by A. L. Mengel
Douglas woke up and rubbed his eyes.
He looked around, in an attempt to locate his bearings.
The Hotel Ponce de Leon. Yes. That was it. His mouth stuck together – he was so parched and dry, and his head throbbed. He remembered very little from the night before. But what he did remember, was reading Sheldon’s letter. And the assault from the whiskey.
He swung his legs from the bed and onto the hard, uninviting carpet. He looked down at the clock. “Shit!”
It was past noon.
He knew that he would have no problem with a late check out, but he had a flight to catch.
Because he was going to Germany today.
And it was time to get to the airport.
*~*~*
Douglas checked out of the hotel and was whisked away to the airport in the same black Limousine he thought he was riding in before. As the car pulled away, and the air conditioning chilled the sweat on his temples and the back of his neck, he wondered if he should lower the smoked glass panel that separated him and the driver.
Jim was gone, right?
Douglas looked forward as the city sped by against the windows, and eventually sat back in the dark cocoon; his eyes traveled to the minibar. He saw the whisky. It’s elegant amber embrace, striking against the crystal decanter.
No, don’t do it, no. You are about to fly to Germany.
But who was up front?
He reached for a glass with a shaking hand. The sweat ran down the side of his cheek and he could feel his collar start to dampen. And then, for a moment, he looked up at the smoked glass.
“Jim?” His voice sounded so small against the silence of the cabin and the hum of the engine. The driver continued looking forward, his head a dark silhouette against the bright Miami morning. “Jim, is that you up there?”
And then the panel lowered.
And Jim, good old familiar Jim, turned around as the limousine was stopped at a light, and smiled a beaming toothy grin. “Feel great today, Sir!”
Douglas smiled and sat back in his seat, opening up a file folder. On the file was written “CLARET”.
The car continued on its journey to the airport, and eventually, stopped again and Douglas looked up from his reading. Jim turned around once again and smiled the same toothy grin. “Oh yes, sir, I feel so clean now! You should have stayed! Oh you should have stayed!”
PART THREE
MY LIPSTICK LEPER
“It is you who must be careful, mere mortal one.”
- ASHES
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stephen sat on a purple velvet chair primping himself in the mirror. When applying his bright red lipstick, he frowned. “I can’t go on tonight, Drew. I just know that I can’t face them tonight.” He put the lipstick down on the small makeup table in front him, and it sat in the midst of various concealers, perfumes, and sprays in little pink bottles.
He stared at himself, in the mirror surrounded by the white globe lights, and all he saw was a face that was past its youth. Past its beauty and splendor. “I don’t look myself today, Drew.” On the contrary, he did. While the lines that framed his lips were somewhat more accentuated these days since he started losing weight, overall he was still youthful and sprightly looking to the average onlooker. But to himself, all he saw was death in the mirror.
His eyes, wide as plates, staring at his cheek in horror as he drew his hand up to feel the cheekbone, never once left their gaze. “I am dying, Drew.”
“Go on,” Drew pleaded, grabbing a small vial of concealer. He delicately applied it to Stephen’s right cheek. “Go on and forget about all this. You know you have a special guest here tonight, right?”
Stephen broke his stare and looked up at Drew. “Who? Who is here?” Stephen grabbed Drew’s arm and shook it. “Who is here?!” he demanded to know.
Drew sat down next to him, and looked him directly in the face. Stephen noticed how clean and dark Drew’s hair had been.
“A man out there,” Drew said, “is struggling too. He came to see you because he heard about your predicament.”
Stephen nodded, and took a sip of hot steaming coffee.
“Anyway, he says that he is only twenty-three or so, but I honest to God think he’s more like fifty. Maybe he’s delusional.”
“Just get on with it,” Stephen said, with an exasperated sigh.
“The interesting thing is about who he told me that he knows. And who he knows could be the answer to your prayers.”
Stephen put down his cup of coffee, swallowing slowly. He picked up a small, jewel-handled mirror, and examined his face closely, obsessing over the state of his appearance. “Who does he know?”
“The owner of this club.”
Stephen slammed the mirror down, causing the glass to shatter. “Don’t tell me this sob story again, Drew!” He got up, and started to dress. “I have heard this before. Remember Todd?! He claims to have known the owner of this club too, and look where that got me! Here I am, I am dying and trying my best not to look it. You can see the lines on my face, you can see the sores, my bones are protruding through my skin god-damn-it! And here I am putting lipstick on my face once again to go out and please all the men. What the fuck did my life come to? What did I go wrong? And what did I do to deserve this ending?”
“Stephen…” Drew’s calm and soothing voice interrupted him. “It’s time.”
And he sucked it up and went on.
Just as he always did after his moments of despair. After he had time to wonder, and think about where his life had gone, Stephen managed to finish dressing and get out on stage. Each night was the same, with an hour or two wallowing in self-pity and loathing before going through the heavy black curtains to a smoky room full of boisterous, laughing and screaming fags. Yes, every week.
Gay night at Sacrafice.
And when Stephen was standing at the edge of the curtains, waiting for his cue, he was focused on his act. He was not thinking about what happened with Drew just moments before. But he did stop, just for a moment, and looked up. The curtains were tall, as tall the ceiling, and the ceiling extended up at least twenty feet. And when he stopped, and when he looked forward again, he thought about how many people had gone before him up there and must be looking down on him.
And his problems washed away, at least for a few moments, while he performed and sang and relished the cheers and the flowers and the attention.
This particular night, there was someone in the audience that caught Stephen’s eye. Stephen didn’t notice him at first, but rather later in his set of songs. He thought that maybe he was imagining things. He scoffed at the idea that there was a suitor out in the audience that was actually looking at him. But at the end of his act, when several loyal fans threw up fresh cut red roses and the music stopped, the strange man waved one hand, and Stephen got a better look at him.
Looking out through the multicolored lights and smoke, he saw the man who was wearing a long, black coat, and frankly stood out in the crowd – while everyone else was in tight t-shirts, jeans, tank tops and muscles or some other outfit showing some skin – this man was definitely dressed in black and looked ahead at the stage wearing concealing dark sunglasses. Had the stranger been dressed differently, and had Stephen been less sickly looking, he might have been less in disbelief and he might have thought the man was beckoning him, because Stephen knew that night just as he had known years ago in nights of his youth: that guy is looking directly at me.
“Thank you everyone for coming again!” he said out to a chorus of cheers and a swell in the applause.
After the show, Stephen sat in the same purple velvet chair, removing his makeup with a small sponge that looked like a piece of tofu, wiping his cheeks back and forth with deliberation. He sighed as he wiped the bright red lipstick off with a wadded up tissue, and stopped suddenly as the mysterious man from the audience stood behind him. Stephen stared wide eyed in the mirror, never taking his eyes off the stranger.
The man was
still wearing the same black trench coat, the same big, dark sunglasses, faded jeans and a light lavender button down. Stephen snapped his head around and looked up at the man; the spotlight shining down from the rafters making the man appear like an extraterrestrial.
The man walked over to the makeup counter, hoisted himself up, and sat down, letting one leg hang off the side. He slowly removed his sunglasses and hooked his blonde hair behind his ears. “My eyes…see them?” the man asked Stephen, leaning closer to him.
Stephen took a closer look.
The man’s eyes seemed normal. They looked sleepy, with a slight droop at the tips that faded into delicate lines on either side running down the sides of his face; they seemed like the eyes of an older man, nothing seemed out of the ordinary…and he even thought that the wrinkles down the side of the man’s face were actually quite endearing.
“My name is Darius,” he said after a moment of silence. “I am twenty-five.”
Stephen’s mouth dropped open. “You aren’t serious?”
The man shook his head in confirmation, and extended his hand. Stephen stood up and introduced himself.
“And I know that you are dying,” Darius said. “I am dying myself.”
Stephen continued to remove his drag costume, and started packing a small, dark blue backpack with bright yellow straps. “So you are dying. Aren’t we all to some degree?” Stephen half smiled and slung his backpack on his shoulder. “And so that makes you want to what? Be my friend?”
Stephen made his way to the door and turned around. “I don’t think you have anything that I need.”
“Wait, Stephen.” Darius flew through the door and caught Stephen’s arm. “Just listen to me.”
Stephen stopped and stared down at the floor, and then back up at him.
Darius released his grip. “I don’t have what you have. But I think I may have a cure for you. For both of us.”
Stephen whipped his head back and laughed. “A cure? I don’t think so.”
“Come with me and you don’t have to die, Stephen.”
He stopped at the door, about to exit. He turned around and looked Darius in the eye. “Darius…is that your name? If you have the cure for AIDS, honey, and you can get rid of this virus inside me, then I will be glad to accompany you. But if you don’t, there’s the door. I don’t have time for people who come by to give me false hope.”
Darius shook his head. “I know about your history.”
Stephen paused. He looked back towards Darius. “What do you mean…my history?”
Darius gestured for Stephen to come back inside. The two men sat in small folding chairs, facing each other, and as Stephen set his backpack down on the floor, so softly that it didn’t make a noise, Darius explained. “I know about what happened up in Michigan. I know your story.”
Stephen shifted in his chair. “How much of it do you know?”
“I know enough to know that you aren’t really dying of AIDS.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Like I told you before, I am in the same predicament as you are. I was once immortal. I once had the gift too. And like you, I lost it. I was stripped of it. Once I learned that, I didn’t have any choice but to find a way to get it back. Now, here I am.”
Stephen laughed. “Here you are.”
“And I know about you, Stephen. I have powerful sources. And they know everything. There is one source of mine – no, a friend – who I would really like you to meet.”
Stephen sat back in his chair. “I have been telling people for years that I had AIDS.”
“And I know that you don’t.”
Stephen shook his head and looked over at Darius. “No, I don’t. I’ve been telling people this story to explain why I have been wasting away. And that’s how I got involved in this scene.”
“The scene?”
“You know, the whole drag and gay thing. I’ve been doing it now for about the last twenty years. But it’s taking a toll. People have been telling me that they think I am one of the rare breeds.”
Darius’ face shifted. He looked over at Stephen and raised his eyebrows. Stephen explained.
“You know, one of those who got the virus, didn’t get sick. Even after decades. With no pills, nothing. One of the rare breeds.”
Darius leaned forward and looked more closely at Stephen. “I see. So do you…I don’t know…fake illness?”
Stephen shook his head. “I have been living with this curse for so many years, I have learned how to play it.”
“So you have been faking illness since you were a teenager?” Darius asked.
“Sure have. I died more than once in my life. When I was just a teenager in southern Michigan, living in the upper Midwest was nothing really out of the ordinary for me. But I got involved with the demons. They looked just like you and me, but they were demons. I didn’t know at the time what I was getting myself into.”
“So what happened?”
Stephen got up and got himself a coneful of water from the cooler and returned to his chair. “They told me that I would be immortal. That I would live forever if I chose to follow them.”
“And you did.”
Stephen nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Look, it’s extremely late. I have to get some sleep. So who is this person you want me to meet?”
“She is no longer a person, Stephen.”
Stephen bent over and picked up his backpack, and slung it on his shoulder. “What is she then?”
“She is of the Baal again. She is immortal again. She regained the gift. So you really, really need to meet her, Stephen.”
Stephen nodded. “Just tell me where.” And he disappeared through the backstage door.
Darius stood alone, in the center of the backstage, amidst soaring black curtains which hung from the ceiling, in the center of a circle of small folding chairs. It looked like it could be set for a script reading, or perhaps an alcoholics anonymous meeting. But it wasn’t. And Darius agreed. It was very, very late. Time to retire. Stephen could meet Delia tomorrow.
*~*~*
The shrill ring cut into the dull afternoon silence.
Stephen lowered the blinds and let the phone ring. After taking a handful of pills and a couple swallows of water, he decided to dress for the day. The sun was beaming through the window and the newscaster on television had said it was going to be a hot one. Since there had been so many clouds and so much rain and thunder in the city as of late. But he knew that he had to dress today. He had to comb his hair. He had to face to world.
Stephen knew who the caller was.
Darius had called him a few hours earlier, insisting that they head out and enjoy the day together. “It’s time for you to meet Delia,” he said. “She is the same as we are. She was once dying rapidly, but she overcame it. She regained her immortality.”
Stephen had paused in the middle of their conversation. He had just been sleeping. His mind was still foggy.
“We must have lunch with her,” Darius said. “I have been speaking with her for a while now. She told me what to do. She calls it ‘the quest for immortality.’”.
“The quest for immortality?”
The line was silent for a moment. “Darius?”
“Yes. She is the founder of a group called The Inspiriti. They are an underground organization dedicated to helping fallen immortals.”
Stephen swung his legs over the side of the bed. His muscles had been wasting lately. Walking out in the sunshine would probably do him good. Time to build up his strength. “So what does that entail?”
“Look, Stephen, just get yourself out of bed and come meet us for lunch. I will call you in an hour or so when I’ve had a chance to talk to her again for which restaurant we’ll meet at.”
Stephen closed his eyes and stood. He felt his legs trembling. “Uh, Darius…”
“I hear you, Stephen. Just find the energy to come.”
*~*~*
The sunlight was warming.
Despite the summer heat, Stephen wore a light jacket. He could still feel the chill of the fever running through his arms. But he managed to find his footing on the worn and weathered sidewalks of South Beach. He didn’t notice the young couples passing him by, and walking around him arm and arm as he trudged slowly forward. He stopped for a moment and looked ahead. His sunglasses were large, dark and concealing, and his jacket hung loosely on his frail and fragile frame.
What he noticed was that everyone seemed young. Vibrant. Healthy. And so, so alive. And that is when he turned to his left and looked at his reflection in the window of a small shop. He brought his hand up to his cheek, and his mouth dropped open. For he knew, standing in a sea of steroids and silicone, the ugly old prune that he had become, that he had become a monster. And it was time to press on, to move forward and calm the beast within.
It was time to become immortal.
*~*~*
Stephen stopped at the News Café on Ocean Drive and saw the bustling activity of the tables, the scurrying of waiters against the wall of parked cars and traffic. He then looked beyond the commotion and out towards the Atlantic Ocean. There were majestic, Royal Palms soaring towards a brilliant blue sky, expanding outwards towards brightly colored tropical waters, the sugary beach sprinkled with sunbathers and swimmers. He had become so engrossed in the sun and life that he almost didn’t hear a woman calling out his name. He looked around, trying to determine who was calling him. And then he saw a waving arm, an older woman with white hair, inviting him over. And then he recognized Darius, sitting at the same table, staring down into a menu. Although he plodded to the table more slowly than most, as soon as he arrived Darius looked up.
“Glad you could make it,” he said with a smile. He got up and walked behind the older woman over to where Stephen was standing, extending an arm around his back and ushering him to an open chair at the table.
Stephen took a chair opposite Darius and Delia. She introduced herself and got right to it. “So, Stephen, Darius explained to me about your…predicament.” She took a sip of water and pushed her sunglasses further back, pulling her silver hair away from her face.