by James Sie
Brother. I was right. He’s her brother. They’re siblings. For some reason, this knowledge gives me great joy.
Apollo again grabs onto my shoulder, proudly, comrades in arms. “This is my sister, Acacia.” He grabs his chest with the other hand. “And me … Chrystostom.” Chrystostom. He makes the name purr. A lion’s purr. No, a panther. The purr of a panther.
I notice them staring at me and take a quick breath in. “Walter. My name’s Walter.”
“Walter,” Chrystostom says, and my name has never, ever, sounded so good.
I shake hands with both of them. “Acacia,” I repeat, “and … and, Chriss-so—”
He laughs at the mangling. “Call me Chrysto. And also, you must please to allow us to buy for you a drink, for to thank you.”
“Oh, but I, I don’t really drink,” I mumble, feeling myself redden.
Chrysto’s face lights up. “Wonderful! Then you will buy us a drink!” They both laugh heartily, and I join in, because it must be a good joke, in their country. My newly named deity claps me on the back, and the three of us set off down Fremont. On the stage behind us someone is launching into “When You Wish Upon a Star” and damn if they’re not getting all the notes right.
The bar they’re thinking of, the tavern, they tell me, is only about a mile away, but I don’t have time to worry about how I’m going to get in and get served because by now we’re at the curb and I’m looking down at the proposed mode of transportation the two are offering: twin electric-powered red Vespas. Acacia is already strapping on her helmet and Chrysto is offering me his, saying, “Is not far. I am very good driver.”
I’ve never learned how to ride a bike. Death on two wheels. A vehicle with no armor, exposed to the elements and every swerving automobile and truck. And a motorbike? To my father, I might as well wander up and down the highway on a July Fourth weekend night, dressed in black and blindfolded. He has never specifically warned me about these, because it would be inconceivable that I would even think of getting on one.
“Okay,” I say.
I strap on the helmet and slide on the seat behind Chrysto and there is a moment of utter and sheer terror when he starts off and I can’t find anywhere on the seat to grab onto, but Chrysto pats his side and yells back at me, “Edo! Not to worry!” and I grab onto his jeans where his belt would be, and I suddenly feel safe, I feel the warmth and solidity of his body and I know he’s not going to let anything happen to me. And we set off for their favorite bar, stopping by the Money2Go! just in case, and even though we’re not driving fast at all, to me it seems like flying.
* * *
The bar has no name that I can find, just some Greek letters scrawled vertically on the side of the doorway. I guess they’re not too concerned about carding, or maybe the fact that I’m just about the tallest person in the bar makes me look older, but no one asks for my ID. It could also be because of whom I’m with. Everyone seems to know Chrysto. We haven’t even taken two steps into the dark bar when some burly guy grabs his shoulders and bear hugs him. They exchange kisses on either cheek, two quick lunges of the head. Chrysto whispers something in his ear, and both of them roar with laughter. From there, he slides across the small space, high-fiving a middle-aged man sitting at a table and curling his arm around the woman next to him. He’s got that easy, athletic grace to his limbs that I could never imitate, moving fluidly from one person to the next, like it’s all part of a choreographed dance he’s performing.
Acacia completely ignores her brother and floats into one of the booths toward the back, and I’m standing alone in my first bar ever. It’s a high. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t know what anyone is saying around me, though judging from the mandolin music, the blue-and-white flag by the cash register, and the white plastic relief map of the Aegean Sea and its bordering countries running along the wall opposite, I’m guessing it’s Greek.
The man behind the bar gives me a long hard stare. I’m gawking too much. I skitter off to join Acacia, who’s lighting a thin brown cigarette with the red-globed candle at the table. She holds it up in her long fingers, exhales slowly. “You like this music?” she asks me.
“Sure,” I answer.
“Is crap,” she counters mournfully. “Someday they will play something from this century, eh?” She looks at me, as if I might be able to supply the answer. “Ah well,” she sighs, disappointed, and takes another long drag. The bartender appears without being beckoned, sets a small liqueur glass with a clear liquid in front of her, as well as a glass of ice water and a small plate piled with green olives, feta cheese cubes, and radishes. He looks at me expectantly.
Acacia gives the slightest shake of the head. “He does not drink.”
Clearly offended, the bartender scowls at me and withdraws. Acacia pours a small amount of water into her liqueur glass and it slowly turns a milky white. She lifts it to her lips. “Yasas,” she whispers to me, then takes a sip. She’s still again. The only thing moving is the curl of cigarette smoke wafting into the air.
Suddenly, she speaks again, as if we had been conversing all along. “But, the kafe, this they make here very good. Sketos.” She hovers her hand with the cigarette over the plate of food, waves her ring finger (and only her ring finger) toward me. “Please.” I grab for a radish and nibble on it nervously.
Chrysto finally arrives, plunks a bottle of Heineken down on the table, and slides in next to me. He’s glowing with energy. He could be a college soccer star celebrating a winning game. Being so close to such masculine bravado makes me instinctively duck and lower my head, until I remember that he’s not here to mock, thump, spit at, or hoot at me. I’ve been invited.
“Hey!” he says. “Is a good bar, yes?”
“Oh, yeah!” I say, neglecting to mention that I don’t have a lot to compare it to. “What’s it called?”
“Lethe,” he replies, mysteriously. “A place where you can forget.”
He glances at Acacia, but she’s pouring more water into her drink and doesn’t meet his look. Chrysto swings his shaggy head back to me and fixes me with his alarmingly wide blue eyes. “Come, you must drink something,” he pleads. He speaks rapidly to Acacia in Greek. She responds with a lift of the right eyebrow. “Beer? Wine? Metaxa. This one—five star.” He gives me an “okay” sign. I shake my head again. “Ah!” he says, understanding, and bends toward me. “You—AA.” He puts his hand out between us—he won’t say another word.
“I’ll have a Heineken,” I say.
Chrysto smiles, then his face lights up with a better idea. “No! Wait! Even better. Spiro!” he calls out toward the bar, waving two fingers. “Barbayannis!” He turns to me. “This ouzo—from Plomari.” As if that’s going to seal the deal.
I notice two men at the bar, old and grizzled, staring at Chrysto. Their eyes are narrowed, their lips are twisted shut. One opens his mouth and hisses something into the air; the other’s mouth curdles even more. Chrysto isn’t a favorite with everyone at this bar. Or maybe it’s me they’re objecting to.
Chrysto doesn’t notice them at all. He pops an olive in his mouth, chews with great satisfaction.
“So, you’re from Greece?” I ask, dazzling them with my powers of deduction.
Chrysto bounds up again and takes two steps to the frieze across from us. He smacks his hand over the part of Greece that looks like a hand, covering the peninsulas pointing downward with his own fingers. “Here. This is our home.” He trots back and shows me the back of his hand, points to a spot just above his wrist. “Patras.”
He smiles and returns to his seat. “And you? You are what?” It doesn’t seem as offensive when someone from another country asks you about your own heritage. It’s like fellow travelers meeting at a crossroads. “I’m American, but I’m half Vietnamese.”
“Vietnam, yes.” Chrysto nods. “And the other half? Maybe Greek?” He playfully grabs a handful of my thick, curly hair, and gives it a shake. “This hair very Greek!” He pulls at his own hair in compariso
n.
Even Acacia laughs. I shake my head away. “I don’t know. Maybe. My dad is … many things.” I have no idea what my dad is. I can’t stop grinning.
Chrysto nods. “Yes. Maybe Greek.” Acacia sighs, but looks amused.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“In America?” Chrysto answers. “I have been here since one year.”
“Do you like it here?”
Chrysto again looks at Acacia, and this time she tilts her chin up and meets his stare. He holds his gaze while answering my question. “Sometimes, very much.”
Acacia makes a small sound in the back of her throat. “What times?”
The bartender bangs four glasses down in front of us. It’s the same drink as Acacia’s: a small glass of clear liquid and a side of ice water. Acacia’s, though, looks like milk. Very soothing. I wonder if I should add the water, too, but Chrysto has already lifted his glass. “To our very brave new friend.” Acacia lifts her glass. It’s do or die. I lift my glass. It smells like licorice. I like licorice.
“Yasas!” proclaims Chrysto.
“Yasas,” Acacia murmurs.
“Yesyes,” I whisper.
Chrysto’s glass is heading for his lips. I hesitate, and out of the corner of my eye I see the bartender, still standing by our booth, watching. He’s skeptical. He’s onto me. He’s about to ask me for ID. He’s going to bounce me out of here. I figure, better to jump all the way in and get it over with. I figure, if I don’t like the taste it’ll be gone before I know it. I figure, it’ll look impressive and manly, like in those movies where the hero snaps back shot after shot until his opponent has slumped under the table. But I only have to do one. I snap back my head and wrist simultaneously and let the drink pour in.
I figured so wrong. The pleasant sensation of licorice gives way to the not-so-pleasant sensation of licorice-flavored napalm searing a hole in my esophagus on its way to exploding in my stomach. My eyes water, and my body tries to cough the alcohol back up, but it’s too late: I feel like I’m drowning in a lake of fire.
Chrysto is patting me on the back. “Slowly, my friend, slowly!” I notice he’s only taken a small sip out of his glass. Even Acacia’s eyes have widened a fraction. She pushes the food plate two inches toward me.
“I’m fine,” I sputter, trying to control my grimacing. “I’m fine.” I chug down the entire glass of water.
Acacia delicately brings her glass to her lips for another sip. “Americans,” she says sweetly. “Always in a hurry.”
Chrysto waves a hand at her. “Next time, Walter,” he says conspiratorially, “I show you how. We drink together, very slowly. But now—”
“Not now!” I gasp.
“No no, now you must wait.”
“Yes,” Acacia chimes in, “wait.”
A certain warm sensation has begun spreading out along my limbs. I have the sudden realization that my stomach is entirely empty except for the recent remains of half a radish. It’s not a comforting thought. I stuff a handful of olives in my mouth, trying to stave off my alarm and the tingling sensation developing in the back of my skull.
“… we missed you.” Acacia has been talking.
“Yes,” agrees Chrysto. “Every week you are there, and then, puh! Gone. Was very sad. You are … different than the others—”
“Very quiet—”
“—very quiet. You give to us respect. The others, always click click click click with cameras, always talk talk talk—”
“Pigs.”
“Yes, pigs!”
I nod. “They are pigs,” I say sadly. The tingling in the back of my head has grown into an iron mallet tapping on my brain.
Chrysto again mimes scribbling in a book. “You … write?”
“A little,” I hedge. “I draw.”
“Ah!” Chrysto smiles knowingly. “You like to draw us?”
I’m not even embarrassed by it. “Yes.” I nod at Acacia, and then wish I hadn’t; I feel the nod reverberating in my brain like a ball bouncing back and forth in an empty room. Things are getting a little bit swirly.
Chrysto wills me back to attention with his gaze. “Why?”
The words come out coated in ouzo, the answer pours out of me thickly, slow and sweet. “It’s because … you’re so beautiful. Both of you. But it’s more than that. You’re … pure. You’re exactly who you are, and who you want to be. You live in your bodies, and you don’t want to live anywhere else. You’re the purest, truest thing in all of Las Vegas.”
And that’s when I pass out.
* * *
I open my eyes a moment later and find my head resting on the cool table, and it really seems the safest place for it to be, given the circumstances. The bar is rushing in and out and up and down, and when I see Chrysto it’s like I’m looking out at the wrong end of the telescope: he looms big and small, big and small, and sometimes his head is big and his body is far away and sometimes he’s all teeny teeny teeny. “I, I think I should go,” I whisper to the water glass in front of me.
Teeny Chrysto zooms in large and his blue eyes are wet, like it’s rained in the pool. “Everything, all right,” he reassures me. His eyelashes are enormous.
At this point, as I am being scraped off the table, everything becomes very unclear. Time is sped up, and distorted, and the voices don’t match with how the lips are moving. Lots of commotion, and me managing to stay upright, and someone fanning my face and at one point I feel a piece of feta cheese being slowly but insistently pushed into my mouth. I look at Chrysto and even in my misery I’m so happy, but mortified, too; these feelings are muffled and distant, way over there, on the far side of the moon, I remember seeing a check being presented and everyone getting very very quiet, time standing still, and me feeling like I was supposed to be speaking but I pull out my wallet instead and then everything speeds up again, the white check is covered with bills and whisked away, Chrysto’s arm is on my waist, his steady grip propelling me out the door, the long terrifying motorcycle ride back, my stomach clenching at every bump in the road, my head resting on his back and his shirt is wet with sweat and I can smell the spiciness of his scent, like cloves. And even in my haze I don’t want him to see the scary neighborhood I live in so instead I insist he drop me off at the Plaza Hotel at the end of Fremont Street, where, finally alone, I stumble into a taxi and head off home, always and ever on the verge of puking my guts out but never quite going over the edge, and my father’s awake, how can that be, and he’s got a look on his face that I can’t address, not right now, but a straight dive onto the couch, where I curl up, only my shoes kicked off, and let sleep come, come, but first, let me remember this pounding in my head, this heat on my breath, and forever, the faint but indelible impression on my cheeks where Chrystostom has planted two kisses that send me into the night, into sleep, into oblivion.
EMILY
LIBERACE MUSEUM
EARLIER
It was just before seven, and nothing was as she thought it would be. The gray, deserted strip mall she was stranded in looked like any other run-down strip mall in the country. The parking lot was empty, with the exception of a rusted orange Chevy Impala, haphazardly parked. Most of the surrounding stores were boarded up or in imminent danger of becoming so: the flagship Liberace Museum had apparently lost its fleet.
The museum itself tried to conjure up a bit of flair amid its surroundings. A neon piano rested on top of the tilted roof and a keyboard sculpture undulated around the building and spiraled into the air, with the words LIBERACE MUSEUM unfurled in mauve neon script, unlit. Even with these ostentations, though, the museum could at best muster a muted flamboyance against the gray, wan morning.
And it was closed.
Emily turned away because she couldn’t bear to look at the words stenciled under a swirl of notes on the frosted glass door. CLOSED MONDAYS. It was inconceivable that she could have missed so important a detail. She had just assumed that everything in Vegas was open 24/7, even Liberace. E
mily wandered past the museum and made it as far as the faded Hearts and Roses Wedding Chapel storefront. She stood under a peeling white trellis covered with plastic ivy and rubbed her forehead with her grimy hands. The neon rose and heart behind her were dimmed; the chapel also shut down on Mondays. She couldn’t see Liberace, and she couldn’t get married. There was nothing for her here.
Emily made her way back to the front door of the Liberace Museum. Along the wall, the score to the “Beer Barrel Polka” was painted, huge, onto the bricks. The song played repeatedly in the back of her head, muffled but constant, a dull headache that wouldn’t go away.
She was at a loss. There was no contingency plan. Was it enough to have made it all the way to the museum, without actually having gone in? That seemed absurd. In her plan, she had seen herself entering the museum and finding a framed photo of Liberace, a serious shot, black-and-white, glamour lighting, dark probing eyes that would follow her wherever she stood, much like the painting of Jesus’s head in agony that Vee had in the basement, only Liberace would be in a tuxedo.
She’d have a silent conference with him.
He’d absolve her.
She’d go into the bathroom, in the privacy of a stall.
She’d take the pills.
She’d fall asleep to the sound of tinkling piano music that would be piped in.
The end.
All of that was, of course, out of the question now. She couldn’t even OD in the shelter of the doorway; she had no drink and didn’t think she could swallow that many pills dry. The thought of getting in her car again, or even walking to Terrible’s gas station across the street made her nauseous. What would be the point? There was no resolution—she hadn’t finished the task. She’d failed again. Emily slumped in the doorway, head in her hands.
Bam! The door to the museum swung open, fast, cracking Emily’s knees and knocking her head hard against the glass wall. She cried out in pain.