Orientation

by Rick R. Reed

  “Not at all.”

  “And the movies! Did you see I have all the DVDs, too?” Jess scooted aside a stack of DVD boxes to reveal a boxed set of all six Heather Marshall, Teenage Witch films. “Don’t tell me you’re a fan?”

  “Why not? Can’t a grown man enjoy some well-written young adult fiction?”

  Jess leaned against the wall and stretched her legs out in front of her. “So you actually read them?”

  “Every one. You seem surprised.”

  “Well, yeah. I mean grown men aren’t really the demographic for these.” Jess laughed. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “I should come clean. Heather Marshall paid for that Lexus that brought you here. And she paid for that penthouse you were just at. See this cashmere scarf and John Varvatos leather coat? Heather bought ‘em.”

  Jess gave a wary smile. “I’m not following.”

  “My partner, Keith, was J.M. Darling. He wrote the series…or should I say ‘she’?”

  “Now, you’re putting me on. A fan like me knows all about J.M. Darling.” Jess concentrated for a moment and then began spilling out the J.M. Darling bio. “Born in Liverpool, England, came to America at age five when her parents were killed in a car crash. Grew up in an orphanage near Bangor, Maine. Blonde, blue eyes. Oh, how I fantasized about this woman as I got older!” Jess snatched the book from Robert’s hand and turned it over to gaze lovingly at the author photo on the back.

  Robert shook his head. “That woman was a model who signed a contract never to reveal her true identity. Keith’s publisher thought up the whole J.M. Darling persona. The thinking was girls wouldn’t go for a book written by a middle-aged gay leather daddy.”

  Jess put down the book and realized he wasn’t kidding. The revelation came as a shock. “And so the books stopped when he…passed?”

  “Yeah,” Robert took a deep breath and tried to smile. “He was just starting to get sick when he worked on the last one. He never finished it. I could show you the manuscript sometime.”

  “I’d love that.” She put her hands over his. “I’m really sorry about him. I can see that, even after all this time, he meant so much to you.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  And then Jess froze. “That was him in the picture, huh?”

  Robert thought for a moment, then she could see the light go on. “Oh, the one on the console I showed you? Yes, as I said, that was my Keith.” He looked wistful for a moment, then smiled. “You just didn’t know then that he was also known as J.M. Darling.”

  Suddenly, Jess’s stomach lurched and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Jess closed her eyes to stop the room from spinning. She took several deep breaths and allowed herself the comfort of the wall at her back. “No, nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Robert? Listen, I’m really tired. Would you mind if we got together again, later? I think I need to just go to sleep.”

  Robert looked surprised. “Really? We were just starting to have a good time. But I understand, Jess.” He reached out, putting the back of his hand against her cheek and holding her gaze for a moment. “I do want to see you again. I have to confess. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t understand why. Maybe you learned a bewitching spell from one of Keith’s books and you’ve cast it over me. But there’s something very special about you.” Robert pulled himself up from the floor with some effort and brushed off the back of his coat with his hands. “I hope I don’t sound silly.”

  “Not at all. I’ll be in touch.”

  Jess stood too and opened the door for him. He started down the stairs, then turned, groping in his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and got a business card. He held it out to her. On it, in simple engraved letters, were his name, phone number, and e-mail address.

  “I expect you to be.”

  Jess smiled and looked up from the card. He leaned forward and kissed her lips. The kiss sent a jolt, like a surge of electricity, through her. She closed the door quickly and tried not to look at him again.

  Jess leaned against the shut door, attempting to quell her thudding heart. She didn’t know what was making it pound harder: the kiss or the realization that the face she had seen in her dream—the face reflected back at her in the sideview mirror that had seemed familiar—was not her own, but that of Robert’s dead lover, Keith.

  Chapter 8

  “Oh, this is just too melodramatic. I feel like Barbara Stanwyck, for Christ’s sake.” Ethan had done a maintenance line of Tina, and was feeling much closer to normal. Funny how it worked that way—what brought him low lifted him up again. It was almost spiritual.

  Before him, spread out on the Aubusson rug, were several documents. The first one had very nearly given him heart failure and had almost made him shriek. It was all he could do not to rip up the legalese-scarred pages in a rage. That document was Robert’s will, which he had never seen. And which, he was dismayed to find, left nothing to him. No, the entire estate was left to two parties: some orphanage in Maine called St. Sophia and the rest to the AIDS Foundation of Chicago. Ethan snorted and thought maybe eventually, if he were very unlucky, some of those bequeathed funds would trickle down to him.

  He never would have guessed Robert would leave him nothing. He almost didn’t look any further. Anger, hot, rose up and nearly throttled him, so he was nearly hyperventilating as he paced the small office, staring out the window, clenching his fists, and murmuring curse words under his breath. He considered going upstairs, packing his Tumi bags with all of his clothes—and all the jewelry and cash he could find—and hailing a cab. But he knew he’d direct the cab to Broadway and Irving Park Rd. where Tony lived. He would count out all the money he had just stolen, lay it down, and hand it over, all in exchange for several eight balls of his most demanding mistress. Ethan knew the money should have been used to find an apartment and get him back on his feet until he found a job…ah, but that was the voice of reason speaking. That voice had deserted him a long time ago.

  Eventually, he allowed himself to sit back down on the expensive rug, letting his breathing return to normal, giving himself the comfort of another line. Then he went back to examining the papers (in spite of how his heart was suddenly thudding in his chest, almost like it was beating out a tribal signal to tell him to go out and find a man, or many, many men). The next thing he looked at was Robert’s insurance documents.

  And there he found his consolation prize. Robert had purchased a million dollar policy, and identified Ethan as the beneficiary. “Oh my sweet Daddy,” Ethan had whispered to the paper, holding it up and kissing it. “All is forgiven.”

  Ethan put the papers back in the drawers, being careful to leave everything as neat and organized as he had found it. It was amazing how the crystal actually helped him be more organized and energetic; he felt totally focused as he went about his task of returning the den to the same order. He was even able to re-lock the lock and make it look as though he had never tampered with it.

  It wasn’t until he started playing some bareback porn and had lit his eighteenth cigarette of the day that he realized he was not concentrating on the orgy scene before him, but still thinking about Robert’s will. A million dollars is a lot of money. It’s enough to turn my life around. Enough for rehab and enough for a fresh clean start somewhere far away from Chicago and its temptations. Enough for me to go back to school, maybe get that teaching certificate I always thought I should have. It’s enough for me to have one awesome party before I do all the things I know I should do. I could buy a shitload of Tina and hire the hottest escorts…at least go out with a bang.

  Ethan found his gaze returning to the plasma screen, where a guy with a shaved head was in a sling, being gangbanged by at least a dozen different men. He smiled.

  Ethan really did think the idea of offing his partner for the insurance money was so Barbara Stanwyck. He knew he couldn’t seriously consider it. Could he? He may have s
unk to lows in the past year he never would have imagined sinking to, but was he really the kind of person who could entertain killing someone, let alone actually going out and doing it? He didn’t think so. And besides, even if they no longer had sex and he pretty much milked Robert for the money and lavish home, some affection still lurked inside him for the old guy.

  Wasn’t there? Ethan had to admit he didn’t know what he felt for Robert anymore. In fact, he didn’t know what he felt for anyone—or anything—anymore. The drug’s fire had consumed so many of his emotions, burning his brain clean, leaving room for nothing else but want for more of it.

  He threw down the remote control, stubbed out his Parliament. Sweat covered his chest and dripped down from his forehead into his face, his eyes. He stood. Ethan thought how good the cold air outside would feel, how cleansing the cold would be. He needed to be outside.

  He hurried upstairs, stopping first to make a final tour of Robert’s office, ensuring nothing was out of place. In his bedroom, he changed into jeans, and a Northwestern purple sweatshirt. He slid a leather jacket over that and pulled on a pair of black hi-top Converses. He yanked a stocking cap over his sweating mop of hair, grimacing with the thought of how it would cause him to sweat even more, at least until he got outside.

  He hoped no one else would ride down in the elevator with him. He wondered how he smelled.

  Once outside, he flipped open his cell phone and called Tony. The little pink plastic baggie in his pocket was nearly empty. Tony’s voice mail answered.

  “Hey, Tony, you there? Pick up. It’s Ethan.” He gave Tony a few seconds. “She’s almost outta here and I need her. Give me a call.” He closed the phone and headed east, toward Lake Shore Drive and the underpass that would take him to the lakefront.

  Once there, he settled on a bench to wait for Tony to call back and lit a cigarette, staring out at the churning gray waters. Clouds hung low over the lake, and he wondered if it would snow. He knew it would be only a short time before he would start to shiver. The cold wind had already dried the sweat from his body, and soon, his elevated temperature would begin making the depressed temperature outside seem even colder.

  He had to think. He couldn’t kill Robert for the insurance money…that was too laughingly cinema noir. And yet, how could he get his hands on enough money for an extended stay in rehab without coming clean to Robert and being kicked into the street? Sure, there were several million in various accounts, tied up in stocks, bonds, mutual funds, holdings in businesses…but not much of that was liquid. Many of their living expenses were paid for by an accountant downtown on LaSalle. Things like savings accounts were for poor people, not wealthy heirs like Robert. Even if he could march into a bank and withdraw the funds he needed, he knew it would never happen, not without Robert standing right there with him, ready to sign on whatever dotted line the bank would require for a withdrawal of a large sum.

  As he predicted, he began to shake. He stood, thrusting his bare hands into his pockets, and started up the lakefront path. No one was out; the day was cold, with a harsh but unsympathetic sun beating down through the clouds, offering brilliant light with no warmth.

  His phone began to sing its little hip-hop jingle, and he removed it from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “‘Lo?” His teeth chattered. It was Tony, telling him “she” was receiving visitors and that her favors were available. Stupid how they talked about her as if she were a real woman. She was a real bitch, that much was for sure.

  He crossed over the bridge at North Avenue that would take him to the Inner Drive where he could get a cab up to Tony’s.

  “Crank the heat up, man,” was the first thing he said once a cab had pulled over for him. “Broadway and Irving Park. Mind if I smoke?”

  The driver simply pointed to the sign clipped to the passenger side sun visor:

  No Smoking. By Order Of The City Of Chicago

  “Okay. Whatever.” Ethan settled back into the cab, wondering if he could sneak a keyful of white powder to his nose without the cab driver noticing. He decided if the cabbie was so down on smoking, he probably wouldn’t take kindly to drug abuse in his cab.

  So he closed his eyes and leaned back against the upholstery, already feeling a phantom rush for the drug he knew Tony would soon be shooting into a vein. His thoughts about Robert and how to fleece the old guy out of a few thousand could wait for another time. Right now, he imagined the ritual: the belt tied tightly around his upper arm, the swab of rubbing alcohol, Tony tapping his arm to find the perfect vein, the immediate heat and rush as the drug entered his system.

  He told himself, “I will not kill him for the insurance money.”

  The cab driver’s dark eyes moved to the rearview mirror. “What did you say?”

  Ethan hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “Nothing.”

  He closed his eyes again.

  * * * *

  It was past three in the morning when Ethan left the bathhouse and headed home. Halsted Street was now deserted, a cold wind blowing in from the north. The chilly air howled down the empty street, picking up papers and skipping them along the sidewalk. Ethan remembered how lively the street had been just a few hours before, crowded with cars and pedestrians, after he had left Tony’s and come down here, promising himself he would settle for finding a man in one of the bars. He headed, instead, for the shut-off-from-the-world seclusion of the bathhouse, as he knew he would, even as he lingered for only a moment outside a couple of the bars. Ethan heard snatches of music from cars passing by, and more of the same electronic syncopation when one of the club doors would swing open, as if the music was inside waiting to escape.

  Even if it weren’t for the promise of easy sex and multiple loads, Ethan knew he would have headed to the bathhouse, anyway. He felt removed from the post-holiday revelers. Their lives of drinking and romantic intrigue in the bar were foreign, almost quaint. He felt like a ghost.

  The trip to the bathhouse served its purpose. At one point, just like in the movie he’d been watching earlier, he had ended up in a sling in one of the common areas with guys lined up to take a turn with him. He was sure that latex was a foreign concept to all of them. He hadn’t cared after a while what they looked like or how accomplished they were as lovers. He just lay there, an open, gaping hole needing to be filled and, for as many times as it was, never satisfied. Always, always wanting more…as soon as one guy finished, he was forgotten, and Ethan was looking for the next one. He realized at one point that the gaping hole was an apt metaphor for the vacuum his life had become. He was terminally hungry, and no matter how much “sustenance” he found, it would never placate the jangling need.

  And something else had happened that night that had never happened before. When his sling session was nearly over, one of the guys finished, then laid a hand on his stomach to lean over and whisper, “Hey, dude, you’re really bleeding down there, you might want to clean up.” Ethan had let the next in line take his turn before heading downstairs to try to staunch the flow of blood with toilet paper. Fortunately, it slowed to a trickle.

  After that happened, Ethan’s desire finally plummeted. It wasn’t so much the fact that the multiple sexual encounters had stolen away his lust—and left him close to hemorrhaging—as it was that, for the first time, maybe, the drug was making him sick, really sick—never mind the rotting teeth, weight loss, and general unhealthy demeanor. After the toilet paper came away clean, Ethan wondered if, tonight, he would die, and realized even if he was headed toward that particular dead end, there was no longer any way to apply the brakes.

  His stomach ached. Empty for so long, it was no wonder, but the waves of nausea washed over him, making him alternately shivering cold, then burning hot. He reached out to the stall wall, trying to calm himself, trying to concentrate on who else was upstairs, who else could be next. Even if he had the good sense to stay away from anal sex, he still had a mouth. But the desire wouldn’t come back. It was a traitor and it had deserted him.


  He hoped it was only for the night.

  As he leaned back on the toilet, shutting his eyes and wondering how he could feel so cold when there was sweat pouring down his face, he thought of getting back to his room. Another bump or two will put things to right. Ethan pictured digging into the baggie with his key and bringing it to his nose, the sharp sting…and then bliss? Or will it stop my heart this time? Will the gay rags report a bathhouse death on the front pages of their next week’s editions? He pictured his mother, then, in his boyhood home answering a ringing phone. She smiled and not a hair was out of place from her careful coif. The soundless vision showed her mouth move, her face go blank, and finally her knees buckle, crashing to the floor. The phone, with its horrendous news, slid from her grasp.

  Ethan managed to get up and leave the bathroom stall. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He opened his mouth and saw bleeding gums. He spat several teeth into the sink, leaning over, stomach churning. When he stood back up, he was relieved to see the tooth business was all in his imagination, but disappointed that he still looked most undesirable. He bent over and splashed cold water on his face, succeeding only in making himself shiver more.

  He wondered why anyone had chosen to have sex with him.

  Ethan hurried back to his room and slammed the door shut behind him, turning up the light so he could see. He groped in his jeans pockets and pulled out the baggie.

  Empty.

  Ethan wailed, beating his hand on the bed, which made him feel even more wrung out and exhausted.

  And then it was on him. Like a demon rising in his stomach, cramping so intense and powerful, Ethan feared he would faint. He didn’t know what there was to come up, but he was sure he was going to vomit. He stumbled from his room, thinking only of getting to the bathroom in time, ignoring the slack-jawed stares of some of the other men milling around the hallways.