Seeking Enrique

by Austin Bates

“Well obviously it’s important or you wouldn’t be taking it out on my books.”

  “I’m sorry about the books,” Jules said, and he seemed sincere.

  “Okay, but I can’t know that you won’t do it again unless I know why you did it the first time.”

  “I won’t do it again.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know why I did it the first time, and there aren’t any more people here, so it won’t happen again.”

  “People… huh? You’ve lost me.”

  “Just trust me, alright? I’m fine.”

  Rick thought very hard for a few minutes.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked anxiously.

  Jules sighed.

  “No, you’re completely entitled to do anything you want to do any time you want to do it, or not do anything you don’t want to do whenever you don’t want to do it, except for those moments when you are legally bound by contract to do or not do whatever it is you want or don’t want to do.”

  “Now I’m really confused.”

  “Me too. Look, just find the damn book, would you?”

  Rick shrugged. He felt like he was in trouble, but he didn’t know why or how. It gnawed at him as he meticulously searched his shelves.

  “But what is it that I did?” he asked, after several moments of silence.

  “Nothing.”

  “I obviously did something.”

  “Would you let it go?”

  Rick fell silent, trying to focus on his task. He laid it out like a scene progression in his head and ran it backwards. Jules throwing books, all pissed off. Rick talking about how he was bad at adventures. Jules saying he knew how to make it an adventure. Rick focused on his face in that last memory. He’d been fine, there. Relaxed, a little buzzed, enjoying the conversation. Then Rick said he didn’t like adventures. That didn’t make any sense, why would that make him angry?

  “Are you angry because I said I didn’t want to make this any more adventurous than it already is?” Rick asked.

  Jules said nothing. He pulled another book off the shelf and nearly threw it on the bed, catching himself at the last minute. He placed the book on the bed deliberately, and went back to his search.

  “So that is what made you angry. Either that or you’ve suddenly gone deaf. Why, though?”

  Jules paused his search, staring at the books, not saying a word. Rick was beginning to get angry. This is why he didn’t like people, they never talked when they needed to, and talked too much when they didn’t need to, and were all big balls of stupid emotion, creating questions and offering no answers, expecting him to get it right without stating their parameters for what right even was.

  “So I’m no adrenaline junkie. Why do you care? What does it even matter?”

  “Didn’t I tell you to drop it?” Jules said finally.

  “Well apparently I can’t. You’re the one who wants me to get along with people, so why don’t you start by making yourself possible to get along with?”

  “How, by telling you everything I’m thinking and feeling? You’re not my boyfriend or my therapist, you have no right to demand that I spill everything.”

  “No, but I have a right not to feel threatened in my own goddamn house, and you, with your silent angry book smashing deal, are making me feel threatened!”

  Jules opened his mouth and closed it again. He walked away, past Rick and down the stairs. Rick threw up his hands and flopped on the bed. People. Why did it have to be people? He had months of this nonsense to look forward to, and at this point he would rather climb Mount Everest naked in December than put up with one more second of the incomprehensible nature of human interaction.

  He heard Jules moving around in the kitchen. He focused on the sounds. Cabinet opening. Glass bottle on the counter. Pouring liquid. Great. Now not only would he be angry and incomprehensible, he’d also be drunk.

  “Are you a mellow drunk or an angry drunk?” he shouted.

  “Who, me? Why I’m not a drunk at all!” Jules responded in a high, wispy voice.

  It took Rick a second to place the mangled movie quote, then he laughed.

  “Seriously though, do I need to barricade myself up here?”

  “Depends,” Jules called back. “Sometimes I’m a goofy drunk, sometimes, well….”

  “Violent?”

  “Horny.”

  “Oh.”

  Rick turned that fact over in his mind. Jules was incredibly attractive, and for all their friction, he was easier to get along with than most of the incredibly attractive people Rick knew. Maybe it was his recent heartbreak, maybe it was because Rick was angry at him when he walked in, or maybe it was because they’d spent so long emailing and phoning back and forth with work; but whatever the reason, Rick didn’t feel intimidated by Jules the same way he felt intimidated by other people. They were going to be stuck here together until the end of the week, then everything would go back to normal after the tour. If they did end up in bed together, what would it hurt?

  That was the wrong question for Rick to ask himself. As an author, his job was to ask “what’s the worst that could happen,” and subsequently answer the question in elaborate detail. Scenarios flew through his mind. Jules with an STD, Jules getting so awkward afterwards that they could no longer work together, Rick out on the street in search of a new agent, no agents want him—doom, despair, death in a gutter.

  “Keep it balanced,” he told himself firmly.

  What’s the best that could happen? Jules falls madly in love with him and decides that there’s no need for him to go on the tour. They live happily ever after in separate houses so Rick can still have all of his own space. He drew a line between the two scenarios, finding the happy median between the two, and decided that the most reasonable scenario was that they would sleep together, it would be fine, they’d go on the tour, and go their separate ways when it was done.

  “See, you had it right the first time,” he scolded himself.

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Jules called from below.

  “Well you aren’t up here to talk to,” Rick replied.

  “I can fix that.”

  “Are you still angry?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “You ever gonna tell me why you were angry in the first place?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would be a guilt trip if I did, and I might be an emotionally stunted toxically masculine bullshitter, but I’m no guilt tripper!”

  “Noted!”

  Chapter Seven

  Jules climbed the stairs slowly, wobbling a little.

  “Okay, so if we just agree that you don’t mean it as a guilt trip and I won’t take it as a guilt trip, will you tell me why you were angry?”

  Jules blinked at him.

  “It would still be a guilt trip though.”

  “I’m oblivious, it’s really hard to guilt trip me intentionally. Accidentally? Not a chance. Lay it on me.”

  Jules sat down hard on the bed, making the books bounce.

  “I got mad… you remember I told you about my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, in a twisted kind of way, you did.”

  “Okay. So that’s real hardcore rejection, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. So then I’m over there,” he gestured sloppily. “And you rejected me. It made me angry, like a bee sting in a festering open wound.”

  “Intense imagery,” Rick said appreciatively. “I’m gonna have to remember that. I’m confused, though… when did I reject you?”

  Jules stood to his feet, frustrated. What game was Rick playing? He began to pace, then decided that was a bad idea when the room began to spin. He sat back down and cracked his knuckles instead.

  “Okay, look, I’m getting really tired of asking questions and you hulking out instead of answering them,” Rick said irritably.

  “Why
should I answer questions you already know the answers to? It’s a trap, I’m not stupid,” Jules spat.

  Rick blinked at him.

  “Then maybe I am,” he said. “I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about you rejecting me! I propositioned, you shut it down.”

  “When?”

  “Up here! Right before you yelled at me about your precious books!” Jules was furious now.

  Rick wasn’t stupid, Jules knew he wasn’t stupid, he’d read every book the guy had ever written and a stupid person couldn’t have written like that, so why was he playing dumb? Was it amusing to him to watch Jules squirm? He glared at Rick, who was frowning at the floor, his brows furrowed in thought.

  “Maybe I had a stroke,” Rick mumbled.

  “What?”

  “I said, maybe I had a stroke,” Rick repeated. “I don’t remember anything like that happening. One of us is going crazy, and it’s probably me. I mean, I’m already halfway there. Maybe it’s finally happened. I’ve finally cracked completely.”

  “Yeah, you stick with that story,” Jules snarled.

  “God, what is your problem?” Rick exploded, jumping to his feet. “You’ve been a complete dick since the minute you walked through the door, now you’re accusing me of everything from outright rejecting you to lying to you! No more booze, I’m cutting you off.”

  “Sure, blame the booze, blame a stroke, blame everything but yourself,” Jules snapped.

  “Myself?” Rick scoffed. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Bullshit!” Jules shouted. “You got me up here, dragged your feet until we couldn’t leave, got me up in your bedroom, in the dark, with the candlelight, shoved drinks at me, and when I finally, finally made a move, you drop kicked me in the gut. Is it fun for you? You see a knife in somebody’s back you gotta twist it?”

  Rick stared at him.

  “You know what? I was wrong,” he said.

  “Thank you!”

  “I’m not the crazy one here. That’s all you.”

  Rick stormed down the stairs. He put all of the alcohol away and closed the cabinet, looking it over. He wanted to lock it. Jules was obviously unstable, and the last thing Rick could deal with was an unstable drunk in his cabin with him all week. The cabinet was not designed to lock, unfortunately. Rick brainstormed for a moment, then pulled duct tape out of a drawer. He sealed the cabinet thoroughly. It wasn’t secure by any stretch of the imagination, but he was confident that Jules wouldn’t be able to get it open in his current state.

  He glanced up at the loft. He couldn’t see Jules, which he assumed meant that the man was lying down, either on the bed or on the floor. That suited Rick just fine. Let him pass out. Maybe he’d be more reasonable after he slept off whatever was ailing him. If not, at least Rick would get a few hours of reprieve.

  He dug out a notebook and a pen. He had hundreds of both, having built up a stash back when he was still outlining his novels by hand. He hadn’t written anything detailed by hand since he was in school; he didn’t know if he could. He figured now was as good a time as any to find out. If the resulting work was worth anything, he could always type it up once he had access to electricity again.

  He lay on the floor, on his belly, in front of the fireplace. The pose put him in a nostalgic state of mind; he used to do all of his homework that way. Once he’d graduated, he’d evolved to accommodate a desktop and then a laptop. He still moved around while he worked, but this particular pose was beyond the capabilities of his technology.

  The sense memory brought a flood of emotional recollections, and suddenly he recalled a story he intended to write in tenth grade. He hadn’t felt ready to take on an entire novel at that point in his development, and the project had faded into obscurity. Now, confident in his abilities and experience, he began to write that long-lost story.

  He wrote until the fire died. His hand was cramping, but his excitement allowed him to ignore the discomfort. He took a break, restocked the fire, grabbed a snack, stretched his hand, and got back to work in minutes. He hit a meditative groove, one he’d been searching for throughout his years of writing. It was almost as though he was reading the story rather than writing it, as words and scenes flowed onto the paper without conscious direction.

  Pens emptied as notebooks filled. He poured the whole of his subconscious onto the pages, writing as though his life depended on it. He didn’t know how long he lay there, how many hours passed; but Jules left him alone, and there was an impenetrable bubble of imagination cutting him off from his impossible situation and daunting future. It was the deepest meditation he’d ever experienced, and though his body ached and his hand screamed, he couldn’t bear to let it end.

  He fell asleep, pen in hand, at some undetermined moment in time. Time seemed irrelevant; the light was full of greys from the windows and oranges from the fire, and any changes were subtle to the point of imperceptive. Through the timeless winter he slept, and as he slept, he dreamed the story.

  He awoke with a start. Smells and sounds mingled with his dreams, and everything was wrong. He heard footsteps thundering across the floor and he leapt to his feet, crying, “Stop, thief!” He crashed to the floor, tangled in his own feet, and bashed his head on the little table he’d put in front of the couch the day before. Dishes went flying, shattering on the wood floor. A sizzle in the fireplace had him spinning around, blindly groping for whatever landed in the flame.

  He slipped on the floor, the heel of his hand sliding into a notebook, sending it skittering toward the fireplace. He frantically groped for it, catching it just as the fringes kissed the fire. He waved the notebook, feathery embers bursting into the air. He screamed as one landed in his hair, and slapped at his head.

  Jules was beside him then, stomping out small fires and brushing his fingers through Rick’s hair. Rick was shaking and panting, still not entirely aware of who and where he was. He slowly realized that Jules was laughing at him.

  “Are you alright?” Jules gasped, trying to keep a straight face.

  Rick looked around at the disaster. Notebooks and pens were strewn across the floor. Shards of ceramic and pieces of silverware sparkled in the firelight. The end table lay on its side, smeared with bits of yesterday’s food. Rick sighed heavily.

  “I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his sore head. “And it looks like I’ve got something to do this morning.”

  “Morning?” Jules repeated, looking at his watch. “It’s almost three in the afternoon!”

  “Oh who cares,” Rick groaned. “Time means nothing in these walls. We’re cut off, cut out, kaput.”

  “Wow. You need coffee.”

  “The coffee maker runs on electricity, of which we have none.”

  “Did you know you had a wood stove?”

  Rick nodded absently.

  “Did you know you had a stash of camping gear inside that wood stove?”

  Rick paused, then shook his head.

  “Well, you did. Complete with percolator. Hold on, I’ll get you a cup.”

  Rick sat where he was, confused. Wasn’t Jules upset with him? Or was he upset with Jules? Memories and imagination were still intermingled in his mind, and he stared at the floor while he attempted to untangle them. Jules brought him coffee—a little darker and grittier than he would like, but coffee nonetheless—and as he drank it, the fog in his mind began to clear.

  “You don’t seem angry,” he commented.

  “I had a lot of time to myself this morning while you were drooling all over your story. Gave me a chance to get things in perspective.” Jules began picking up bits of smashed dishes as he spoke. He turned a shard over in his fingers as he paused.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said quietly.

  “You do?”

  “You don’t think I do?”

  “Of course I think you do, I just didn’t think that you would think you did. Do. Whatever. I was under the impression that you thought I was some kind of de
mon.”

  Jules chuckled, and the sound had a bitter lining.

  “Yeah. I was out of my mind last night. I am sorry, Rick. I was way out of line.”

  “Okay,” Rick said slowly. “But… I’m not sure I can accept the apology.”

  “Why not?” Jules asked, distressed.

  “Because I still can’t make sense of it. Your temper, I mean. I don’t know what set you off or anything.”

  “Look, if you don’t want the apology,” Jules began heatedly.

  “No, no, it’s not that… I’m sorry, I’m not phrasing this well. I’m not phrasing this well. Thank you, for the apology.”

  “Yeah,” Jules said, gritting his teeth.

  He continued to clean while Rick finished his coffee. Once his cup was empty, Rick began picking up his notebooks, flipping to the first page of each to carefully put them in order. The fifth and final notebook was the one that got damaged, and he had barely begun to write in it before he’d fallen asleep. He thanked his lucky stars that it hadn’t been a full one. The fire had damaged a good quarter of the notebook. If it had been full, he’d have lost hours of work.

  He placed the stack neatly on the desk, and went to fetch a broom. Together, he and Jules cleaned the room in silence until order had been restored. Rick’s stomach commanded his attention, and he wandered to the kitchen to satiate it.

  “You want anything?” he asked.

  “No, I already ate,” Jules replied.

  He thanked Rick as an afterthought, and Rick ignored the slight. It wasn’t worth it to get into another stupid argument over virtually nothing. The wood stove cooked his eggs reasonably well, and he ate them with another cup of coffee at the kitchen island.

  “What day is it?” he asked suddenly.

  “Monday,” Jules sighed. “It’s still snowing out there.”

  Rick shivered instinctively, though the cabin was warm. Snow was packed firmly around the house, sealing every drafty crack. The loft window, which had been clear the day before, was now packed with snow; although whether it was blown there or if the drifts were just that high, Rick couldn’t tell. Either way, they were well and truly trapped. It made him feel secure; Jules, on the other hand, paced claustrophobically in the small space.