But what made him almost laugh out loud was the name on the poster, on each magazine: Colt.
Young buff guys stood naked and amazingly stiff enough to hang a coat on. Others featured drawings, perfectly formed cartoons of superhero bodies, men lounging, wrestling naked, with equally super cocks, butts, a masterful achievement, what he’d had all along been trying to do with his drawings.
He had to have one. Even if he had to steal it, he had to have one.
Holding it in his quivering hand as he approached the counter, he felt it nearly slip out, his hand was so sweaty, the paper so slick. A skinny guy with a goatee up behind the counter emerged by the sign that read: “Proof of age is required for purchase,” said, “Help you?” The guy smiled, not as mean as he looked at first.
He put the magazine on the counter. The guy wouldn’t stop smiling.
“You eighteen?”
“Sure.”
“You got ID?”
He felt in his pocket, took out his wallet, pretended to look for the driver’s license he wouldn’t get until September. But this couldn’t wait until September. Even then he would only be sixteen. He should have swiped it. He had to have this now.
“I forgot it.”
“Sorry.”
“I got money.”
“Sorry. No can do. We got closed down last year. Things are a bit tight. You understand.” The guy took the magazine. It disappeared behind the counter. “Hey, try Details or Men’s Workout. They got lotsa nice underwear ads. You can get one of those muscle magazines in the grocery. I know how ya feel, dude.”
Racing out in a flurry, flushed with embarrassment, sweat suddenly coated the layer between his T-shirt and his back, he turned away into the lot, hid out behind the building a minute, pacing, burning with anger, frustration as the last bits of purple and magenta bled from the dusk sky.
A car pulled up, its lights glaring at him, past him.
At the other end of the parking lot, the mustache guy from inside walked toward his car with a slim brown bag in his hand. He stopped, half-waved with his hand.
A very different sort of panic filled Joseph, a good fear, like before a match, like jumping off a cliff when you know there’s warm water waiting. He crossed the lot.
“I couldn’t help but notice your little problem in there.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.”
“Would you like some of mine?”
“What?”
The guy held up his paper bag.
“Lemme see.”
The guy looked around. Darkness crept in, but they were still visible.
“Come on.” He clicked the alarm on his key ring. The car blurted an electronic fart. The guy opened his car door, sat inside. Joe went around to the passenger side, heard the bing, bing as he sat down, the guy clicking his ignition key on to play some music, some geeky Lite FM.
“Take your pick.”
The magazines he’d wanted fell onto his lap.
“Um, thanks.”
“Anything for you, Adonis.”
“Who?”
The guy wasn’t bad-looking. His face was nice enough, not really handsome, but harmless. His jeans were loose. He didn’t seem to have a great body, not that his body would be a part of it.
Wild with thoughts, his breath growing shallow as he heard his heartbeat thump in his ears, felt his blood race down to his cock as the guy put a hand on his thigh. Then the man leaned over, kissed him. He tasted like toothpaste, like he’d expected to kiss someone.
“You are so beautiful,” he muttered as his fingers trailed up Joseph’s chest, pawing him lightly, tugging up his jacket and T-shirt. His heart punched at his ribs, then the guy’s mouth was on his belly, his wet tongue, mustache bristles tickling. He cringed, his stomach muscles contracting. He worried the guy would stop, but he kept on, catching the little ripples, thrusts.
The guy’s hand fumbled with his pants. He tried to pull them down, but Joseph wanted to keep his pants up in case he wanted to run, but he knew he wouldn’t run, knew he wanted to see his own dick in somebody’s mouth again. He unzipped his pants, letting the guy feel the hard ridge under his shorts, then released his cock, which bapped up against his belly.
His mouth swallowed him. He heard the guy gasp, as if coming up from swimming. He whispered, “Beautiful. Uncut. I love that.”
“Whatever.”
The guy remained in his lap, licking around it, stretching it with his tongue. As much as he loved Dink, this guy was a lot better at it.
After only a few minutes, the guy pulled his head back, yanked it with his fist. A pearl of it flew up onto the dashboard, another glop stretched out on Joseph’s jeans, on his thigh, like an arrow, saying, This Way Out. He quivered, closed his eyes, shot again, felt it all, thought, how nice that something so gross could feel so good.
Then the guy fished out his own cock, touching it, pumping it, as if he was late for something, said, “You wanna?”
“Um. . .”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, um, lemme. Just once.”
The guy’s cock was reddish, like his face, somewhat gross, but at the same time he wanted it, wanted to see if it fit. He opened his mouth, the guy shoved his pants down. The smell was clean, a soap smell caught in the hairs tickling his nose. The guy started shoving his hips up into his face.
Joseph choked, but held onto it, more to use his hands to keep the guy from banging his cock too far up, since his head kept hitting the steering wheel. Then he had to swat the guy’s hand away, which was creeping down toward his butt.
He heard slick sounds as the guy grabbed his own cock, pumping. He kept rubbing the back of his neck. It was nice, but then he knew the guy wanted him to do more. He wanted to, but only because he closed his eyes, pretending it was Dink, Fiasole, Cleshun, Bennie, Hunter, Marky Mark, anybody else, that he would do this again someday, but not in a car, not ever in a car.
He pulled back. Like those few times with girls, where he kissed them, pretended, he leaned in, kissed his mustache, yanked it with him. He closed his eyes again, suddenly enjoyed it more, twirled his tongue around inside the guy’s mouth, how he would have kissed Max Fiasole if he’d had the chance.
He moaned a little into the guy’s mouth, then he felt wetness burst into his hand. He pulled harder, faster, until the guy grabbed his wrist, instinctively yanked his hand away, throbbed, relaxed.
A wrist hold. Could have wrapped him like a pretzel.
“Wow,” the guy said, looking at a glob of sperm dangling from the dashboard like wet tinsel. “I’ll never wash my car again.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Not really.”
Adjusting pants, zipping up, the guy said, “So, I could give you a ride home.”
“That’s okay.”
“Can I buy you a soda?”
“Naw.”
“Right.”
His throat was all gooey. He asked to roll down the window, then spat.
The overpass hummed a ways off, the skimming tops of cars and trucks gliding on a cement river in the sky.
21
SHOPPING, the note on the fridge said, which explained the whereabouts of his mother and possibly Sophia so early in the afternoon. His father? At work. Mike? Who knew? Dissecting roadkill, probably.
Joseph downed five cookies with a glass of milk, sat silent at the dining room table, his books sprawled out in the convincing illusion of study. No tube. No music. Not until everybody was home and he needed something to block them out. Just be silent.
He took out his drawing, his first B-minus after years of art class A’s. They were supposed to draw their families for a display to go in the lobby at school. Some PTA thing. “Where are you?” Mrs. Bridges had asked. Joseph immediately made a joke about him sitting on a hill painting his family on a picnic. That satisfied her. It wasn’t until later that Joseph realized he’d put himself out of the picture.
He was supposed to give it to his mother. As if. She l
ooked horrible in the drawing, her neck gangly, her hair wrong, her eyes too dark. Forget it. His dad had been enlarged to more muscular proportions, looking more like a bad sketch of a skinny Wolverine. Mike held his toad in one hand like a prize watch. He’d probably think Joseph was making some kind of “comment.” Joseph had Sophie with one toe extended, smiling, sprite-like. She’d like that.
He slipped the drawing inside his book, then took it out, nearly ripping it into little pieces, but he thought he heard another creepy sound, was ready to hide under the coffee table again, but it was the middle of the afternoon.
He heard steps retreating from the porch, cautiously got up, went to the door.
A manila envelope lay in the ghost square where the welcome mat used to be. He saw the photographer kid across the street, walking briskly.
“Hey!”
The photographer turned, caught.
Joseph waved him back.
He turned away, then turned back, walked all the way up the driveway, to the door. Joseph stood in his sweats and a sweatshirt, felt suddenly self-conscious that the kid would see his belly. Tom, that was his name.
“Sorry,” Tom sputtered. “I didn’t know if anybody was home.” He stood at the bottom of the porch steps.
“What are you doin’ around here?”
“I just wanted to stop by and give you that.” Tom pointed to the manila envelope. “If you read the note, um, we were clearing out files for the yearbook, and I just thought you might want these.”
Joseph crossed his arms, not retrieving it. “You the one that’s been snoopin’ around my house?”
“No. They’re those wrestling pictures. I never got a chance to…What, somebody’s following you?”
“Never mind.”
“I just–well, you never talk in school. It’s like you’re trying to be invisible.”
Joseph shrugged. “Yeah, tryin’.”
Tom said nothing. He looked out to the clean lawns across the street to see if any neighbors were watching. “Come on up,” Joseph said. Tom cautiously walked up the stairs, picked up the envelope.
They stood for a moment, not saying anything, until Joseph blurted out, “You know what pisses me off, more than him dying? It’s like everybody’s back the way it was, just like it never happened. And we’re like. . .”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know?”
“He was my friend, too. You’re not the only one that hurts.”
“I never saw you with him.”
“Well, neither did anybody else.”
Joseph blushed, trying to take it in. Anthony and Tom. “No way.”
“Way.”
They both tried to laugh.
He wanted to say anything that would make Tom feel better. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry for you.”
“He was always talking about you. He liked you so much.”
Joseph choked off a sob, reached out to hug Tom, but only touched his arm slightly, hesitant.
A car glinted down the street. He heard the garage door rumble itself open.
“Oh shit.” He grabbed Tom, pulled him down behind the porch. The two boys lay low. Joseph muttered, “You gotta go. You gotta go.”
“What, is that your–”
“Please. I’ll talk to you in school. I promise.” They heard his mother’s car pass the porch, disappear into the garage. If she had groceries, he had about twenty seconds to hightail it out of hearing range.
“Well, um, we can talk in school, okay?” Tom sort of begged.
“Sure.”
“Oh, here, here.” Tom pushed the manila envelope at Joey.
Like he needed pictures of himself, who he used to be. Joseph clutched it as he backed inside. “Thanks. See ya on Monday, okay?”
“Okay.” Tom walked down the stairs slowly, too slowly. Joseph half-waved before closing the door just as he heard the kitchen door. He flew up the stairs in four leaps, closed his bedroom door, opened the envelope, took a quick scan, breathed.
Him and Dink. Anthony, Hunter, Bennie. The whole happy fucked up family twisting around on the mat. The team picture. Everybody smiling, proud. Bip. Bip. Bip; the sound of his tears falling on photographs.
“Joey? Come and get groceries.”
Be a man now. Deal with this.
“Joey?”
“Be down in a second.” He wiped his face with the belly of his T-shirt, hid the pictures in the secret place with the magazines, trotted slowly down the stairs, pretending his heart wasn’t racing.
“Where were you?” His mother stood behind two brown bags.
“Sleeping.”
“You’re sleeping too much. Why don’t you go out, get some exercise?”
“Yeah.”
“Get the other bags.” His mother looked around herself for a moment. “Oh, and my purse.”
His socked feet left sweat prints on the garage floor. The trunk lay open, with two bags full of food; English muffins, Flavorpops, Cheese Doodles, Honeynut Cheerios.
He remembered the commercial where, in response to “What’s for breakfast?” a cowboy says. “Nut’n, honey!” The other cowboys draw their guns to the guy’s head.
Even cereal commercials told him to die.
He went to the front seat, figuring he’d strap his mother’s purse on his shoulder, like he used to do with his wrestling bag.
But first he looked inside.
Money, pictures of the family, credit cards, a Little Mermaid doll head, tissues, half a pack of Dentyne, two Tampax, a tiny phone book, a little bottle half-full of pills.
Go tonight, Joey. Anthony wants to wrestle.
He put the less-full bottle back in her purse, brought in groceries.
22
Mrs. Khors didn’t look quite so perky. She wore a loose sweater, jeans, two different-colored socks. “Oh, Joey. Um, look, I’m really–”
“Can I come in?”
“Um, well…All right.”
The house smelled like nothing. There were blank spots on the wall where he remembered some scribbly pictures. A few empty boxes sat forlornly along a wall. Was she moving? How could she abandon this place, the shrine where he and Dink had come together in a holy bond of goo and sweat?
“I was just actually, I had to wait for a very important phone call, so if you, well you may have to wait for a few…Um, can I get you something?”
Your son. “No, thank you.”
She mumbled, running her words together, not really talking to him, but to the sofa, the wall, the tube, anything nearby. She wouldn’t stop moving, so he didn’t sit down.
“I wanted to know how Di-Donnie was.”
“Donnie?” she said, pretending surprise. “Oh, Donnie’s fine. He’s doing his best. He…we’re trying to get the panel, or board, people, advisers, these sharp pointy-headed people with lots of forms, anyway, they’re saying maybe summer, or if he gets in another fight, three years. He’ll be visiting. I’m sure he’d like to see you. You know, I was just watching one of his favorite shows, the MTV one, with that poor boy who died.”
“Who?”
“Oh you know, that Cuban boy.”
“Oh. Right.” Pedro died?
“Um. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“What did…?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay, Joey. It’s okay.” She swooped toward him, gave him the shortest hug, too fast for him to even think about getting his arms around her.
Mrs. Khors seemed suddenly embarrassed by the display. Her eyes met his. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
Pedro died?
“They’re out now. My dad’s at work. Actually I was just selling raffle tickets for–”
“What is it?”
“Raffle tickets. For the Catholic League Raffle? We got prizes and you don’t have to be in the church to win? But the money goes for the victims of a drought in Zaire.” He was goaded into another of the sisters’ activities by his mother to ‘take his mind off his own problems.’
&nb
sp; “Oh, I’d be happy to, Can you just wait one minute while I get my checkbook?”
“Sure.”
He stood, tying himself to the door, fending off the urge to just race up the stairs, into that room again, just to smell it or steal something.
Pedro died? He hadn’t even seen the show yet.
“So, how’s Donnie?”
“You haven’t talked to Don’s father? Is that–”
“Mrs. Khors, please, I just–”
She kept looking at him, or near him, waiting. She fished around in her purse, but at the mention of Donnie, her eyes were upon him. She must have been like his mother, medicated.
“I …Mrs. Khors, I was wondering …I just want to talk to him. Can you– Do you know if he got my letter? I got the right address, but I never heard from him. You do have his, your, Mister Khors, I mean the address, right?”
Mrs. Khors sort of cocked her head, fished around on a table for something. She lit up a cigarette. “Maybe he needs to be on his own for a while.”
“Whaddayou mean? He’s in Passaic. How much more away do you–”
“He’s living with his father. He won’t be going to Little Falls anymore.”
“I know, but–”
“What I’m saying, Joey…” Let’s be friends before I scream at you, little boy. “This has been really hard for all of us…”
“I just wanna know he’s okay.”
“Sure.”
“Can you tell him?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.”
“I still think we should call your parents. Just let them know you’re okay.” She was already walking to a phone.
“No, I’ll go now.”
“Wait, I’m buying raffle tickets. Remember?”
“Oh.”
She stopped. “Joey, you have to understand something. I want him back, too. But everything’s different now. If it means he can’t go to school here, or anything else, I’m going to do it, because he is my son.”
“Yeah.”
“Now, who do I make this check out to?”
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