by M. Roberts
“What is paradise?” she asked.
The answer came quick and obvious to him. “This.”
She laughed, then shook her head. She turned to face him instead of the stars, sliding her hand into his above them.
“You were talking about it before.”
Was I? thought Lucius. He wondered what else he might have said. He felt himself an open book in her presence.
“You said you wanted to find paradise. What is it for you?”
“Peace, love, no responsibilities, you, this, here. All that.”
Her lips came back together, erasing some of the vibrancy in her smile. The answer wasn’t what she had wanted, wasn’t as full, and Lucius wanted to retrace his steps, but found he couldn’t clarify in his own mind what he meant.
“You don’t fully know, do you? It’s more like a pretty painting, dangling in some museum you want to fall into. But you can’t imagine what it would be like after.”
He hadn’t considered his dreams in such a light before, but he found that her notion landed for him. He felt it landing hard. He wanted to fight against it.
“Only because it feels so far away. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Where is it, then? Here? No, this place will never change.”
She turned back to the stars. He turned, too.
“I’ve lived here since I was born, Lucius. That’s twenty-seven years in Verón, this beautiful city by the sea. It’s like all the others. You come here because from where you’re at, it looks perfect. But you get closer, and it’s just like everywhere else. It’s got people with problems like everywhere else.”
Her words sank into him, aggravating.
“Then what of paradise?” he asked. “Can it exist?”
She turned again to face him, rubbing her hand across his cheek.
“Mmm,” she said. “Sometimes.”
She stared into his lips. He couldn’t hold himself back then and moved his head into hers, kissing her and rolling atop her on the empty beach. He touched her gently, caressing her, while affectionately suckling her lips, eventually his hands finding their way between her legs, arousing. He held back, wanting to rush into sex with her, but wanting more to prove a point. Paradise could exist, he wanted to say, and we can make it here. She gasped when he entered, running her fingers into his soft, golden hair along the back of his head, gripping it in tufts, and pulling herself up nearer to his face to feel the heat of his breath on her cheeks. He kept close and worked slowly, holding his head in front of hers, kissing, biting lightly as he made love to her, a stranger only hours before, now the center of his all his goals, to prove his paradise to her.
“Rose,” he whispered to her.
“Oh, Lucius,” she replied, sliding her hand down his face, rubbing her thumb against his bottom lip as she began to push her torso up into him, driving the heat of their bodies to the point of connection.
Malcolm
It’s all a play, really.
You can look at it any number of ways, but the one it will always come back to is a play. There isn’t any other perspective that more accurately frames life and all its games than that. You have your underdog hero. That’s Lucius. He’s idealistic as all get out, gorgeous, and he’s got one narrow-minded vision of what the world is. There’s his dream, then there’s everything in the way. But what he doesn’t realize is that the second part, that everything else in the way bit, that’s him. Like the lead in a classic tragedy, what he doesn’t realize is that he is his own worst enemy. The boy, like most of us, has a fatal trait. That selfish dream. What he does to get it is what becomes its undoing. He’s not alone in Verón, either. Lane, Ezekiel, the whole Dicaro lot are all the same as him. They just aren’t as idealistic about it, they’ve got a sense of the logistics. But they’re after it, too. For them, domination. Or control, depending on which Dicaro you talk to. In spite of this, you might think me a hypocrite. You’d say, “Malcolm, how can you look down on these people, when you spend all your time with them?” That’s a good point, friend, so let me explain it to you. I love these people. Both sides, Imada and Dicaro. Sure, I’m close with Lucius, he’s my roommate and all, but I love Lane, too. I love them because they are unabashedly human. And like all humans, they are chained to their stories, moving ever forward to the always tragic end, sped up by their shameless motives that define them.
So, where do I fit in? I came to Verón from the suburbs, a cushy life with my rich family because I was bored. I wanted to live, and I saw the parties and the girls in the city and had to be there. I had to! I met Lucius at a party and we got to dreaming together that night. I knew, this is a guy I can befriend. We talked about having a pot farm in some Central American country, living with some sexy senoritas and throwing parties on the beach by the ocean. He was so adamant about it. That was what ultimately changed me. I was like him, but I wasn’t as much like him as he was. I partied with him and his brother at their aunt’s house, that old strung out lady. Jesus, I don’t know how she managed to raise Nathaniel to do anything, but he turned out alright. Though he’s just like Lucius. I was living on my own then, bouncing around to different parties every night, Dicaros, Imadas, some where they both showed up. Nothing ever happened, they had this truce. Imada’s stuck to the university and Sixth Street, Dicaros held everything else. Mostly because they were afraid to deal to students, that’s how you get caught. Vincent figured it out, though. He kept a low profile, picked up from a low key source, looked and acted like the hipsters and it was cool. But he was always scheming. That’s what got him in trouble, scamming the mob in their underground casino. Vincent was all about excess, he wanted it all, he couldn’t keep his hands out of any cookie jar. Lucius just looked at it like necessary steps towards his dream. He truly thought it was all building to it, paradise. As I watched the delusion grow in his mind, I felt it shrink in my own. I started realizing it was never going to happen. Try as I might, this world had other plans.
And that’s it. Life’s a play, and we’re all actors, not playwrights. I’ve got my flaw, I already know it. I can’t leave this place. I’m having fun. I’m addicted to it. It’s a gas, it really is. It won’t last forever, but I’ll keep my head down and my ass out of trouble as long as I can to keep it going for as long as it will. I’ll play friend to Imada and Dicaro. Peace keeper. Tell them to take a breath.
Chill.
And I’ll keep having my fun.
5.
Titus stumbled down the road, having walked the several miles to the Dicaro household, cupping his ribs as he went. It was a walk that took him through downtown Verón, away from the oceanside, east, up the mountain, to where the houses grew larger, the residents got richer, and his memories became warmer. This place, from which he had been cast out, was bittersweet for him. He only came when he knew Ezekiel was gone, off working his laundering businesses, today it would either be the hotel or the garage. He planned on getting his act together, proving to his uncle that he was not a lost cause. But in the meantime, he would steal away some precious hours to visit the place he grew up in. He hobbled his way up the long driveway and knocked on the door. To the window beside it came Rose, peeking through the curtains to find a familiar face. She opened the door and greeted her cousin with a hug.
“Hey, cousin,” she said warmly.
Titus melted for the moment he was in her arms. He loved her.
“Hey, Rose,” he spoke into her hair and he sniffed it.
She squeezed him tightly once more, released and stepped back, then noticing his bruises and bloody nose.
“Oh, no, what happened?”
She placed her hand against it, rubbing it with her thumb. The pain would be otherwise excruciating, but for the touch of his beloved Rose, any pain would be endured. Instead of answering, he simply looked into her eyes with a look that he always knew melted her heart. She looked back at him like a wounded puppy.
“He fucked up.” A voice came in from behind Rose to interrupt the mo
ment and stain what would have been a perfect afternoon for Titus.
“Joan!” Rose scolded. “Come in, Titus, don’t mind her.”
Titus stepped in, shutting the door casually behind him, and avoiding Joan’s eyes that followed him as he entered. The front of the Dicaro household was an elaborate living room set up. The floor was the plushest carpeting, soft on Titus’s feet as he stepped out of his shoes and onto it. A lavish white sectional wrapped its way around a decadent fireplace, adorned with gold trim that framed its edges. Hovering over was the fifty some odd inch flat screen, replaced almost yearly, whenever a new model took top spot in the marketplace. Behind the sectional was the floor to ceiling windows and sliding glass door that led to the courtyard, entering first onto a cozy deck from which one could view the fountain and its light display at night. Titus dropped onto the end of the sectional, sinking into it and pulling himself in, knees to chest, as he stared blankly at the reality show playing across the screen above him. Suddenly it muted.
“Shitbird.”
The harsh word was not quite enough to stir Titus into paying his abusive cousin attention. But throwing the remote at his head was.
“What!?”
“What the hell did you do today? Lane had to run and save you? Do you know how that makes the family look?”
Rose emerged from behind the marble kitchen counters with an ice pack. She seated herself beside Titus, placing it against his cheek. She attempted to be delicate, but the bag made harsh contact with his bruise and his head jerked a moment.
“I know, I know it hurts, but you have to ice it.”
She was in her short silk shorts and her tan legs were pulled in on the couch, exposing them to the periphery of Titus. They rubbed up against his side and he focused on this, which dulled the pain in his cheek and gut. The voices swelled, but the collective was calm and warm with their tone. So soft, she’s so soft, her skin is so soft. She’s beautiful. Look at how carefree she always is. Look at her. One look at you and we melt. She loves you. She LOVES you. She loves me. Rose is the world. She is, she is everything that is perfect. All overlapping one another in their adoration.
“What happened, Titus?”
“Leave him alone, Joan.”
“What happened, nitwit?”
“Shit.”
“Shit happens.”
“Yes it does, Joan, Shit happens.”
“A lot of shit seems to happen to you.”
The voices dropped out, their warm words of Rose fading to sharp, angry ones of Joan. She stood from her spot on the other end of the sofa to stand directly in front of him.
“We’ve all got problems, Titus. World’s full of them. But what doesn’t help is making more of a mess by stepping into places you don’t belong and doing things you shouldn’t be doing.”
“I had to,” he spoke, though his dry throat mostly kept his defense to himself.
“He didn’t have a choice, Joan.” Rose to the rescue.
“Of course he did, Rose. We all have a choice. Even those of us who hide behind excuses. You choose your friends, who you listen to, which voices.” After she said it, even she felt a little bad for having insulted him for his mental instability. Her anger had run out of steam, her tone dropped into a compromising tone. “Titus, just don’t get in too deep, alright? Learn when to call it quits and redirect. Prioritize.”
Joan returned to her spot on the couch, unmuted the television, and snagged a make-up palette from off the glass table top.
“Come here, Rose, help me get ready.”
Titus turned to Rose, his expression questioning.
“Oh, there’s this party tonight,” she said, brushing it off.
“If you clean up and pull your shit together, promise not to be a fool, I’m sure you’d be welcome at it,” Joan offered.
Rose stood and walked over to Joan. Titus watched the backs of her legs, the bottoms of her cheeks showing beneath her shorts, and felt a sting in his heart, as he always did watching her walk away. She took a seat, crossing her legs on the couch in front of Joan. She began applying make-up to Joan’s eyes. Titus sat and watched. They paid him no attention.
“Who’s even going to be at this thing?” asked Rose.
“Everybody. Does it matter? You’re going to sneak some of daddy’s ex and have a ball rolling. Meet some cute guy, make out, fuck, and wake up tomorrow afternoon feeling refreshed.”
“That end, the refreshed part. It’s not, anymore.”
“What are you talking about? What are you, bored? You’re rich, you live on the ocean, and your father gives you everything you want.”
“That’s not true.”
“What doesn’t he give you?”
Rose drifted a moment. Perhaps she didn’t know.
“He gives me only what he deems appropriate.”
Joan laughed and the mascara squiggled on her cheek. She stopped, and Rose licked her thumb to wipe it off her cousin’s face.
“You want to date a biker bad boy or something?”
“No, but if I wanted, he certainly wouldn’t let me.”
“Because he wouldn’t ever let anything bad happen to you.” Joan grabbed Rose’s hand and put it down to speak directly. “As much as I treat him like a father, I will never be you. I will never be his precious daughter. You are his one weakness. The man is cold, he runs a drug empire. You don’t get to the top of that trade being easy going. But he will always be that way with you.” Then she leaned in, raised her eyes to the ceiling, and allowed Rose to finish applying. “Don’t blame your indecision in life on your father. If you really wanted something, he would give it to you. He’d give anything for you.”
He’d give anything for her. Anything. Ezekiel is weak for his daughter. He has a weakness. There is a weak spot, a place to jab at the king. Steal from the king, exploit the king, Titus. Exploit it. You love her, take her. Take what you want. These were the words of the voices that rose to the forefront of Titus’s consciousness. They spoke seductively, and so to the background he pushed concerned ones worried where this line of thought would take him. He wanted to follow the fantasy, of taking Rose, and taking his uncle’s money. He had been nickel and diming, taking small bags out of Ezekiel’s desk. He was already stealing, but too afraid to make it worthwhile. Ezekiel still wrote him off, the pathetic nephew who would never amount to anything. He could prove his uncle wrong. He could strike at his one weakness, seize the opportunity to make a load of cash and run away with Rose.
Beautiful Rose. You will save me yet.
Joan
This life is a game, played by winners and losers. Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fool who doesn’t appreciate what they have, or has nothing because they don’t know how to play. Verón is a playground. The Dicaros own it. Ezekiel came here with little more than the clothes on his back and created a wealth for the rest of us. He played the game. And he won.
The important thing to remember always is that nothing is serious. Life, death, or otherwise. If you approach everything with a lightness, and in full understanding that it isn’t what it seems, that it is in fact a ruse, a veil before your eyes, you quickly alleviate stress. Take Titus. Everything is forever on the edge, teetering between success and death. That mindset, crazy or not, is the real cause for his situation. Because he approaches everything he does in this way, he’s convinced himself into doing a lot of dumb shit. Stealing from our kingpin uncle, selling where he’s not supposed to, all the shit that got him kicked out of the house in the first place. He never would’ve done it if he just stepped back from it all and saw the big picture. This life is for players, everything, even squalor, has a card to lay down.
Did I get mad at him? Did I take shit seriously? Yes. But only for a moment. It’s not all to say you can be carefree. An even balance of concern keeps the game going. So I address it. Then I return immediately to the task at hand, bringing Rose into the fold. She’s a dull girl, chasing highs and killing time, leaving all the benefits awarded to a
chick in her position to collect dust. Wasteful. I can be nice, I can show her an honest close relationship, and in return. Well. Let’s just say locking arms with the prized daughter of the city’s foremost criminal head has its perks. Oh, she’ll have fun. It’ll be parties and all the candy she could want. She used to love people. I remember when I first came to Verón. Ran away from home with the promise of glamour. My parents were poor. Pathetic, really. Though not as bad as Titus’s old folks. That’s white trash. I’m not really convinced I’m related. His mother was a junkie and shot herself up too full one morning and left her troubled bastard son to seek shelter with her drug lord brother downstate. I’m certain Ezekiel didn’t shed a tear when she died. Both Titus’s mother and my mother sought to distance themselves from their brother as his empire grew. He offered them a place in it, but finding their foolish noses upturned, sufficed himself to create his own family. With their children. Isn’t that funny? They played high and mighty when they had nothing. As a result, they wound up losing their children, or their lives, in the one case. Ezekiel knew the truth. He played the game for what he wanted and took it when the opportunity came. As far as I know, the man has only lost once. That was with his ex-wife, Julia. It’s a story shrouded in mystery, the man lets no one in. That’s his game. I respect it. It’s cold, but I respect it. Rumor tells it like this. She was Rose’s beautiful mother, plucked right from the sands of Verón’s beaches, and perfect, like their sunsets. She was there for his beginning, and they had a child. But when business took flight, she betrayed him. Nobody knows how, it seems, everyone’s story changes. But it would be the last time Ezekiel was ever played. I like that. He doesn’t dwell on a mistake, he doesn’t make it his weakness. He was played. He moved forward.