Shadow Traffic

by Richard Burgin

  “Yes, another,” he said. He had reached the point where he was afraid not to drink. Otherwise, the memories would come back, swarming and silent and no two alike, like snowflakes he supposed. Many of them would melt on contact, he told himself, but all the while more were accumulating then melting, and even now he knew Chris would be part of that memory snow that would stick. That was the price of human contact, or, in his case, the attempt at some. Would he never learn his lesson?

  The waitress was back with his drink. They were unfailingly dependable when collecting money was involved. Yet how could he blame them, or even Chris, who’d walked off with his hundred dollars. He hadn’t been any different when he was young. He was more selfish than any of them. Of course, he’d been at a tremendous disadvantage having to live with all his secrets weighing him down like a backpack of snow. Yes, he’d lived a life full of secrets, and the worst part of that was he never knew who knew and who didn’t, not even with his own parents, from whom he was now rich. It was as if they’d rewarded him from beyond the grave for keeping his secret and sparing them the pain of hearing it. That was irrational, he knew, but memories eventually made you irrational, burying your rationality under an avalanche of snow.

  It was odd how the beautiful memories hurt more than the painful ones. At least with him it worked that way. Even when it involved the relatively few men he’d been with. He could feel himself tearing up when he thought of them, or before them if he thought of his sled rides with his father down the hill across from the house where he grew up. Their laughter in the snow.

  He finished his new drink and looked up for the leopard but saw a man walking toward him instead. It reminded him of the car accident he was in a few years ago, the way the man approached him as if in slow motion.

  “Hi there,” the man said. He was probably around his age although Malcolm hoped he looked a few years younger. The man was well dressed too, in a navy blue blazer and light blue cashmere sweater. He could tell by his half-ironic, half-pitying smile that he’d witnessed Chris’s dramatic exit—how could he not have?

  “Hello and Happy New Year. I’m just on my way out,” Malcolm wanted to say but instead only managed a muted “hello.”

  “I’m Gene,” the man said, still standing in front of his sofa, which in a way was worse than if he’d sat down next to him uninvited. He rose from the sofa and said, “I’m Malcolm,” then right on cue Gene extended his hand and they shook.

  “Are you having a happy holiday?” Gene said, in a half-ironic voice.

  “I was having a reasonably happy holiday until a little while ago.”

  “Oh?” Gene said, raising his eyebrows until he managed to form a completely convincing quizzical expression. He was a good-looking man somewhere in his late fifties, perhaps he’d once done some modeling or acting, Malcolm thought, the way he’d just maneuvered his face so adroitly.

  “I’m sure you must have witnessed the unpleasant scene here a few minutes ago. I’m sure the whole room saw it.”

  “I saw something. I’m sorry that it was unpleasant for you. What was that youngster in such a snit about? Oh, well, why don’t we have a drink and make things more pleasant?” he asked politely enough, yet it seemed more a statement of policy than a request. Here was his chance to start the exit process back to his house in Clayton, where he could recover from Chris, but instead he said, “Sure, sit down.”

  Gene sat in a chair, not exactly opposite him but not next to him either. The furniture here was arranged like a museum of odd angles, Malcolm thought.

  Then a leopard, who was probably watching this entire encounter, pounced in front of them and Gene ordered drinks, putting twenty dollars on the small circular table in front of them.

  “Well … you’re looking good, Malcolm.”

  “Thank you,” he said, vaguely aware that he should return the compliment. “By the way, many people call me by my middle name, Caesar. Do you like that name more?”

  “Malcolm is just fine.”

  “You like it better than Caesar?”

  “Caesar is maybe a bit militaristic. I vote for Malcolm,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, OK, then Malcolm it is.”

  That was the way their conversation began. It was long on smiles, of one kind or another, but short on wit. Yet, at the same time, it seemed orchestrated by Gene, as if he was keeping his intelligence in reserve, knowing it was a weapon he could use later, whenever he felt the time was appropriate.

  “Do you remember the term ‘generation gap’?” Gene said, arching his eyebrows meaningfully.

  “Sure, of course. It was the national buzz word once and old buzz words never die, they just grow older.”

  “Exactly. So this young man who landed a hard left hook on the table—was it, in retrospect, really more of a generational thing than anything else?”

  Malcolm paused and found himself seriously thinking about Gene’s question, painful though it was to think of Chris again.

  “In a certain sense, I suppose it was.”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “But in a certain sense isn’t everything partially true? Isn’t that why we find ourselves in such a wonderfully clear and lucid world?”

  “Oh, oh. You’re being sarcastic. This can’t be good.”

  “I read somewhere that sarcasm is the protest of the weak, so I suppose that’s true.”

  “Are you weak, then?”

  “In certain ways I’m afraid I am.”

  Gene smiled and looked at him closely.

  “Well, I didn’t mean to cut you off before when you had a point to make about, how did you put it?—‘everything being partially true.’ Is there a point in my asking for an example?”

  “Oh, let’s say you have a possessive mother, as I actually did, who tried to keep you away from your father and from your friends because of her own need for you. You could easily enough say she was selfish, but it’s also partially true that she loved you in the only way she knew how. You couldn’t really say she didn’t love her child at all, could you?”

  “No, you couldn’t. And I’m sure she did,” Gene said, smiling earnestly. For a moment he looked like a cat, but a kind he’d never seen before. My mind is working strangely tonight, Malcolm thought, I definitely need another drink.

  Life rewards vigilance, he knew that, but no one could be vigilant every moment, could they? He was walking down a hallway in the Ritz, following a step or two behind Gene, the way he used to follow after his father, because Gene wanted to show him his suite at the Ritz. Talk about wanting to feel rich. At least he hadn’t told Gene about his own money, he didn’t think. He’d been vigilant enough not to do that, but of course, he did wonder now about what might happen with Gene, and perhaps, more to the point, why he’d agreed to go with him? Was it just because Gene had listened to him babble about his parents then listened further to some of his ideas that were little more than bitterness-induced truisms? Did one derive such power from the mere fact of listening?

  He tried to recall the moment of transition when Gene had suggested they go to his room—but couldn’t remember exactly. It must have happened when Gene noticed that he’d dropped his guard for a few seconds, and now he was following an essential stranger, and a strange stranger at that, to his room, ostensibly so they could smoke some pot. Finally Gene stopped and withdrew his plastic key while Malcolm leaned slightly against the wall to help steady himself.

  It wasn’t a room that gave away much about its occupant, other than that he kept it tidy. Gene pointed him to a sofa, a smaller version of what they had downstairs, then disappeared into the bathroom. If there was such a thing as a generic, expensive hotel room, Malcolm thought, this would be it. In musical terms it reminded him of a clean, long-lined but quirkily dissonant melody of Hindemith. Odd how, in his own way, Hindemith could be more terrifying than Bartók.

  Gene returned with a lit candle in one hand, a pipe, and some other drug paraphernalia, which he set down on the coffee table bet
ween his chair and the sofa on which Malcolm sat uneasily.

  “Are we really going to do this?” Malcolm said, realizing that this was something other than pot.

  “Why not?” Gene said, smiling just enough to reveal a few teeth.

  Malcolm wished he hadn’t asked him that way. It made him seem like a child.

  “But aren’t we both pretty high already?” he said. He was still sounding childish. He was a rich man now, couldn’t he finally put an end to these infantile posturings?

  “This will take us to a different place, one that I’m sure you’ll like.”

  How do you know I’ll like it, Malcolm wanted to say. How do you know I even want to be in this hotel room?

  “Here,” Gene said, handing him the lit pipe. “Inhale slowly but steadily.”

  He inhaled, then noticed that Gene had changed his clothes while in the bathroom and was now all dressed in black.

  “What did you say you do?” Malcolm asked, as he handed the pipe back to Gene.

  “I didn’t.” He inhaled, then handed it back to Malcolm. “I don’t mean to be secretive or rude but I find it so … limiting to talk about money. Can I get away with saying that I’m in a financial situation where I no longer have to work?”

  “Yes, you can.” I am, too, Malcolm wanted to say but was afraid to. It was paradoxical—Gene was good-looking but wasn’t younger than him or bigger either. He didn’t even color all his hair, which was silver in places, yet he seemed to dominate everything. Malcolm inhaled once more, coughing a little this time.

  “Do you really live here?”

  “I do tonight.”

  “You’re very mysterious.” Gene raised his eyebrows and smiled a little but he was also studying him.

  “Why do you think I’m mysterious?”

  “You’re just a big black bird of mystery,” Malcolm blurted, laughing as the high moved throughout his body. “A black leather bird, too, for the most part,” he said (looking at his clothes), which for some reason made him laugh still harder.

  “Why you’re just a little boy, aren’t you?” Gene said, looking at him intently. “Fortunately I like little-boy men, very much.”

  It was what he thought, then, but he didn’t want it. He was still thinking of Chris, missing him so much. All his life there’d been a Chris, of one kind or another, just out of reach. It was the Chris principle, he supposed. Because he suddenly had a lot of money now wasn’t going to change that. People speak of free will and the unpredictability of life to console themselves, the same way they speak of heaven, but he knew it wasn’t true. There was an element of unpredictability, of course, just enough to create a surface illusion or diversion, but he knew that undergirding everything were certain patterns of events and behaviors and people one was attracted to and these patterns kept repeating themselves throughout your life. It was true for him, at least, he knew it in his bones.

  “Why the sad face?” Gene said. “You don’t want to be sad now.”

  He saw what Gene was doing, treating him like a will-less child, but he merely shrugged in response.

  “You can tell me anything, you know. There’s very little I can’t deal with.”

  “Just feeling sorry for myself, is all. Probably the drugs are intensifying it …”

  “Sorry for yourself? That won’t do. You’re a good-looking man, judging by your clothes you must make a decent living, and you’re with me, so what’s there to be sorry about?”

  “I was just thinking about the past.”

  “Well, don’t do that. Ever,” Gene said, as if it were a command.

  “I try not to, but when I do, well, I’m forced to see things.”

  “What things?”

  “You know the line from Beckett—‘Do you believe in the life to come? Mine was always that.’”

  “Well, I’ve had a great life,” Gene said, moving a little closer and staring into his eyes again, “and it’s getting greater all the time.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “It’s all about attitude, isn’t it? Well, not all. It does help to have some natural attributes. Good looks and some money never hurt anyone, did they?” Gene said, with a little laugh.

  “OK. So what’s the secret, can you tell me?”

  “You have to create your own world. Where your dreams do come true.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “With desire and will and awareness, of course. Of the three, I think awareness is the most important.”

  “Awareness?”

  “Knowing what you want. I know what I want and I know what you want, too.”

  “How can you be so sure what I want?”

  Gene smiled. “You don’t believe me? Why are we in this room getting high together? Why did you even let me sit at your table and buy you a drink?”

  “You knew I’d say yes?”

  “Yes, Malcolm, I did.”

  He wondered briefly if it was true. “So you know everything I want?”

  Gene smiled at him.

  “Tell me what I want then.”

  “I’ll do better than that, I’ll show you. When I used to take creative writing courses in college they told us to show things instead of just telling them. If you sit still for a minute, I’ll show you what you want, OK?”

  “All right,” he said.

  “Just sit still,” Gene said, walking to a desk Malcolm hadn’t noticed before by the bureau. Since he wasn’t told not to look, Malcolm watched him remove a small safe deposit box from the desk, then begin to fiddle with the combination. When the safe opened, Gene seemed to cover it like Dracula raising his black, winglike cape and Malcolm looked away, in fact, turned his head in a different direction.

  “Be patient, I’m almost ready,” Gene said, finally walking toward him.

  “Now have a look,” he said, handing him an envelope stuffed with photographs.

  There were pictures of hooded men in chains doing forbidden things to their master, who was holding a whip and who was masked in some photographs, although it soon became apparent in others that it was Gene or a younger version of him. In still others, the slaves were dressed like children and were attempting to simulate their size by being photographed on their knees.

  Malcolm stared at the pictures, frightened and appalled. Then the photographs began to feel like little snakes in his hands, but he forced himself to handle them and not say anything, told himself the drugs were causing it and that Gene mustn’t know how stoned he was.

  “What’s it like looking at the future, little boy?”

  “These pictures are really something,” he heard himself say. “Very powerful.”

  Gene’s smile was self-satisfied and slightly contemptuous now. “I need to use the bathroom for a few minutes, but I’ll be back with some things for you. Stay here,” he added, before he closed the bathroom door.

  Malcolm got up from the sofa immediately and tiptoed as quickly as he could toward the door, though the carpet was so thick he realized he probably could have just run on it and not be heard. Then he undid the locks and left the room, walking rapidly to the nearest exit. He ran down two flights of stairs to the ninth floor, where he briefly considered taking the elevator before continuing to run down the remaining stairs to the lobby.

  Music was playing in the brightly lit lobby. A jazzy version of “Auld Lang Syne.” He thought of asking the concierge to call him a cab but didn’t want to risk encountering Gene so headed for the street exit instead, turning once and seeing the star on top of the Ritz Christmas tree just before he left the hotel.

  Outside it had started to snow and the wind had picked up. The streets were icy, it would be difficult to walk. There were a number of taxis in front of the hotel but they were all filled with passengers. If only Chris hadn’t left. He not only could have gotten a ride home—where he longed to be—but he could have avoided that whole hellish time in Gene’s room. Why couldn’t Chris understand that all he expected was a warm, intelligent conversation? B
ut how could the young man know that at a certain age that was often quite enough?

  It was irrational, he supposed, but he felt nervous standing in front of the hotel, lest Gene come outside and make some kind of scene. A pervert and predator like him was capable of anything.

  “Would you like a ride, sir?”

  He turned and looked at a bellhop, half expecting him to be Gene in disguise.

  “Yes, thank you, I would,” he said, climbing into the taxi and shutting the door before the bellhop could.

  He felt unusually tired in the taxi and weak, as if he’d left three-fourths of his strength at the Ritz. He wondered briefly if he should ask the driver if he knew Chris, then sat back closing his eyes, fully expecting a “thought essay” to begin. That was his term for it. Often when he was traveling alone he selected a topic then proceeded to examine or empty out his thoughts on it as if he were writing an essay on an exam. Tonight’s topic was “The Futility of Human Effort,” but no thoughts emerged, not even the opening line. He looked out the window, where it was snowing harder, closed his eyes again and dozed off for a minute or two.

  “Sir, sir,” the driver said, waking him up when they’d reached his house.

  He paid the driver, tipping him generously.

  “Thank you very much, sir. You have a safe and wonderful new year.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  He often overtipped now, he realized, because he enjoyed the enthusiastic responses he got. That was one good thing about his money.

  He began walking very slowly through the snow and wind. He was being careful. The driver even waited for him till he reached the sidewalk before pulling away. He watched the taxi turn the corner and disappear, then immediately thought he heard something unusual, like the high-pitched cry of a bird. He turned his head, heard a fainter version of the crying sound as if it were its echo, then started looking around frantically in the snow, wondering if he were imagining it or not.

  Ah, it was true enough! An elderly woman was lying on the sidewalk a few doors from his house. He didn’t recognize her (though he wasn’t really aware of any of his neighbors, so she could well turn out to be one of them).