by Jaime Samms
After the kids had gone home, Ira had evaporated, slipping away with a whispered thanks and a ghost of a smile. Jed had tried to “run into him” in the hallways of the building, coming and going to work, but he’d seen neither hide nor hair of him in over a week.
It was worrisome, and Jed did not like to worry.
He also didn’t like to foist himself unwanted into another person’s space.
But he worried. And he paced while he snuck peeks down through the fire escape as he watered his plants, but of course, that wouldn’t help. Ira had shown clear signs of fear, probably because of the height. Jed wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him there. It didn’t stop him trying.
“You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Herschel plunked a plate of deep-fried calamari onto the bar in front of Jed one Friday. The lunch shift was over, and Jed had taken the afternoon to run some errands. He’d just returned to the bar for the evening shift. Splits were never fun, but they were short-staffed, so he’d offered to cover the shift if they fed him. Kearn was a good guy. Of course he’d agreed.
“Wasn’t aware I had one.” Jed poked at the curled tentacles of one of the breaded bits on the plate. “Did you give me all the faces?”
Herschel laughed. “Squid faces are good for you.”
“Whatever.” Jed popped one in his mouth, then pushed the plate away. They were good, but just looking at them made his arteries scream for mercy.
Herschel stuffed a few calamari into his mouth and chewed as he wiped his fingers and pointed at Jed. “So your problem is that you have to take care of everyone. This guy sounds like a lot of work. You don’t want to take that on. Before you know it, you’ll be keeping him.”
“Ira doesn’t need anyone to keep him,” Jed protested. And he believed that. The fact that he had that caretaker gene, that he wanted to caretake, wasn’t Ira’s fault. “He’s got his shit together. He’s got a great apartment. A job. He’s an artist.”
Herschel rolled his eyes. “An artist. Dude. You are so fucked.”
“Herschel!” Kearn called from the kitchen doorway. “Get your ass back here. Merik just called in.”
“Asshole,” Herschel muttered. “Kearn needs to fire his ass.”
“Kearn doesn’t fire people because they’re having a rough time.”
“He skips every other shift!”
“Don’t be a jerk. His marriage just imploded.”
“Bullshit. His wife ran off with his boyfriend. His marriage had issues a long time ago.”
“Well . . .” Jed shrugged. “Okay. Maybe. Still. Cut him a bit of slack, yeah?”
“That.” Herschel poked a finger at him. “Right there. That’s your problem. Your heart bleeds all over the fucking place. You’re all gaga over this guy, and you just met him. You haven’t even gone on a real date. Have you two even fucked yet?”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
Herschel shrugged. “You’re a guy. He’s a guy.” He ate a few more of Jed’s calamari. “It’s what we do.”
“What you do maybe.”
Herschel grinned. “Damn straight.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Herschel did not deny it.
“Ira is sweet,” Jed said. “He isn’t that kind of guy. And for the record,” he added, pulling the plate away from Herschel’s reach, “neither am I.”
“So you haven’t gone on a single date. You haven’t done the nasty. And still you’re like a teenager, pining after him. Now’s the time to ask yourself: do you like him? Or do you like that he needs you?” He did a rat-a-tat drumroll on the bar top. “Eh? Am I right?”
“Herschel!” Kearn’s voice had grown a little tense, and Herschel got off the barstool.
“Think about that, my friend.”
He hurried off before Kearn had to call him again, leaving Jed with no chance to respond. Jed munched on a few more squid faces before the grease got to him. “He doesn’t need me,” he muttered.
“Jed, baby?” Kimi kicked his shin to get his attention because her arms were full of beer cases and he was hovering at the end of the short L of the bar, blocking her way. “Either get out of my way, or take these.”
Jed took the cases. “Where do you want them?”
“Did it ever occur to you maybe the shoes were over the top?”
“Shut up about my shoes.” Ira stuck his tongue out at Liesel, his lunch companion and disparager of his shoes. He eased his left foot from under their table to peer down at the blue suede pump adorning it. His feet ached a bit, it was true. But he’d learned a long time ago that there was no going through life pretending to be something he was not. What he was, besides a dancer and a starving artist, was a man who liked pretty shoes.
Across the table from him, Liesel looked too and sighed. “They are pretty.” She shook her head. “But not practical, Ira. You want these guys to hire you to wait tables, you have got to assure them from the first moment they see you that you’ll make it through an entire shift. I don’t know anyone who can easily get through an entire dinner service in three-inch heels.”
“Three inches is not that much.”
“After four or five hours? Three is as good as six, darling.”
Ira smiled. “I don’t care. I’m not going in asking for a job dressed as some fake version of myself. What they see is what they get.”
“What they see is not what they are going to hire, Ira. Be reasonable.”
“I am reasonable.”
“You’re stubborn.” Liesel picked one of the egg rolls off her plate and neatly deposited it on Ira’s. “Eat.”
“I didn’t come here to mooch off you, Lise.” He pushed the plate toward her.
“These servings are always too big anyway. Please. Help a girl out.”
Ira eyed her up and down. Her wrist bones were not as bulbous as he remembered, but that was no guarantee of anything where she was concerned. He shook his head. “I am helping you out. Eat.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said. “The next interview you go on, you wear sensible shoes. Ones that won’t make your potential boss worry if you’re nuts. Promise me that, and I will eat both egg rolls.”
Ira looked again at his lovely pumps, sighed, and nodded. “Fine.” He straightened his chopsticks on their rest and moved his water glass over an inch so it lined up with the rest of his place setting before meeting her gaze. “I wear sensible shoes; you eat an entire meal.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
He watched with satisfaction as Liesel took the egg roll back and began to eat it. When she was over half done, he began to gather up his things. “Babe, I have a few more errands to run, and I need to get the last piece of that model train commission done before the end of weekend. It’s due to be delivered on Monday. You promise me you’ll eat every bite on that plate?”
Liesel nodded. “I promise on the empty shoe box grave in your closet.”
“I don’t have a closet.”
“But you do have a pile of empty shoe boxes someplace.”
“True.”
“Don’t worry.” She smiled around the last mouthful of egg roll. “I’ll eat it all. You go. I’ll see you later.”
“Tonight? So You Think You Can Dance Canada.”
“Um.”
“Don’t tell me.” Ira rolled his eyes at her. “The cook again?”
“Babe, he’s so hot. You have no idea.”
“When do I get to meet him?”
“Soon. Promise. He’s . . . skittish.”
“Lise—”
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I’m having fun. He’s having fun. It’s all good.”
“So the sex is hot and frequent, then.”
She lifted a shoulder and picked up the next egg roll with the chopsticks, poising it, ready to take a bite. “If the shoe fits.”
“Be careful. Don’t let him fuck with your head.”
Liesel ate a bite of egg roll, taking her time, but Ira was not leaving until he got a reply
. He waited, his bags in his lap, for her to chew and swallow.
Finally, Liesel pointed at her plate and made a bug-eyed face at him. “I know. I ate, didn’t I? Trust me, this guy is not like Shithead Shane.” She grinned. “He likes my curves.”
“I worry.”
“And I love you. I’m not sixteen anymore. A guy wants me?” She grinned. “He’s going to have to live with aaall of this.” She waved her hands up and down her softly curving frame.
He wouldn’t remind her she’d almost died when she was sixteen. Or that the illness was one that never went away. Or that it left a legacy in her body she would always have to live with. She knew all that.
“Ira.”
“Okay. Fine.” He stood. “I want to meet him though. Soon. Make sure he’s good enough for you.”
“Says the boy who dances for strangers for a living.”
“To pay the rent.” He leaned down for a kiss and shouldered his messenger bag, which he had taken precious time out of his sculpting schedule to fix. “I’ll see you later.”
“Call me when you get home.”
“Always.” And he did call her after he walked home, because she blew up his phone and woke his neighbours if he was late.
He left her then, headed for the thrift shop. He’d filled the pack with a few things he knew the owner would trade for what he needed. She’d called to let him know the kilt he’d been on the lookout for was in, and he had a blouse he’d embellished and customized for another of her customers. He could modify the kilt for the schoolboy number he had in mind for the new club he was working this weekend. The men would pay lots of good tips to see something like that, he hoped. He’d never danced in this particular club before. A fellow dancer had offered to get him in, and this would be his debut.
He’d maybe make enough to buy a few staples for his pantry, if he looked good enough. Going back to dancing wasn’t his first choice, but the job interviews for waitering had not gone as well as he’d hoped. The last job he’d left had given him a bit of experience, most of it unpleasant. He hated to admit Liesel might be right, but he’d not gotten good vibes from any of the owners or managers who had interviewed him. A few had leered. Some had been openly hostile, reminding him of the manager who hadn’t had his back at the last place. All of them had told him they’d be in touch if a position opened up. Even those with Help Wanted signs in their windows.
At least with the dancing, he was protected. The bouncers didn’t let the patrons near the dancers. Unless the dancers accepted a bid for a personal dance. Lots of them did. Not Ira. Not recently, anyway.
Ira sighed and pushed his way into the thrift shop. His gut gurgled and pinched, but he ignored it. He had a deal to make, and letting the woman know he was desperate would not help his cause.
It didn’t take long, and he left with the coveted kilt. He had a long afternoon and full day tomorrow of sculpting to get his commission done on time, then sewing the kilt for his gig. As he hustled into his apartment, he dug out his phone and shot a quick text off to Liesel to let her know he’d made it home, safe and sound.
Good. Luv ya babe. Be careful tomorrow, yeah?
Always, he texted back. <3<3<3
Can’t go to show, got date. Call when you get home?
Want to meet him.
Soon. <3<3<3
He tossed his phone on the table and got to work. He could harass her more about her new fling later. And he would. Just to make sure the guy was good enough for her.
The painstakingly sculpted trees and bridges he’d been working on for the train collector had taken longer than he’d anticipated. The commission was done, thank goodness. He hadn’t disliked the project, but it hadn’t been particularly exciting—making replicas of pine trees, maples, poplars, and a few simple decorative covered bridges for the guy’s setup.
Most of the initial retainer had gone into supplies for the job, and he’d managed to pay off all those costs. All that was left now was delivery and payment. Not that he’d see a dime for the work before the thirty-day deadline, he was sure. That was just the nature of the business.
But the last push to finish this morning had spurred his brain into overdrive, and the adrenaline had sparked idea after idea for his current creative project. Fantastical trees coalesced in his mind for the backdrops of the nudes he was working on, and he’d been compelled to get it all down on paper. That had taken over his existence, and he’d been lost in his head for far too long, pushing his sewing project right up against the time he’d had to dash out of the apartment so he could make it on time to actually dance.
Thank goodness the venue was close enough he could walk. No traffic delays of public transit or expense of cabbing necessary. The fall evening was what his dad would have called bracing. Ira dug his hands into his pockets and glanced at the shop window he was passing. It was a home décor place, and the throw pillows on the display were fun, sporting faux fur and polka dots in varying tones of teal and blue. He enjoyed that.
The next one was a health food shop and someone had done a fantastic job of making tins of protein powder and jars of vitamins look exciting. The display blended in a weird sort of way, with the décor shop and the kitchen gadget shop on its other flank. Ira might have stopped to gaze at the pretty kitchen appliances if he’d had time. Not that he knew what any of them were for, but the shapes and colours made all sorts of steampunky ideas for a collection build, gear by sprocket, in his mind. Something to think about when he was done with the elves.
At the corner, he waited for the light as a streetcar took its ponderous time getting through the intersection. People gazed down on the pedestrians as the car went through. Ira smiled up at them. A little girl smiled back, and Ira felt the strangeness of small-town vibes ripple through the tiny neighbourhood. Three blocks away, glass and steel ruled the skyline. Here, people still shopped in the corner grocer and waved at a stranger from the streetcar.
Dry leaves fluttered up against his boots. The light changed. People moved in a wave past him before he shook himself into motion. He had someplace to be. It wasn’t snug in his apartment drawing ideas for new sculptures. But it was a flash in the pan of his life. One night. Two sets. If he did it right, he wouldn’t have to worry about doing it again until next month. Unless he found an actual job by then.
A block and a half later, he turned a corner into a narrow pedestrian alley between buildings. A tall fence on one side blocked off the driveway and backyard of a row house, and on the other, the brick wall of the club crowded the narrow space. Around the back of the building was the door, painted yellow as Mitch, his fellow dancer, had promised. He knocked, glancing over his shoulder at the sizzle-zap of the streetlight. Tall garbage and recycling bins lined the fence that closed off the back courtyard of the club, and a coffee can with a sludge of sand and cigarette butts stank up the doorstep.
The club had looked a lot more promising from the street. He didn’t have time to wonder if this had been a good idea, though. The door swung open and he was out of time to back out.
“You’re late,” Mitch muttered.
Ira said nothing as he clutched his repaired messenger bag tight against his chest and followed Mitch inside.
“This is a terrible idea.” Jed felt like he had to duck to go through the door into the club. It was dim inside, most of the light coloured and flashing over the stage near the back. Behind the bar was lit up golden and reflective, the bottles there shimmering, but nothing more than midrange quality.
Landon followed hot on his heels. “Loosen up, dude. It’ll be fine. We’ll have a couple of beers, dance with some twinks. Watch the show.” He said something else, but it was lost under the thundering sound of nineties techno music inside the club proper.
The place was packed. Jed wasn’t surprised. He’d seen lineups down the sidewalk, even in the dead of winter on nights the club brought in strippers. Dancers, he mentally corrected himself. The guys danced. They didn’t take off their clothes. Well. Not all o
f their clothes, according to Landon. Just enough to entice some healthy tips for their exposure.
Maybe it was that Jed had never gotten the appeal of the female strippers his friends had seemed to enjoy back when they were nineteen and bars and clubs had become a thing. Maybe it had been the stress of failing all his classes, or not knowing what he wanted to be when he grew up, or just the whole gay thing that he hadn’t quite put a name to yet. The idea of watching someone take their clothes off to a beat had just never held much appeal for him, male or female.
So he wasn’t sure why he was here now. Beyond Landon being bummed at yet another guy fucking over his good nature and leaving him sad, lonely, and out a fair chunk of cash he’d spent on buying the guy a new laptop. He’d begged their coworkers for company on a night out, and Jed had been the one with the night off and enough sympathy to help Landon indulge in this farce of a don’t give a fuck adventure.
Because seriously. Landon cared. He simply wanted to pretend otherwise, and Jed had to back him up, because that’s what best friends did.
Bodies lined the bar four deep, and the tenders were running like mad to keep up with the patrons and the servers. This was going to be a nightmare, and he probably wouldn’t get enough alcohol into him to numb the discomfort. But Landon tapped his shoulder, pointed to a standing table near the stage and indicated he’d get their drinks. Resigned, Jed claimed the table and settled in to wait.
The act on stage when they arrived was obviously inexperienced. He was cute. Freckled and disheveled, sporting a pair of cutoff overalls that didn’t quite cover his ass cheeks, and nothing else. Well. He had cowboy boots. But the way he clomped around the stage, Jed guessed they were at least two sizes too big. Poor guy. He looked nervous as fuck, and the audience wasn’t very enthused about his performance. Jed winced all through the act’s finale and breathed a sigh of relief—for the dancer—when he scooted off stage.
There was a brief pause, and then a much more savvy dancer came out in a short tux coat with tails, a pair of very tiny tuxedo shorts, and heavy biker boots. It was clear he’d never taken a dance lesson in his life. But he did know how to entice tips out of the crowd, who warmed to him quickly. Unlike farmer boy, this guy had done this before, and if the look on his face was anything to go by, he loved it. The attention—and maybe even the jeers—got him going. The louder the crowd got, the more lewd his performance.