Hashimoto Blues

by Sarah Dupeyron

  “Okay, so if you had to do anyone of the same sex, who would you pick?” I giggled at the twist I put on his naughty question.

  “I don’t think I could do a guy.” He shook his head.

  “Answering the question doesn’t make you gay. It reaffirms your masculinity and shows that you’re comfortable in your own sexuality. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay. I’m just not. I don’t want to kiss someone hairy.” His face crinkled as if the idea tasted bad.

  “Yeah, but if someone put a gun to your head and told you to pick, who would it be?” I persisted.

  “Johnny Depp.”

  “You just said him because that’s who I picked.”

  “Maybe we could have a threesome.” Again, he grinned at me.

  “That could be interesting.” I felt a little flutter of giddiness at the suggestion.

  “Or, we could take Johnny out of the equation . . .”

  “That could also be interesting.” I looked directly at him and smiled.

  After that, the conversation flowed as if we were sitting in a bar instead of a minuscule plane. The hour trip was over before I knew it, and I was bringing the plane down at the farmhouse. Max looked a little freaked out when the wheels touched the ground and gave us a jolt, but the landing was pretty smooth. We came to a halt near the barn.

  I noticed a car waiting in the driveway.

  “That’s my ride,” he said, cocking a thumb in its direction. “It was nice to meet you, Ellie.”

  “It was nice to meet you too, Max.” I shook his hand and watched as he walked across the yard.

  I always thought that love at first sight was a stupid cliché until I laid eyes on Max.

  6.

  I sat at my kitchen table, reading a book and letting the breeze from the window float in to cool the summer heat. Usually, when I wasn’t working on my plane or pulling a job, I was reading.

  I looked out in time to see Max emerge from a car parked on the curb. Frank was sitting on the stoop smoking a cig. He got up and the two embraced affectionately. They talked for a moment, then Frank led Max through the front door. I felt my breath catch and my heart start to beat harder. I had to think of an excuse to go down to Frank’s office and say hi.

  I put my novel down, a pretty good thriller, and as much as I wanted to find out if the hero would get out of the subterranean chamber in which he was currently trapped, I was more interested in seeing Max again.

  I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I stopped to look at what I was wearing, green cargo shorts and a black tank top. I thought about changing then decided, fuck it. If the guy doesn’t like you the way you are, it won’t work anyway, and ran downstairs.

  “Hey, Frank, do you need anything at the store?” I called out as I got to the bottom step. I poked my head into his office and feigned surprise to see Max. He was wearing a clean white tee shirt and a pair of jeans that made his ass look sexy as hell. His hair looked like he just woke up from sleeping on the couch.

  “Oh! Hi,” I said as I swung into the office with one hand on the doorjamb, trying to portray a casual attitude.

  “Ellie, you know Max,” Frank said. He was counting out a stack of money onto his desk.

  “Of course.” It would be impossible to forget the handsome stranger I’d met the night before. I stuck my hand out to shake his. He gripped me in a firm clasp, neither of us letting go.

  “Hey.” He smiled genuinely, exposing two rows of perfect white teeth.

  We stood there staring at each other until Frank cleared his throat. Max dropped my hand and turned back to Frank.

  “Max will be staying for dinner. Can you pick up something to eat?” He handed me a couple of twenties.

  “Sure. Great!” I skipped out, turning back to give a wave.

  I ran up to my apartment and poured though my cookbook. I wanted to cook to impress even though my abilities were sure as hell not domestic. I finally decided on steak-au-poivre and pommes frites, a fancy term for pepper steak and French fries. When you say it in French, everything sounds better. It was something I had made before, it was fairly simple, and I knew I could do a good job.

  When I got back from the store, Frank’s apartment was empty. I let myself in and arranged the ingredients on the countertop, set the table for three, and started prepping.

  The apartment door opened, and the two of them entered the living room. I could hear them talking quietly.

  “Are you sure you have enough money?” Frank said.

  “Yeah, I’ve got enough,” Max replied.

  “And you paid everyone off?”

  “Yes.”

  They walked into the kitchen.

  “Hi, Ellie,” Frank said and excused himself to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Max.

  “Can I help you with anything?” he asked. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “No, I think I’ve got it under control. Thank you for offering.” I smiled at him, and our eyes locked. I started to feel awkward and wracked my brain for something to say to keep the conversation going.

  We heard the toilet flush, and Frank came out of the bathroom. “I think the Sox are playing. Want to watch while we’re waiting?”

  Max shrugged and said, “I’m not a Red Sox fan.” He was still looking at me.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of Ellie’s way while she’s cooking.” Frank walked into the living room and turned the TV on. Max reluctantly followed him, turning to give me one more look.

  When dinner was ready, I called them in. We sat at the table, Frank at the head, Max and I facing each other on opposite sides. Before we could start, though, Frank jumped up.

  “Wait. I want to take a picture.” He took his camera out, set the timer, and the three of us huddled together, smiling at the lens. Frank was good at keeping photos and memories. He put the camera away and sat down. “Thanks.”

  “How long have you guys known each other?” I asked as I speared a piece of steak on my fork.

  “What would that be, ten years now? I’m 26,” Max said. “We met when I was sixteen. Yeah, that makes ten years.” He looked at Frank and grinned. Frank grinned back, the way a father would look proudly on his son.

  They took turns telling me the story of how the two of them met. As a child, Max had been abused by his father. When he was sixteen, the old bastard hit him one too many times. Max had grown big enough to hit back. After their fight, he threw a few belongings in a backpack and left home, intending to head west all the way to Vancouver. He only got as far as Montreal.

  Max wasn’t lucky enough to meet Frank right off like I did. The first criminal run-in he had was with a fat-cat named Jean-Philipe LaRue. Max, as young and inexperienced as he was, decided to try his hand at cards, thinking it was an easy way to make a little cash, and somehow talked himself into a high-stakes poker game with some of LaRue’s thugs. They caught him cheating.

  Frank explained, “I happened to be in LaRue’s office, doing a little side business with the gangster, when the card-playing thugs brought in a tall, skinny kid. The kid tried to talk himself out of trouble, but just kept digging the hole even deeper. LaRue wasn’t amused. Finally, I stepped in and, with a little fancy talk, got Max out of it only owing money and not his life.”

  As I got to know him, I realized that Max always seemed to be in debt. On the rare occasions that he managed to squeeze out from underneath his own dead horse and did have some money, he gave it away, saying there was always someone who needed it more than he did.

  Frank continued the story. “I hauled him outside and lectured him, asking, ‘How Goddamn stupid can you be?’ He answered, ‘At times, really Goddamn stupid.’ I couldn’t help but laugh at his honesty and offered to help him out.”

  “Frank’s the patron saint of criminal fuck-ups,” Max said. Frank laughed at his new title. It seemed to fit.

  The co
nversation flowed easily between the three of us. There was a lot of laughter and storytelling, each of us recounting funny incidents like how Frank and I met or the time when Frank literally lost his pants on a job. Throughout the evening, I found myself staring at Max, taking in his cute mannerisms, enjoying his charm and sense of humor. Often, I found him staring back, those beautiful green eyes sparkling at me.

  “So, what brings you down here this time, anyway? Will you be staying long?” I was hoping it would be long enough to get to know him better.

  “Um,” Frank started to explain but hesitated. They looked at each other, an unspoken something between them. The evening had been going so well, but now the silence hung awkwardly in the air.

  He started again, looking sideways at Max. “Max is going to be staying down here until things cool off a bit up north.” They looked uncomfortable, like it wasn’t something they wanted to discuss. I got the hint and didn’t press it.

  “Do you have a place to stay?” I asked, curious to see where I’d be able to find him after he left.

  “No, not yet. I’ll probably check into the Super 8 for the night. Or I’ll sleep in the car like I did last night.” He had borrowed a car from someone, maybe the guy who picked him up at the farmhouse.

  “You know you can always stay here on the couch,” Frank offered.

  “Thanks, Frank, but you wake up way too early.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You’ll be up at 5:00 making coffee. Maybe if you didn’t go to bed at 9:00 you could sleep in like a normal person,” Max teased. He did have a point. Frank was an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy.

  “Maybe if you didn’t go bed at 2:00 you could get up at a decent time like a normal person,” Frank fired back and laughed. They derided each other with affection.

  I got up and started to clear the dishes.

  “I’ll do that,” Max offered. He took the stack of dirty plates away from me and placed them in the sink.

  “You don’t have to,” I replied and continued to pick up our mess.

  “It’s the least I can do after you cooked.” He smiled at me and I backed off, letting him pitch in. I set the coffee to brew for dessert and sat at the table. I watched Max out of the corner of my eye as I pretended to listen to whatever Frank was talking about. He looked so sexy standing at the sink, the long, lean muscles of his arms moving as he scrubbed, his ass taught in his jeans. He looked good enough to bite.

  The coffee pot percolated its last burp of steaming brew, letting me know it was ready. I set out cups and served up the crème brulée I made for dessert. I skirted around Max as he finished the dishes. He turned, and we bumped into each other.

  “Sorry!” we both said at the same time and giggled. Frank eyed us with a smirk. I could tell he knew exactly what was going on and found it entertaining as he lit a cigarette to sit back and watch the scenario play out.

  We sat down, and I poured the coffee.

  “Nothing like coffee and a cigarette,” Frank mused. Blue smoke drifted up from the ashtray, the cloying sweet scent of the tobacco mixing with the strong nutty aroma of the coffee. He sipped the dark liquid. “Good and strong, just like I like it.”

  I shook my head. Frank almost lived off coffee and cigarettes.

  “This is good,” Max said as he ate the last bite of his crème brulée. He smiled at me, showing how much he enjoyed it.

  “Would you like more?” I offered.

  “No! Thank you. I’m . . . I’m stuffed.” Later on, I found out he hated crème brulée. In fact, he found it disgusting and thought the consistency was like snot, but he was too polite, so he gagged down the whole thing. Had I known, I would have made apple pie and served it with vanilla ice cream. It was his favorite, one of the few desserts he actually liked.

  After dessert, Frank leaned back in his chair and looked at his watch. “Well, kids, I’m going to bed. Get out.”

  Frank could be abrupt sometimes, but he didn’t mean anything by it. We laughed at his rude dismissal, knowing that was what Frank did. Max grabbed his backpack, and we let ourselves out to the hall. It was 10:00 p.m., late for Frank, early for me. From what I gathered, it was early for Max, too.

  “Do you want to walk me home?” I asked.

  “Sure. Where do you live?” He gave me that grin, and I was tempted to lean over and kiss him right there in the hallway. I held myself back and turned to walk up the stairs.

  “Two flights up.”

  He laughed and followed me.

  I opened the door to the apartment and led him inside. My living room was anything but a Pottery Barn showroom. The crazy, mix-and-match furniture I had, which wasn’t much, was either given to me by friends who no longer wanted it or collected at the dump in the ‘Take for Free’ section.

  “Have a seat.” I indicated the couch, an ancient, orange-flowered monstrosity. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure. What do you have?” He sat down and crossed his ankle over his knee.

  I poked my head in the fridge. The selection was pretty sparse in there, mostly old condiments and a pint of moldy, dried-out strawberries.

  I stood up holding two bottles of water and flashed a big game-show model smile. “Water!” I walked back into the living room and handed him the bottle.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have anything else.” I thought it would be nice to offer him a beer, but I was about a month away from being old enough to buy any. I drank beer often with Frank, but he wasn’t in the habit of supplying my fridge.

  “Water’s good,” he said.

  I sat on the other side of the couch and sipped my bottle. I wasn’t really thirsty, but it gave me something to do with my hands.

  “Do you, um . . . do you smoke?” I asked, a bit scared of his reaction. My fingers picked at the edge of the bottle label and rolled it, peeling it back from the plastic.

  “No, cigarettes are about the only bad habit I never picked up.” He crinkled his nose in distaste.

  I laughed. “I don’t mean cigarettes.”

  I didn’t smoke cigarettes, in fact hated the smell, but I did enjoy a little weed. Some people liked to have a drink to relax, a nightcap before bed, a beer after work, wine with dinner. When I needed to relax, I smoked pot. It chilled me out in a way alcohol never could.

  “Oh!” A burst of laughter escaped him as he realized what I did mean. “I’m such an idiot sometimes. I could have guessed you didn’t mean cigarettes. You didn’t light up after dinner when Frank did. Yeah, I smoke.”

  “Do you want to?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He looked like he’d be up for a little fun.

  I took a tin box out from under the couch and opened it to reveal some rolling papers, a pipe, and a bag of aromatic green ganja.

  “Joint or bowl?”

  “Whatever you want.” He wasn’t fussy.

  “Let’s have a joint. I’m not very good at making them, but I like to smoke them better. Mine always look a little . . . organic.” Organic was a nice way of saying they looked like turds.

  “Here, let me,” he offered and took the box of supplies. He pulled out a paper, then ripped a half inch square off the edge of the cardboard holder and rolled it into a cylinder, placing it on the right-hand side of the paper.

  “What’s that?” I had never seen anyone do that before.

  “It’s a filter. It doesn’t really filter anything out, it just keeps the end nice and open so it’s easier to inhale.” He broke up the buds in tiny pieces and filled the paper, expertly rolled it, licking the side to seal it, then neatly tucked in the end. He used his Zippo, a replica of a 1930’s one, plain and rectangular with sharp edges, to light it. He puffed as the herbal scent filled the room then handed it to me.

  “Nice joint,” I said, making a mental note of how he did it so I could perfect my skill later. I took a long, slow drag.

  “Thanks. I’ve had some practice. That’s good weed.”

  “It comes
with the profession,” I said and smiled. I really did get some great pot from my clients.

  “Do you have any music?” he asked.

  “I have a piece of shit radio that gets three stations.” I got up and turned it on. As usual, it was tuned to the oldies station. The Doors were rocking out to “Road House Blues.”

  “Nice,” he said and smiled.

  “You like The Doors?”

  “Yeah, they’re one of my favorites.”

  “Me, too.” I loved their music, but I also thought Jim Morrison was hot. He was one of the best looking guys to ever live. “I mostly like classic rock.”

  “Cool. So do I.” Again, he flashed that perfect smile.

  As we talked, we found we had a lot more in common than just musical taste and ganja. We enjoyed the same kind of activities, outdoor stuff like hiking and camping, or indoor stuff like reading. I was surprised to find he read a lot, mostly about history. We liked the same movies and had a deep discussion as to whether or not the CGI additions to the original three Star Wars movies were an interesting supplement or if they were just marketing crap.

  Then, the conversation turned to religion. We were both atheists, although we had come by it differently. Max had never been exposed to religion in a personal way and just didn’t think about it. It never occurred to him to believe in anything like that; it was foreign to him. I made a conscious choice to step away from religion of any sort. I was too scientific and couldn’t reconcile God, Allah, Vishnu, or any other supreme being with the contradictory facts of reality. I guess I had no faith.

  We finished off the joint, and it wasn’t long before the two of us were laughing hysterically over nothing. It was so easy to talk to him that I felt I had known him for years.

  My stomach growled despite the large meal we had eaten a few hours earlier. The munchies were settling in.

  “Maybe we should eat something,” I suggested and got up to raid the kitchen cabinets. The only thing I could find that wouldn’t take any preparation was a box of cereal. Under the circumstances, that would do.