Black John

by Amy Lane

  Ten, nine, eight, seven….

  So slow, so even. Not quite asleep enough to snore, but not awake either.

  “Do you know what I’d do with that kind of faith?” John asked, knowing he couldn’t answer. “I’d hold it so tight inside, it’d never have a chance to disappear. Nobody has ever believed in me like that. If you believed in me like that, you’d better believe I’d never let you go.”

  “Deal,” Galen breathed, and although John startled and thought seriously about cursing at him, he didn’t.

  He kissed his knuckles again and made it through “Tangled Up in Blue” before he checked again.

  This time Galen really was asleep, and it was time for John to go.

  THE NEXT day they took him off of the IV, and he slept for most of the day. He woke up just long enough to smile at John and ask him if he’d shot any good porn yet. John told him that the nurse said Galen’s regimen started the next day—the counseling, the long discussions, the mental gymnastic tricks Galen would need to get through his fourth without oxy, and then the day after that, and then the day after that.

  “Your phone’s here, all charged up, so you can text or call me,” John promised gravely. “And I’ll visit in three days on the weekend.”

  “What are you going to do?” Galen asked groggily. Not a good day to be thinking, oh no it was not.

  “Well, I’m going to go check in on your place, and check on your fish and buy you a plant or something, and then I’m going to spend a day or two at Nana’s, and swim and run and then work my fuckin’ ass off at my desk, because Dex needs me.”

  “Oh, well if Dex needs you, I don’t see why I should get in your way—”

  “Don’t be bitchy, Galen. It doesn’t become you.”

  “But a shower—that would be downright sexy!”

  John graced him with a faint smile. “Why yes, yes that would be. I think you should schedule one of those as soon as possible. And in the meantime, I’ve got to ask you something serious.”

  John pulled up a stool next to Galen’s bed and looked at him soberly over the rail.

  “Oh dear. Which face do I put on for this? The lawyer face or the—”

  “Or the supportive lover who would really like to do the right thing,” John said, not giving or taking any shit. “But perhaps he’s not sure what it is, so he needs to hash it out. That is the face I need you to wear, so listen up.”

  Galen nodded and straightened, and John couldn’t ask for more sober attention.

  “Tory’s funeral is in a week and a half,” John said.

  Galen hmmed, and John knew without even checking that he was taking this seriously.

  “We’re going to meet, go out on a boat ride, and come back and sit to dinner. I asked the doctor if you could get a day pass—he said since you entered the program voluntarily, that was fine. Now Brant, Zion, and I—we want you to come if you want to come. But we’re going to be hardasses about the drugs. You’ve got to remember, all of us have been there. We all talked about it. If we’d gotten let out early, you could not keep us away from the shit. So if you’re not feeling up to it, you need to tell me. I’ll go alone, and I’ll miss you—” Oh shit, his voice cracked. He hadn’t wanted to put that kind of pressure on Galen, dammit! “I’ll miss you,” he said again, reformed voice and all, “but I would seriously rather have you stay here if it’s going to be a problem.”

  Galen closed his eyes and sighed. Keeping them closed, he said, “This is a really shitty time to ask me, you know that, right?”

  “You’re damned right I know,” John said fervently.

  “I was literally about to ask the nurse if I could have a giant fucking sedative to pull me down for the rest of the night. I mean, it’s legal, but I could easily become addicted to the drugs that are meant to help me not be addicted to the other drugs—you are aware of that, right?”

  “No, Galen, because I did this fifty-five days ago, and it has all escaped my memory, like taking a poop in the morning when you’re half-asleep.”

  Unexpectedly, Galen burst into laughter. “Always the potty, John. I am shocked, I tell you, shocked and disappointed that after all this grown-up shit we’re doing, you still have the heart of a twelve-year-old.”

  “You love it,” John said affectionately. “You did not have enough people in your life to make potty jokes with. When you are out, I shall teach you how to make armpit farts, and you can reclaim some of your childhood.”

  Galen chuckled some more and nodded. “Can I give you an answer in five days?” he asked seriously.

  “God, yes,” John said without blinking. “I’ll tell them to expect four. If you don’t come, that’s not a problem at all. But if you do, we’ll have a spot for you.”

  “Mm….” Galen smiled. “A boat ride, out into the ocean?” he asked, like he was double-checking on a deal.

  “Yeah,” John replied, holding his hand because he could. “It should be a beautiful day.”

  “You’d think I could stay clean for a boat ride into the open ocean. I love the open ocean.”

  “Well, you think about it, okay?”

  “Yeah. John?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for asking. Even if I’m not up to it, thank you.”

  Oh, yeah. “Galen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I… I mean, I was thinking. Or rather I was feeding your fish, and then I stood at the window behind your fish tank, and you know what I saw?”

  “Three homeless men and their dogs?”

  “Besides that.”

  “Well, if you’d stop giving them food, they’d go somewhere else.”

  “What can I say, I’m a sucker for somebody else’s dog. Try again.”

  “Someone knocking over the minimart?”

  “That was last night.”

  “Two boys giving each other a hand job against the wall.”

  John grunted. “If I’d seen that, do you not think I would have given them my business card? You get one more guess, Cochise, and then I spell it out in big lurid neon.”

  Galen sighed. “Between three and six drug deals, shooting up behind my apartment optional.”

  “Look who wins the prize!” John smirked at him to make it light, because he didn’t want it heavy. He was pretty sure Galen couldn’t handle heavy at this point.

  “So what’s your point, smart guy? Setting up a neighborhood watch?”

  “As. If. My point is, how would you like to live, rent-free, in a nice place out in Cypress Point? It’s farther away from the ocean, but it does have a swimming pool, maid service, and grocery delivery. I could have the movers set up your furniture in one of the rooms, and—”

  “Wait!” Galen sat up in bed, actually awake for the first time since John had walked in.

  “And even if you don’t want to be with me after you get your shit together, you’re welcome to stay there as long as you need to, okay?”

  “What, I don’t want to be with—”

  “Just think about it, okay?” John begged, a little desperate. God, he did not want to be accused of taking over Galen’s life, but seriously. When the candy man had set up shop, John had almost gone down and scored, just for old times’ sake. Who could live like that and stay clean? “You don’t have to make a decision—hell, you can forget I asked and just tell me to buy the goddamned ficus and—”

  “I want a mammal,” Galen murmured. “And bamboo, or I will kill it. I learned that in Miami. But a mammal. Something with fur. And no diseases. So, I would have to leave the apartment anyway.”

  John relaxed a little. “I shall get right on the plants,” he said soberly. “And as for the—”

  “You,” Galen murmured, sinking into sleep. “I love how you assume I could do better. I got out of the hospital from the accident and I had to take a cab. My boyfriend had moved all my stuff already—I just… just gave the cabbie the address where my shit had been sent, and got out, and… and unpacked, a box at a time.” He sounded so lost. “I d
idn’t even… I couldn’t even put sheets on my bed that first night. Too tired. Too hurt. That was a three-year relationship right there, with someone who probably thinks he’s better than you are. And you’re taking care of my fish and buying me a plant and setting me up someplace nice—you are a good man, John Carey.”

  John let go of his hand and stood up and bounced on his toes. “You’re delusional,” he said succinctly. “It happens in rehab. It’s taken me ten years to learn how to throw a drowning man a rope.”

  “Shut up and come hold my hand again.”

  John did, and Galen’s breathing started to even out, but for once John wasn’t fooled. He did that, the sneaky bastard—lulled John into thinking he was asleep, and then startling into consciousness. It was most unnerving, actually, like Tom Cruise in Far and Away.

  “You knew how to throw a drowning man a rope,” Galen whispered. “You did. But you were afraid he wouldn’t grab it and you’d have to watch him drown.”

  “That’s sweet. I gave Dex his first taste of drugs, because I’m a douche bag, which totally disproves your theory, but that’s sweet.”

  “Why’d you do that?” Galen asked, blinking awake for a moment.

  “He was trying to break up with his boyfriend. The guy wasn’t hearing no. Dex wanted some courage—it was the only courage I had.”

  Galen’s eyes fluttered closed, and he smiled. “What would you do for him today?”

  John thought about it, thought about Scott stalking Dex, stalking Kelsey, feeding his habit even when, in the beginning, John hadn’t wanted to buy from him in the first place.

  “Arrest the guy. Man, he left a damage path, believe you me.”

  “Some people do that, Johnny. In fact, you seem to attract them. When I get out of here, I think I’ll make it my job to fight them off for you. How’s that sound?”

  John swallowed, absurdly touched. When had he ever had a champion? Not even Nana, for all she’d done for him, had ever been able to stand between John and his father, with his hard fists and ignorance.

  “Sounds novel,” he said after a moment. “I shall have to accustom myself to that idea.”

  “You do that. And let me know when I’ve moved. It will give you something to do besides plan funerals and bother me when I sleep.”

  He was asleep shortly after that, so John left, thinking wryly about how he’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to fill the time until the funeral.

  IT WENT quickly. John had Galen’s things boxed and ready to go the day before the funeral itself. He was just planning to visit Galen—and get his final say on whether or not he was going—when he got an e-mail from Dex.

  Kane and I are getting married in two weeks, at my house. We’d love it if you came.

  Scott is threatening to go public with your drug addiction before we try to get investors for the company in May. He wants money and a chance to work.

  I hope your friend is okay.

  You are ass-deep in paperwork, you fucking slacker. When you get a chance, I could REALLY use your help.

  Please tell me you’re still clean.

  I miss you, especially in the editing room. You had a way of making striking oil a compliment to the profession, and your confusion over the girl parts was always good for a laugh.

  Oh man. Shit was getting dire. John thought dismally about his first company. He’d established a logo, a trademark, and even had a beginning stable, but he’d given all of that up to move to California and get away from Tory.

  He wrote back:

  A and C—I promise, I’d love to attend your wedding, but I’m not sure Galen will be ready for me to leave by then.

  D. The day after tomorrow, I’ll be your cyber slave for the day—can it wait that long?

  E. I have had neither time nor the inclination to go off the wagon. Okay, that’s a lie. Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of incentive to stay on.

  F. I haven’t watched porn in sixty days. Can you believe that bullshit? Nobody wants back in the editing room more than I do.

  And back to B, because you buried the fucking lead, please see the following picture, and send it to Scott with a caption.

  And with that, he dropped his jeans, bent over, and took a selfie of his ass.

  Dear psychopath, I’ll publish my drug addiction in the goddamned Sacramento Bee, but you will never again have access to my money, my employees, or my company. We are filing a restraining order, and feel free to suck the come out of your own ass before you contact us again.

  Sincerely, your former employer and former junkie,

  John Carey

  He sent the e-mail in a snarling shit fit and made his way from Galen’s apartment to the rehab center, looking forward to getting all of Galen’s stuff moved, even if it would lengthen his commute.

  God, he hated this apartment complex. He really, truly did.

  He arrived at the rehab center with Galen’s laptop (so Galen could, in his words, catch up on his porn so that he might discuss film techniques intelligently with John), a couple of extra suits of clothes, and an air of distraction that did not pass Galen’s critical eyes.

  “Give, John.” They were playing chess in the common room, and Galen moved a pawn in a haphazard manner. John hadn’t played chess for years, but he still didn’t trust that casualness—Galen was sloppy like a prep-school tyrant.

  “Give what? When’s your birthday? Are you Jewish? Did I miss a holiday?”

  “My mother was Jewish, and although we never went to temple, last week was Purim, you insensitive bastard. But that’s not what I was talking about—what are you thinking?”

  Galen had hit the “I don’t give a shit” stage of rehab. John had seen this particular pair of pajamas for the last three days. It was one of the reasons John had brought some of his clothes. Even casual jeans and a Hawaiian shirt beat the same pajamas for a week.

  “What makes you think anything’s on my mind? I think we’ve established by now that I am not the brain trust of this operation.”

  “Shut up,” Galen snapped, putting his pawn in jeopardy. John stared at the board. There was no way it was that easy. “You…. ‘Not a brain trust,’ ‘not a good man,’ ‘I’m a douchebag, Galen,’—Jesus, you piss me off. You’re deliberately losing this game.”

  “No, that’s you.”

  “Well why should I try if you’re not trying!”

  “I was….” Okay. “Okay, I wasn’t trying.” John deflated. “It’s something stupid at work.”

  “Well by all means don’t unload it on me and distract me from how shitty I feel, because that would be horrible.” Galen glared at him and shoved the board away in disgust. Damn—that could be the only chess game John had a chance in hell of winning.

  So John told him about Scott, and the blackmail, and the picture, and needing to fill out paperwork the day after tomorrow, and how Brant had picked a restaurant that was way too expensive for him and Zion and Zion had written John a separate e-mail begging him to pick something that wouldn’t put them out of their mortgage, and how John wanted to pick up the entire bill because he didn’t give a shit, and Galen said, “Wait a minute. I know about Zion and Brant, and just go to a fucking Chili’s and ignore Brant. He’s pulling Zion’s chain and it has nothing to do with you.”

  “You know that how?”

  “Trust me. Some asshole threatens to blackmail you and you do what?”

  “Sent him—”

  Galen chuckled. “Yes, yes, I know about that. No. You threatened a restraining order. Why didn’t you threaten to sue him? Don’t you have a lawyer?”

  “Of course I have a lawyer. I draw up contracts, I’m not stupid!”

  “No, you’re not stupid. You just trust all the wrong goddamned people. Why don’t you tell the lawyer?”

  “Because I’m the dumbass drug addict who—”

  “Shut. Up.” Galen smashed his fist on the chessboard and bared his teeth. “I need you to stop trying to own up to this shit and start thinking like people
depend on you for this business.”

  “People do depend on me for this business.”

  “I know it, and I need you to send me this guy’s old contract and forward me all his communication—”

  John actually felt himself pale. “Even the stuff when I was—”

  “Do you still have that?”

  “Probably. I have Gmail. That shit stays forever.”

  “Good. Then forward that to me—”

  John dropped his face into his hands, trying to remember what, if anything, he’d written besides how much product, how much money, and what John owed. Had he been mean? Had they said nasty shit about Dex, about Kane, about anybody else? John didn’t think he was a mean motherfucker when he was high, but he just had this confused morass of emotional radioactivity in his gut about how he’d felt when he’d been using nonstop. How much of that leaked out into—

  Galen grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the grim contemplation of how much of an asshole he really was.

  “I won’t judge,” he said softly. He looked around at all of the other people talking to loved ones in grim, angry, half-defiant murmurs, and then gestured at himself, in his rehab uniform with his greasy beard. “I am in no position to judge. Now just send me all the communication and forward me your lawyer’s e-mail. Explain the situation to him—”

  “Does he have to….” John grimaced, thinking about the lawyer he and Dex had hired. Nice guy, gay, had a family. Worked very hard and didn’t seem to hold John’s business against him. “He’s a good guy,” John said earnestly. “I just don’t want him to know how bad—”

  Galen growled and dropped his head to the chessboard, still clasping John’s hand. “Baby, you are killing me. Killing me. For all that you try to be this big, bad porn magnate, you are like a kitten on the freeway, do you know that? He is a lawyer. If you heard half the shit he heard day in and day out, you would claim your porn business as a church. You would be the Holy Church of Porn and you and all your models would be fucking saints, do you realize that? Because for all the screwing that goes on at a porn set, it has nothing on the giant nuclear missile penises that lawyers shove up virgin assholes in business on a daily basis. At least in porn there’s the come shot and somebody gets off. Now send me this shit, tell the almighty Dex to apprise your lawyer, and let the grown-ups handle it while you toddle off to your little party with the emotional razor-blade forest on a boat!”