Of Heaven and Hell

by Anthology

  “Honey, your undies are a cardinal sin!”

  “Pluck ‘em off, girl, before the fashion police catch you!”

  He flipped them a bird and yanked the heavy red cylinder from the wall. He lugged it into his unit, flung opened the oven’s door, and blasted the interior with a hellacious jet of sodium bicarbonate. The cupcake pan lifted off the rack and banged around inside as the blaze went out.

  The stench of burnt devil’s food filled his nostrils, and the smoke alarm shrieked in his ears. As he set down the fire extinguisher and surveyed the frothy mess he now had to clean up, his stomach growled like a beast.

  “God, I hate this damned place.”

  “I hate seeing you miserable.”

  He turned around and found Mickey peering at him from the MacBook Pro.

  “Why don’t you move home, Damon?”

  “You know serious playwrights have to live in New York.”

  “But you’re sacrificing your happiness to a thankless devil.”

  “I guess that’s my lot in life.”

  Mickey shook his head. “I hope that changes for you someday.”

  “Me too.” He forced a wan smile. “I better get going and clean up the mess.”

  “All right, hang in there, buddy.”

  “See you in Purgatory.”

  Mickey disappeared from the screen, but Damon didn’t move. How he wished Mickey had stayed in New York. No one in this city ever really got him. Or showed him the kind of genuine concern Mickey did. Maybe it was a Michigan thing. He’d bonded with everyone he’d known at Basement Arts. He hated to admit it, but he’d cherished his connection with persnickety Angelo the most. Angelo had been more passionate about his writing than anyone there. He’d wrapped himself in Hellions and let every line of dialogue permeate him until he embodied the words. Yet he’d insisted on whispering in places where he was supposed to shout, cutting relevant curse words, and wearing clothes when he shouldn’t have. That was what had made Angelo so infuriating. And a part of his soul forever. Unlike anyone in this city, Angelo actually gave a damn about him and his plays.

  The screech of the smoke alarm suddenly stopped. He shook his head at the blank Word document in front of him and shut down his MacBook Pro. It was going to take an eternity to clean up the mess he’d made in the kitchen.

  Purgatory

  MICKEY SNATCHED his iPhone from the table, swiped the camera to video mode, and ran onto the balcony. He tapped record and aimed at the rugged, snow-covered peaks. They were descending the slopes fast. Skiers strapped with colorful smoke bombs were letting the world know gays now ruled Purgatory. They were unfurling an enormous, smoky rainbow flag onto the ski trails. Pandemonium pulsed with purple while Limbo danced with blue. Paradise shimmered green, and as Catharsis yellowed, Hades glowed orange and Styx turned blood red.

  His iPhone beeped. He stopped recording and opened messages. The text was from Angelo: Left the airport and will be at the lodge very soon. The limo was a nice surprise, thanks!

  He replied: Get ready for another big surprise! See you shortly.

  Freshly showered, Damon stepped onto the balcony in a fiery red V-neck sweater. Perfect. With his olive skin, dark hair, and smoldering eyes, the color made him look sexy as hell. And god, he smelled good. His body scrub was some sort of citrus and ginger. How would Angelo be able to resist him when he came to the door?

  Damon eyed the iPhone and raised a devilish eyebrow. “Trolling Grindr, strumpet?”

  He stuffed the phone into his jeans pocket. “Of course. Who else is gonna pimp for you?”

  “Hook me up with a Broadway producer desperate for a new tragic play.”

  “I sold your butt to the lowest bidder.”

  “Sounds exactly my type.”

  “He’ll be knocking on the door any minute for his date with you. Unfortunately he’s tall, good looking, and loves theater. When I told him you were a playwright, I could hear his moans ricochet off the mountains, and his orgasm rippled through Purgatory like a California earthquake.”

  “Good god, stick with directing. You’d be a terrible writer.”

  He grinned at his friend and rubbed his chilly hands together. “All right, master of the flames, ready to light the fireplace? You can use the Hostess cupcakes in the cupboard for kindling.”

  “Ha ha.”

  They went inside. While Damon loaded the fireplace with logs, Mickey retrieved from the fridge the jug of rosé he’d bought with groceries from the lodge’s general store.

  He read the back label aloud: “‘Made from California’s finest Sangiovese grapes, Purgatory Pink will delight all your senses. Its seductive rosy hue beckons you to the glass. Its intoxicating aroma beguiles your nose with heavenly honeysuckle and devilish butterscotch. Its sinfully supple mouthfeel finishes with a burst of strawberry jam all over your palette. Enjoy with a fine cut of juicy rare beef, or simply indulge in a bottle with your wickedest friends.’ Well, you’re at the top of my ‘wicked friends’ list. You want a glass?”

  “I haven’t had anything burst all over my palette in so long that I’ll take two.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He pulled three wine glasses from a cupboard and poured. Damon had the fireplace crackling now, and the townhouse looked stunning with its floor-to-ceiling view of the mountains. Everything was in place for a most romantic afternoon for his two friends. He could see their faces now when Damon opened the door and saw Angelo. All the old bravado melting away as they gazed into one another’s eyes. Their shy awkwardness as Damon stepped aside to let Angelo cross the threshold, and then Damon realizing his faux pas and fumbling to help Angelo with his luggage. Their gathering in the cozy living room, the two of them side by side on the leather love seat. Their conversation about acting, writing, and theater turning giddy as he poured them each a splash more wine. And that magical moment when Damon’s leg brushed Angelo’s and they let the touch linger. That was when he’d quietly excuse himself to go shopping for a new ski outfit and leave them to make their way to one of the bedrooms.

  There was a knock at the door. He gripped his wine glass in anticipation.

  Damon glanced over his shoulder at him. “Who the hell could that be?”

  “Your Grindr date is here!”

  Damon scowled. “Mickey, you’re not serious.”

  “I am. Go open the door.”

  “Jesus, I thought you were joking on the balcony. I ought to shoot you.”

  “He’s really hot. Hurry, before he decides to leave.”

  Damon gave him the evil eye as he crossed the living room. When he glanced through the peephole, he uttered, “No fucking way.”

  Mickey couldn’t see Damon’s face when he swung open the door, but Damon had to be enamored. Angelo stood in the doorway in a radiant white sports jacket, his handsome face rosy from the cold. He had one hand hidden behind his back. He must have brought flowers. Mickey hoped he’d pluck a rose from the bouquet to give to Damon. But instead, Angelo’s smile withered as he stared at the man before him.

  “Tight ass,” Damon sneered.

  “Bozo,” Angelo scoffed.

  Damon turned on his heel, smirking. As he walked back into the living room, Angelo pulled his hand from behind his back. He hadn’t brought flowers. He reared back like an Anaheim Angel and fast-pitched a massive snowball that exploded into cold powder all over Damon’s neck.

  Damon spun around. “I’m gonna throttle you!”

  “You’ll never catch me!”

  As his friends scrambled out of the lodge like Tom and Jerry, Mickey took a big gulp of Purgatory Pink. So much for his Mickey Mouse idea. He was gonna need a miracle to get those two together.

  The Bear Bar

  TEDDY BEARS perched on a ledge above the rustic old bar. Brown, black, cinnamon, polar, panda, and tie-dyed, they stared at him as he sipped a bottle of Perrier. A bodybuilder with crow’s feet and buzzed silver hair approached him. Pewter chest hairs sprouted above the neckline of his tight black tank top, wh
ich was embossed in industrial-grey with MUSCLE BEAR.

  He leaned against the bar, gulped from a mug of Blue Moon, and like the Teddy bears on the ledge, began eying Angelo. Leering, actually, and making him uncomfortable. Why were Mickey and Damon taking so damn long to select songs on the jukebox?

  When Muscle Bear inched closer, he inched away and busied himself by reading graffiti carved into the bar top. Some devil had scratched in a poor girl’s phone number: JENNY / 857-6309. Some rube thinking he was clever had carved HELL IS EMPTY AND THE DEVILS ARE HERE. And some drunken lesbians in love had taken a penknife and defaced the polished pine with JOY + GRACE.

  “See anything interesting?” Muscle Bear had moved closer.

  “Not really.” Angelo slid his cocktail napkin over and stepped away from him.

  The bar speakers blasted the disco beat of Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel. He couldn’t help but smile. Mickey no doubt had picked the song for him. He’d once told Mickey his Aunt Faith had loved to sing it to him when he was a kid. Every time Tavares crooned “angel,” she’d added an O.

  “Boy, that song takes me way back. High school dances with Candy Johnson.”

  “My aunt danced to this song in middle school.”

  He hoped Muscle Bear would take the hint that he was way too young for him.

  Damon returned to the bar with his Bloody Mary and stood on his other side. They were sort of speaking now that they’d thawed from their ugly wrestling match by the parking lot. That’s where Damon had caught him after he’d pelted him with the huge snowball he’d intended to give Mickey as a gag gift. Damon had tackled him in a snow bank, and in the struggle for dominance, they’d entwined, flip-flopped, and twisted each other into pretzels. Each had heaped mounds of snow underneath the other’s shirt and mashed fistfuls of slush in the other’s face. The bitter stinging became so unbearable that they finally called a mutual truce.

  “Where’s Mickey?”

  “Bathroom.” Damon looked past him and eyed Muscle Bear curiously. “Who’s your new friend?”

  When he shrugged, Damon reached around him and extended his hand to the stranger. “I’m Damon.”

  “I’m Fozzie.”

  “Is that your bear name?”

  “Nope, it’s a blend of my first and middle names, Frank and Ozzie.”

  “No shit? Well, Fozzie, it’s nice to meet you. Have you met my friend, Angelo?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s really into daddies.”

  “Is he now?”

  Fozzie ogled him anew and draped a muscular arm around his shoulders.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. If you play your cards right tonight, Fozzie, little Miss Piggy here will make you a happy bear.”

  Overhead, Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel faded out, and Damon gave Angelo a wicked half grin. He pulled his iPhone from his jeans and strutted away as George Thorogood strummed the opening notes of Bad to the Bone.

  Angelo set his Perrier atop his cocktail napkin and wrested himself from Fozzie. “Excuse me for a minute.”

  He thought about tackling Damon, dragging him out to a snow bank and mashing more slush in his face. But he headed for the men’s room instead. He’d tell Mickey goodbye and leave him to suffer Damon’s shenanigans while he retired to the townhouse for the evening in peace. He opened the door and found the restroom empty. Maybe this one had been occupied and Mickey had gone next door to the men’s room in the restaurant.

  He left the bar, and as he meandered through the restaurant, his iPhone chimed. He stopped and pulled it from his pocket. Fingering the screen, he saw a text message from Damon: Why aren’t you in Papa Bear’s bed yet, Goldilocks?

  He typed: Up yours, you evil toad.

  Can’t bear to go bare for a bear? chimed Damon.

  His fingers flew. Don’t start with me again on nudity. Just because I didn’t indulge your writerly excesses and parade around naked on stage for all of Michigan to see doesn’t make me a prude. I have principles, unlike you.

  Aw, Fozzie will be so disappointed. Don’t make the ole grizzly toil so hard to turn you into his little piggy.

  Fozzie’s not coming anywhere near me.

  You don’t want to bump his ugly?

  His ugly’s all yours, you degenerate.

  He is kinda hot. I think I will have a little fun with him. Later, prude.

  Angelo stuffed his iPhone back into his jeans pocket. God, he hoped Damon didn’t bring Fozzie back to the townhouse. Their bedrooms were adjacent and he’d have to suffer through hearing Fozzie’s loud grunts and Damon’s maddening, sexy moans. Yes, he had to admit the fiend was sexy and that he’d always thought so. But he would never confess those thoughts and was an absolute pro at squashing them. Unless he had to listen to him have sex. Then he was helpless. He’d dreaded every time Damon brought home a hookup in Ann Arbor. One thin, poorly-insulated bedroom wall had separated their twin beds, so he’d practically been on the same mattress with him and his tricks. Damon’s sexual repertoire was wildly varied, but the effect on Angelo was always the same. Damon’s dirty talk became searing sonnets in his ears, and the sounds Damon made in action were a rare aphrodisiac that heated his loins and hardened his cock until it ached. But he’d be damned if he’d stoop to relieving himself like an eavesdropper on a phone sex party line. Instead, he’d battled to dispel the images that invaded his imagination. Damon’s lithe, naked torso against his own. His strong, sexy hands squeezing and exploring Angelo’s body. His smoldering dark eyes seeking permission to proceed as he held up a condom. The cock Angelo had never glimpsed, all sheathed and lubed, so warm to the touch and about to penetrate him. Then he’d hear a laugh or bump against their bedroom wall and he’d burn deep inside to be the stranger in Damon’s arms.

  “Hey, buddy.” Mickey waved a hand before his face and snapped him out of his trance. “What’s wrong?”

  “Fucking Damon.”

  “Whoa! You never use that word. What’s he done now?”

  “Oh nothing. He’s just tiring, that’s all. I’m sleeping on the living room couch tonight.”

  “Omigod, why?”

  “Damon’s hooking up with a bear at the bar. The dude seems like he’ll be loud and I don’t want to be in the room next to the ruckus.”

  “Damn him.”

  Mickey’s irritation surprised him. He hadn’t cared at all whenever Damon brought hookups to the house in Ann Arbor.

  “Mickey, it’s really no big deal to me.”

  “Well, it is to me. He’s ruining your vacation.”

  Mickey marched out of the restaurant and toward the Bear Bar. Angelo followed him but stopped inside the entrance. Damon was at the bar writing on a cocktail napkin. Fozzie had his meaty bare arm draped around his shoulders. Damon put down the pen and slipped the napkin into his palm as Mickey reached them. He couldn’t hear what they said above the jukebox. The Rolling Stones rocked a samba rhythm and chanted ooo-whos as Mick Jagger belted out Sympathy for the Devil.

  Damon flashed Fozzie a peace sign as he and Mickey headed toward the doorway.

  “I can’t believe you’re gonna hook up with him later.”

  “Relax, the action’s happening at his pad. Why are you so miffed? Has marriage turned you into a tight ass too?”

  “I know you’re not interested in the guy. Why are you pulling this bullshit around Angelo?”

  “Angelo gave me his blessing, so chill out, would you? Let’s go back to the townhouse. I wanna get ready for my date.”

  They exited the building, and no one said a word as they crossed the village plaza for the lodge. The chilly evening air nipped Angelo’s snow-burnt skin. God, he hoped the rest of their stay wasn’t going to be this awkward. But he knew it would be if Damon and Fozzie clicked. Fozzie would be under their feet all week. Mickey wasn’t going to like that, and neither was he.

  “For gods’ sakes, stop pouting, you two. You can join us if you want.” Damon arched a devilish eyebrow at him. “I’m sure F
ozzie won’t mind.”

  Angelo’s iPhone chimed, and Damon grinned at him. “Wouldn’t you like to see what Fozzie looks like naked, Angelo?”

  “No, I sure wouldn’t.”

  “C’mon, you know you do. Open your text message.”

  “You didn’t give him my phone number.”

  “Well, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna give him mine.”

  “You’re sick in the head, you know that?”

  “Thank you, writers need to be.”

  Mickey gazed at Damon, puzzled. “So you’re not hooking up with him?”

  “Hell no, I’m here to have fun with you two dorks. So lighten up. Both of you.”

  They reached the entrance to the lodge. As he followed the two inside and felt warmth envelop him, he did feel lighter. Being the butt of Damon’s prank had belted him into the first car on an emotional rollercoaster he hadn’t expected to ride ever again. Now that the loop de loops were over, damned if he wasn’t giddy to be back in the amusement park.

  He pulled his iPhone from his pocket and fingered the screen. “Omigod, you guys wanna see Fozzie’s gonzo? It’s huge!”

  “Hell yes!” they both exclaimed, turning on their heels.

  “Too bad.” He tapped delete and Fozzie’s message and attachment disappeared, unopened and unseen by anyone but the ole Muscle Bear himself.

  Paradise Trail

  WHEN THE ski lift chair reached the top of Paradise Trail, they all scooted off the seat. Damon hit the ground wrong, wobbled, spun around, and face-planted in the snow, popping off both skis. Angelo and Mickey laughed and skied a circle around him as he collected his poles and skis and crawled away from evil queens snickering at him as they nimbly glided off their lift chairs.

  “Way to go, Gracie,” Mickey teased.

  “He must worship us, kissing the ground we ski on,” Angelo mocked.

  “Get lost, you heathens.”

  While he reattached his skis, they glided across the trail, depressed their heel pieces with their poles, popped their boots out of their bindings, and fell backward into a pristine snow drift. He watched them laugh as they spread their arms and legs to make snow angels. Their joy made him want to laugh too.