by J. Warren
“Sure,” was all he said, over and over again, quieter each time. His head bobbed with each sure. His arms were twitching, though, and his breath was ragged.
“Kevin, are you—?” I started to ask, but before I could finish, Kevin feinted. He didn’t pitch backward like they do on all the television shows, though; he just crumpled. It looked like someone had snipped all of the wires that were holding him up at once. I stood there for a second because I didn’t know what to do. That feeling had never left me.
When I did check on him, though, he was breathing okay. His eyes were open and glassy, his pulse was far too quick, but his breathing was okay. His skin was shiny white in some places, but dark red in others. I picked him up and put his arm around my shoulder. I started walking us toward the back door to Sully’s.
“No!” he mumbled. His head lolled against my shoulder.
“What?” I asked, “Kevin, you passed out. I’m going to take you back inside so that maybe Bud can—,” I started.
“No!” he said, and stumbled. It wasn’t until after I’d gotten a hold on him again that I realized he hadn’t stumbled; he’d struggled. He didn’t want to go back into Sully’s.
“You don’t want to go back in?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He mumbled something after that, but the only words I could make out were “me” and “home”.
“Kevin, you’re not doing so good, let me have Bud—,” I started again, moving for the door. He stumbled again and fell down. When I bent down next to him, the spotlight above the back door shone clearly into his eyes, making him look like he was staring at something very far away. He was trembling, and his eyes were starting to tear.
“No,” he said, and his shoulders started to move up and down. It took me a second to realize he was sobbing. His eyes were still huge in the light. He was mumbling and again I could make out “me” and “home”, but also “Andrew” and something about “bad shit”.
“Do you want me to take you home?” I asked. Still sobbing and mumbling, he nodded. “Did you drive?” I asked. Again, he nodded. I reached past his arm to rummage in his hip pocket. His keys were easy to find, but he kept mumbling “later” while my fingers were in his pocket. I slung his arm over my shoulder and stood him up again. On the key ring was the logo for a car company, faded and worn. There weren’t many cars in the parking lot that night; most of the men inside always rode together in trucks. It was fairly easy to find his Honda..
It’d been a very long time since I drove a stick shift, so I was rusty at first. Kevin was still crying and nearly curled around himself in the other seat. On the stereo, someone was singing about the badlands, and I had to turn it down; he’d been listening to it very loud. “Kevin,” I said, “Kevin.” His head moved a bit, more like someone who thought they heard something out in the yard than like someone answering a question from two foot away. “Kevin, I don’t know where you live,” I said. He wasn’t responding, just staring and then crying. I pulled the car over, slapped it down into neutral, and dug into his other pocket. He mumbled something about “later,” but I came out with his wallet.
The photo of him seemed too young to be the person sitting next to me. The expression was blank and had some sort of hope in it. Just below it read his name, Kevin Anderson O’Malley, and then an address. I recognized it as being not far from here. It wasn’t a nice sort of place back when we were growing up, though. I hoped that it had changed. I folded the wallet up and set it on the dash, put the car in gear and hoped.
The area was out near the railroad tracks. No town ever has nice places to live there. Usually, though, the rent is cheap, payable in cash only, and there’s no credit check to worry about. As I pulled the car up into the grouping of buildings, I wondered how he kept it from being stolen. There were no streetlights out this far. Just past the headlights of the car, I could see figures moving in the shadows. They seemed to scurry out of the way of the light just in time to keep from being seen. It seemed like some sort of magic ability.
The numbers on the doors ran downward until I found the one. I put the car in park, and then shut it off. I kept expecting someone to tap on the window, or some horrible face to come out of the darkness. It seemed like a horror movie about to come true. “Kevin,” I said. His head lolled over the seat toward me. The shaking had stopped some, and his eyelids didn’t seem skinned back from his eyes anymore.
I don’t know why I decided to do it, but somehow I knew, even before I shut the car off, that I’d be staying with him tonight. It took a few minutes of maneuvering to get him out of the seat, then close and lock the car doors. He seemed to realize what was happening, though, because he helped in little, unconscious ways. His body would shift closer to me, or he’d pivot on his tip toe when I needed. For a second, it was nice in a way that I still don’t know how to describe; two guys moving in one direction together. I unlocked his door and walked him just inside. The only light in the place was coming from a small door just down a murky hallway. It seemed like a bathroom light, maybe.
When I closed the door and flicked the light switch, nothing happened. He giggled under his breath and mumbled something like “oops.” I saw a couch about two foot in and walked him to it. I tried to move him slowly onto the cushions, but he slipped and fell. His head bounced a little on his neck as his flopped onto the couch. I walked back to the door and locked it. When I turned around, his head was on the arm of the couch, and his body only in one cushion of the two; it looked like he was about to snap his neck. I walked to him and moved him down some, his head sliding down onto a pillow. I let go of his legs and looked at him for a moment. His eyes were still open, but no longer so wide it hurt me to see. His breathing was still steady, though. His skin didn’t look so blotchy.
The floor was covered in piles and piles of books. He had two planks of wood anchored to the wall with books stacked on them. I don’t know how, but I knew he’d made them himself. They were full to toppling with books. A small table was in front of the couch, and off to the side of that was a larger table with two thin chairs. That table was the only place clear of books. On it was a cheap looking stereo, and a few legal pads that were filled with scrawled words.
“Mikey,” Kevin whispered. I looked over at him, and felt how still the room was. “So good. Always so good,” he mumbled. I could see he was trying to use the toe of one shoe to wiggle out of the heel of the other. He kept missing. I walked over to him and slid his feet out of his shoes. He immediately put his socks up on my lap, and I leaned back; the smell was strong. Thinking back on it now, though, I remember it wasn’t bad as I’d always expected another man’s feet would be, it was just strong.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Bunk shit from Andrew. Too quick. Always too quick. Bathtub shit,” he slurred, and kept mumbling things like that. I didn’t know exactly what he meant, but I got the gist; he’d taken something in the bathroom just before I’d spoken to him, and it had turned out to be a lot stronger than he’d expected it to be.
He put his hand on his forehead, palm down, then gave a huge sigh. “What?” I asked. He shook his head without saying anything. All of a sudden, he sat bolt upright, and tried to get up off the couch. Before I realized what he was doing, though, he had fallen. He was lying on the floor, twitching before I could scoot forward to stand up. “Kevin?” I asked.
I stood up as he managed to get to his hands and knees. I came around in front of him and reached for his hands just as his back arched and he groaned loudly. I stepped back. It was so powerful it didn’t seem to come from him. It was more like the house was being warped and twisted by the wind outside. He looked up at me and his eyes were somehow bigger than what they’d been, even before. They seemed to be begging me for something. “Are you—?” I started to ask, when his back arched once more, this time higher. I felt sure he’d broken something. I don’t know how, but at that moment I got a very clear picture of what was about to happen. I knew I didn’t have long.
> I reached down, got him to his feet, and practically carried him down the hall. I just managed to get him in front of the toilet before the next spasm. The clang from the toilet lid was still ringing through the house as whatever he’d had for dinner came hurling out of his mouth. His back had arched so far this time that he seemed to leave the ground for a second. I stayed at the door, but I turned my back; if I watched any more, I’d likely wind up doing the same thing myself. The sounds were almost enough.
I started to walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water for him, but the second I’d formed the idea to do it, between the gut wrenching sounds of one convulsion and the next, he managed to say “Don’t leave me, please don’t—.” The rest was cut off.
I don’t know how long I stood there. It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so. The clocks said that. When I turned back around, he was no longer on his feet. Kevin was lying on his side, his head hung over the edge. His skin was damp and yellow. His eyes were closed, and his face blotchy and red. I had counted a full 120 seconds since the least heave. Later, when I allowed myself to think about the details, I was amazed at the fact that there was no mess anywhere but in the bowl. I wondered, all those years later, how much different the scene would have played out if maybe I’d had to clean up after Kevin. Monday morning quarterbacks always make the best plays, though.
I leaned past him and pulled the shower curtain. I leaned a bit further and started the hot water. The shower belched once, then again before a steady stream came out. I put my hand under his head from the back, lifted it, and closed the toilet seat. I let his head back down slowly. He was breathing loudly through his mouth. I pulled the lever and the toilet flushed. I stepped back and grabbed his arms, lifting him up and putting him on the toilet lid. His head lolled back at a strange angle. He groaned. “What’r you doing?” he slurred.
“Getting you cleaned up,” I said. I’d had to do this before. One of the kids who started at the garage a year or so back had been only seventeen, high school drop out, but really good with cars. The boss took a chance on him, and in about two weeks he was already “one of the guys.” Of course, when he turned eighteen, we all took him out. Drinking age is twenty-one, of course, but there are ways around that in a city. We got him torn up on beer and tequila shots. Of course, someone had to stay with him; we’d been gauging how much to give him by ourselves, forgetting that he was smaller, weighed less, and hadn’t ever gotten to that point before. I was the one who was most worried, so I was the one (along with his roommate) who got him cleaned up and in bed. Needless to say, though, he didn’t make it to work the next day.
Something was different about this, though. I pulled off Kevin’s socks, then his shirt, all the while noticing little things. His wrists were very small, but his fingers were very long. His shoulders were broad, but not very thick. His waist was extremely small. I was very busy with the thought of getting him “taken care of” so I could go home to sleep, though, and didn’t pay enough attention to myself to notice. I leaned in and sort of draped his chest over my shoulder. I stood us both up, and unbuttoned his pants. The whole time he was breathing loudly and mumbling. I slid his pants down and his hands came around me in a strange reverse hug. I sat him back down, and finished pulling his pants off.
Kevin was naked. It struck me all at once. He was naked, and even though I’d been around other naked men without thinking anything of it, something about this seemed intimate. I was uncomfortable immediately. I tried everything not to look, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t. I wish I could say that I was above that sort of thing. It seemed better than my own. That’s what I most remember. As stupid and weak as that sounds; it seemed better—larger and not as ugly, somehow. When I realized I was staring, I felt I had to do something. I grabbed Kevin’s arms and stood him up.
For a second, I wondered how I was going to keep him standing up in the shower. He was somehow able to step over the sides, though, as if he knew for a split second where he was. As soon as the water hit him, he flinched, trying to curl himself forward into a ball. His skin seemed to go from yellow to pinkish, though. I felt like I was doing the right thing.
As soon as the water hit him, though, he seemed to go on autopilot. He ducked his head under the water and then scrubbed his face with both hands. The water over his body made me think of a skyscraper; most of the men I’d ever known had large bellies, and were covered in fur. Kevin’s body was whipcord straight, and smooth. I got that feeling, again, of something moving around in my stomach, and turned to leave. I was going to get a glass of water and see if there were any aspirin. As if sensing, though, he grabbed my arm and mumbled “don’t go.” He nearly fell over from moving too quickly, so I had no choice but to steady him. Both arms of my shirt got soaked through.
I started washing him. He’d managed to keep everything contained to just himself and the bowl. For some reason, that stuck out in my mind. He kept sighing and slumping one way or another. I tried not to look at his body; I tried not to think about how he looked like one of those paintings I’d spent hours in the library looking up. I tried to think about Susan, or this one model from a car ad that the guys had had blown up to poster size back at the garage. I heard my mother’s voice in the back of my head saying “shame on you, Michael Kendall, shame on you!” but even that didn’t work. My eyes kept wandering over his body and it made me angry.
“Ow,” he mumbled when I started to scrub too hard. I felt my mouth pulled tight into a frown and the tension in my shoulders. At some point, I’d taken my shirt off. From the corner of my eye, I could see it in a wet pile on the sink, my watch sitting next to it.
I shut off the water and leaned him against the wall. “Don’t go,” he kept mumbling. I moved to get the towel from the rack. It was a huge, plush blue one. I pulled the shower curtain the rest of the way back and handed the towel to him.
“Here,” I said, “dry off.”
He started to rub at his skin with the towel, but nearly fell over several times. I had reached to put my watch back on, but stopped. He wasn’t going to be able to dry himself. I’d have to do it. Some part of me felt soft toward him, his weakness at that moment. Another part of me felt something stronger, more red-orange, and that made me mad. I snatched the towel from his hands. He nearly fell over. “Get out,” I said quietly, but there was an edge in my voice that made him look up. He stepped gingerly out of the tub. I wrapped him in the towel so I wouldn’t have to look at his thin ankles and narrow hips.
I dried him off roughly. He hunched his shoulders against my efforts, and his face was drawn into a scowl. “Ow,” he kept mumbling, and sucking air in through his teeth. When I bent over to dry his legs, my face was directly in front of the part of him I most wanted to avoid looking at. I stared straight down, trying not to notice how small and clean his toes were, and always aware that part of him was right beside my face. I felt the heat off of him on my cheek. I stood up and wrapped the towel around his waist. “Go,” I said, and walked behind him a bit, putting my hand out to stop him from running into anything as he walked down the hall. I steered him back into what I assumed as his bedroom.
He made it four steps. I heard the thud. I found a light switch and saw the tiny bedroom. He’d hit the bed at about hip level and had just fallen over onto it, as if he’d done this a million times. I shook my head; his eyes were already closed, and his breathing already deep. His light blue sheets seemed to wrap around him like a hand. I moved the dark blue comforter up over his shoulders and turned to leave the room. It was as I was reaching for the light that I remembered the towel. I shook my head, walked back to the bed, and reached under. My hand slid along the smooth plane of his stomach; I felt his bellybutton just under my pinky. I found the edge of the towel and unwrapped it. I pulled it out from under the comforter and smoothed the blanket down.
As I turned to go, his hand shot out with the speed of fear and grabbed
my wrist. “Please don’t go,” he said. His voice was almost clear, and I thought for a second that the whole thing might have been an act. Then he hiccupped and groaned, all without moving his head or his shoulders.
“I have to.” I needed to leave. I was starting to shake.
“Please stay. I’m scared.”
I closed my eyes. Whatever it was in me that was on the verge of being broken finally snapped. I knew I wasn’t leaving.
“Okay.” It seemed like someone else talking. Perhaps another me. “Just let me go make sure the door is locked.”
His grip on me tightened. “No,” he whispered.
“I’ll be right back.”
His hand slid off of mine, but I still felt the warmth there. Walking back down the hall to the front door, I kept thinking ‘leave’ over and over again. I knew I wouldn’t, though. I didn’t know what I wanted, or if I even wanted anything, but I knew I was going to stay with Kevin that night. I locked the front door and shut off the hall light on my way back.
He was in the exact same position as before, on his right side with his knees bent up toward his chest, his head curled as if to meet them. Whatever there had been in my chest that was red-orange and filled with anger had softened now. A sort of warm glow was in its place; a warmth that spread throughout all of me. I was still shaking, though. I shut off the light and I heard him make a noise like a question mark, “It’s just me,” I whispered, and stood there. In me was the same feeling I’d had just before putting Randy on my bike a million years ago. I unzipped my pants, and then slid out of them. Naked, I climbed into the bed.
Kevin slid backward, pressing his back against my chest. The part of me that I understood least that night pressed between us. He burrowed his face down into the mattress and made a soft noise I’d never heard a man make before. Before I could stop myself, I put my arm around him, and pulled him closer to me. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I noticed that the continuous chatter of my mind had, for the first time in at least a decade, gone silent.