“Naw,” I say, acting coy, “you didn’t need my measly claps.”
He looks crestfallen.
“But you promised!”
Disappointed, he looks even younger, jailbait almost.
“Lemme make it up to you,” I say, ordering him a beer.
“Yeah, but you still broke your promise.”
He recovers quickly, seeing he hasn’t lost my interest.
“You were great!” I say.
“Think so?”
“Know so! You ought to go on tour.”
“I do!”
“Huh?”
Is there a tour for pudgy Joan Jett imitators?
“I mean, I used to before I got my new job.”
Douglas tells me he used to tour with bands as a gofer, the lowest rung on the roadie ladder. He spent a year on the road with the Dead, right before Garcia died. He loves rock’n roll. Put another dime in the jukebox, baby. He pulls off his baseball cap and his thick, sandy hair falls over his face.
“I’m sweating,” he says. “I must smell gross.”
He smells like a boy, all keyed up, racing through his youth. He could talk for hours about his days with the Dead. Garcia was a god, aloof and quiet, usually on some other planet in a distant solar system. Jerry never actually spoke to him. No one in the band bothered to learn his name. Everything he needed to know the other roadies told him. They’d call him over, give him a list—guitar strings, picks, amp fuses, all the little essentials that constantly needed to be replaced—and make sure he wrote it down, send him off with a pocket of cash, tell him not to return until he’d collected everything they needed, and, for Christ’s sake, don’t dawdle and don’t call to say he’s lost.
He ran for cigarettes and rolling papers and herbal essences. But mostly he made calls from pay phones, dialing numbers the head roadie passed him on matchbooks and hotel message pads, getting an address and scribbling it in ink on his wrist while he juggled the receiver, hailing a cab, ringing the buzzer of some tenement flophouse, exchanging thick rolls of hundreds for a discreet-looking package. He had to be very careful. The head roadie threatened to break his neck and dump his body in a landfill if the tour manager, who was paying a small fortune to a Zen master watchdog to keep you-know-who clean and sober on the road, ever discovered their little operation. I tell him it sounds dangerous and ask if he ever got scared.
“Naw,” he said, puffed up with bravado. He was terrified, probably pissed his pants more than once, until, like everything, it became dull, a routine, just like any other job.
I ask where he grew up. The question makes him uncomfortable and he winces. He says his father is an ordained minister with a small fundamentalist congregation in the Florida panhandle. He left home after his mother died. He went back last year, thought maybe he’d stay a while this time. He lasted six weeks. The old man accused him of terrible things, of being a criminal, just because his friends would call and he’d have to go out in the middle of the night. He left in tears at three in the morning. The preacher’s not his real father anyway. Douglas is adopted.
“So, you gotta work tomorrow?” he asks.
“No. Naw. I have to be somewhere, though. I can be a little late.”
“Good. I’m gonna set us up here for another round. Let’s get real drunk!”
“What about you? You have to work tomorrow?”
“Hey, man, I’m working all the time!” he says.
“So you’re working now?” I ask, skeptical.
“Always!”
He fishes in the pocket of his warm-up suit and snags a ball of rumpled bills. He flattens them on the bar with his fist, scowling at all the George Washingtons. But, hey, bingo, hello, President Jackson, jackpot!
“Hey, another pair of shots this way!” he calls out to the bartender.
“Lemme buy this round,” I say.
“Naw, my treat.” He sees me looking at the bills on the bar. “Plenty more where that came from,” he insists. “Cheers!” he shouts, downing a shot.
“So this job must pay pretty well,” I say, trying not to sound facetious.
“You bet!” he swears. He’s says he’s working for a major recording label. On the creative side.
“Artist and repertory?” I ask, skeptical.
“Wow!” he shouts, slapping the bar with the palm of his hand. “Cool. How did you know that?” he asks, impressed.
“Come on,” I say, teasing him, urging him to come clean. I’m hard-pressed to accept that any major label would entrust the nurturing of its precious investments, its stable of artists, to a baby-faced kid in warm-up pants and a baseball cap.
“Okay. Okay. You got me,” he says. “I’m a college rep.”
Douglas swears Columbia Records is paying him a living wage and a car allowance and an expense account to hit every tiny club on every campus across Tennessee and the Carolinas. He says it’s his job to learn the names of every new band as they emerge from suburban basements and garages, to schmooze local radio marketers and program directors, to hit frat parties with live music, to collect “alternative” weekly presses and clip every review of a Columbia record, to make the scene, listen to the buzz, to funnel leads to the real A&R people desperate to sign the Next Big Thing.
Sounds plausible enough. Only one way for me to be sure.
“So how much do they pay you for all that?” I ask.
The figure is too high, confirming my suspicions. The label could offer peanuts, or no pay at all, and still turn away hundreds of kids for a job like this, if it exists at all. Maybe he knows a connection or two at the label from his touring days and maybe, at best, Columbia Records picks up an occasional bar tab and reimburses him for show tickets. I’m pretty sure those bills on the bar are going to have to last him a while.
Yeah, it’s a great job, he says, not so enthusiastic now, but not throwing in the towel either. He’s looking for a place to live. He thinks he’ll be able to cover a thou a month, maybe twelve hundred. Maybe I know a place? He’s going to lease a car. Something with a little muscle. A Mustang. Red.
Elvis has returned to the building. The queen on stage is singing “Suspicious Minds.” Thanks for the warning, buddy, but I’ll have none of that tonight. I like the boy, appreciate his fumbling, guileless attempt to impress me. The fibs, the little white lies, they’re harmless, easy to swallow, warm honey to soothe my scratchy throat. It feels good to have someone care about what I think, to talk to someone who likes me.
“So Columbia must think there’s a market out there for fat fruits who look like Elvis the day after he bit the bullet?” I ask, sitting back down and dropping a twenty on the bar.
“Huh?” he asks, confused.
“You said you’re working now,” I say, pointing at the stage. “Guess you’re here to check out the talent.”
He bursts out laughing. I order another round and offer him a Camel filter.
“Naw, I came with a friend.”
“So where’s your friend?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Ain’t seen him for hours.”
“So you’re stranded?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t have a car.
“Nope. I’ll ask them to call me a cab.”
There’s two sorry Georges left on the bar.
I ask where he’s staying. He tells me the name of a cheap budget chain motel famous for its coin televisions and scruffy sheets and tiny soaps that cause skin rash.
“Only temporary,” he assures me.
Last call for alcohol.
Where did this evening go? What time did I get here? Am I drunk? Can I drive? Well, one more won’t make a difference. I’ll slow down. Another shot and a beer for Douglas; just a beer for me.
He’s evasive when I try to nail down his age. I try some simple arithmetic. Garcia’s been dead how long? Douglas was with the band a year. He must have been a high school kid when he took off on the road. He asks if he can give me a kiss. Sure, I say, laughing. He leans forward and gives me an awkward, affectiona
te buss on the lips, a peck without erotic undertones, like the kisses my oldest nephew used to give me before he turned into a self-conscious adolescent.
The bar’s closed. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, the bartender shouts to the stragglers. I excuse myself for a last piss. Douglas is gone when I return. Fucking little hustler probably found a better john. Naw, I think, choosing to be benign. The kid was working, always working. Must have got called in. Probably has a delivery to make. It’s a few steps down from his heyday in pharmaceuticals on the road with the Dead, but, what the hell, it’s a living. I step out into the heat and see him pacing the empty parking lot, cell phone at his ear, a duffel bag in the other hand.
“Who are you talking to at this hour of the night?” I ask.
He looks up, startled, frightened at first, then relieved, happy, when he sees it’s only me.
“Hey. Hey,” he says, letting himself breathe.
“Who are you calling?”
I see the wheels turning as he searches for a plausible answer, one credible enough to not prompt another question.
“The program director at the radio station. She left me a message. I need to get back to her.”
“It’s late.”
“She’s open all night,” he says.
“Always working too?” I ask, not too sarcastically.
“Yeah, right. Uh, she found an apartment for me. I have to get back to her.”
The cell phone rings. He hits the answer pad, then, having a change of heart, smacks the OFF button. He looks up at me, trying hard not to cry.
“Can I come with you?” he asks.
This boy is as alone as I am.
I can’t leave him here. He insists we put the duffel bag in the trunk. In case we’re stopped, he says. I wonder what the contents of the bag are worth. This is fucking crazy, I tell myself. But I want him to be safe. I want him to be with me. I want to leave quickly. Somewhere in the city, an engine is turning over, a determined foot is flooring the accelerator, a cigarette’s being lit in anger, Douglas’s number is being punched into a cell phone.
I reach for the ignition and he attacks, knocking my head against the window. I panic, certain I’m being robbed. But what Douglas wants isn’t money. He bears down, smashing his mouth into mine, his teeth clipping my tongue, drawing blood, a kiss too furious and aggressive to be mistaken for affection.
“Come on,” he says, pulling at my arm as he crawls over the seat. “Come on. Hurry.”
Twisted and contorted in this jack-in-a-box backseat, he manages to wriggle out of his crackling running suit and kick off his sneakers. The car stinks of sweat and dirty socks. He feels like a plush toy, soft and furry. He crushes my face with his damp armpit and squeezes my head with his arm. His other hand grabs my cock through my pants. “I hope it’s big.” It’s big enough, but smaller than his fat firecracker with its thick, padded cushion of pink flesh.
“Oh yeah,” he says as he frees me from my pants. Something much fiercer than desire compels him. “Please,” he begs, actually tearing my shirt from my chest. “Fuck me. Fuck me really hard.” He’s too impatient to waste time on foreplay. He doesn’t want me to stroke his body, tease his balls, and take his enormous cock down my throat. I reach between his legs, thinking I’ll have to finger him to get him loose. But his ass yields without resistance, threatening to swallow my entire hand. He’s wet, maybe not entirely clean.
“No. No. Not like that,” he says, wiggling away. “Fuck me with that big cock.”
I tell him I can’t. I don’t have a condom and I’m certain without asking that he doesn’t either.
“I’m okay. I promise,” he pleads.
I have no reason to believe him. All things considered, I shouldn’t. But I do.
I lower my hips and push inside. It’s thrilling, feeling this alive. He grabs me by the waist, challenging me to ride him harder. He bears down, squeezing my cock. He says he can feel me shooting inside him. Don’t stop, he begs, not yet. I stay hard enough to keep pumping until he splatters a huge load on his chest. He flashes his most wicked smile as he licks his cum from his fingertips. My heart is racing and my pulse is pounding. For the first time in months, years maybe, I’ve made someone happy.
“It’ll be better when we’re in bed,” he promises. “I want to show you what a good bottom I can be.”
Cleaned up and on the road, he tells me his rock and roll dreams. He claims he’s the cousin of the bass player in a famous band. They share the same last name. I ask if they’re close. Very, he says, crossing his fingers to emphasize how tight. He squirms when I ask why he’s not on the road with the band. Well, your cousin must have helped you get the job with the label, I say, trying to bolster his fantasy. Right, he says, and changes the subject.
“I love you, man,” he says, grabbing my hand.
He feels safe now and he knows I’m his savior. He’s escaped another scrap, another ugly confrontation, and he has me to thank. He knows only one word to describe how he feels. And tonight, when he says he loves me, he means it.
“Where we going?” he asks, smiling.
“Next town over.”
“Cool,” he says, feeling completely at home in the car now.
There’s an endless string of cheap motels between Charlotte and Gastonia. Free cable. Pool. In-room coffee. Vacancy. I have enough cash in my pocket to front a week in any one of these dumps. I should pull over, check in, wear him out with another bout of sex, then sneak away when he’s in a deep sleep. But something keeps the car on course, the autopilot set, destination home. I’ll spend the night watching over him, feeling his chest expanding and deflating until dawn. Maybe I love him back. It’s a vague enough word to describe how I feel.
“Cool,” he says again. “What’s your name?”
I tell him.
“Sorry, I must have forgot. Sorry.”
I tell him not to worry. I’d never told him.
“Look, man!” he says, pointing at the big white moon looming ahead.
He listens, enraptured, while I tell him the old Indian legend of the buck moon.
“You know a lot about a lot of things,” he says, impressed.
“Not really.”
“I know something too,” he says, self-conscious.
“What’s that?”
“I know I’m glad I met you.”
For the first time in weeks, months, a year, since the arrest, years before that even, I am exactly where I want to be. Not ten minutes, three hours, a month, a year in the future. Not yesterday, last week, five years ago, not revisiting every crossroad, taking a different turn this time. And then, on the radio, a drum roll and a power chord and Joan Jett is singing about loving rock’n roll.
“Hey, it’s our song!” he says. He tightens his grip on my hand. “Let’s just keep going.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Just keep going. Drive through to Tennessee. Let’s go to Gatlinburg.”
“What’s in Gatlinburg?” I ask, laughing.
“You’ll be there.”
I pull my hand away to downshift, tapping his gently to reassure him.
“But I’m right here in Gastonia,” I say.
“Can I stay with you in Gastonia?”
“Tonight. Sure.”
“Only tonight?” he asks, heartbroken.
I think ahead to tomorrow, the morning call to the hospital, the status report, and, then, hours and hours of sitting and staring into space. Tomorrow at least I’ll have him to think about, after he’s disappeared into time and space, nothing left of him but a first and last name, maybe real, maybe not. For a week, maybe two, I’ll obsess over him, an object desired because it’s inaccessible. I’ll imagine him going about his mundane routines, brushing his teeth, yawning, scratching an itch, charmed as if they were something magical. I’ll coast on these pleasant fantasies until they’re exhausted, stale. In the months to come I’ll think of him now and then. I’ll never know how it all turned out, h
is story, never know if he’s checked out of this world, a victim of a collision or gunfire. I’ll tell myself I loved him and mean it since it’s easy to love someone who touches your body once and disappears in the morning.
“We’ll see,” I say.
“I love you,” he says, taking my hand again.
I pull the car into the drive and turn off the engine. We’re home, I say. He likes my choice of words. I hold the car door for him, as if it was 1957 and this was the prom. He asks for his duffel, the precious bag.
“Hey, this is nice,” he says, impressed by the big house, lots of rooms to get lost in, “real nice.” I lead him to the kitchen and find a couple of beers.
“You live here alone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, shocked by my answer. It’s true. She’s never coming back. Her clothes are still in the closets. Intimate items—combs, pins, sprays—are scattered on her dresser. Her magazines, manuals on Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens, are stacked in her bathroom. Her collectible porcelain dolls stare wide-eyed, thinking she’s going to return. But the hospital bed is gone, shipped back to the rental company. The medications have been flushed down the toilet. The milk in the refrigerator has a later expiration date than my mother. Yes, I live here alone.
“Ever get lonely?” he asks.
Wait a minute. Back down. He’s playing with me, trying to manipulate a one-night stand into an extended visit. Do I ever get lonely? How could I possibly get lonely when intimacy’s so cheap, no more than the price of a few beers? How can I be lonely when there’s always someone like him, charming me with sincere endearments that don’t have to be accounted for in the bright light of day?
“No. Not really,” I say, lying.
“I do,” he says. “I wish I didn’t.”
He asks if he can kiss me, for real this time, not like in the bar. I’m ashamed of myself. This kid, this overgrown boy who’s in way over his head, is incapable of guile. His wet lips roam the contours of my face, grazing my cheeks, eyelids, nose, finally settling on my mouth. His tongue is tentative, not sure how it will be received, and when it finds a warm welcome, he whimpers as if he’s in pain.
“Wow!” he says when he comes up for air. “Need to cool off,” he says, fanning himself. “Break time!”
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