by Courtney Lux
“You get paid to read people’s minds?” Nate’s walking slows for a beat.
Trip matches his pace. “Sometimes. When there’s a lot of tourists around; otherwise, I mostly just play in the park.”
“Like what you did to me last time.” Nate casts a cynical frown toward Trip, still caught up on the mindreading thing. “People pay you to do that.”
Trip rolls his shoulders. He feels less out of sorts after walking, but now he’s sore again. He drops onto an empty park bench. “People come to New York to fall in love and be amazed and all that sappy bullshit—find magic or whatever. For five bucks a pop, I help them out, or at least give them something funny to tell their friends when they get home.”
Nate sits down beside him. “Why’d you come to New York?”
For the sex. For the cash. To be famous. Trip considers a thousand false responses, but Nate’s watching him so intently, he offers the most surprising thing he can think of: the truth. “It’s the place people run away to, I guess.”
Nate nods. “Me, too, I think.”
“You’re a runaway?” Trip cocks his head to the side. “You don’t strike me as the type to have spent a lot of time milling around the village with a cardboard sign and a hungry-looking dog, Nathaniel.”
“Not that kind of runaway,” Nate replies. “Were you?”
Trip nods.
“Huh.” Nate studies him for a moment before turning his gaze back to the sidewalk. “Why’d you run away?”
“Same reason anybody runs away.” Trip folds his legs up under himself. “Didn’t want to stay where I was.”
“Not for the magic or love or whatever?” Nate doesn’t look back toward Trip.
“We know better than that, don’t we?” Trip nudges Nate’s leg with a toe.
“Guess we do.” Nate turns his gaze toward Trip again.
Trip’s not quite sure how to read his expression, so he just stares back. “You look tired, Nathaniel.”
“So do you.”
Trip wonders if it’s the liquor in his system that’s made him bolder or if it’s something in the quiet of the park. Trip stretches his hands high above his head. A few of the vertebrae in his spine click. “On the contrary, I’m feeling pretty damn awake.”
Nate kicks a heel against the pavement before speaking. “So how do you do it?”
“Do what?” Trip shakes a second cigarette out of the pack.
“The mindreading thing.” Nate waves a hand at him. “You must get it pretty close to right if people keep paying you to do it.”
Trip slips a hand closer to Nate, careful to keep the movement subtle. “I’m magic.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in magic.” Nate’s attention is on Trip’s cigarette.
“Serendipity, fate, love, everything-happens-for-a-reason type magic, no, I don’t.” Trip steals a glance at Nate’s wrist. “My own magic is a different story.”
Nate hums, cynical. “A pessimistic magic man?”
“Something like that.” Trip stands and nudges Nate’s arm to follow. “I did a good job reading your mind, didn’t I? And free of charge, I might add.”
“Wow, thanks.” Nate casts another dubious look at Trip. “Really, though, how’s it work?”
Trip tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’ll tell you in a few minutes. Could you check the time for me?”
“Why does it matter what—oh.” Nate stares at his empty wrist.
“Missing something, Nathaniel?” Trip turns to watch while Nate spins in a slightly frantic circle with his eyes on the sidewalk.
“My watch. I had it on earlier.” Nate looks at Trip.
“Check your pocket.” Trip rocks back onto his heels and forward again.
Nate reaches into his pocket and fishes out his watch. “I didn’t—”
“A lighter, breath mints, a condom and business cards.” Trip pulls the items from his own pocket. “You’re just about ready for anything, aren’t you?”
Nate stares wide-eyed at his things in Trip’s hands. Even as he stares at them, he pats down his pockets as if to make sure they’re actually missing. “How did you do that?”
“Magic fingers.” Trip offers Nate’s things back to him. “Standard lubricated, huh? More of a bare-skin sensations, guy, myself, but to each their own, I suppose.”
“Do you make a habit of stealing from people?” Nate puts his watch on his right wrist this time.
Trip grins at him. “Ain’t stealing if I give it all back, is it?”
Nate keeps a hand hovering over his pocket closest to Trip. “Still doesn’t explain how you do the mindreading thing.”
“I pull gum and some cigarettes from your pocket and tell you that you like bubble gum and Marlboro Reds and you carry a lucky one with a woman’s lipstick on it.” Trip holds up his pack of cigarettes as an example. “Then I throw something in like ‘I’d make sure to take a walk around the reservoir’ or ‘Huh, seems like you ought to take a trip to the Natural History Museum.’”
Nate’s gaze is fixed on Trip’s hands swinging loose at his sides. “And they buy it?”
“Yeah,” Trip replies. “Usually offer me another buck or two if I can give them directions.”
“Incredible.” Nate looks disappointed. “So it’s all a big scam.”
“People like to believe in something larger than themselves, like higher powers and fate and all that romantic bullshit. Like I said, I’m just providing a service.” Trip tucks a hand around Nate’s elbow just to get him to stop staring. “You bought it, didn’t you?”
Nate bends his arm as if by instinct and it makes Trip step closer. “I don’t carry anything that would tell you I’ve got a sister or a porch or whatever.”
Trip tips his head up to better see Nate’s face. “Huh. Guess I really am a little magic then or something.”
“Or something.” Nate’s arm shifts against Trip’s hand. “So you’re a pickpocket.”
“That’s not a very nice word.” Trip’s anxious this close to Nate—shoulders bumping, his hand caught up in Nate’s arm—it’s too quiet, too intimate. He doesn’t pull away. “I prefer ‘collector of forgotten antiquities.’”
“I feel like that’s something you need a four-year degree for.”
“I’ve got at least four years of education under my belt.” Trip shifts his hand from Nate’s arm, then twists to face him while they walk. “I’m guessing you’ve got a couple more years than I do.”
“A few.” Nate lowers his arm, apparently not overly perturbed at the lost contact. “I went to NYU when I was your age.”
“’When you were my age,’” Trip says. “Jesus, Grandpa, you gonna start telling me about Vietnam next?”
“I remember when the subway cost two bucks a ride,” Nate retorts.
“You and me both, pal.” Trip sighs. “This city is gonna fuckin’ kill me if it gets any more expensive.”
Nate looks at Trip in the glow of a streetlamp. “It’s been a while since a ride cost that. How long have you been in New York?”
“Three years or so.” Trip pauses to watch Nate screw up his face as he tries to make sense of this new information. “Come on, Nathaniel, you can do it. Nineteen minus three equals what?”
“You came here when you were sixteen.” Nate looks back up at him, that frown line back between his eyebrows. “By yourself?”
“You did the same when you were only a couple years older.” Trip shoves his hands back down in his pockets. He wants another cigarette, but he needs to ration them at least a little bit.
“That was for college and that was legal.” Nate’s stopped walking. The streetlight halos him in soft yellow. “Didn’t your parents come looking for you or something?”
Trip pauses just outside the glow of the light. He rocks on his heels. “If you’re gonna be asking abou
t all my secrets, don’t you think we ought to be somewhere a little more intimate, honey?”
Nate’s eyes go wide and then he’s frowning all over again, and it’s kind of cute, that pouty, nervous downturn of his mouth. “I, um, I have to work in the morning.”
“Me, too.” Trip steps a few inches into the glow of the lamp with Nate.
“Early.” Nate’s eyes scan Trip fast before landing back on his face. “I have to, um, finish some stuff up and…” His gaze flits to the side, then back to Trip. “Let the dog out.”
Trip steps another few inches closer, hooks a finger in one of Nate’s belt loops. “You don’t have a dog.”
Nate doesn’t step out of the contact. “Really. I have an early morning and I wanted to get a run in. I just don’t think tonight is a good idea. Tonight’s not the best for, um, anything, and we just met, ya know?”
Trip keeps his expression controlled in a calm smirk while he walks backward a few paces, tugging Nate along with him. “We didn’t just meet.”
“Well, I mean, yeah.” Nate’s throat bobs in a quick swallow, but he keeps moving when Trip pulls him another couple inches his way. “I mean it’s just not a good night for this.”
“For this?” Trip echoes. He’s back in the dark outside the little circle of light. “You’re gonna have to spell things out for me here, sugar.”
“Like going home together.” Nate follows Trip another inch forward. “I mean, you’re a good guy and everything, but—”
“—But you’re not attracted to me?” Trip raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Or you just don’t want to fuck me?”
“No, you are, I mean I really am—attracted to you, I mean.” Nate freezes. He reaches for Trip’s wrist and unhooks his finger. “This is too fast. This is a lot.”
Trip pauses to study Nate and his nervous hands and nervous eyes. He smooths the line of Nate’s tie. He wraps the end of it around his hand and tips his head back to meet Nate’s eyes. “I wonder, Nathaniel, have you ever considered doing something outside what you think you ought to do?”
Nate flounders for a response, but he doesn’t seem to find one.
Trip rises up on his tiptoes, touches a kiss to Nate’s mouth. It’s just as quick as the first one. Trip’s not a fan of kissing, but it seems to be just about the only type of physical contact that doesn’t get Nate bent out of shape.
Nate blinks dreamily at nothing. He licks his lips, then refocuses on Trip.
Trip backs away with his hands in his pockets. “I’ll let you get home then, Nathaniel. Big morning and all that.”
“Wait.” Nate raises one hand a few inches and steps forward.
Trip pauses, intrigued by this sudden change of heart. He hadn’t thought Nate would take him home, but he’s not opposed to the idea.
Nate looks as if he might say something, but then his hand drops and his expression goes back to its default flat and serious. “Do you want me to walk you to the subway at least?”
Trip’s shoulders go loose, and he’s not sure why they’d been so tense in the first place. “Nah. I think I’ll walk.”
Nate stares out toward the edge of the park. “That’s a long walk back to the Village.”
“Not that long.” Trip keeps walking backwards. “Besides, the night’s young. Plenty of possibilities before I make it home.”
Nate looks back at him. “Are we gonna see each other again?”
“I think so.” He says. I hope so, he thinks.
“You don’t know for sure?” Nate hasn’t moved out from under the streetlamp.
“Apparently our fates are intertwined, Nathaniel. I’m not too worried about it.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in fate.” Nate steps forward a few inches, but stops.
Trip wants to go back into that little circle of light. He takes another step back. “I don’t, but I don’t know enough math or science or whatever to explain why you and I keep running into each other.”
“Twice hardly counts as constantly running into one another.” Nate has his hands in his pockets now in a mirror of Trip’s posture. “Just kind of coincidence, really.”
“You’re the one with the fancy college degree, so I’ll trust you to know the statistics better than me.” Trip takes another step back, smaller this time. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is it.”
“My friend is dating your friend. I’m sure we could figure out how to get ahold of each other again if we wanted to.”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” Trip turns. He needs to go before that light pulls him in again. He calls over his shoulder, “See ya around, Nathaniel.”
Nate’s voice calls back, farther away than it really ought to be. “See you around, Trip.”
iii.
Hey, Trip, you wanna do something?
Those words out of my brothers’ mouths turned me into the world’s biggest idiot. The answer was always yes. See, as the youngest of six boys, I had my work cut out for me. None of them liked me, and I wanted to hate them back, but dammit, I wanted to be a part of their pack, too. It wasn’t like I had any good reason to like any of them. Michael’s so much older we might as well be strangers, Jeremiah’s meaner and stupider than spit, the twins don’t care for anyone but each other, and I think if Gideon knew he could get away with it, he’d have drowned me or tied me to the tracks outside town or something. Still, being in a place where I didn’t fit in anywhere else, the idea of having my brothers accept me in even some small way was sort of nice. I didn’t need them to like me, even; I just needed to feel like I was a part of something. So, like I said, no matter how many times I got suspended by a teacher or beaten bloody by our daddy or broke a finger or three, the answer to that goddamn question was always, without hesitation, yes.
My brothers are in the meth business. Levi can barely add two and two, but the man can cook with the best of them. He snorts a lot of his cook, but with Paul’s and our daddy’s help, he got a nice gig going and, voilà, we have a family business. Levi and Paul cook, my daddy secures the clientele, Mike, Jeremiah and Gid do the dealing. Sweet, ain’t it? Anyway, when I was about nine, Michael looked me dead in the eye and said those magic words. “Hey, Trip, you wanna do something?” So then I was in on the business, too.
I’ve always been on the small side; I won’t deny it. Skinny and short and there’s not much to me, but I am a Morgan and I come with a reputation and a baseball bat. That bat was the only gift I’d ever get from my old man, and damn, did I love it. I carried that stupid thing everywhere.
It was smart, if you think about it. No one thinks much of a kid wandering around town with his baseball bat, but, for my purposes, if someone thought they could give me the slip on a payment, all I had to do was wind up and crack them a good one and then they were quick to pay up. The boys loved it when they’d hear I’d taken someone out. They’d muss up my hair and shove me around (in the good way) and offer me a beer and a cigarette. Those were nice days. Even if it took breaking a kneecap or a wrist or something, I was willing to do it if it meant I got to stand around with my brothers and feel for a couple minutes like I belonged somewhere.
Didn’t take long, and I developed a reputation, too. My classmates were scared of me, the meth heads knew better than to fuck with me, and my teachers stopped caring much whether I turned in my homework or showed up to school at all. I’ll be honest: I wasn’t much a fan of my reputation, but I thought it was okay if it meant people knocked me around a little less and thought of me as a part of my family.
Pastor Welk cared, though. He didn’t say much about it, but I know it bothered him. He kept me busy at the church and did his best to fill up my time with “better activities,” but I found time for both. Only thing that ever bothered me was that I liked taking out a guy’s knees a little too much, and the only person I wanted to approve of me more than my brothers was Pastor Welk.
<
br /> I wish I’d have been smarter and made a choice before my time ran out. I wish I’d have realized that you can pick your family, and I was picking the wrong one. I don’t know if, in the long run, a different choice would have put me somewhere other than where I am right now, but I still wish I’d chosen different.
five.
In his younger years, Trip liked the autumn. He liked the colors of the leaves and the smell of bonfires and even the noise of the football games he never attended. He likes it in New York, too, at least in theory.
It’s the notion of an early winter that takes the joy out of fall for Trip. Winter is the threat of empty sidewalks, frostbitten fingers and an empty coffee can at his feet. Trip can’t handle another winter like the last one. He has rent and bills to pay and, though the near-constant emptiness in his stomach is familiar and not as bothersome as it once was, he still has to eat. His roommates tolerate him for now and spot him a few dollars when he needs it, but Trip’s not sure how far their kindness will stretch.
For now, he ignores the threat of winter. It’s still only September, and this is not such a bad day. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and the park is packed with one of the fall crowds, their phones aimed at the trees turned crimson and gold seemingly overnight.
Trip can’t find a decent spot to call his own, so he climbs the side of the fountain, drops his bag and shoes a few steps down, and wades into the water with his jeans rolled halfway up his shins. It’s a nice way to play in the summer when the sun is unbearably hot, but today, the water raises goose bumps on his skin. Trip doesn’t mind. His act draws a decent crowd of people and some of them lean over the edge of the fountain to drop some spare change for him. Most of them, though, watch and move on with their heads ducked when he finishes a song.
The people who don’t pay used to make him angry. They stand around for a song or two, shopping bags hanging from one hand, their phone in the other and aimed at him, happy for the few minutes of entertainment he provides them. Trip, in turn, had allowed their cameras despite the creeping fear a photo or video might somehow get him recognized and shipped back to Alabama. He needed the money, so the risk had seemed worth it until his happy photographers moved on without so much as offering the change from the bottoms of their pockets. Shouting after them had done nothing except drive away his remaining crowds, so now Trip applies the same mantra to his potential patrons that he applies to everyone else he knows: Expect nothing and you will never be disappointed.