When I return to the bar, there are at least five more men seated at the stools, and Jimmy is listening intently as they converse. The young man sits at the far end of the bar, alone, scribbling his beautiful poems on napkins. A man I recognize but cannot name lifts me to my place on the counter. He feeds me my sandwich and lifts the container of water to my lips, stroking my hair. An angel.
It seems that since I’ve been gone, a mandatory evacuation has been ordered, and even if the storm were to drop to a category three, catastrophic flooding is likely. I imagine my lover and me on the rooftop of our little shotgun, the water rising all around, the music from an invisible orchestra swelling dramatically. Our neighbors paddle by in boats, waving to us, wishing us well. Some offer us a seat, but we say no, we will not leave our home, not until we are forced to swim. Just as the water rises to our necks, when my lover and I are standing, but for our heads, fully underwater on our rooftop, we kiss, and as we do, the waters recede, defeated by the power of love.
The patrons are chatty, frightened and chatty. Promises are made, vows are forged. Meet me here at x time, my friend has a generator, and he has a place for you to sleep, we live on the highest ground in the city, yes we have a few weapons, he’s comfortable with me bringing people home, we’ll paddle through the city, we will be the royalty of the new Atlantis, no, the cats will be safe, we’ll store them in the attic, I won’t leave and neither should you.
Why should it be that this should ever end? I wonder. These people have found this place, they have traveled across the entire world to find this place, the place that they have searched for their entire lives. What kind of prude, I wonder, would bring his fist down and smash it?
My lover arrives at four in the Mercedes; I watch him, now completely sober, from my perch on the counter. The urgency of his mission requires that he park on the curb. I realize with horror that the sedan is packed full of our belongings.
He is, of course, in quite a state. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his tie has fallen. He is sweating terribly, entering the bar. “Derrin,” he says, “We need to go.”
I point to the nearly empty jug of water. “Don’t you have something to not ask me?”
“There isn’t time,” he says. He lifts me to the floor.
“So we are staying. Wonderful!” I shout.
“We can’t stay, baby.”
“You promised me that if I was in my right mind, you wouldn’t ask me to leave. Here I am, in my right mind.”
“I’m sorry. We need to go.”
“What has happened?” I ask.
My lover thinks for a moment. He is troubled by everything. He is sensitive to every living thing at every moment. It is why I love him. This realization does not dampen my fury at being taken advantage of, however. “I couldn’t live if something happened to you,” he says.
“What made you suddenly disregard our agreement?”
“For some reason,” he says, “I can’t stop imagining the neighborhood under water, and your body floating in it.”
“But don’t you understand that if I were floating in the flood, the sight of our neighborhood, preserved for all time, would make me happy? I don’t want to leave. What will all these boys do?”
“They will be all right. I hope the Lord will keep them safe.”
“I don’t understand why you think the Lord would discriminate in who He saves and who He does not. I would think that, you being a believer, and me being at least a partial acknowledger, that we would stand a fairly good chance.”
“We live a life of sin,” my lover says. “You know it, Derrin. We need to look out for ourselves.”
My lover and his Catholic guilt! I feel an erection stirring. He becomes a fearful altar boy before my eyes. Still, I feel the need to hold my ground, though I don’t know yet how to go about this.
“I’m going to the restroom,” I say. I hand him the remaining three dollars of the hundred he gave me. “Why don’t you order a soda and say hello to Jimmy?”
I once again make my way toward the back of the bar. Instead of entering the restroom, I slip into the shadowy part of the hallway and lean my back against the wall. From here I can see everything, all patrons, though they would have to look hard to see me. I watch my lover as he makes his way to the bar. There are several open seats, but he chooses the one next to the young poet, who sizes my lover up, wearing a face at once pensive and passionate, if such things are possible, and it is only after Jimmy has poured my lover a drink that my lover finally notices the young man’s efforts. He engages the young man in polite conversation, and it is obvious, by my lover’s body language, that he is quite attracted to the young man. My lover puts two fingers to his own lips when he is taken with something, as he does now.
I am not jealous. My lover is a born caregiver, above anything, and if there was ever someone who exuded fragility, albeit knowingly, it’s this young man. Watching my lover now as he momentarily puts all of his fears and worries aside so as to share a pleasant moment with the young man, I find it impossible to stay angry with my lover. His manners are absolutely impeccable. I walk to him, and, pulling on his sleeve, I ask that he accompany me outside. He thanks the young man for the conversation and follows me out.
“I will go with you on one condition,” I say, leaning against the beautiful sedan.
“Tell it to me,” my lover says.
“That we will take one of these people with us.”
“There isn’t room in the car, Derrin.”
“Throw out my possessions, then.” I am not sure I completely mean this.
“Why do you care, baby?”
I lift one of my arms in the air magnanimously. “I care if for no other reason than you attempted to take advantage of me,” I say, “and since you decided to go back on your word, I feel that I have the right to request just about anything I want. Therefore, if this storm is going to be as deadly as you say, I would like to save the life of someone else.”
He smiles. “Who would you like to bring?” he graciously asks.
I walk into the bar, to the young man, and tug on the sleeve of his shirt.
“I am offering you a free ride to Houston,” I say.
“I can’t afford a hotel,” he says.
“My lover is a lawyer,” I say. “He has promised to take care of everything. I suggest you go home and pack a bag.”
“I don’t have a bag,” he says.
“The car is waiting outside, then,” I say.
I tell my lover of our new passenger, and he clears space in the back seat for the young man. Just as he finishes, I inform my lover that I will be riding in the back with the young man. “You are an evil one, Derrin,” my lover says, holding back a smile. He picks me up and carries me into the bar, and we say our goodbyes. I kiss Jimmy on his precious lips.
We drive, up to our ears in all that we own, down Royal, up Conti to North Rampart, and North Rampart to Canal. I look at my lover’s face in the rearview mirror. He listens to the radio, as if it held a kind of secret, cursing sweetly, taking the three of us to the freeway. The young man has brought with him his pen and a stack of napkins. He is already composing a new poem. When he finishes, he hands it to me, and I read it aloud. It is called “Three Strangers”:“A man met another man, and formed the bond of love.
Then they met another man, and formed the bond of
friendship.
A hurricane makes them both lovers and friends.
In Houston wait the loving arms of Mother.
All lovers and friends await the loving arms of Mother.”
My lover and I applaud. We are gridlocked in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Interstate 10. Seeing the faces of the others, I begin to feel a little better, knowing we are not the only ones fleeing. The young man passes me a napkin, and presses the pen into my palm.
“I cannot,” I say. “My condition prevents me.”
He takes them back, compassionately.
“I will tell you one instead,” I say
.
Acknowledgments
Without any reservations, I hereby thank the following people: Mom and Dad, Elizabeth and Patrick, Michael Martone, Kate Bernheimer, Rikki Ducornet, Bradford Morrow, Christopher Chambers, and Francine Prose.
These people also deserve something for their pains: Leah James, Laurence Ross, Katie Thompson, Earl McNair, Adam Panitch, Kate Lorenz, Adam Weinstein, Steve Kowalski, Nic De Dominic, Ryan Joe, Erik Wennermark, Cherie Weaver, and Friedrich Kerksieck.
Christopher Hellwig should get some credit too, I suppose—he line-edited the entire manuscript for nothing.
Stories from this collection have appeared in: Conjunctions—“The New Year”; Indiana Review—“Something in My Eye”; New Orleans Review—“The Vengeful Men”; Denver Quarterly—“The Fast Meal”; Short Fiction—“Repenting” and “Murder Ballad”; Santa Monica Review—“If We Should Ever Meet”; and Fawlt—“The Buddy.” “The Lonesome Vehicle” originally appeared as part of the chapbook Abandoned Tales (Small Fires Press), and “Last Seen” first surfaced in 30 Under 30 (Starcherone Books).
MICHAEL JEFFREY LEE lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, where he earns his living as a typist, a waiter, and a nightclub singer. A frequent contributor to Conjunctions, he is also an Associate Fiction Editor at the New Orleans Review. He is at work on a novel.
Sarabande Books thanks you for the purchase of this book; we do hope you enjoy it! Founded in 1994 as an independent, nonprofit, literary press, Sarabande publishes poetry, short fiction, and literary nonfiction—genres increasingly neglected by commercial publishers. We are committed to producing beautiful, lasting editions that honor exceptional writing, and to keeping those books in print. If you’re interested in further reading, take a moment to browse our website, www.sarabandebooks.org. There you’ll find information about other titles; opportunities to contribute to the Sarabande mission; and an abundance of supporting materials including audio, video, a lively blog, and our Sarabande in Education program.
© 2012 by Michael Jeffrey Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher. Please direct inquiries to:Managing Editor
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lee, Michael J. (Michael Jeffrey)
Something in my eye : stories / Michael J. Lee.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-936-74737-5
I. Title.
PS3612.E3455S66 2011
813’.6—dc23
2011025306
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in Canada.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Sarabande Books is a nonprofit literary organization.
This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.
The Kentucky Arts Council, the state arts agency, supports Sarabande Books with state tax dollars and federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.
Something in My Eye: Stories Page 14