by John Inman
“I’m not afraid of you. And I said you’re too close.”
“I heard you. But to do what I’m about to do, I have to be close.”
“What are you about to—?”
Before Wyeth could finish, Deeze slid light fingertips down the length of Wyeth’s arms and stepped even closer. Wyeth expected a kiss, so he was surprised when Deeze simply laid his cheek to Wyeth’s and whispered in his ear, “If this is going to work, you have to trust me.”
Wyeth smelled Ivory soap, mouthwash, and the clean, cinnamony scent of a freshly showered man. It was all he could do not to sniff at Deeze like a wine connoisseur breathing in the heavenly scent of a vintage Bordeaux. It had been a while since the smell of a man had affected him so. Before he could stop himself, he reached around and laid a hand to the small of Deeze’s back, for the first time accepting him into his space rather than pushing him away.
The motion clearly wasn’t lost on Deeze. He leaned back just far enough to study Wyeth’s eyes. “That’s better,” he said. “Thank you, Wy.”
“It’s Wyeth.”
“My mistake. Wyeth.” Deeze took a step back, still smiling, and said, “Now then, about that bagel. I hope you have cream cheese.”
Wyeth looked offended. “What sort of moron would serve bagels without cream cheese?”
Deeze laughed. “Oh goody. A man after my own heart.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I can still barely tolerate you standing in the same room,” Wyeth said, but he said it jokingly. At least he was pretty sure he did.
Happily, Deeze seemed to think so too. “And the librarian can not only dress casually, but he has a sense of humor too. Will wonders never cease!”
Wyeth pointed to the kitchen table. “Sit down, shut up, and eat your fucking bagel. And yes, there was an Oxford comma in that sentence.”
Deeze was in the process of decorating his bagel with cream cheese. He arched one eyebrow high and left his knife to hover in midair long enough to say, “I assumed there was. I’m a teacher, you know. I did go to college. I know what an Oxford comma is. I’m actually quite well- read, believe it or not. Just because I’m a kindergarten teacher, don’t think my literary credentials apply only to See Spot Run and Dick and Jane Go to Happy Town. By the way, there’s also a very good word for people who try to cast an illiterate pall over their friends when they aren’t looking.”
“And what word might that be?” Wyeth asked, beginning to enjoy himself, but leery nevertheless.
“Asshole,” Deeze answered with an evil glint in his eye. “The word is asshole.”
Wyeth barked out a laugh. It was the first honest laugh he had ever shared with Deeze, and Deeze looked properly astounded by it. Astounded and intrigued.
Chaucer ran around in circles, clearly enjoying the humans’ banter, while Deeze bit into his bagel and said, “Eat up. We have a nine o’clock appointment.”
“We do? For what?” Wyeth asked, surprised.
Deeze wiggled his eyebrows and said mysteriously, “You’ll see.”
THEY STOOD on the street corner six blocks over from Wyeth’s apartment building. All three heads, Wyeth’s, Deeze’s, and Chaucer’s, stared up at the sign over the business’s front door. Wyeth and Deeze were actually reading the sign. Chaucer was only gawking at it because the other two were. Chaucer truly was illiterate, and no amount of spin anyone tried to put on it would ever change that fact.
The sign read the Tan Banana.
“Spray tans? I’m not going in there,” Wyeth announced, clearly appalled.
“Yes, you are,” Deeze replied, giving him a gentle bump with his hip to get him moving.
“Huh-uh. No way in hell am I going in there.”
Still unflappable, Deeze reached out and pulled open the door. “They’ve opened early just for us. So yes, you are. We’re here. We have an appointment. It’s already paid for. You’re going. I hope you wore underwear.”
“Well, of course I wore underwear! And what do you mean, it’s already paid for?”
“Just what I said. It’s already paid for.”
“I’ll reimburse you the money. Let’s just leave.”
“Go through the fucking door, Wy.”
“My name is Wyeth. Stop calling me Wy.”
“But why, Wy?” Deeze simpered. Then he tossed a grin over the comment to show he was being a wiseass. A young woman stood inside the shop, back among the shadows, watching the two morons waging a battle of wills at her front door. The woman was built like a refrigerator and wore bib overalls like she was about to harness up the team and head out to the fields to plow the south forty.
“In or out,” she called. “Air-conditioning ain’t cheap, you know.”
Wyeth whispered, “She’s not even using proper English. I’m not going in there. How do I know it’s sanitary? How do I know I won’t be blinded or end up with orange hair or suntanned teeth?”
Deeze laughed out loud and pushed him through the door, dragging a startled Chaucer along behind.
The young woman gave a friendly wave to Deeze, then turned her attention to the redhead he had just shoved through her door.
“So this must be him,” she said. “You were right. He is cute, in a reluctant sort of way.” Before Wyeth could take offense at that, she stepped forward and lifted the hair off his forehead to study the skin underneath. Then she lifted the tail of Wyeth’s T-shirt without asking permission and checked out his pale chest.
“Ooh,” Deeze said, peering over the woman’s shoulder. “Nice torso. A little meager on the six-pack, but nice and trim nevertheless. Quite yummy actually.”
The young woman agreed with a mumbled, “Yes, indeed,” then added a wistful, “What I wouldn’t give for that waistline.” Wyeth stood there opening and closing his mouth like a guppy, evidently too shocked to speak.
The woman was smiling now, oblivious to Wyeth’s scowl. “You’re right, Deeze. It is lovely. With a tan it’ll be even lovelier.”
Deeze leaned in closer. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips through the strawberry blond hair circling Wyeth’s belly button. “I sort of like it the way it is.”
The young woman got huffy. “Well, this was your idea.”
“I know, dammit,” Deeze whined, still dragging his fingers through Wyeth’s treasure trail.
Wyeth slapped his hand away and yanked his shirt down. “You people are crazy.”
“Yes, well,” the clerk said, “that’s a matter of opinion.” She turned to Deeze. “Are we doing full body, or should we leave a tan line?”
“Tan line, I think,” Deeze said, turning away to study several full-length photos of freshly spray-tanned individuals plastered across the walls. He pointed to one young man wearing a teeny tiny tan line and little else. “Ooh, I like this one.” He whirled back around and tapped Wyeth on the shoulder. “What sort of undies are you wearing, Wy? Boxers, trunks, teeny tiny briefs, like I should be so lucky?”
“B-b-briefs. And you can forget about being lucky. And they aren’t that teeny tiny,” he finished with a snarl.
Deeze blinked. “Wow. Cranky.”
“Tempus fuji,” the clerk said, tugging at Wyeth’s shirtsleeve and dragging him toward the back of the shop.
“Your Latin sucks worse than your English,” Wyeth said conversationally enough, shuffling along in the woman’s wake because he really didn’t have much choice in the matter. The woman was strong as an ox.
The clerk ignored him while she aimed a finger back at Deeze and the dog. “You two stay here.”
“I DON’T think I want to do this,” Wyeth wheedled, even while the clerk dragged him into the recesses of the building.
“Pshaw! You’re gonna love it. Ain’t nothing like a paleface getting his first tan. It’s a life-changing experience. You’ll see if it ain’t.”
“Ain’t isn’t a word” was all Wyeth could think to say. “No matter how many times you use it, it will never be a word.”
“If it’s in the dic
tionary, it’s a word.”
“Well, that’s not strictly….”
Fifteen feet down a long corridor, she made a right turn and dragged Wyeth through a door with a big metal A screwed into the wood at about eye level. In the room were what appeared to be a dressing screen in one corner and a shower stall in the other. The lights were dim. Wyeth could barely see anything at all.
The clerk handed him a pair of paper panties. “These will give you the proper tan line without staining the briefs you’re wearing. Go behind the screen, take everything off, and put them on.”
“I don’t want to take everything off.”
“Do it anyway.”
“I don’t want a tan.”
“Yes, you do. You look like Casper next to your boyfriend.”
“He-he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Well, he should be,” she said. “He’s gorgeous.”
Wyeth stopped what he was doing, the paper underpants almost forgotten in his hand, and stared back at the door he’d just come through. “Yes,” he said, rather breathlessly, “he is, isn’t he?”
Apparently not big on romance, the clerk shoved him none too gently toward the screen and snapped, “Get naked and put those on. We’ll be done before you know it.”
“How long will it take to dry?”
“Less than five minutes.”
“How long will I look orange?”
“You won’t look orange. You’ll look tanned. And it lasts two weeks.”
“Will I be spotty when it fades?”
“No.”
“If I like it, can I come back?”
The clerk smiled her first smile of the morning. When she did, she looked far less like a refrigerator and more like a fairly attractive young woman with perhaps a wee bit of a weight problem. “See how smart your boyfriend is? He knew you wanted this, even when you thought you didn’t.”
Wyeth sighed. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
The clerk shot him a wink. “Well, after you get your tan, maybe you should work on that next.”
“I don’t want to work on that next.”
“Yes, you do. He told me all about you in class.”
“What class? Are you in preschool? Are you the one he buys all the crayons for?”
The clerk laughed and slapped Wyeth on the back so hard, he almost flew across the room. “In kinesiology, silly. We attend night classes together at City College.”
“Night classes? I didn’t know.”
She stuffed a fist on her hip and glared. “If you don’t start undressing, I’ll rip your clothes off myself. Or get Deeze in here to do it for me.”
Wyeth quickly ducked behind the screen. “Sheesh! All right. I’m undressing already.”
While he did that, he listened to her fiddling with the spraying stall, getting things ready.
Through the screen, Wyeth asked, “Why are the two of you taking night classes?”
“We’re studying to become personal trainers, or at least I am. I think Deeze hasn’t decided yet. He may go for physical therapist in relation to sports injuries.”
“Doesn’t he like teaching kids?”
“He loves teaching kids. He just wants to do this too.” She rapped her knuckles on the screen, causing Wyeth to jump because by this time he was stark naked and had only one leg poked through the paper panties, which in his opinion seemed really, really flimsy. “For someone who’s going out with Deeze, you’d think you would know all this stuff.”
“We’re not going out.”
“Yeah, right. He’s springing for your spray-on tan because you’re his charity of the month.”
“I’m nobody’s charity!”
“He said you were touchy.”
By the time Wyeth stepped out from behind the screen, feeling more exposed in the stupid paper panties than he would have starkass naked, he was fuming. “Let’s just get this over with. And Deeze and I are not going out, so’s you know. Nor is he my boyfriend. And I’m not touchy!”
The clerk pointed him into the shower stall, mumbling, “Oh no, not touchy at all. You’re a fucking tranquilizer, you are.”
The door to the hallway opened, and Deeze stuck his head in. His eyes immediately focused on Wyeth in the open tanning stall in nothing but the tiny paper panties that left little or nothing to the imagination.
He whistled softly, causing Wyeth to slam the stall door shut and scream, “Get the fuck out of here!”
“Your boyfriend’s shy,” the clerk said.
“I know,” Deeze stage-whispered back.
All of which prompted Wyeth to scream, “I’m not your fucking boyfriend! And I’m not fucking shy. And I’m still not fucking touchy.”
Through the stall door and his own agitated breathing, Wyeth heard Deeze say, “I’d best go before his dog shits in your waiting room.”
“Please do,” the woman snarled.
Still not sure how things had come to this, two minutes later, Wyeth, practically naked and strangely turned on, was holding his breath and being sprayed down with a blast of suntan juice like a used car at Earl Schieb’s.
OUT ON the street, Wyeth stopped in front of yet another store window and stared at his reflection. Truth be told, he was also staring at the handsome man standing next to him. Deeze. The man whom, against all better judgment, he was beginning to find considerably less annoying than he once had.
“So I’m guessing you like the look,” Deeze commented, arms crossed, head cocked, cupping his chin like an art connoisseur studying a Monet he’d never seen before. Not only did he appear to be amused and happy to see Wyeth appreciating his new tan, but he had also been promoted to handling Chaucer’s leash. He appeared to be amused and happy about that too.
Wyeth gazed into the storefront window. He eyed the reflection of his newly bronzed legs, then he held both arms out in front of him and looked at those. Ignoring the shoppers inside staring out at the man admiring himself, he pulled up his shirttail to stare at his tanned belly.
He didn’t want to sound like an egotistical twit, but he honestly couldn’t believe what a difference it made. “I’ve never been tanned in my life.”
Deeze grinned. “Well, you are now.”
“I look healthy.”
“You are healthy. You always were healthy. And you always looked it.”
“I’ve been pale my whole life.”
“Pale and handsome. Now you’re simply tanned and handsome.”
Wyeth turned from the window and stared at Deeze, standing there in front of him with Chaucer at his feet. He slowly shook his head. “I’ve never deluded myself into thinking I was handsome. I’m not.” When Deeze smiled at his words, clearly disbelieving, Wyeth sighed. And finally, he smiled back. “You are the handsome one, Deeze. I-I think you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met.”
Deeze didn’t blush. Deeze merely stared back. “I’m glad you think so. It doesn’t seem fair, though, that I should have to believe you when you won’t believe me.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I know the truth.”
Wyeth turned back to the window for a final glimpse of his newly tanned image. “Thank you for this. If nothing else, it’s a lot of fun to be something I’m not for a while.”
“Do me a favor, then,” Deeze said. “Be something else you’re not. Do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
Wyeth looked wary. He hadn’t known Deeze very long, but he knew him well enough to know he had to be on his guard around the guy. He was sneaky.
“And what exactly might that be?” Wyeth carefully asked.
“Hold my hand. While we walk.”
Wyeth shuffled his feet, suddenly nervous, suddenly uncomfortable. “Why?” he asked.
Deeze didn’t hesitate. “Because I want to touch you. I want to connect. I want to feel you while we stroll down the street to the train station.”
“We’re strolling down the street to the train station?”
“Yes. It’s your next surprise.”
Now, oddly enough, Deeze blushed. “I haven’t spent a nickel yet.”
“But… the tan.”
“Laurie’s my cousin. Your tan was a freebie.”
“She’s your cousin? She said you guys went to night school together.”
“Yeah. We do that too. So will you hold my hand?”
“I still don’t under—”
Deeze gave an exasperated huff. “Jeez, Wyeth. Just hold my stupid hand. I’m not asking for a kidney here. Just a little physical connection. A smattering of human bonding. It’s not gonna kill you.”
It might kill me, Wyeth thought. It just might.
But instead of speaking those words and spending the rest of the day trying to explain them, he resignedly reached out and took Deeze’s hand. “There,” he said. “Happy?”
Deeze wove his fingers through Wyeth’s, tightening his grip. Their hands were warm, even a little sweaty—the day was getting hot already—but Deeze obviously didn’t mind.
With a gentle tug, he steered Wyeth along the street toward the Santa Fe Depot down by the bay, maybe eight or nine blocks away. It was there the silver Amtrak trains, with their red, white, and blue stripes along the side, splintered their way out of the city, heading for parts unknown.
They walked quietly for a couple of blocks. Then Wyeth broke the silence. “You won’t believe this, but I’ve never ridden a train.”
Deeze nudged him with a shoulder but didn’t break stride. He did, however, bear a wide grin on his face. “Then it’s time my baby did,” he said.
“I’m not your baby, Deeze,” Wyeth softly said. He was not smiling when he said it.
Chapter Five
THE LOCAL Coaster train shuttled locals back and forth along the California coast. Thus its name. Unlike the silver Amtrak trains, the Coaster cars were green and blue. Modern and air-conditioned, the Coasters slid along the rails in a gentle hush of whispery sound. Wyeth sat in the window seat because Deeze had insisted he should. They had ensconced themselves on the left side of the northbound train, also at Deeze’s insistence, and because of that savvy decision, Wyeth now stared out at the grand Pacific Ocean gliding past, not a hundred feet from the rails. The view from the other side of the car would have been far less appealing.