The End of Billy Knight

by Ty Jacob

  As she looked over at Billy now, she realized he looked a little bored. All week it seemed something was bothering him, but every time she asked, he said he was fine. She feared that if she didn’t get a new film for him soon, he might go elsewhere. In his own way, he was as ambitious as she was. She thought of the world premiere party. The fact was that she hadn’t invited anybody from the major studios partly because of the production quality, but even more importantly because she didn’t want them snooping around Billy like a pack of thieves, calculating out just how easy he would be to steal. Billy was hers.

  “Hey, Billy, and ah…” It was the bartender again, looking at Sasha and not knowing her name.

  “Sasha, darling. Sasha Zahore.”

  “Sasha. That’s cool. Listen, there’s a VIP lounge upstairs, and I can get you in. Want me to take you up there?”

  The young bartender, who introduced himself as Dick and said he wanted to do porn, left them on overstuffed burgundy chairs in a room draped with velvet. There were a few minor celebrities around, quite a few friends of staff, and plenty of coke. Sasha was happy to see Billy turn the coke down, but annoyed that he was approached very quickly by an attractive older man who said he was a record producer. Billy left with him, and Sasha had to make her way home alone. It was raining, so she took a cab. The peach-colored light from the streetlamps splashed in the gutters of West Pico Boulevard, and the cab driver’s eyes kept glancing at her in the rear view mirror. The back seat felt empty without Billy.

  The next morning Dale walked out of his bedroom at noon to find Mike lying on the sofa, complaining of a sore throat and a headache.

  Dale reached down and put a hand on Mike’s forehead. It didn’t feel warm. “Maybe you just overdid it last night,” he said.

  They stayed at home all day and nursed their hangovers. Dale never asked about the record producer, although he wondered if the tall, grey-haired man had been a paying trick or a sport fuck. That afternoon they watched Dale’s favorite movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Mike lay back on the sofa and Dale sat at one end, happy to have Mike’s gorgeous legs across his lap. At one point, Mike turned around and put his head in Dale’s lap, rubbing the fat on Dale’s leg as though he were fluffing a pillow. He put his head down and said, “You’re comfortable, Dale.” Very carefully, Dale put a hand on Mike’s shoulder, and left it there.

  On Sunday Mike was worse, complaining that his entire body ached. He had no appetite, and now his skin felt hot. Dale ran a washcloth under the cold tap, rang it out and placed it across Mike’s forehead. Kneeling in front of the sofa, he realized then how much he had come to love that forehead. It was strong and unlined, in the mornings slightly covered at the edges by stray locks of Mike’s beautiful, sandy brown hair.

  At 10:00 a.m. Dale put on a pair of sweat pants and drove to the store to buy Mike some aspirin. He also bought, for the first time in his life, a thermometer. He’d never before had someone whose temperature he needed to take, and the thermometer felt like an incredible thing in his life. It was a tiny glass wand for a magical fairy, a silver bead at the end instead of a star. He picked up six cans of chicken soup and, once back at home, heated some in the microwave for Mike, serving it in a blue bowl on a wooden tray, with a plate of saltine crackers and a single red rose at the side.

  He took Mike’s temperature three times that day. Each time it was high. Mike moved from hot sweats to cold shivers, and the only time he got up off the sofa was to walk to the bathroom. That afternoon Dale made Mike watch his second favorite movie, The Sound of Music, and in an effort to make Mike laugh he stood up and sang ‘Do Re Me’ like one of the Von Trapp children. It was good to see Mike smile, in spite of his not feeling well.

  Climbing into bed at the end of the day, Dale realized he and Mike had never had a weekend like that before, where they stayed in both Saturday and Sunday, hanging out at home together for two days straight. He couldn’t help but feel happy.

  When Sasha came out of the bathroom on Monday morning, ready for work, Mike had just woken up and he looked horrible. His color was off. He still had a fever, and he didn’t even touch the coffee she brought him. Sasha immediately picked up the phone and made two calls, one to Steve, to tell him she was staying home sick, and one to her doctor’s office.

  She sat down on the edge of the sofa. “Baby, I’m taking you to the doctor today. We have an appointment in just two hours.”

  “You think I need to go?” Mike asked.

  “You’re very sick.” She reached out and slowly stroked his hair. He looked up at her. He didn’t push her hand away. The feeling that suddenly came over her then surprised her, but she accepted it, felt it.

  She wished Mike were sick more often.

  “I don’t have the money for a doctor,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t worry about the money. I’ll pay. It’s my doctor. She lets me pay in installments. It’s like buying a dress on layaway.”

  Mike turned his head, pushing his cheek into her hand. “Thank you.”

  When the time came, she grabbed her favorite green vinyl handbag and picked up Mike’s car keys. “Let’s take your sexy old car,” she said. “I’ll drive.”

  She was disappointed when Mike made her stay in the waiting room. She wanted to be with him. She flipped through an old Woman’s Day magazine, and the entire time a little girl nearby kept staring at her. When the mother turned away, Sasha shot the girl a quick, nasty look, all snarling mouth and bulging eyes. The girl leaned into her mother and whined annoyingly, but she stopped staring.

  It seemed like a very long time before Mike came back out.

  15. Doctor Wesley

  THE DOCTOR’S NAMETAG said ‘Dr. Wesley,’ but she introduced herself as Barbara. She didn’t wear a white coat. She looked at Mike plainly, without judgment. She had chocolate skin and large, kind eyes which calmed him.

  He didn’t know why she asked what he did for a living. Maybe it was because he came in with Sasha, or because of something else about him. He gave her the truth. “I’m a stripper, and I’ve started doing porn.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Are you straight, gay, bi?”

  “Men. I do it with men.”

  “How many sexual partners would you say you have in a month?”

  “Depends,” he said. “Sometimes only ten, sometimes closer to thirty. I need to be tested for HIV. Three months ago a guy came inside me.” It was only the second time he’d ever told anyone exactly what happened. The first time was Toby, and Toby didn’t seem to care. Mike had never even given specifics to Dale, and now it felt weird to say it out loud.

  “How often do you have unsafe sex?”

  “Never. Not normally. It wasn’t my choice. He held me down.”

  The doctor paused. “Do you want to talk about that?”

  He looked at a painting of the sea that hung on the wall. “I just need to be tested. Can you do it anonymously?” He knew how it was supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to give anybody your name. If you turned out positive, it would show up on your medical record. You’d be blacklisted.

  “I’m afraid it’s not anonymous if I do it. But I’ll give you a list of clinics where it is. You can get tested there. When was the last time you were tested?”

  “About a year ago,” he said, thinking about Bob, one of his regular johns back in Cincinnati.

  Bob wore tweed jackets with elbow patches. After getting fucked by Bob off and on for years, one night, drunk and upset, Bob had admitted to being positive. Mike felt sorry for him and continued to see him. Mike’s rule was to treat every trick like they were positive anyway. Technically it didn’t change anything. They’d always used condoms. Even so, the next time they had sex Mike couldn’t get his mind off Bob’s HIV. It felt like he had a gun up his ass that could go off at any moment, just a thin piece of latex to stop the bullet. He just couldn’t handle knowing, and he wished Bob hadn’t told him. After that they only did oral, and eventually Bob stopped calling. Mike felt bad. It was t
hen that he had gotten tested and found out he was negative. That was the last time he knew for sure.

  “Here you are,” the doctor said. She handed him three brochures: one with a list of places around LA that provided free and anonymous testing, one with safe sex tips that he already knew, and a third with a phone number for a rape help line. Mike folded all three and slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans.

  She had him strip to his underwear and sit on the padded table. She listened to his chest, had him breathe deeply in and out. She told him to lie down and she felt around his neck and groin. “I’m checking your lymph glands,” she said.

  Once, years ago, Toby had told him that when your lymph glands were swollen, it meant you were sick. It was one of the first signs of HIV.

  Mike looked up at the doctor. “Are they swollen?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s possible you have nothing more than the flu. Although sometimes people do have cold symptoms when they seroconvert.”

  “You mean when they become positive?”

  She nodded.

  Mike wondered, if he found out he was positive, would he keep it a secret from Dale? Would he still try to become a porn star? He didn’t know. Thinking about it felt like slipping into a large, terrifying hole.

  “But that doesn’t mean you have HIV. Of course, you have to be tested to know.”

  When Mike walked back into the waiting room, the doctor stepped in behind him to greet Sasha. “Hello, Dale.” she said, all warmth and smiles as she shook Sasha’s hand. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Turned out I was just being paranoid the other day. Thank you so much for answering my questions.”

  “Any time.”

  After the doctor walked out of the waiting room, Mike said to Sasha, “What questions? What were you afraid of?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Were you sick?”

  “No. I had a little food poisoning scare. You know me, just a silly drag queen. Are you okay?”

  “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Last week. Didn’t want to worry you. I’m fine. What about you?”

  “Well, she tells me I just have the flu. She gave me this.” He held up a prescription.

  “Give me that, baby. We’ll get it filled on the way home.” Then she walked up to the woman at the front counter and slapped down a twenty dollar bill. “Tell Doctor Barbara I’ll send more next month.” She slid her hand into the crook of Mike’s elbow, as if she were a dainty little lady, and they walked out to Mike’s car together.

  Over the next two days, Mike started feeling better. Sasha nursed him attentively, making sure he had everything he needed before she left for work in the morning – food and videos and magazines and books. They had a fight one evening when Mike mentioned he’d done a bit of a workout at home, just some push ups and sit ups. Sasha scolded him for exercising when he should have been recuperating. She wouldn’t listen when Mike tried to explain that he wasn’t that sick anymore.

  By Thursday afternoon his energy had returned completely, and he decided he would go to the clinic the following morning to get tested. His stomach turned in knots.

  When Sasha came home from work, he got up and started making dinner. She’d pulled two chicken breasts out of the freezer before leaving that morning, and he’d decided to cook them himself. He was feeling agitated and bored, a little tired of Sasha waiting on him.

  “Get back on the sofa,” she ordered immediately. “You should be resting.”

  “I feel all right.” He took out a pot, put in some water from the tap, and set a metal vegetable steamer inside. “I’ve been laying on that couch all day.” He put the pot on the stove.

  “I want you to rest. You’ve been sick.” Her voice was sharp. Mike turned around and was surprised to find himself standing face to face with her in the middle of the kitchen, their shoulders squared toward each other.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I feel okay. I’ll make dinner.” Two large potatoes and a bundle of asparagus were setting on the counter. The pink chicken breasts were thawed in the sink, still under plastic wrap on a black Styrofoam tray.

  Sasha’s voice became harsher. “You are still sick. You need to rest. You should not be up.”

  Mike became even more determined. He did not need to be waited on any more. He spoke firmly. “I feel fine Sasha. Fine.”

  “Go lay down!” Her voice had deepened and was so quick and loud that Mike actually jumped. She took a step toward him. Her right hand shot out, grabbing him by the red sweatshirt he was wearing. She began physically pulling him toward the couch.

  “Stop it!” Mike yelled, astonished at what she was doing, and instantly furious.

  She continued to heave and pull, using her weight to her advantage. Mike gripped her hand and began wrenching it away. She was bigger, but he was stronger. There was a grunt and a turn and a ripping sound. He pushed her hard in the chest, her foam breasts compressing under the force of his hands, and she stumbled back.

  He looked down. There was a tear in his sweatshirt, along a diagonal seam from his neck toward his armpit. “Look what you did!” he shouted.

  Sasha looked as though she’d just been slapped across the face, angry but surprised. “Oh baby, I’m sorry.” Her hand was over her mouth.

  “You fucking ripped my shirt!”

  “I’m so sorry.” She reached out to touch him, but he pushed her hand away. She opened the cupboard where she kept the scotch and poured herself a drink. “You want one?” Her voice was now soft and sweet.

  “I’m making dinner.” He turned toward the stove as though she were no longer there.

  “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I just want to take care of you, baby. That’s all. I like taking care of you.”

  “I told you I’m fine,” he said, still fuming. “You’ve been taking care of me for almost a week. But I can’t stay on that couch forever. I feel better. I want to do something. I wanted to make you dinner.” He began ripping the plastic wrap off the chicken.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Sasha asked.

  “Don’t ever grab me like that again.”

  “Never, baby.”

  He didn’t know what to do, so he attended to the small things. He tossed the potatoes into the microwave – Sasha’s trick to avoid boiling them. He threw the chicken breasts down into the hot pan. Then he looked back at his sweatshirt and walked into the living room, taking it off and throwing it onto the floor. Sasha’s bedroom door clicked shut as he began riffling through the grey duffel bag in the corner where he kept his clothes. He found a T-shirt and put it on, then picked up the sweatshirt, looked at the rip, folded it and put it in the bag. When he started back into the kitchen, Sasha came out of her room carrying the black Styrofoam tray from the chicken.

  He looked at her oddly, looked at the tray in her hand.

  “I thought I could cut this in half and make shoulder pads for a dress,” she said. “But it won’t work.” She followed him into the kitchen and threw the tray away. “I can sew it for you, baby, your shirt. If you want. But I have to say, it looked sort of sexy. You might want to leave it that way. Cut the sleeves off. It’ll look fabulous.”

  He turned his back on her and flipped the chicken, which had already begun to turn golden brown.

  16. Tiny Bottle

  SASHA FELT TERRIBLE about the shirt, and was humiliated that she’d actually tried to force him back onto the sofa. She was ruled by her emotions; she knew she was. But he was sick. He needed to rest. Besides, she’d been upset. She’d had special plans for that chicken.

  She saw her opportunity when he walked out of the kitchen. She went directly for the Styrofoam tray that he’d left sitting on the counter. It was rectangular and still full of the runny juice from the chicken. She picked it up, careful not to spill a drop, and moved quickly into her room as Mike had his back turned. She set
the tray down on her vanity and shut the door.

  Sasha’s room was small and cramped, but the bed was big. The walls were an intense, hot fuchsia. Her room was always a mess, her shoes piled in a heap on the floor of her closet, pieces of fabric across the bed and in piles in the corners. Along one wall stood an enormous clothes rack stuffed with sequins, feathers, and lamé. A window in the corner looked down onto the street.

  Her vanity was near the foot of her bed. It was cluttered with makeup brushes, small canisters, and lipstick tubes. She picked up a small glass bottle. The cap was a beautiful blue-green, and the glass was clear. Until yesterday, it had contained some old blemish concealer. Secretly, she had cut off the makeup brush that slid into the bottle from the cap, and then she washed out the bottle in the bathroom sink. The water had turned the color of her skin.

  Now she unscrewed the cap, lifted the Styrofoam tray, and carefully, from a corner, poured the liquid into the bottle. She only spilled a little onto the vanity, which she promptly wiped up with a tissue. She screwed the cap on tightly, tipping the bottle this way and that to make sure it didn’t leak. The liquid inside was cloudy and pink, like a sunrise.

  She had thought this through very carefully. There was no guarantee that it would work, but it was worth a try. Doctor Barbara had answered her questions. Now, if all went well, Sasha would get what she wanted. She wiped the tray clean with another tissue and opened the door.

  17. Tested

  MIKE HEARD DALE up and making coffee the next morning, heard him go into the bathroom and then heard Sasha come out. They sounded different.