. I could hear voices coming from the living room. The light was on in the kitchen, and several empty wine bottles were lined up on the counter. Mom and Dad were night people, always had been, and stayed up every night until almost dawn, sleeping in till about noon every day. My mother likes to say, “No truly civilized person gets out of bed before noon.” They stayed up all night, smoking pot, drinking wine, and talking politics, sometimes just the two of them, and sometimes they had friends over. As a kid, I’d gotten used to going to bed to the sound of voices passionately arguing in the living room. I always thought it was kind of cool that my parents weren’t like other kids’ parents, but right now I wasn’t exactly so sure how I felt. I was in another lull, so I could think a little more clearly, but as cool as my parents were, it was still kind of weird to show up in their house practically naked and covered in gold body paint following a Rus
sian.
A Russian they knew, apparently.
Misha was standing with his back to me, talking wildly.
Mom and Dad’s living room is a huge room with high ceilings that opens out onto the wraparound balcony. They’ve never really cared about expensive furniture, and the art on the walls is primarily protest posters mixed in with Bob Marley, Che Guevara, and Franklin Roosevelt. Mom and Dad’s politics were leftist just stopping short of communism. “Communism is good in theory,” Mom once expounded over dinner, “but unfortunately human beings are easily corrupted by power, and once that corruption sets in, the system fails. Just like any other system of government. They’re all good in theory, but most humans just don’t live up to the ideals their government sets for them.”
The room was full of pot smoke, and there were two open bottles of wine on the coffee table. Mom and Dad were sitting, listening intently to whatever it was Misha was saying.
“Then he chase me!” Misha said, gesturing wildly with his hands.
Mom looked up then and saw me. She got a big smile on her face. “Scotty! This is a pleasant surprise!”
Misha turned, and his face drained completely of color. His eyes got wide again, and he put his hands up in the air, backing away from me. “No, no, no! Please!”
“What is your problem?” I stared at him. “Why are you acting so crazy?” My cell phone started ringing in my camera bag. I grabbed for it. “Hello?”
“Scotty, where the hell are you?” It was Colin; in the background I could hear the music blaring. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”