Читать книгу Stella Maris - Michael Carroll - Страница 7

Sugar and Gold

I’VE LOST NOT a few, he thought, humorously noting the unlikeliness of this syntax in actual human thought—while a group of four young cuties, naked by the pool except for their striped towels, drank and complained. Their mostly educated, nasal voices wobbled under the shade of their umbrella:

“I just think, Why am I here? I plunked down a grand for this gay cruise and already I’m thinking, I’m on said boat and there’s no one here for me? I go on Grindr, and—nobody. Nada.”

“Okay. A? Nada means ‘nothing.’”

“Exactly.”

“And B? Look. At. This glorious day.”

“That was long and drawn-out.”

“Right?”

“Everybody on this ship is ancient, I’m thinking. Like, Code of Hammurabi decrepit.”

“Well, now you’re off the boat for a few hours and you’re here with us. We’re not bad!”

“I know, right?” the third one said further.

The fourth had not said anything in a while but sat up and noted, “I think it’s all right for male couples from the First Babylonian Dynasty to join the middle-age-and-under crowd.”

“Just because that’s what you like.”

An older guy at the bar with his back to them was listening, drinking his vodka: Well, that’s me they’re talking about.

Sex could be beautiful, or just great, or at least good or acceptable, yet so many in his generation and under had died.

Earlier the older guy had been invited to eat out the asshole of a thirty-something and had done it and taken his time savoring the sweet beige stink of the anus between the owner’s pair of loose buns. The whole thing had happened in the video room upstairs, the kid prone on a carpeted dais cursing the guy, Dale, and asking him if it tasted good. Yet for decades Dale had been turned off by the idea (he’d been married all along and thought that’s what did it; the thought of kissing his wife after doing that), but an hour or so ago the offer had been irresistible. The younger guy was cute but not incredibly hot, and the offer (extended by the kid’s older lover, who’d watched) gave Dale a thrill. And the taste of the hole had given him wood, not a lot but enough sap to make the branch grow. That, the kid’s imperfect cuteness and rubbery cheeks, the filthily straightforward manner in which the lover had asked him to do the rimming, and the fact that there was someone else watching, all of them taking their towels off. Dale had licked, slurped, played with himself.

Then come out poolside for a drink at the bar, aware of being casually watched, but not by the four younger men under the umbrella kicking up the subtropical calm with their laughter.

Nearby, a sixth guy—the one making these observations—the self-described writer, although no one here would know his name, thought: If this is the end of civilization, I would not exit it.

He’d started drinking early and had lost temporarily the daily will to write his sentences.

It’s the perfect place.

The bartenders and barbacks were from elsewhere.

They were from Eastern Europe and beyond. That meant Georgia and Kazakhstan. They had to put up with these queers, as they, the workers, were mostly heterosexual. You might never penetrate their professional demeanors or get to the hearts of their desires. They didn’t deny desire, they were downright sweet; wink at them and they’d blush. In halting English, they’d attempt to make a joke or pun, but the attempts were off-tone, missing a nuance. Their apparent awkwardness only made them more adorable. They had a job to do, and papers here in America to maintain.

The real Americans were foreign, wanting citizenship so bad, and you wondered why.

You knew why, but still.

The native-born Americans were spoiled, wanting to be waited on in the polite way of the foreigners.

And I remember being too young to understand almost anything but the idea, which I didn’t get, that Jesus had died for me—and what did that mean? Died for me why, how? I mean, how does anyone die for someone else if not in person, as in a prisoner trade-off? Absurd, and if you think about it, unnecessary.

There was a moment coming out of the baptismal whatchamahoozie, the tank in front of a congregation, chlorine-smelling, when you asked yourself, What was that all about? Died for me?

Easier to see that now, when you imagined a lover. You’d die for that man, sure. He was a physical piece of evidence of your heart and life. He’d saved you already, which was the thing.

You’d fight even after he was gone and you were still angry, although your thoughts were tender.

And he was in a restaurant now and there was a couple, you just knew how they’d voted.

The woman with her platinumed hair looked at him and said, “We just got off the ship!”

He said, “Where y’all from?” Because that’s what you asked strangers here.

The jagged desire to extend hospitality had begun to chafe and scrape inside him. His mother, for instance, was a moron. She, too, was going to make America great again.

“Ohio.”

The Ohioans really took up the rear stopping off from cruises down here.

He was drinking his tequila, just finishing his dinner. He wouldn’t engage.

He said, “I have a theory. Every American has done time in either Texas or Ohio, once.”

“Done time?” the woman said.

The husband shook his head slowly and tightly.

The country was at war morally, still, and it was going to be at war for a good while.

Once the Hollywood line went, “I have only one quarrel with you. This ends tonight.” But this was before the big faux-billionaire asshole had come in swinging the wrecking ball.

The divisions had deepened. You could retreat into your homosexual redoubts. Gay guesthouse or late-night bar that still allowed smoking and didn’t close until four a.m. But then you crawled out before the light came up, drag queens flirting with the husbands and teasing the wives. All in good fun, but it wasn’t fun because the grave of America was still fresh, the democratic dream all over. He was one of those, too, who’d grown up using the n-word. He wasn’t shocked that he’d ever been this way, but it was a disappointment in retrospect. How many years of friendship and loving might he have missed out on? (Anyway, he was glad he was gay. You could find some love inside the space of twenty minutes. One, I’m done).

In this clothing-optional gay guesthouse compound, he heard such stories, neck-snapping ones.

“Back in my arsehole town,” the Scot said, “my mother when I was seventeen said to me, after she found out, ‘A murderer or a thief or a child molester, that I could explain. But how do I explain you? No.’ So I packed my kit, I hit out for London, I never looked back, I didn’t have to so I didn’t. So I understand what you’re saying, you just cut out your whole entire family. And I was thinking, I’m about to do the same. The last argument I had with my mom—I thought that.”

The vulgarity of being, of understanding oneself. This is what I like. It’s who I am.

He remembered being repulsed by his own body, while being so excited by it.

They looked around the pool area, from under the shade of the bar shed.

The Scot said, “That guy’s shorts, his arse is like two rabbits fighting in a cloth sack.”

“He’s pretty perfect.”

“Oh, he’s more than perfect. And he came down the stairs from the sunning area just now while you were in the gents’, and just like you said, the reason he complimented my tattoo was to talk to me, like a conversation starter. He just comes right out and admits that!”

“Like I told you.”

“And right you were! He wants to come back to my room with me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you is right.”

The Scot, Gregory, was drinking a Tara Reid, and said, “I’m living on sugar and alcohol.”

“What’s in it?”

“About forty thousand liquors and some juice and I don’t know what all. It’ll get you fucked in under an hour, just the one Tara Reid.”

“Who is Tara Reid?”

“A disgraced television personality, or maybe not disgraced but tragic.”

“I predict that you’ll go over to that guy and say something not necessarily suave, just as a conversation opener, and then—”

“No, it’s already done. We’re meeting in my room in fifteen minutes.”

“My work here is finished. I have to go to a dinner party. Wish I could stay, and hear.”

“Night, love.”

“Night.”

THE DINNER PARTY is by a rich older couple who are fun and liberal and worried about America.

The rich wife has just asked her husband to tell his story about the Walgreens cashier.

He says, “I said to her ‘How long have I been coming here?’”

“And what did she say?” says another guest.

“She didn’t say anything. She looked at me like I was insane. Which I am, admittedly.”

The view is incredible, at a lookout point where the Atlantic meets the Gulf of Mexico. And it’s sunset. There are clouds, they’re on fire. The party’s having dinner on an expansive stone deck. And he’s so drunk that he’s content again. He’s stopped thinking about his mother, his mother. God, that woman, the deplorables, who knew?

The wind from a confluence of weathers is kicking up and streaking the palms diagonally and he thinks, I shouldn’t be so negative. Social media is telling me not to focus on negativity.

He would drown her, he would — he’d strangle and kick her.

The bleeding sky, and just under it the sea. It’s a silvery-green swelling, roiling, the smell is fresh and saline—less of the halide, farty, sewer smell. The freshness makes him want to fuck.

I don’t have to feel this way, he thinks. I can forget her. The way I’ve forgotten lovers.

I can call them up when I need to, but when I call her up, nothing. Blind white rage.

Later he’s downtown at the back bar drinking tequila. There’s an enclosed patio and he’s fucked there before. The tourists mill by on the other side of a tall fence. On the patio there is a couch and some chairs around it. Guys pull out their dicks. Sometimes women are in the crowd, they watch. This turns him on, anything public. It’s his shame writ large. It wants him exposed. It wants him. The disgust, the excitement. It all goes together, in the old gay custom.

The queer. Making it more delicious. He’s delicious in that moment. He rocks, is hot.

But he’s not on the patio. He’s inside drinking tequila and soda with limes.

The younger man is explaining his job as a merchant marine.

“It’s a hundred and thirteen feet long. Wait, let me show you a video? The most difficult is going through the Poe Lock. If shipping were suddenly closed on the Great Lakes, well forty percent of the American economy would be fucked, like instantly fucked. I pilot that freighter. I have two and a half feet on either side. It’s a frigging gas, it’s almost like sex. You like sex?”

“I used to.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Kidding, of course.”

“Right? You get basically two and a half feet on either side in the Poe Lock—”

Sped-up, the video was impressive. The freighter pushed on slowly, the passage narrow.

He asked if the kid had ever heard the song “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

He used to try that one at karaoke.

“Heard of it? Whenever it comes on we immediately turn it off. Bad luck.”

“I heard sailors are superstitious.”

“You don’t even know the half of it. Like, looking at you now, I’m getting your energy.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s not that great. You seem like someone who—”

“Who what?”

“Never mind.”

THEY USED TO go to the beach on a weekday. His father had gone to work and his brother was off at school. He went into her room when she was still in bed, sleeping it off, and got into bed with her, and they snuggled. It was all so harmless, he’d thought. They just needed each other.

He said, “I’m sick,” and she didn’t say anything, just made room for him on the bed.

They were intimate and warm, snuggling. But he thought, I can’t tell her anything.

They stopped at McDonald’s, ate it on the way. They were listening to the radio singing.

He was the boss. He turned the radio up. She let him be the boss.

She said, “You’re very adult. You’re mature for your age.”

She was Southern and pronounced it mah-TOOR.

An idiot, he now thinks.

How could you go from such needy intimate love to blind-rage hatred, kill-her hatred?

It was in that pronunciation. Mah-TOOR.

She’d wanted to go to college, but her father had said she’d have to live at home.

Then she eloped.

Were he still talking to her he’d say, “If only you’d gone to college and not married.”

His father was dead. His anger should have been directed at the man who was now dead.

Or both.

“You let him run all over you. I hate you for that. I hate you for that. I hate you for it.”

THE WIFE OF the rich couple calls quite unexpectedly.

She says, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“It’s really beyond the call of duty.”

“Ask away, Penny.”

She was self-deprecating to a frustrating degree. Maybe she liked him because he tried to draw out the straight shooter in her. He tried to keep her laughing when they were alone together, though he sometimes got too drunk to make sense with his jokes and his puns.

“Well, it’s just this—and again I know it’s a lot to ask—and you know me, I hate to sound needy or ask for anything ever—I value your time—but—”

“Penelope, please. Anything. You and Stu have both been unbelievably generous.”

“Well, darn then, I’ll just come out and say, ha-ha, what’s on my mind! Stewie and I are having our big anniversary this summer and I was wondering if you could just come up and stay with us in the house on Cape Cod and just help us with little things. Nothing too tremendous—I promise, it won’t be like that New Year’s in Palm Beach. That was too much. That was—”

“No, not too much at all. It was just that I don’t have experience with party planning.”

“That was all my fault. Stewie got sore with me for weeks and weeks. But nobody who knows us expects us to be the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. I just need—to lean on someone?”

“My favorite thing. I always enjoy your company and your household menagerie.”

“Ha-ha, you said menagerie!”

Good, he thought, I can sleep and eat for free and be in a beautiful place all summer.

He was broke, and alone now, so it was perfect.

“GREGORY WE SORT of lost last night. We all went to dinner downtown—then we said good-bye to him. And then this morning I saw him carrying a coffee back to his room. Apparently he had woken up on some stranger’s porch without his wallet and slunk back here. I felt bad for him.”

This was the long cool drink of water who worked for the State Department.

Poker-faced, he said, “Do you think it was the Deep State?” with a wet, sibilant ending.

“I think it was the Tara Reids.”

“Is he okay?”

“I think he’s taking the divorce a little harder than he expected.”

There were several sudden singles going through a divorce, including this one, the long cool drink of water whose name he couldn’t remember. Absolute beauties, unicorns such as the long cool drink of water, scared the shit out of him. He could compliment them a little, but he’d never touch. He wouldn’t, like Gregory, who made fun of himself for his weight, just go over to the canal pilot’s ex-husband and start talking to him: this Ryan sunning, and next thing you knew they were in bed.

But still, he was able to ask Ryan, “Are you having fun? Hooking up?”

“A little. I’m basically just here to relax after the divorce.”

Weirdly happening at the same time: the new asshole president and these gay divorces.

And there was Ryan’s ex, the merchant marine who’d already planned to come down with his hubs before the divorce, and paid for everything, and they’d decided not to cancel, just be civil and go ahead with it. They were divorcing but wanted to be grownups, and fuck Trump.

“Are you okay?” he asked when he saw the merchant marine in the outdoor hot tub.

“A little tense.”

“Because of your ex?”

“Yes.”

“Is he jealous?”

“Unbelievably.”

“Was it mutual?”

“I fucked up. I violated the rules. I did some very bad things and I’m sorry and all and I wish I hadn’t done them, but I did them, and there’s nothing I can ever do to make it up to Chet.”

“How’s he, all right now?”

“Pissy. I just went a little crazy in the last year after the election. They kept talking about budget cuts, and it hasn’t been the best time to be out. Maybe I was trying to sabotage us?”

He wanted to get the chlorine off himself and he went to shower. Naked Sunday was all in swing and the indoor hot tub in the wet areas was full of simmering men holding their drinks, a little woozily, or else with dignity as they sat about with their genitals bobbing underwater. At the showers one man was bent over holding on to the grab bars grunting while another grasped his hips and fucked away at him. There were three showerheads erupting full-spray, but not their showerheads—and he thought, How wasteful. Then he remembered he had his glasses on. He was a middle-aged guy with some beef and pudge projecting and hanging here and there, and all he wanted to do once the top had disengaged was ratchet himself in. Wearing glasses, ridiculous.

DRIVING OUT TO the beach after McDonald’s, they were listening to “Lunching to the Oldies.” He remembered wishing she’d just divorce his father. It was a feeling of anxious peace, this holding pattern of skipping school and being naughty, and maybe that would be part of his anger later. (You hung on to things bent over, emotional grab bars while life pummeled away at you.)

“I heard this at prom,” she’d said.

His parents had met in seventh grade and dated on and off until graduation. His father had gone off to UT Knoxville. Been kicked out after too many fraternity shenanigans, shipped home to enroll in a Catholic college in Memphis, and they’d suddenly eloped to Bryson City in the Smokies. Started having babies too fast. That was the menace, too young, too dumb.

It was “Brown Eyed Girl.”

He’d said, “Did you know right away that you loved him?”

“Yes, God yes. But no. I wanted to play the field, meet boys. I was living in downtown Memphis with my girlfriends, doing the books for a dentist, and this dental student Kirby caught my eye. Asked me out. Had a few dates with me, nothing serious. We’d petted but I think I was just getting away from my father. Your granddaddy didn’t want me going to college unless I lived at home, and I was like Nuh-uh. That’s not college. That’s just more of the same.”

“But why Dad then?”

“He came home. And I told him what had happened. Kirby drove me out to the Bluffs, the Chickasaw Bluffs—at first nothing serious, to my mind. He drove us right up to the Bluffs in a T-Bird his daddy had bought him, baby-blue with the portholes. I’d thought all along it was the kind of car a guy who was kind of fruity would drive. Baby blue. He said, ‘I’m going to drive us straight over and off if you don’t agree to marry me.’ I screamed, ‘Yes, yes! I’ll marry you.’ And when he got me home on Germantown Road I got out of there straight fast, went running in to my daddy crying. And my daddy called your daddy, who came over, and he and I talked a time. Then we snuck out one night, flat eloped . . .”

Everybody was moving up, taking out the ain’ts and cain’ts from their talking.

It would have been: Kennedy and the assassination, then more assassinations. Johnson and Vietnam (his father had a 3-A deferment from having a family and going to college), then the protests, etc., Nixon and Watergate. The oil crisis. Carter, so hated by Southerners. Reagan and a sense of renewal or something but in reality just more greed and tax-cut talk. Then AIDS and the mind-wipe of the eighties and early nineties. The hiding and jumping out of the closet, awkward.

Which took him up to Craig, and they’d been together for twenty-two years.

Craig had walked out on a beautiful morning. They’d not slept together in years. He was in truth ready to deal with that as a reality taking him up to old age and death just for the security of it. He’d gotten half of everything, a real divorce after a legal marriage, another renewal of one not completely loveless. Love was like that. It was hanging in, through disease and bankruptcy. And then it was nothing. Life worked that way.

Half of everything was somehow plenty.

Then in the fullness of time it was practically nothing.