Texas.
His gut tells him to head to Texas. He liked it there while he was playing winter ball. But everyone he knew in the state has scattered across the country, chasing their dreams of making the Show. There won’t be anyone to offer him a place to crash for a few days, just long enough to get back on his feet. He’ll need to find a way to earn money until the Coach releases his signing bonus. But he never finished his junior college degree and has no skills except hitting and throwing a ball. He’s not qualified for a real job. All he can do is look for day work, like the Mexicans who stand on the streets in the early hours of the morning seeking cash wages for manual labor.
“There’s leftover takeout you can microwave,” Cole offers. “And there’s more noodle soup in the refrigerator if you want a bowl. You need to eat to keep up your strength or you’re gonna collapse after an hour.”
Cole isn’t in any hurry to send him on his way. He hasn’t invited him to stay, but he hasn’t asked him to leave either. He even seems to think he and KC are going to the bar tonight.
“We start work at eight. Saturday’s the busiest night. You’re gonna be dead on your ass by last call. We can get a six-pack and watch The Notebook when we get home. Love me some Ryan Gosling!”
Cole laughs at KC’s confused reaction.
“You backing out on me?” I knew you were bullshitting last night when you said you wanted to dance. Too much weed and too much beer. I knew you wouldn’t have the balls to do it! But just give me a little time. I’m gonna get you up there dancing on the bar flashing those buns of steel soon enough.”
KC’s beginning to recall the wee hours of the morning, but it’s an incomplete jigsaw. Bits and pieces of the puzzle are still missing. He remembers music. Loud music. Stripping down to his underwear and dancing in the tiny living room. Auditioning for an appreciative audience of one. Tripping over his feet and falling on his ass. Cole rolling on the living room floor, laughing hysterically. A hit on the bong. Another bottle of Coors. Another hit on the bong. Cole slipping a disc into the DVD player. He remembers sitting spread-eagled, staring slack-jawed, too stunned to react as Cole fast-forwarded to a scene featuring a lean, sinewy Asian, with well-defined muscles and a round ass, heavily inked with Chinese characters along his calves and down his forearms, Celtic circles on each of his biceps, and a finely rendered Pyramid Eye etched on his back. An actor named “Cole Lee” was energetically fucking a smaller Asian boy in high definition television before enthusiastically giving up his own sweet ass to a brute who was a dead ringer for Vin Diesel.
“You want to wash your clothes, Kevin? They don’t smell so good. There’s a robe on the hook on the bedroom door. Fuck. Where is my fucking sister? She was supposed to be home an hour ago. Just keep your eye on these two ‘til she gets here, okay? They won’t give you any trouble. I can’t be late for five o’clock Mass. I’m doing the readings.”
He’d never expected to stay in Eugene for more than two or three days. He’s been here nearly three weeks now. Cole and his sister have come to depend on him. He says room and board is all he needs for taking care of their grandparents, but they insist on paying him cash, two hundred a week at first, increasing it to three hundred when he talked about going south to Texas. Ba has grown attached to him—Cole calls it a crush—and fusses whenever anyone other than KC tries to feed her. Cole’s amazed at KC’s patience with her, how he can sit with her for hours, holding her hand, speaking to her in a low soothing voice, just like he did with Pop-Pop whenever he visited the nursing home. Ong, which Cole says means grandfather, and KC have become good buddies. They play endless games of checkers and dominoes and cards with the television volume cranked loud so the old man doesn’t miss anything on the Vietnamese cable channel.
He and Cole share the same bed as chastely as brothers. Cole swears they got so horny watching his video that they sucked each other’s dicks the night they met, but KC doesn’t remember it and the suggestion of anything sexual has never come up again. Cole says it would only fuck things up. KC’s the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time. His cunty sister isn’t much help with their grandparents. She’s in the Nguyen family business and works the same odd hours as her brother. A headliner at the city’s swankiest gentleman’s club, she’s a legend in every frat house on the campus of the University of Oregon. Since KC’s arrival, Cole’s finally got the freedom to book his “appearances” without needing to coordinate schedules with her.
KC is never in need of cash. Nancy’s not such a terror once you get to know her. She was almost maternal when she handed him his duffel bag, lecturing him that he needs to be more responsible, that he’s damn lucky she happened to catch that hopped-up meth head trying to walk out the door with it slung over his shoulder. And she was the one who insisted on driving him to the urgent care clinic and paying for a tetanus shot and an antibiotic for the infected bite on his cheek. She’s slipping him a few bucks under the table, putting his broad back and strong shoulders to use hauling heavy cases of liquor and beer up from the basement. He’s cheaper labor than a contractor. He knows how to use a hammer and a screwdriver and there are a million little jobs in the bar to keep him busy.
It’s odd, strangely liberating, having no future ahead of him, no goals, no destination. It’s not entirely unpleasant being stuck in a holding pattern. He’s told Cole about the money being held captive in Florida. Cole thinks he should open an account at a local bank and tell this Mr. Freeman to make a wire transfer. He knows a lawyer who will sue the old man’s ass if he won’t give KC his money. But KC refuses Cole’s offer to threaten the only friend who ever tried to help him. He promises he’ll write the Coach when Cole gets back from California. He’s leaving for Los Angeles next weekend for two, almost three, weeks. He’s shooting in L.A. and San Francisco. He’s developed a loyal following on the Internet and demand for his services is peaking. The casting agent for Squirt Studios says Cole’s a sure bet for an AVA nomination for best Asian bottom. He’s not blowing his fees up his nose like most of the models. He wants to be an entrepreneur. He’ll have saved enough to produce his first video by the new year. He already has a name for his studio. Snake Eyes Productions. He thinks it would be a good investment for KC when he’s got his hands on his money.
“And I ain’t just doing Asian shit either. I’m gonna have a brand. Like Falcon and Catalina. Lots of twinks getting rammed by straight dudes. I’m always looking for talent,” he teases KC, making him blush.
KC alludes to his own unhappy experience before Darrell Torok’s camera. Cole’s intrigued, pressing him for details.
“Dude, that guy is a perv. You should have called the cops.”
Cole says he’ll be able to concentrate on business in California knowing Ba and Ong are in good hands. He’s leased a new Audi for the road trip and is leaving the Explorer so KC can drive his grandparents around. KC’s settled in, a part of the household, with no good reason to leave. Lately he’s been thinking he might stay in Eugene, Oregon. It’s nicer than Albany, not as hot and sticky as Florida. He’s got friends here, unlike Texas where he doesn’t know a soul anymore. People seem to like him. No one treats him special, but no one thinks he’s a freak either. For the first time in his life, he isn’t keeping any secrets. He doesn’t have to lie about where he goes, what he does, who he does it with. No one cares that he likes to suck cock and no one judges him because he sometimes takes it up the ass. He almost feels normal here. He’s never felt normal before. Maybe he can even coach Little League if he’s still here in the spring.
There’ll be plenty of time to think about his future while Cole is gone. Today there’s a party to throw. It’s Ong’s birthday and even Cole’s sister is joining the celebration. KC’s job is to pick up the cake at Safeway, a special order with extra frosting and plenty of buttercream flowers. It’s a beautiful evening, a full moon and clear skies, perfect for a barbecue. Strings of colorful Christmas lights illuminate the yard and the guy Cole’s sister swears is not
her boyfriend (Cole says he deals prescription narcotics supplied by a connection in Canada) has come through with boxes of sparklers and firecrackers. He’s promising an impressive backyard fireworks display after they cut the cake. They light the cit-ronellas candles to chase away the mosquitos and gather at a picnic table set with festive plates and cups from the party store. Ong is pleased with his paper hat, but Ba struggles and grunts when KC tries to put one on her head. Cole says she’s jealous of all the attention her husband’s enjoying on his special day. He confides she was a real bitch before the stroke, constantly belittling his put-upon grandfather. He says Ong’s a happier man now that his wife is unable to speak.
“How old is he?” KC asks, needing to know how many candles to put on the cake. He’d bought three boxes to be sure there were enough. The fucking cake is going to be a fire hazard.
“No one knows,” Cole says nonchalantly. “Not even Ba.”
Ong’s age is a mystery to everyone. He met Cole’s grandmother while they were in an encampment waiting to be evacuated. All of their documents had been destroyed; their personal histories are casualties of the war. Cole’s father might have heard stories of the family’s past when he was a child, but he was murdered during an armed robbery of the convenience store he’d bought with money earned and saved waxing and buffing the floors of the local hospitals and schools. But whatever his age, Ong’s a spry old rooster, enjoying his liberation from the blistering tongue of his wife.
Cole’s sister has prepared a feast to observe the occasion, a shock to KC who’s never even seen her make a pot of coffee. There’s sticky rice and steamed buns. KC, who had never heard of lemongrass and fish paste a month ago, is stuffing his face with spicy grilled sausages.
“So, how do you like your first taste of dog?” Cole asks, doubling over in laughter when KC, a look of horror in his eyes, spits a mouthful of half-chewed meat on the grass.
“I’m kidding, bro,” Cole confesses, wiping the tears from his eyes. “It’s pork. Just like Jimmy Dean.”
But there’s no mistaking the final course set before the birthday boy.
“Be careful you don’t burn yourself Ong. I just took them off the grill,” Cole warns his grandfather who’s salivating over the delicacy that’s been brought to the table.
“You gonna try one?” Cole asks KC who’s too appalled to answer, unable to believe anyone would willingly put a charred chicken head, skewered and roasted, in their mouth.
“It’s easy,” Cole swears as he demonstrates the proper to crack the tiny skull and suck the brains from the head. “Make up your mind before Ong eats them all.”
Cole, his sister, and the man who she says isn’t her boyfriend laugh at KC’s squeamishness, insisting KC will never be a real Nguyen until he eats a chicken head. KC impulsively cracks one open and swallows the contents too quickly to actually taste it, a small price to pay to be accepted into a family.
Cole says God doesn’t care who or what he is. After all, who made him this way? All that matters is that you don’t hurt anyone else, he explains. He and his sister are good Catholics. They attend Mass every week, taking communion, and there are holy pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart throughout the house. KC doesn’t know much about being Catholic. He was baptized but never went to Mass as a kid and only attended Augustinian because they gave him a full scholarship to play baseball. He doubts he’ll be going to any more churches or listening to any pastors and their sermons like he did when he lived with the Freemans. But he still reads the Bible Coach gave him every night, finding solace in the words he sometimes struggles to understand. He’s started keeping a list of his favorite verses and is committing them to memory.
Matthew 5:16.
Luke 7:47
John 8:12
And always, he returns to his favorite passage and the words that prove Jesus doesn’t hate him, that Our Lord and Savior has a place in His heart for everyone.
After David finished talking with Saul, Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself. 1 Samuel 18:1.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
He closes his Bible when he hears Cole screaming into his cell in the next room, ripping someone a new asshole in both English and Vietnamese. KC doesn’t envy anyone who’ll be working for the owner of Snake Eyes Productions. Cole’s temper could sandblast an entire salvage yard.
“Kevin, you gotta help me out tonight. You got to. It’s no big deal, I swear. That fucking Thanh is fucking high as a kite and I promised a duo. It’s nothing really. Just some old dude’s birthday party. Some really old dude. He’s, like, sixty-five. He’s paying us two-fifty each just to dance in our jocks. You don’t have to do anything else. I promise. If anyone asks if you want to go off to a bedroom and do a private dance, just say no.”
He took money from that old rich guy in Spokane. What’s the big deal? He doesn’t have to get naked and no one’s gonna expect him to blow a load at the end of the show. He can’t really say no. KC can shake his bare ass in a bunch of guys’ faces to help out Cole who’s done so much for him. Just this once, he swears.
“You want to get high first?” Cole asks as he parks the car in the driveway of a three-story house in a tree-lined neighborhood near the university campus. It’s an impressive residence, solid brick, with a real front porch with a green canvas awning, shaded by two massive pines. Men, most of them balding or silver-haired, wander in and out of the house. They’re well dressed, in khakis and bright pastel polo shirts, and carry drinks and bottles of beer.
“Nah, I think I’m okay,” KC says tentatively, already regretting agreeing to do this favor for Cole.
“Well, I do,” Cole says, firing up a joint.
KC wonders if it was really such a short time ago that he would have been worried about second hand smoke causing a positive drug screen on the frequent random samples that are the scourge of the minor leagues.
“Don’t worry. They’re all really nice. And they’re all fucking harmless. This is the easiest money you’ll ever make.”
The birthday boy, according to Cole, is a big shot at the university. Cole’s been told he’s actually famous and gets paid a lot of money to lecture around the world. Cole thinks he’s some expert in Greek or Roman, one of those ancient languages nobody speaks. He’s also morbidly obese, three-fifty at least. Cole warns KC not to laugh when he’s introduced to the host. He’ll be wearing a silk kimono and gold slippers and has a big pumpkin head that makes him look like Jabba the Hut.
“But he’s really, really cool. The Professor’s a real gentleman. So don’t get all grossed out if he asks to touch your dick. Don’t piss him off. It takes me a whole weekend at that fucking bar to earn what I’m making tonight.”
Even Cole’s vivid description doesn’t prepare KC for his first sighting of their host. The Professor drifts among his guests like a parade float, utterly placid, able to move while appearing to remain perfectly still. His arms are folded across his rotund belly and his hands are hidden in the sleeves of his kimono.
“Lovely,” he announces when Cole introduces him to KC. “A wise choice. Many of my guests have a distinct appetite for these All-American boys. Now don’t be jealous Master Coleman. You know my preference for exotic and delicate things,” he says, causing KC to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing he won’t be asked to offer his pecker to the Professor tonight.
They’d been invited to arrive after ten, just in time for the champagne toast and the cutting of the cake. The Professor graciously offers both young men a slice and a flute. Cole whispers to KC to accept the champagne, but decline the cake. Eating carries the risk of a pooching stomach and the flatter the belly, the fatter the tip. Cole quickly gives KC the run down. Once the music starts, everyone will gather in the living room. The two of them are being paid to be showmen. There’s an art to dancing. Timing is everything.
“Just follow my lead. Milk it for tips. Don’t rush to strip down to your jock, but don’t take so long they start to ge
t restless. We have to dance for a half hour. After that you don’t have to do anything else unless you want to. Use the blue bedroom if you want to make some extra cash.”
KC doesn’t feel particularly sexy as he begins to sway to the music. The soundtrack is almost as old as the guests. Cole expertly pantomimes every groan, every moan, of “Love to Love You Baby.” KC mimics his mentor as best as he can; he’s never really learned to dance. But he’s an athlete so he’s coordinated enough that he doesn’t move like a spastic monkey. No one seems interested in his dance steps anyways. They’re admiring his pecs, his biceps, his tight abdomen, and his perfectly shaped ass. They practically throw bills—five, tens, even twenties—when he reluctantly obliges the request that he spread his cheeks and show off his pink hole. He’s exhausted after ten minutes and the idea of keeping this up for the entire bargained-for performance seems impossible. But more and more bills are flapping from the waistband of his jock strap. Cole lied to him though. This isn’t the easiest money he’s ever earned.
The show is over by eleven and some of the guests have left. KC senses that those who remain are anticipating an after-party, something less button-down and proper (all things being relative) than the official celebration that preceded. Cole has disappeared. Most likely he’s entertaining the birthday boy in the red bedroom, soliciting a significant withdrawal from the Professor’s wallet. KC’s standing alone, nursing a beer, aware that he’s the topic of several whispered conversations in the room. He’s been allowed to put on his jeans, but is expected to remain shirtless until it’s time to leave. He smiles awkwardly as a man shyly approaches.
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