by Lou Sylvre
No, I’m not telling him about John. If he told him his homeless, drunk, sick stepfather was sleeping in his tiny two hundred square foot apartment, he’d no doubt have to tell him more of the story. He wasn’t ready to do that. What would Oleg, a young man with a big, obviously close family think of Beck’s sad history?
At least give me a chance to let him know me a bit before I scare him away. Beck had no idea who the hell he was asking, but he felt slightly better for having asked anyway, so he added an out-loud “Please.”
His plan fell apart when, just as Beck was setting water within reach of John’s hands, ready in case he awoke while Beck was gone, John began to retch.
“Here, Dad,” Beck said, thrusting an empty margarine tub under the older man’s mouth to catch whatever meager stomach contents would come up. But then, “Fuck.” Because what came up was a lot of bright red liquid surrounding dark, thick stuff like coffee grounds. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening. Stunned and scared, Beck sat for probably five seconds that each took a thousand years to pass, unable to move. Then he repeated the refrain, “Fuck,” hopped up, grabbed his phone, and dialed 911.
OLEG HAD to smile at Lara—she was trying so hard to make him feel better.
“Hurry, Olejka! It’s ten after eight.”
The performance had ended with the most heart-wrenching “C’est vous en qui j’ay esperance” he’d ever sung, and on time for once, at seven fifty. He’d tried to lag, greeting attendees and packing up, hoping despite Beck’s absence he would show at the last minute, would have some good explanation that didn’t involve anything like George. But his family bustled him along with them as they hurried, hungry and wanting to get to the Dumpling Tzar for pelmeni, as they never ate dinner before a performance.
As for Lara, it clearly hadn’t escaped her attention that Oleg felt like sitting down for a good cry. “You need vatrushka! And maybe cookies. You sung your heart out, tonight.”
And of course Oleg went along with the family. What else would he do? He might feel like crying, but he’d never cried over a man yet, and he wasn’t about to start. Strangely, he regretted that Beck missed the performance almost as much as losing the chance to have coffee with him afterward. Although he admitted he’d looked forward to sitting across a tiny table and watching the man’s eyes. Beck had memorable eyes in Oleg’s opinion, a soft and mutable-seeming green.
Nevertheless, Oleg decided to put thoughts of the guitarist out of his mind. It was obvious what had happened—he’d hooked up with George and forgotten all about the drab little Russian singer. So Oleg would forget about Beck, and he had a plan for doing just that.
Sweets with the family, fine. But then I’m going out.
WHAT A dull Friday night, Oleg thought. Not a single hot fuck in the entire place—at least none that are my type.
He sipped at a vodka martini, finding its taste as uninteresting as the male pickings at the bar. The place was the third boring bar he’d been to so far that night, and the drink he was working on the fourth of its lackluster kind. He was trying to drink it slowly. He usually didn’t drink so much, because he was usually busy with other things, so now his brain felt a bit foggy.
Probably, that’s why it took a few minutes for him to realize that George was there at the bar, busy out on the dance floor sliding up and down the well-dressed but sweaty body of some older and clearly richer guy who didn’t even remotely resemble Beck Justice.
Hmm.
Oleg began trying to piece together how long he’d been sitting at the bar and whether George and his fella had been there the whole time. When the waiter went by, he asked for some water, hoping it could wash out some of the fuzz from his brain and he could clarify his thinking on the subject.
When the waiter thumped the glass down on his table as he passed—clearly not happy with the prospects for a tip from a guy drinking water—Oleg picked it up and downed it. And yes, it helped. With his mind focused, he could clearly see the truth: it didn’t change a thing.
Regardless of where George was now, he might very well have been with Beck during the time Beck was supposed to be meeting Oleg—that had been hours ago.
Besides, he blew me off. What difference does it make whether the reason involves hot-pants George?
Still, Oleg just couldn’t get interested in his customary chase that night. He plopped a large tip on the table, grabbed his coat, and went home. Just before he fell asleep that night, he had a disturbing thought.
What if something bad happened to him?
Oleg wasn’t much of a God-believer. His family—except his Jewish-born father—were faithfully Russian Orthodox, and sometimes Oleg went with them to St. Nicholas Cathedral, but he wasn’t one of the faithful and didn’t feel any lack because of that. Nevertheless, he let whatever powers may be know that if something bad had happened to Beck, he hoped it wasn’t too bad. And if some sort of unfortunate event were the case, he, Oleg, was sorry for thinking the worst of Beck.
But most likely, he concluded, the man is just a colossal ass.
THE NIGHT had been long and horrible, and in the gray morning Beck felt nearly dead on his feet. He’d left the hospital just before the sun finally, belatedly as always in December, began to provide more light than the streetlamps, but to his mind the illumination remained too dim, a far cry from anything that should be called daylight.
How had he been fooled into thinking December could ever be anything but a cruel cosmic joke? So many problems now bumped shoulders in his crowded head, he didn’t even have room to remember his optimism of the previous day. It seemed, for one thing, he was going to be saddled with his stepfather. Not only did he want never to have anything to do with John, he didn’t have anywhere to put him! They couldn’t both live in his ridiculously small apartment. He wasn’t sure the management would even allow a second tenant. He wouldn’t be able to even feed him reliably. What if his tips slowed down, or if he lost his spot on the list of Market buskers, or if he got sick and couldn’t play? Speaking of which, was he even going to manage staying on his feet to play music that very day?
As far as that last question, he truly had no choice. He had no other income, and aside from the possibility of food banks and food assistance, he felt fairly certain he couldn’t get help from the government or anyone else. That thought reminded him that ex-Captain Gillette had once had some sort of pension. He had been found, for reasons unknown to Beck, to be a disabled veteran.
I wonder if it’s bad juju to hate a disabled vet. This was a new line of thinking, and something Beck was too tired to pursue, but it did dawn on him that whatever had happened to John, whatever made him disabled, might also be what made him an asshole. At least in part.
I’ll have to think that through later.
He arrived at the apartment, fed Parcheesi, ate some oatmeal, and hit the shower. He almost collapsed straight into the bed, but stopped when he saw the bloodstains all over everything. Sure that he was an evil person for being pissed at John for bleeding on his only bed linens and blankets, he gathered everything, threw it in the shower enclosure, and soaked it with cold water, hoping for the best. He scrubbed at the stains in the mattress until they were mostly gone and covered them with towels. Then, unable to maintain any longer, he set his alarm for two hours and collapsed onto the dry portion of his bed, dressed in boxers and socks, with three cotton flannel shirts, his coat, and the worn-thin throw rug that usually decorated the floor draped over him for covers.
At the sound of the alarm, he woke from a dream of the singer.
Oleg. He couldn’t believe that his thoughts had strayed so far into misery that, while he was at the hospital with John and even afterward, he didn’t once think about Oleg and the missed date. Oleg. He wondered if there was any way the sweet-seeming man would ever believe he hadn’t blown him off on purpose. He’d wanted to get in touch, to tell him he couldn’t make it, though he hadn’t wanted to give the despicable state of his existence as excuse. While he was
at the hospital, though, things were just crazy—John with ruptured varices in his esophagus, almost dying, Beck remembering being there in the same hospital, waiting just the same way, as his mother was dying. It was hell both times.
When the emergency had more or less passed, the hospital staff made demands on Beck, determined to extract information about John Gillette that Beck just didn’t have—had never had. So he’d had no time to think of other things, not even Oleg.
And, bottom line, he couldn’t have contacted Oleg anyway. He had no idea how to get in touch with the man. All he knew was that he possessed a celestial voice and had an engagement to sing at Trinity Episcopal at a time that had already passed before Beck had a moment’s peace to think about it.
Thank you very much, December.
Still feeling sluggish, he caught a bus to Harborview. He felt obligated to check in on his stepdad, as ridiculous as that seemed on the surface. If there had been anybody else in the whole world, he would have left it to them, but the only other family Beck knew of was his sister, Della, and she’d moved across the country, severing ties to keep John from coming near her or her children even before the asshole kicked Beck out of the house. He didn’t think there was much hope she’d come back to take John in—or even give him the time of day—just because he’d drunk himself nearly to death.
John’s eyes were shut against the glare of the bright light over his bed, but apparently he wasn’t sleeping, because when Beck walked in, he spoke to him immediately. “You’re here.”
“Yeah.”
“Nowhere else to be?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Do you? Do you really get what it’s like for me having to—”
John’s seizure, probably DTs breaking through as the protective Librium thinned in his blood, made it impossible for Beck to finish the diatribe he’d launched into. Later, when he left the hospital, he admitted that was probably a good thing. For Beck to spew hate all over John wouldn’t help his chances, and it wouldn’t make the world a better place.
He’d already talked himself into accepting responsibility for his stepfather. Now he had to talk himself out of hating him. If he held on to the venom, it would keep them both sick.
He shivered on his way to the Market until he tried deep breathing and found that it warmed him despite the cold air filling his lungs. Probably, the shivers were more from exhaustion than cold. When he walked inside, he decided it was a little early yet for him to set up, and he made a snap decision to go to Storyville, splurge on coffee and a waffle before getting started. He’d forget about everything and enjoy a well-earned treat.
That was his plan, but when he actually had the fragrant beverage set before him, all he could do was sit and stare out the window at fog and dirty snow and wonder over and over about three things: whether he’d ever find a way to forget Oleg Abramov; the way December had stolen his chance to know the singer; and how it could hurt so very much.
IT’S HIM.
He doesn’t look so good.
Oleg headed for the order bar at Storyville, pretty sure Beck hadn’t spotted him when he walked in searching for caffeine to medicate his hangover, which he figured was no more than he deserved.
It’s what I get for drinking most of the night instead of hooking up or, better yet, just going home to sleep.
Not that he would feel any better this morning if he had found someone to go home with—in truth he never felt that great after one of his “nights out.” It was more like a chore—system cleaning, so to speak. He would go out, get screwed, and then for a while not only did he not need to do it again, but he didn’t want to, because in reality it wasn’t any fun. It only made him hungrier for what he knew damn well he couldn’t find with any bar pickup. He knew it actually did work for some people—he’d been to weddings of very happy men who’d met in a bar. It just wouldn’t happen for him. Maybe because he didn’t expect it. Maybe because all he knew how to do in a bar was cruise for a hookup.
Honestly, he didn’t know how to look for what he truly wanted anywhere. It had been some kind of miracle that he’d been so comfortable talking to Beck after the rehearsal the other night. Probably, he had to thank Larishka for paving the way for him. Plus, he’d been in that centered, focused state of mind that nearly always resulted after he immersed himself in music.
At the bars, it was more tunnel vision than focus. He might have thought of finding someone special before he started the evening prowl, but in the midst of it he only looked ahead as far as getting laid. Oddly, a drink or two usually just made that more true. The excursion last night was the first time his search for sex yielded zip. So in addition to hungover, he felt frustrated.
On the other hand, he might not have fared much better if he’d gone straight home after the rehearsal, because when eventually he did seek out his own pillow, he couldn’t sleep for wondering about Beck.
Yes, caffeine was definitely top priority today. He had no classes—it was winter break at Cornish—but he had shopping to do, an activity he generally loathed but didn’t mind so much when he was out to find holiday gifts for his family. That, in fact, was his favorite part of the holiday season. He’d hoped caffeine would keep him awake enough to enjoy it. It still might, but seeing Beck had already cast a negative pall over the morning.
He really doesn’t look well.
“Triple shot macchiato, grande,” he told the young man behind the counter. “And I guess a waffle. Two waffles—I’m hungry. And fruit.”
After he paid he looked out among the tables and saw Beck looking at him. The man wore an expression Oleg found difficult to read, but he thought there was a hint of pleading in it. He wasn’t sure, though, if Beck was pleading for him to stay away, or pleading for him to come sit at his table. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to go sit with Beck, even if he was silently asking.
He tried a small experimental nod in Beck’s direction and received widened eyes, a tentative smile, and a decidedly agreeable nod in return. Concluding Beck did indeed want Oleg to share his table, Oleg started in that direction, even though he still felt both angry at Beck for not showing up last night, and betrayed by his own foolish heart for having pinned ridiculous hopes to Beck’s shapely chest.
But today, really, he looks a little… run-down.
Maybe something bad truly had happened to the guitarist last night.
If so… well, here I am going to his table, so it looks like I’m giving him a chance to explain.
“Hey,” Beck said. “Oleg. I’m, uh… glad I ran into you.”
A white-aproned server brought Oleg his coffee and interjected, “Both you guys’ waffles will be up in a minute. We had a little problem with the machinery and got a little behind. Sorry.”
Oleg nodded and smiled absently, but his attention hadn’t wavered from Beck. Not only did his eyes have the red, heavy look that comes with lack of sleep, but he hadn’t shaved, and he looked hastily clothed and combed—not quite pulled together. Oleg thought back to the other times he’d seen Beck, confirming in his own mind that though his clothing was obviously low budget, he’d always looked carefully groomed.
Yes, something’s happened. So let’s just find out what it was. “Hello, Beck. You know, I was really looking forward to seeing you after my performance last night.”
“I know! I’m sorry!” Beck nodded vigorously, the words almost exploding out of him, as if he’d been holding them in and thinking he’d never get a chance to say them. And he kept nodding, and repeated the apology twice more.
Finally Oleg interrupted him. “So what happened?”
Beck’s features moved through a number of expressions, some light, some seeming pained, until finally settling on what looked to Oleg like a kind of resigned sorrow.
“It’s just… something came up.” He didn’t look up at Oleg then, but his Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed a few times, so it was apparent he was going to try to say more.
/> Oleg waited, took a drink of his macchiato. It was perfect and damn strong. That was at least one mark on the plus side for the morning.
Beck lifted his gaze to settle on Oleg’s. “I had to take care of… something. It was unexpected.” After they sat silent for a moment, gazes unwavering, he repeated. “It was unexpected.”
Oleg wanted to interrogate further, but realized he didn’t have a right to do so. He had a sense that the truth, whatever had really happened, was something Beck wished wasn’t true. It seemed to be causing him some anguish, and obviously he didn’t want to talk about it. Oleg’s heart reached out to Beck, searching, and found something to hold on to in the man’s eyes. Right then Oleg knew two things. One, he was going to take a chance on getting to know this man. And two, hope had already regained its footing in the slippery landscape of his emotions.
Which means, he warned himself, I could get really hurt.
Chapter Five
SOMETHING—HE didn’t know what—drew Beck’s attention away from the dreary scene outside Storyville’s windows. He glanced around and immediately spotted Oleg at the order counter. His heartstrings strummed a snappy little rhythm with joy until he stopped to think. Odds were astronomically against the gentle, gracefully attractive man wanting to talk to Beck ever again, even just to give him the time of day.
He was grief-stricken at the thought, though he could scarcely credit such a thing. How could he grieve losing someone he never had, never knew? Still, he knew what grief felt like, and this was it.
Fuck you, John Gillette, he thought, and though he knew he didn’t quite mean it—it just wasn’t in him to be that coldhearted—he really, really wanted to mean it. He wanted things to be different—for last night never to have happened, for another crack at it—wanted it so hard it burned inside. Yet, at the same time, he wondered how the hell just getting the chance to get to know the guy could mean so much to him. He’d never been a believer in love at first sight, or soul mates, or reuniting with people from a past life. Not that he’d ever actively disbelieved these ideas—he just didn’t think they were compelling enough to merit his attention.