Left on St. Truth-Be-Well

by Amy Lane

  “Well, that sounds like a story. Walk me through it.”

  Carson took a deep breath and opened a package of artificial sweetener, then took the lid off his coffee to dump it in. “Well, for starters, it was open,” he said. “I mean, I thought it was an accident or something, but I went down to the car to get my stuff, and when I came back, I realized the fucking door wouldn’t lock. And it was twelve o’clock at night, right? And I thought, you know, I used to live by Cabrini-Green before it got demolished, I could deal with a door that didn’t lock—no worries. So I threw my stuff on the bed and turned on the light and…”

  “Mold,” Florida said knowingly. He tore open another packet of sweetener and dumped it in, then followed that up with two creamers. Carson glared in annoyance. It had taken him a year to give up creamer, in a painstaking effort to carve his abs into a six-pack. It hadn’t quite worked, but he’d kept the creamer out of his diet just on general principle. Florida ignored his glare, stirred the coffee, put the lid on and peeled back the little plastic flap, and handed it to him. “Tastes better with cream,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument.

  Carson needed that coffee. He sank into it with a blissful sigh. God, it would have been good even without the creamer.

  “Yeah,” he breathed after a minute. “There was mold. Black mold on the sink, white mold on the carpet… but, you know… my first apartment was pretty shitty. I thought I could deal with the mold.” He took another blissful swallow of coffee. “And the termite wood dust in the corner.”

  “And the holes in the floor under the carpet?”

  Carson smiled a little, both in memory of his first apartment and at the dryness in Florida’s voice. “And the shredded wallpaper, and the closet door off the hook and the drapes that wouldn’t close and the Internet that wasn’t there—”

  “Oh, the horror!”

  “Hey!” Carson laughed, recovering his good humor a little. “A boy has to have his porn! Anyway, so, yeah. The place is a dump. The birds freaked me out. But that’s not what drove me away.”

  Florida laughed and rested his chin on his palms, batting his eyes like a little girl in a story circle. “Do tell!”

  Carson sensed a challenge. “Man, the mold was gross, but I stayed. The holes under the carpet were life-threatening, but I stayed. The fumigation smell—”

  “Oh God!”

  “Oh really! The fumigation smell was horrendous, but I stayed!”

  Florida nodded, urging him to drop the shoe, and Carson winked.

  “But when the cockroach, the ant, and the bedbug walked across the spooge stain on the sheets, you can bet your sweet ass I checked into the Hotel fucking 8!”

  Florida had a great laugh. It started from his toes, but it must have lingered around his groin, because when it came out his mouth, it was all sex. Melty and humpty met and mated, and Carson had to take a deep breath to keep himself from searching for any handy broom closets.

  When the laugh was over, Florida just grinned and shook his head. “Yeah, that place got semidemolished by a hurricane a few years back. They had construction crews in here eating, and they kept telling us that it was so frustrating. They needed to be replacing the drywall and the flooring, but they were told to wallpaper and carpet over it. Man, that place is bad news. You’re much better off at the Super 8 or the little Hyatt.”

  Carson grimaced, and Florida held up his hand.

  “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in a minute with your food.”

  Carson nodded and sipped his coffee meditatively. Florida boys. Go figure. Must be the surfing. If he peered past the Bates Parrot, he could see (or maybe imagine) the ocean, and he remembered that moment, right before he’d tried the handle of the door, when he’d looked out into the matte blackness of the night. He’d imagined a sort of freedom in the thick air, and it reminded him of walking through Grant Park in the late spring. The wind had lost its edge by May, but it still smelled like the water, and if you didn’t look too hard for the far side of the lake, you could imagine it stretched over the horizon.

  What would it be like to be able to swim in that water, to be able to surf?

  To look over the edge and know the horizon stretched on forever?

  Carson felt a sudden hunger to do just that, which he tried to tamp down before Florida returned. He was just visiting. Florida didn’t need him mooning over the ocean or whining about not having his freedom.

  Which left Carson sitting, eyes half-mast, gazing across the road, when he saw a figure peek around the corner of the hotel. The hair was a yellow mess instead of a slicked-back coif, and the guy was hunched down, trying to hide his face and his build, but he bore a striking resemblance to…

  “Stassy?” Carson said. He said it out loud but not loudly, and there were cars crossing the road. (Okay, it was a freeway, but not a very busy one. St. Aubrey’s had a population of about ten thousand, and most of those were snowbirds.) Still, something must have alerted Stassy, because he lifted his head and glanced around like a squirrel getting ready to dart into traffic. His squirrel senses must have been tingling, though, because instead of darting into traffic, he slunk backward into the shadow of the hotel and disappeared. “Aw, hey, Stassy!” Carson looked left and right and realized that if he leapt the rail and tried to cross the street in the next few seconds, he’d be roadkill. In the meantime, Stassy was long gone, and Carson was stuck having eggs at the FA Café.

  “You see something?”

  Carson jerked his attention back to Florida and had a moment to reflect that he was wearing flip-flops and cutoffs to work. Jesus, how awesome was that?

  “Just the guy I was sent down here to get hold of.” Carson sighed, sinking back down to the picnic table. He perked up when he realized the promised breakfast was right there in front of him. “Ohmigod! That’s huge. It’s… it’s like… like breakfast-zilla! Do people really eat that much breakfast or do they just worship it until the eggs turn cold and then throw it out and worship the next one? I mean… I’ve seen families fed on that much stuff! Seriously, people eat that?”

  “No,” said Florida with a droll look. “They don’t eat it. They talk it to death and then bury it in the backyard.”

  Carson squeezed his eyes closed, embarrassed. “Shutting up now. Hey, do you guys got any, you know, ketchup or—”

  “I do know what ketchup is,” Florida said seriously. “And you won’t want to put any on that. I do have some FA sauce inside. Here.” He reached over to the table next to them and grabbed a red plastic bottle. “You put this on your potatoes if you have to. I’ll be right back.”

  Carson dutifully shook some ketchup on his potatoes and took a bite. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Crunchy on the outside, tender on the in, and seasoned all points in between. God. Better with ketchup, but he could see why someone would get picky. He finished off the potatoes and looked inside to see where his friend in the cutoffs had gone, and realized business had gotten pretty brisk since he’d last been inside. Florida was talking to customers and taking cash, and Carson thought a little wistfully of the promised FA sauce and a little more wistfully of the company. Ah, well. At least the egg tacos were still there.

  By the second bite he was in love. Oh man! It was a good thing he wasn’t talking the eggs to death—that was no way for good eggs to die! Good eggs should be savored, made lurve to, nuzzled. He got through the first taco on his plate and was looking at the other three with great excitement when he heard a gentle thunk and a softly reproving voice.

  “I said I’d get it for you!”

  “Well, yeah, but you were busy,” Carson apologized through a full mouth. “And thank you, but you know, these eggs are awesome. I don’t know what’s in them, but—”

  “Sausage, bacon, cheese, and fish,” Florida said, squirting some of the sauce he’d thunked on the table. “Now try that.”

  Carson’s eyes crossed with his first bite. “I’m eating here every day,” he vowed fervently and then took another bite. And another.
Florida let him get through that taco, and he’d started on the third on the plate before the guy started asking questions.

  “I saw you standing up and waving to someone. Anyone I’d know?”

  Carson swallowed. “Yeah, maybe. I’m here looking for my manager’s nephew, Anastacio. Stassy sort of disappeared, and I got sent down here.” Carson reached for his phone and pulled up a picture of Stassy. “Anyway, Ivan’s worried, because his brother-in-law is built like a truck and Stassy was sort of his responsibility, and I’m down here looking for him. You seen a guy like that?”

  Florida looked carefully at the picture. “Yeah, he’s been down here a couple of weeks, right?”

  Carson felt a ping of excitement. Damn. Maybe this guy knew him! Could get hold of him! Something, and Carson could get the hell out of here and go back home!

  “Yeah. He was staying across the street—”

  “Yeah. He didn’t complain like you did. Just sort of sucked it up and dealt. He’d come over here for breakfast, sometimes with a guy I know. You, uhm, know, they looked pretty friendly.”

  Carson’s shrug pretty much summed it up. “Yeah, well, that’s most of us at Ivan O’Leary’s. That’s the bar where we work. Anyway, girls, boys, we’re all sort of, you know. It’s not a deal.”

  Florida raised his eyebrows. “Well, it seemed like a big deal to him.”

  Oh wow. Look at that. One last taco left! Carson could probably choke this one down nice and slow, hence relieving him of the embarrassment of trying to explain to Florida here why he had reason to know Stassy might take it all a little personally.

  He got halfway through the taco before darting his gaze up. Florida was still looking at him, eyebrows raised, like he could just sit there. Forever. Waiting. Waiting for Carson. Waiting for Carson to tell the truth.

  Carson took another bite of taco.

  And then spoke with his mouth full.

  “Wull mmmm dnnn knoll dand!”

  Florida had a full mouth, with a very defined upper lip. It quirked. It quirked well. And now it quirked upward as though it fully expected Carson to chew, swallow, and own up like a grown-up.

  Bastard.

  He swallowed half a breakfast taco and said, “Well, I didn’t know that! I thought we were just making out in a broom closet! And then….” Shit. Stassy. He’d looked sort of freaked out.

  “And then he took off to Florida from wherever you’re from to have a crisis.”

  “Chicago. Is it not tattooed on my forehead?”

  That full mouth pulled into a gentle smile. “No. City, yes.” Florida reached out and brushed his cheekbone with a long finger. “City is tattooed right here. But not which city.”

  Carson knew his eyes got really frickin’ big. His cheekbone started to buzz from that casual touch, and he took several deep breaths to try to center himself.

  “Chicago,” he said with an effort. “Born in the suburbs, moved to the city. Shitty apartment, decent apartment, Columbia College. Hell, I used to do the trolley tours. It’s in my blood.”

  That lazy smile widened, and Carson jerked himself out of the full-lip trap only to find himself drowning in blue eyes. “Salt water’s in your blood. City’s under your skin. That leaves room for other things. You want to go look for your friend?”

  Carson finished the last bite of taco and eyed him warily. That sounded… well, it sounded like a come-on, but not the kind Carson was used to from guys. It sounded almost like a girl’s come-on, but Florida possessed no girl qualities whatsoever.

  “You, uh, coming with me?” Carson hedged, and Florida nodded, that hooded-eyed smile just growing deeper.

  “Was planning on it. You ’bout done inhaling your breakfast?”

  Carson looked at his mostly clean plate. “Yeah.” He looked around. It was the kind of place with a cash register, but Florida had brought his plates to the table. And then sat down and eaten with him. “You, uhm, want a tip?”

  God. That laugh. Just sent ripples up Carson’s thighs and straight to his happy places. “Not that kind. Not from you. Hand me a ten and we’ll be good.”

  Okay, it was an innuendo of some kind, but Carson was damned if he knew what kind. He handed over the ten, thinking that was a damned good bargain for a giant coffee and a full breakfast. “Uh… okay. So, Florida, you want to cross the street with me?”

  Florida bit the smile on his succulent lower lip and nodded like the answer was obvious. “Sounds good. Let me go tell Marnie I’m off for the day.”

  “You can just do that? Leave your shift?” At Ivan O’Leary’s, Carson would have to get someone to watch tables and make sure all his off-duty chores were done and tell everyone why he was leaving and—

  Florida shrugged. “Yup. Marnie cooks breakfast, she gets the take from that. Jim owns the lunch part of the restaurant, he cooks that. I work when they need me. Breakfast is over, Jim and Marnie are changing in the kitchen, I can leave until lunch, and probably later. They’ll buzz me if they need anything. It’s Monday.”

  Carson tried hard not to gape. It was so… so… friendly. His frail brain fizzled and died at the thought of that much friendly common sense in a business. He couldn’t grasp it. He’d focus on other things.

  “So, if this place doesn’t eat into your time, what do you do with it?”

  For the first time those sleepy eyes sharpened, and Carson could smell the faintest whiff of fanatic. For a moment, he was afraid.

  “Surfing,” Florida said, completely serious. “Bodyboarding mostly, but when the waves get rough during hurricane season—man, I’m there. It’s like… like living in beauty, man. The only way to live.”

  Carson’s mouth fell open like a virgin’s fly. “Uh….”

  Suddenly Florida’s lazy-eyed smile returned. “Sensible guy like you, you probably got better things to do, huh.”

  Carson was going to jump right on that, and then he remembered what he really did in his spare time. “I am nobody to judge,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. He loved it, loved the clubs, the laughter, that high after a really good set. For ten minutes he was funny, his life was worth telling to complete strangers, and he was adored. But “stand-up comic”? Yeah. That went right there next to surfing on the “how has my child squandered his life” list, right?

  Those blue eyes grew intent, and Florida turned his head sideways. “There is a really good story behind that,” he said thoughtfully. “How about you tell me on the way across the street?”

  Of all things, Carson found himself nodding, agreeing to anything, absolutely entranced. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

  Oh, that smile… it was starting to make blood flow everywhere: his face, his skin, all points south. Carson was thinking about broom closets and bathrooms and suddenly those places didn’t seem to be enough.

  He surprised himself by standing up.

  Florida went inside and took off his polyester white apron as Carson waited for him. Together they walked out the little wooden gate of the picnic terrace, and Carson turned up the street toward the crosswalk.

  “Where are you going?”

  Carson turned around. “Have you ever gone walking in Chicago?”

  “That would be a no.”

  “Well, every time you come to a crosswalk, half the city jaywalks. Just goes. But I’ve taken cabs in that city, and those fuckers don’t give a shit about pedestrians just like pedestrians don’t give a shit about them. I don’t jaywalk. I don’t ever want to be a siren at 3:00 a.m. down Upper Wacker and Wabash, are you hearing me?”

  “Loud and clear,” Florida said. And then he just crossed the damned road. Carson looked both ways, realized he couldn’t even see a car in either direction of the coastal highway, and caught up with him halfway across the street.

  “Nice,” he muttered.

  “Don’t know if you noticed, but this ain’t Chicago.”

  “Bite me.”

  Florida laughed. “Maybe. If it comes to that. Now what’s your scary hobby? C’mon, spill!”


  Carson grunted. “Stand-up comedy.”

  He watched as those blond eyebrows rose, and Florida slowly rolled that marble around in his brain until something stuck. “Giving or receiving?”

  “Giving. Man, it is such a rush. You get up on the stage, and it’s, like, ‘Carson O’Shaughnessy’ and man, you get people to laugh. It’s like nothing in the world. It’s like you were put there to totally make their day better. I love it. Most awesome thing on the planet.”

  “Mm.”

  They were out of the street—which made Carson a damned sight happier—and he led the way around the back of the hotel. He knew where Stassy’s room was, and it was accessible from the outside. He also wanted to see if maybe Stassy was waiting for him. This was about where he’d been hiding when Carson had seen him from the café. Carson didn’t see anything now, so he risked a look at Florida’s face.

  “Mm, what?”

  “Carson O’Shaughnessy. I’ve never heard anything so Irish.”

  Carson snorted. “It’s not my real name. I mean, it’s on my driver’s license, but it’s not really mine.”

  Florida’s mouth puckered skeptically. “You will explain that.”

  Bossy fucker, right? But Carson didn’t seem to be able to disobey. “Okay, so it’s like this. My dad died, like, five years ago, but before he went, he was dating this really awesome woman. Bridget O’Shaughnessy, sweetest woman in the world. But, well, Dad died. Sucked. Now, Bridget has other kids and folks and shit, but, like, the month after the funeral, it’s my birthday, and she calls me up and they all take me out for my birthday. And then I go over there for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. So, I guess on my birth certificate and my bank account, the name is Carson Saunders, but on my driver’s license and when I’m on the stage, I go by Carson O’Shaughnessy, because, seriously. Awesome only comes in so many flavors, right? You’ve got to savor them when they’re presented to you.”

  He risked a look at Florida’s face, unsure of his reception. He didn’t tell a lot of people that story, mostly because it didn’t come up. Or, it did, because he did look Irish mostly with the five foot six inches and the fair skin, but, well, Florida invited confidences, didn’t he.