by John Inman
Still Ned waited and hoped for Joe to show up. And while he waited and hoped and sweated, he happily freed his mind, letting it wander back to him and Joe walking among the trees the night before. And the way Joe had hugged him there on the footbridge.
And how in the middle of that hug, Ned had breathed in the wonderful scent of Joe’s shirt.
JOE POKED his head in the deli door and looked around. A few customers sat at the little plastic tables and chairs lined up along the windows overlooking the street. Every one of those people had their eyes trained on the sky. They looked worried, although it didn’t seem to hinder their ability to pound down the food. Behind the deli counter stood Mr. Wong, along with one of the Wong children who was helping his father today. At the moment, he was slicing pastrami and stacking it in neat piles to be wrapped in waxed paper later.
Mr. Wong lit up like a sunrise (like a normal sunrise) at the sight of Joe peering in off the street. He beckoned Joe inside with a broad smile and pointed toward the kitchen in the back.
“Neddie back there! You go talk to him. You hungry?”
Joe’s budget was a little tight today, so he shook his head no and patted his stomach like he’d just eaten, which he hadn’t.
Mr. Wong wasn’t born yesterday. “You growing boy. You eat anyway. I bring you something. Now go talk to Neddie. And wear this. I don’t want honky hairs in my food.” And with that, Mr. Wong howled with laughter while sticking a paper hat on Joe’s head just like the one Ned wore when he cooked. Only Joe’s hat didn’t reek of bacon grease. Not yet anyway.
Before Joe could hustle off to the back, Mr. Wong slipped from behind the counter and stood next to Joe, gazing out at the red morning.
“Not normal,” he said with a troubled expression. His voice was low, as if he didn’t want to upset the customers, who weren’t paying attention to what they were saying anyway.
“No,” Joe agreed, standing at his side and, in deference, keeping his voice low too. “There’s nothing normal about it.”
“What you think happen?”
Joe thought about it. “I think nature fucked up.”
Mr. Wong, who was about two heads shorter than Joe, gazed up into Joe’s eyes and lit up with another beaming smile. “That’s what I think too.”
“You know what they say,” Joe said.
“What who say?”
“People.”
“No, Mr. Joe. What do people say?”
Joe frowned, still staring at the crimson sky. “They say, ‘Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.’”
Mr. Wong stared through the crimson shimmer on the plate glass window. He didn’t look happy. “You think we should be taking warning, Mr. Joe?”
“I think it wouldn’t hurt,” Joe answered, and he said it with such conviction, he surprised himself.
“That what I think too,” Mr. Wong replied. He gave the blood-tinted heavens a last uneasy glower, then reached his arm up high and gave Joe a friendly pat on the back. “Go talk to your friend. Neddie a little freaked-out. He’s been watching for you, I think. You go. I’ll bring you a sandwich on the house. You no eat, you shrink down to my size. Only Chinese people are cute when they’re little like me.”
Joe grinned. “I’ve noticed that. Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Wong gave a little pout, like he’d just been insulted. “I no sir. I friend. Now you go see your friend. And tell Neddie if he burns the bacon, I’ll chop him up for stir-fry.” With a wink, he pushed Joe toward the back.
“But you don’t sell stir-fry,” Joe threw back over his shoulder. Teasing.
“Then I’ll add it to menu. Red sky special. Neddie chow mein. One day only. After all, ‘waste not want not.’ Old Chinese proverb.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s an old English proverb.”
“It Chinese now.”
Still beaming, Mr. Wong scurried behind the counter and started building Joe a sandwich, slapping it together with this and that like a croupier dealing out cards. While he worked, Joe maneuvered his way to the door leading into the kitchen. He wasn’t through the door more than two seconds when the delicious reek of crisp, hot bacon sent his salivary glands into overdrive. A couple of other glands—ones related to sex and desire by the feel of them—perked up as well when Ned brightened at the sight of him. A beautiful smile tore a trench across Ned’s sweat-shined face, and even with the silly paper hat perched on his head, Joe thought he had never seen a handsomer man in his life.
“You came!” Ned exclaimed.
A blush warmed Joe’s cheeks. “I did. Couldn’t seem to stay away, in fact.”
“Did you come for breakfast?”
“According to Mr. Wong, I did. Actually I came to see if you were okay. So are you?”
Ned gave an exaggerated shrug, arms flung wide, flapping his greasy spatula around in midair. “I am now!” Then he quickly turned back to the grill to flip more bacon before it burned.
Hearing the enthusiasm in Ned’s answer made Joe’s blush deepen to the same color as the sky outside the deli window. He knew this from spotting his reflection in the stainless-steel ice machine standing in the corner. Trying to ignore his own goofy face staring back at him, he grabbed Ned by the hips from behind and gazed over his shoulder at the broad marbled carpet of bacon slices, bubbling and browning on the grill.
“Smells great,” Joe said.
“Who? Me?”
Joe snorted a laugh and gripped Ned’s hips a little tighter. “Yes. You and the bacon. In fact, you both smell pretty much the same.”
Ned groaned. “I’m sure we do.” He gave the sizzling bacon a quick perusal to make sure nothing was burning, then angled his way around to face Joe without forcing Joe’s hands to leave his hips.
“I was hoping you’d come.”
“I was hoping you were hoping I’d come.”
It clearly took Ned a second to untangle that sentence. Once he did, he laughed, making fun of himself.
Joe had an almost uncontrollable urge to lean forward and lay his lips over that gorgeous smile. For better or worse, he didn’t get a chance, because a moment later, Mr. Wong’s eldest, a twelve-year-old named Bobby, came dashing into the kitchen with Joe’s sandwich wrapped in a napkin.
Joe quickly released Ned and took a step back. Bobby smiled as if he knew he had caught the two at an awkward moment, but awkward or not, it didn’t seem to bother him much. He simply handed Joe the sandwich and eased the spatula out of Ned’s hands.
“Neddie, Pop said for you to take a break and talk to Joe while he eats his sandwich. I’m supposed to relieve you.”
“Goodie,” Ned said, beaming.
Bobby gazed down at the seething blanket of bacon bubbling in front of him and blanched. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”
“Come on,” Ned said, grabbing Joe’s sleeve and tugging him toward the back door. “Let’s sit outside.”
Happily, Joe let himself be hauled away, leaving Bobby staring morosely at the steaming grill and mumbling something to himself about child-labor laws.
In the alley, they perched on side-by-side garbage-can lids and wiggled their asses around until they were comfortable. Joe unwrapped his sandwich, which turned out to be roast beef on rye, and since it was already cut diagonally, offered half to Ned.
“It’s not bacon, is it?” Ned asked, looking suspicious.
Joe smirked. “What? You got something against bacon?”
Ned pulled the greasy paper hat off his head and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Today I do.”
“Well, don’t worry. It’s roast beef.”
“Oh, okay, then,” Ned said and took it. With one hand he fed himself the sandwich, and with his other hand he ruffled his blond hair until it stood straight up off his head like a field of wheat. Joe smiled to himself. Ned really hated that paper hat.
They sat quietly for a couple of minutes, chomping away at the roast beef and gazing around at the vermilion morning. Where the sky would have been blue on an ordinary day,
it was now a dusty rose. Where the scattered passing clouds would have been fluffy and white, they were now fluffy and puce, as deeply tinted as splotches of red wine. They reminded Joe of blood-soaked balls of cotton. Against the paler rose sky behind, the clouds were really quite lovely. Colorwise.
And the most unnatural thing Joe could imagine.
“It’s getting worse,” Ned said around a mouthful of roast beef. “Redder, I mean. Those clouds are starting to look like chunks of raw liver.”
While Ned gazed straight up at the sky, Joe allowed himself a moment to study the topography of Ned’s neck. The way his Adam’s apple slid up and down when he talked. The way the baby blond hairs on his throat glowed faintly pink in the light. And farther down, where the vee in his work shirt exposed an expanse of golden skin that seemed as mesmerizing to Joe as that science fiction sky hanging over their heads.
Unable to keep his hands away, Joe leaned over and straightened Ned’s collar where it had been pinched up under the straps of the apron he wore to protect his clothes from the grease splattering off the grill.
Ned’s gaze trailed away from the sky and focused on Joe. There was a silent thank-you in Ned’s eyes, and Joe just as silently nodded “you’re welcome.”
“I knew you’d come,” Ned said quietly.
“I was worried about you.”
“I’m glad,” Ned answered and took another bite of his sandwich. Chewing, he added, “It’s nice to be worried about.”
A comfortable silence settled over them as the wail of a siren rose in the distance. It sounded like an ambulance. Since they lived in the heart of the city, it wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. But somehow, on a morning like this, when the world seemed to have slipped a cog or two and taken a turn toward the Daliesque, that piercing wail took on a more ominous meaning. For Ned, at least. Joe could see it in his eyes.
Joe reached over and patted Ned’s knee. “It’s just a siren. It doesn’t mean anything. We hear them all the time.”
Ned gnawed off another bite of sandwich. The fear that had briefly touched his eyes disappeared. A calming word from Joe was all it took. A calming word from Joe was all it ever took. And Joe knew it.
Through the alley door, they heard Bobby wail even louder than the siren. “Fucking grease!”
And from deeper in the deli, they heard Mr. Wong cry out, just as loud and just as angry. “Number one son watch mouth, or he’ll be cooking bacon till he’s thirty! I’ll send Neddie to college instead!”
Joe and Ned howled with laughter at that, while Bobby mumbled something about Charlie Chan movies they didn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound complimentary.
Ned turned to Joe. He had about two bites left on his sandwich while Joe’s was already gone. “Can I meet you after work again tonight?”
Joe tore his eyes from Ned’s eager face and studied the sky for the umpteenth time that morning. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said. “Look at where the sun should be, but isn’t. If the moon gets covered up like that by whatever this red stuff is, it’ll be pitch-black out on the trails. You’ll break your neck.”
“I won’t break my neck. I know those trails by heart.”
“Meet me on the big bridge instead. There are streetlights up there.”
“No,” Ned said. Stubborn. “I’ll meet you on the little bridge down below. Just like last night.”
“What if you get lost?”
“What am I? Six?”
Joe laughed. “Arguing with you is like arguing with a fire hydrant.”
Ned shot an elbow into his ribs. “Yeah, but I’m cuter.”
The innocent way Ned said it stopped Joe like a brick wall. He sat there staring into his friend’s pale blue eyes. “Yes,” he finally said, his voice barely loud enough to hear. “You are.”
As if on cue, they both blushed. A minute later they were laughing at each other again.
NED’S GIGGLING fit eased up when he stuffed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He knew Joe went to work about the same time Ned finished his shift at the deli. Their days off were different too. The hours they were free to be in each other’s company were limited. He wasn’t about to let Joe walk home from work alone, no matter what Joe said. It was one battle Ned had never lost, and he didn’t intend to start losing it now.
“Regular time,” he said. “On the footbridge. Be there or be square.”
“Corny,” Joe said, rolling his eyes. “But okay. You win.” There was a tiny scowl on his face. “The footbridge it is.”
Ned wondered if Joe was as reluctant on the inside as he appeared to be on the outside. He hoped not.
“Good,” Ned said, forcing a smile. At the same time, he pushed away any lingering doubts he might have about Joe actually wanting to meet him after work at all. He tried not to ask himself if Joe was just being nice, or if their nighttime walks together meant as much to Joe as they did to him. Or was that even empirically possible?
“I like our walks,” Ned said. He tried to sound casual when he said it, but his eyes never left Joe’s face while he uttered the words. He knew he was fishing, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
When Joe’s hazel eyes found their way to Ned’s and his lips softened into a smile, Ned received the answer he had hoped for. When Joe said, “I like them too,” Ned believed Joe had spoken the truth. He had never once seen a lie in Joe’s eyes, and he didn’t see one there now.
When Joe scooted a little closer on the garbage can and reached around to lay an arm over Ned’s shoulder, Ned felt a quiver shudder through him. Joe leaned in and whispered, “I like everything about you, Ned. Don’t ever doubt it for a minute.” Joe had seen the insecurity on his face, Ned thought, and he was doing what he could to make it go away.
They sat in silence for a minute while Ned enjoyed Joe’s gentle fingers massaging the back of his neck. Ned sensed that Joe wanted to say something else, and he leaned closer, snuggling under Joe’s arm. He gazed up into the crimson clouds as if by looking away, he could give Joe the courage to speak. It worked.
“I want you to trust me,” Joe said. He had tilted his head even closer, and when he spoke the words, his lips softly brushed Ned’s ear. The shudder that had rumbled through Ned before was nothing like the shudder that rumbled through him now.
“I do trust you,” Ned all but gasped. “I always have.”
This time it was Joe’s turn to say, “Good. I also….”
Ned tore his eyes from the sky and twisted his head around to study Joe’s face. They were so close, Ned could feel Joe’s breath flowing across his cheek. When Joe’s eyes clamped on to his, Ned found the nerve to ask, “You also what?”
But Joe wouldn’t answer. He merely shook his head as if it wasn’t important. “Nothing.”
“You were going to say something.”
Their eyes were still riveted together. “I’ll say it,” Joe said. “I promise. Just not right now.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Joe smiled, and Ned smiled along with him, while deep in his heart Ned knew, like Joe, there were things he didn’t want to say right now either, but one day he would. He’d have to, or he’d explode.
Bobby poked his head through the kitchen door. He was holding the spatula like an ax. He didn’t say anything. He simply stood there glaring. At Ned. At Joe. At the greasy spatula in his hand. There were three Band-Aids on his forearm that hadn’t been there before. Grease burns obviously.
“Poor kid,” Joe finally said, nudging Ned. “I think you’d better get back to work. Your replacement seems to be a trifle cooked himself.”
Ned grunted and eased himself off the garbage can.
At that moment, a horrific rumbling noise bounced across the heavens over their heads. It sounded like thunder, but there had been no lightning. The rumbling quieted, then started up again with a loud clap that made Bobby, Ned, and Joe all jump like they’d been poked with pins.
Cowering, Ned stared up into the crimson sky. From inside the deli, he h
eard Mr. Wong exclaiming to anyone who would listen.
“World gone to shit! What the hell happening now? And why nobody flipping bacon?” As Ned reached for Joe’s hand to steady himself—and maybe give himself some much-needed courage—an icy wind blew down the alley. It crashed into them like a winter gale, lifting their hair and flattening their clothes. It was without a doubt the last thing in the world anyone would expect to feel on a summer San Diego morning.
“Christ, it’s freezing!” Joe cried as the wind bit into his cheeks and the goose bumps rose on his arms. Ned saw them there as plain as day, and looking down, he saw his own goose bumps popping up too. He shivered against the cold, and Joe pulled him into a protective embrace.
With his face half-buried in Joe’s chest, Ned watched as Joe beckoned Bobby to him too. The boy rushed forward, eagerly accepting the safe harbor Joe offered, his eyes wide with confusion and maybe even fear.
As that freezing wind blew over them—over the city—the three stood huddled together, waiting for the blast to end.
In the deli doorway stood Mr. Wong, his eyes as big as saucers.
“Summer over,” Mr. Wong said, nervously eyeballing the sky.
With that, he yanked the three boys through the door and slammed it shut behind them, blocking out the frigid air.
Ned imagined a stunned silence falling over the city. It took him a minute to realize his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. There was nothing imaginary about that.
Bobby tore off his silly paper hat and flung it to the floor. Thrusting the greasy spatula in Ned’s hand, he said, “Here. I’m going home.”
Mr. Wong, still looking stupefied, let him go. Without comment, he wandered back to the front of the deli. There, he stood at the plate glass window, peering out, watching the pedestrians, most of them dressed in summer tees and shorts. They were rushing to and fro like ants, heads down, their arms folded over their chests against the icy wind, their faces expressing shock, bewilderment, confusion. Cars had pulled over to the side of the street while drivers looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. The customers who had been seated at the little plastic tables were no longer there. Idly, Ned wondered where and when they’d gone.