Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

  “This man you’ve never seen? He tried to murder me.” I’ve gone full-blown raving, but no easing up on the gas now. “Here. He’s killed before. Guys that didn’t get away. He’ll kill again. You know him. You saw the blood. How long did it take you to bleach all that shit out?”

  His chair yaws like a sinking ship as he shifts his weight uneasily.

  “Look.” Shaking, I point to my purpled throat. “You see this? See the marks he made?”

  The Cat wipes his mouth, hangs the phone up, and pushes his chair back. Then he finally says something useful: “Outside.”

  * * *

  • •

  Back in sobering daylight, the Cat turns his door key. “One-way lock. Guys can leave, but nobody else gets in. Let’s go around.”

  Now the sudden fixation with safety?

  The rear lot’s the same as the front, only the tree line creeps closer. Whatever space the thicket’s not threatening to reclaim seems like staff parking.

  Only now do I appreciate the Cheshire Cat’s size. He could easily, well, kill me. Gray tee, floral board shorts, and lime flip-flops. He packs menthols on his palm and slips one between his lips. When the tip turns into a hot cherry, I breathe in deep.

  “Don’t know who that guy is.” After drag number three, he starts talking. “I’m sorry about how this shit went down.” Drag number four. “But look, I was freaking the fuck out. I called Jimmy and Bill—the owners, old queens. By the time they got here, that dude was gone. So were you.”

  Why the hell didn’t you call the cops? I don’t ask this because it wasn’t until the following day that I’d gone to the police. And if Kristian hadn’t found me on MeetLockr, I wouldn’t have made a report at all.

  “They made the call. Said if something happened, it was on you guys to work it out privately. Made me”—he pauses—“made me clean up everything. Then came behind and cleaned again.” He sucks what’s left of his smoke. “I’m Theo, by the way.” He extends his hand, and I shake it. Both our palms are clammy and wet and uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

  “Oliver.”

  “I know.” He nods. “Jimmy and Bill, they made me find your membership info, license copy, and get rid of it. Over there.” He gestures to a back corner where a metal bin’s been blackened by a trash fire.

  “My credit card, I left it behind.” I rub my scalp. “Did you destroy it?”

  “I mean, yeah?” He takes my epic sigh of relief as frustration. “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “The other guy?” I ask. My card’s gone for good, and fresh optimism swells. “His name’s Kristian. Did you find his info? They must’ve asked you to destroy both.”

  “They did.” Theo shakes his head. “And I checked like a hundred times over. I knew what the guy looked like. Enough to promise Jimmy and Bill he wouldn’t be let back in. He was fucking hot compared to the usual crowd, and no way I’d forget his face. I got a good look when he ran out past me too. Covering his cheek.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Nothing.” He slips a pin through my ballooning hope and it pops.

  “Must’ve used a fake ID. Or stolen, maybe.” He looks at his feet. What he says next seems to embarrass him, as though he’s ashamed of phoning in the job he does for Haus. “It’s dark. A lot of guys coming and going. A lot of faces. I don’t really match the ID to the person. Just make the copy, take the cash, provide the towel, the key. The condoms and the lube.”

  I recall what Detective Henning said, that Kristian might not be in the country legally. “The police. They’re going to bring you in for questioning.”

  Theo tightens his cheeks like he’s sucking sour candy. What I’ve said makes him afraid, and I don’t blame him. Kind of feel for him, even. Lying to the cops, destroying evidence. We’re both textbook nefarious.

  “You need to tell her, Detective Henning, exactly what happened. She needs to place me here. She needs to place me and Kristian at Haus on Saturday night.”

  “Jimmy and Bill—”

  “Told you to do the wrong thing. You know they did.” I’m struck by shame as I say this. Blatant hypocrisy. I’m lecturing this man on the importance of being transparent. Truthful.

  “This gig is the only thing keeping my head above water. Student debt is fucking brutal—”

  “Blood,” I counter. “Blood on your hands is fucking brutal.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll tell her. I’ll change my story. But the owners, you gotta understand, they’re good guys. Good people. They just come from a different time.”

  I’m uninterested in the owners of Haus or the excuses Theo makes for them, but I’ve got a tenuous grip on his cooperation. I don’t want to screw that up. The more we bond, the deeper he forms a human connection, the more likely he’ll give Detective Henning what she needs.

  He pitches his cigarette into a puddle. “One where getting caught meant getting curb-stomped. Killed. And if homophobes didn’t do the job, well, gays didn’t grow old back then for lots of reasons.

  “Point is, they’re used to living underground. When park cruising and bathhouses were the norm. It’s all they know. Now, with apps like MeetLockr? Pop a PrEP pill and HIV’s knocked halfway off the table. Everything’s normal. And normalized makes people safe. Jimmy and Bill, they don’t trust the progress. And plenty of other folks don’t either—that’s how we’re in business. I mean, even you…” He lets this last bit hang unfinished.

  “I don’t doubt their intentions. They cater to a community; they’re protective of Haus. But when they cover up, when they burn evidence, ask yourself who they’re protecting.” Again, creeping hypocrisy rears its head, but this time, it’s harder to club back.

  “When they come asking, I’ll tell the cops you were here.” He looks over his shoulder. “I was confused or some shit. But I need to get back to the front.”

  “Yeah.” I give him a smile. “Okay. Thanks.”

  We shake hands a second time. “Glad you’re okay.”

  He vanishes back into Haus’s darkness, but his parting words are a cruel joke. He’s glad I’m okay, which couldn’t be further from the truth. As I send for an Uber, another thought emerges, edging out the hypocrisy and guilt: I’ve gotten somewhere.

  No more needless panic over a lost card, but that’s not my only progress. Because of my coming here, confronting the Cheshire Cat now named Theo, Detective Henning’s investigation takes a solid step forward. She has a witness willing to place me—and an injured man matching Kristian’s description—at the scene of his crime. On the date in question.

  I don’t have to be a passive participant in Kristian’s sociopathy. While he stalks my life. Enters my home. Scares the shit out of me.

  Who else can I confront?

  20

  Nathan and I sit at a back table inside Leek. A chic restaurant wrapped in warmth and soft lighting and the earthy umami of roasted flesh.

  We await the bill to a soundtrack of clinking glasses and muted laughter. The table linen. The dancing flame of the tea light. Our plates, remnants of balsamic asparagus and drawn butter and pan-seared wild tuna. We’ve both had the tuna. Nathan ordered for us because it’s rich in omega-3 fatty acids. It’s good for me, and Nathan’s a doctor. He knows what’s good for me.

  Sensing my detachment, he asks, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I bite the inside of my bottom lip. “No. I’m still a bit jarred from Saturday. To tell the truth.”

  “That’s hardly surprising.” His voice holds a sardonic edge that doesn’t sit well. He takes hold of his wineglass and drains the last drop of cabernet. When he speaks again, his tone is milder. “Have you thought any more about my suggestion? Heading back to NA for a bit? It’ll help.”

  I turn my used fork—crusted with sea flesh—over on the linen. Then over again. And again.
“I’ll think about it.”

  “I hope you do, Oliver, I really hope you do.” When he says my name like that, it bothers me. It’s patronizing. But, everything I’ve done, everything Nathan knows I’ve done and everything he doesn’t, warrants parenting. I’ve brought this on myself. I’ve made a trade-off. Decided long ago I needed guardrails, and Nathan provides them. Fulfilled the expectation. Our unspoken agreement.

  Nathan’s phone vibrates against the tabletop. Tom. We’re due to meet him at Trance next. A clichéd gay bar with a clichéd name.

  As Nathan’s fingers tap-tap-tap, a server drops off the check. Not once looking up, not stopping to think or missing a beat, Nathan tucks his card into the leather billfold.

  This tiny action is as bothersome as the parenting, if not more so. There’s zero expectation for me to pay. Sure, Nathan makes more—and any outsider would conclude I benefit handsomely from it—but it serves as a stark reminder of my place. In every way, I need Nathan. I need him to keep me from drugs. I need him for shelter, for food. Most important, I need him for life. Nathan is the reason I breathe.

  It’s not perfect, but it’s a need. Not a want, not a desire, but a must-have. Risking it with a visit to Haus was one of the worst decisions of my life. Why did I give in? Why did I let Nathan burrow so deep under my skin? Push me into acting out?

  What Detective Henning said earlier today about having to tell him, I consider the meaning of that. The painful opening up, the admission of lying and infidelity. I could lose him. The concussive shock waves that would detonate through my life, the important things it would destroy. My sobriety. Could I survive it? Could I physically survive Nathan leaving me?

  That I once thought it’d be worth it is laughable. Casual Encounters, MeetLockr, Haus. An escape from a stifling cage beneath an all-too-perfect veneer. A guilty conscience was supposed to be the worst of it. Worth enduring for a fleeting reprieve, and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “I want to change our locks.” I drop my fork clumsily and it rattles on my plate.

  Nathan hesitates. “Change our locks because you were randomly mugged on a jog? I gave you my pepper spray.”

  “I haven’t slept well since Saturday. It’s irrational, but it’ll help.” My next words are designed to manipulate, to use my own past as leverage. “I don’t want to keep taking pills to sleep.”

  “Of course.” Nathan takes a deep breath. “We’ll change the locks, then.”

  An invisible weight on my shoulders lessens. Not much, a pebble removed from an enormous pile, but I’m better. Lighter.

  “Thanks so much.” Nathan smiles as the server swipes his card. He clicks the butt of a pen on the table and I picture him signing my death warrant.

  It all plays out in my head—Nathan’s response to the truth. He would be furious outside and in. I think I’ve seen him mad like that before. Not at me, and each time I was grateful to not be the object of his fiery ire. I don’t think he’d put hands on me. I don’t think he’d hurt me. That’s not who he is, and I chose him—or let him choose me—specifically because of who he isn’t.

  But he might very well hurt me in other ways. He almost certainly would. Emotional wounds burn hotter. Something Nathan knows. But the ultimate question, the question of whether he would leave, whether he would lock me out of the safety and security of our life together—that, I can’t answer.

  Another vibration. This time it’s my phone. My eyes dart to Nathan first. He’s returned his attention to his own and hasn’t noticed. Kristian. The first place my thoughts stampede anytime there’s a call or a text.

  I turn it over. An incoming call, but the number’s unrecognizable.

  “Ready to head out?” Nathan’s already half standing.

  “Sure,” I say, and follow his lead.

  Typically, I’d use the time between dinner and drinks to mentally prepare for the forthcoming company. I’d tick through anything interesting or new that’s happened. Come up with talking points to fill shallow conversation. When said company will be Tom Vogt, this ritual takes on new importance. Anything that mitigates my own insecurities.

  But this time, as the lights of bodegas and bars and coffeehouses whirl by like neon river water, I think only of that damned phone call.

  Whoever it was left a voicemail. Has Kristian discovered my number? It’s not on my license, but it’s on plenty of documents at home. And if he’s the competent stalker–slash–homicidal maniac I think he is, he’s got everything.

  Still, there was something familiar about those digits. Something that scratches at an itch in the back of my brain.

  “You wanna get out?” Nathan brakes. “See if Tom’s already here? I’ll find parking.”

  The idea of sitting alone with Tom for any stretch of time hits me somewhere behind the eyes. Like the last time I saw him. The miserable experience of sharing a drink the day after Kristian tried to kill me.

  “I’d rather go in together.”

  * * *

  • •

  We walk to the entrance of Trance. Bass thumping. Boys in tight-fitting clothes smoking out front. Gesticulating wildly, dramatically. Guffawing and touching and slurping up the twirling parade of men.

  Nathan doesn’t seem to mind or care, but I cast my eyes downward.

  Inside, the noise doubles, triples. Ace of Base—the electronica drumbeat of a “Cruel Summer” remix pulses like a pink heartbeat. The collective volume of conversation raised to combat the music is almost unbearable.

  “I see him!” Nathan half screams.

  As we plunge deeper into the bowels of Drinks with TomTM the voices grow sharper, like bedazzled kitchen knives. A crowd that’s almost exclusively white and either rich or pretending to be. Laughter and oh my god, he’s fat now and oh my god, that bottom is sloppy and oh my god, his bussy’s worn the fuck out. Toxic snippets spoken or whispered or shrieked from behind copper Moscow mules and martinis screaming for help through olive eyes.

  I trace Nathan’s steps to a corner table where Tom sits. Standing room only, and Tom’s got a whole table—bottle service and enviably elevated—to himself. Tom Vogt, the Emperor of Trance.

  He’s in denim, a pressed shirt patterned with interlocking something or other. A navy sports jacket. As usual, he’s effortlessly chic. Successful. Comfortable navigating the hallowed halls of Capitol Hill and the sweat-soaked dance floor of a gay disco.

  Nathan and Tom hug first, kissing cheeks. Then it’s my turn and I gulp.

  “It looks so much better.” Tom starts the conversation at the last place I’d prefer—my throat. “I can barely see it.” This is a lie, but it’s a polite lie. I shouldn’t hold this against him.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Feels better.”

  His attention turns to Nathan. “I’ve got drinks coming. Vodka tonics for the girls.” Himself and me. “And warm bourbon for the ninety-year-old robber baron. I swear to god, you could wear a monocle with the shit you drink.”

  Nathan laughs, but there’s a kernel of truth in Tom’s assessment of Nathan’s drinking. The joke is too on the nose, especially for Tom.

  “So how was New York?” Tom asks as drinks find their way to our table. “At least it wasn’t Cleveland Clinic again.” His pronounces Cleveland with the usual blanket disdain he reserves for the entire Midwest. For my home and, by extension, me.

  “It was okay,” Nathan answers. “Not a lot of downtime, and of course, I had to see Mother.”

  “Mamma Klein gives me life!” Wide eyes and a predictably overzealous reply. Tom’s been fixated on Nathan’s mother since the moment he saw her splashed across the pages of New York Social Diary. “I’d literally kill to be Mother!”

  “Feel free to literally kill her.”

  “Please,” Tom scoffs.

  “Anyway, I’m glad to be home.” He takes my hand as he says this. A genui
ne expression of love. He is happy to be back in my company. I hold on to small moments like these. As Aqua’s “Barbie Girl” thrums like a lucid dream, these moments remind me that, at the end of the day, I’m luckier than I often appreciate. They remind me of what I stand to lose.

  “I’m ridiculously glad Oliver’s okay. Scared the shit out of me.” His hold on my hand tightens.

  “This city’s fucking violent.” Tom turns my way. “You’re, like, the tenth person I know that’s been mugged. Three at gunpoint.”

  “Speaking of guns,” Nathan says, “saw Ted Rucker on Hannity at the hotel. Your boss was a piece of shit, as per usual.”

  “Why were you watching fucking Fox News?” Tom asks. “It’s my job to watch. I have to. You don’t.”

  “Pulse check on Senator Turd Fucker and everything you support.”

  “A paycheck’s not support.”

  “A paycheck’s the most ardent support there is.”

  Tom counters with something, but it barely registers. My mind crawls out from beneath a discussion veering political and toward my waiting voicemail. Patient like a crocodile at the surface. Elliptical eyes and reptilian nostrils, tiny iceberg tips.

  Nathan and Tom grow muffled as though acid-lit Trance were submerged in swamp water. I forgo listening and search blurred faces like I did on the morning Metro. I look for Kristian’s wound and those arctic eyes in each one. I turn up nothing in the glittering room, but what about in my back pocket?

  “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  Nathan and Tom say nothing as I stand and make my way to the back. This is—tragically—not my first time at Trance. Past the corridor and the bathroom—each urinal painted like a pair of lips—sits a deck with an outside bar. Beyond that, an exit to a side street. Where guys gather to smoke and where I’ve bummed countless cigarettes. Reeking of Marlboro post-bar isn’t incriminating and I’ve repeatedly exploited the loophole.

  I expect cool relief from a stifling, heat-swollen Trance, but the District’s humidity has other ideas. I push through the crowd. The leering I enjoyed within Haus’s wet walls is now unwelcome. Someone cups my ass, and it takes everything not to sink teeth into his wrist.