Читать книгу What We Remember - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 13

1991

Billy looked down into the empty glass he held in his hands, cradled like a wounded bird. It was empty, but he brought it to his lips anyway, tilting his head back and extending his tongue, searching for any last drips of vodka. Finding none, he slammed the glass on the counter and nodded at the bartender.

“Another one, Cory.”

He watched as Cory took a bottle from the shelf and poured him another shot. As soon as the bartender pulled the bottle away, Billy picked up the glass and drank. He closed his eyes, letting the vodka slide down his throat. It was crisp and clear, pure liquid fire. He never drank the flavored stuff. That was for the queens who liked their drinks with little straws in them, who drank cosmos like a bunch of catty women. Billy hated those queens. They looked down on him, thought he was trash.

“You and everyone else,” he said, laughing as he emptied the glass with one more swallow.

“What was that?” Cory looked over at him, a washrag in his hand as he wiped down the bar.

“Nothing,” Billy replied, wiping the back of his hand over his lips. His skin was dry, his lips chapped. He felt as if he’d been walking through a sandstorm.

He looked at the bartender. How long had Cory been working at the Engine Room? He thought he’d asked him once, but maybe he’d just meant to ask. He meant to do a lot of things, but somehow they almost never got done.

Billy had been an Engine Room regular for less than a year, since the night of his twenty-first birthday. Before that they hadn’t let him in, even though he’d tried plenty of times. Despite his father being dead for almost eight years he was still known as Sheriff Dan’s boy. The bar’s staff had been given strict orders not to let him in, as if somehow his father’s ghost would come back and close them down.

Looks like they might be right about that after all, he thought, chuckling at his own joke. But he was legal now. He could do what he liked. And his father couldn’t do anything about it.

His gaze wandered once more to Cory. The bartender was kind of hot. Tall. Not skinny like most of the cosmo-swilling queens. Shaved head. Dark eyes. Yeah, he would do, Billy thought. The place was nearly deserted. Maybe he should see if he could get Cory to fool around in the back.

“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” Cory said. He was chopping up limes, getting ready for the night’s business.

Billy pushed his empty glass toward Cory. “Thanks,” he said. “Let’s drink to him, shall we?”

Cory glanced up. “Another one?” he said. Billy knew that what he really meant was, “Seems to me you’ve had enough.” He was familiar with that tone, although he’d never heard it in Cory’s voice. Cory had always been friendly.

“Yeah, another one. For the old man.”

Cory hesitated for a moment, looking at Billy. Billy met his gaze, daring him to say no. Finally, Cory wiped his hands on a towel and brought out the bottle of vodka. As soon as he was done pouring, Billy raised the glass. “To Daniel McCloud,” he said. “Best dad a son could ever want.”

He drank half the vodka in one swallow, then set the glass on the bar. He knew Cory wouldn’t give him another drink, so he had to make this one last. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine. He considered his options. He could wait a couple of hours and then go to his mother’s house. Celeste would probably be gone, and James might be asleep. He could probably get up to his room without running into any of them. But they would be there in the morning.

That brought him to Option Two: going back to his own place. That solved the whole running into James problem. But he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to be alone. What he wanted was to be able to help his mother. The thing with his father was really doing a number on her. But now James was there, so nobody needed him. Just like always, he thought.

He lit a cigarette. Inhaling the first rush of smoke, he closed his eyes and relaxed into the buzz the vodka had brought on. He imagined his body filling up with smoke, pictured it seeping out from his lungs and wrapping tendrils around his heart, cocooning it. He liked that image. Like a butterfly. He sometimes dreamed that his whole body was cocooned, that he was waiting inside to be transformed. Into what, he didn’t know. Something beautiful. Something different. Something better.

He was startled from his reverie by a touch on his hand. When he opened his eyes he saw Cory looking at him. “You okay?” the bartender asked.

Billy smiled at him. “Depends who you ask,” he said. “What do you think?”

Cory looked at the half-empty glass in front of Billy. “Maybe you should go home,” he said. “Get some rest. You look tired.”

Billy reached out and took the glass. Don’t pity me, asshole, he thought as he picked the glass up and downed the rest of the drink. He set the empty glass down and pushed it toward Cory. Then he got up and made his way to the bathroom.

Inside, he stood over one of the three sinks and looked at himself in the mirror. He ran his hands through his hair. When had it gotten so long? He couldn’t recall the last time it had been cut. Now it fell almost to his shoulders. He leaned forward and looked at his eyes. They were still the familiar dark green, but now the whites were shot through with red. And his skin was even paler than usual, looking yellowish in the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent light.

I look like a vampire, he thought. He curled his lips back, exposing his teeth and snarling. He laughed. He did look like shit. But he was still handsome. Beneath it all he still had the face of a boy; that boy just needed a good night’s sleep and some sun. That would do it. Then he would be his old self again.

The door opened and a familiar face appeared in the mirror beside Billy’s. There was no mistaking Red, whose hair color gave him his nickname and who would have been identifiable anyway by the Tweety bird tattoo on his neck. There were more tats on his arms, all of them cartoon characters: Sylvester the cat, Speedy Gonzales, Foghorn Leghorn, Pepé Le Pew. There were more, but Billy couldn’t remember all of their names.

“Hey, handsome,” Red said as he came over and leaned against the sink. He reached up and pushed Billy’s hair out of his eyes. “How’s tricks?”

Billy pulled away from Red’s touch. “Okay,” he said.

Red cocked his head. “You don’t look so good,” he remarked. “Need something to make you feel better?”

Billy shook his head. “No,” he said. “Thanks anyway.” He turned on the water and ran his hands in it, as if he had just pissed and was now about to return to the bar. As he reached for the soap dispenser, Red caught him by the wrist.

“You’re all shaky, man,” Red said. “Let me help.”

Billy tried to pull away, but Red’s thick fingers encircled his wrist like a handcuff. He looked into Red’s face. Red smiled at him, his upper lip rising in a sexy snarl and his blue eyes watching him hungrily. God, he’s beautiful, Billy thought helplessly.

“Come on, baby,” Red purred. “I’ve got what you need.”

Billy cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “My mom. She needs me. She—”

“I heard,” said Red. He put his hand on Billy’s neck, massaging the sore muscles. Billy relaxed into his hold. “Shame about all of that.”

“Yeah,” Billy said, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, it’s fucked up.”

Red stroked the side of Billy’s face with his hand. “So let me help you feel better,” he said.

Billy shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m busted.”

Red shrugged. “No problem,” he said. “I know you’re good for it.” He paused. “Or maybe we can work something out.”

Billy looked at the floor. The tile was dirty, streaked with footprints and littered with crumpled-up paper towels that had missed the trashcan. An empty condom wrapper lay beside Red’s foot like the discarded skin of some tiny creature.

“Come on,” said Red. He took Billy’s hand and pulled him toward one of the stalls.

Billy allowed himself to be led. Red bumped the door open and entered, drawing Billy after him. When the door was shut and locked, Red reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out a small plastic bag. He opened it and poured several white rocks into his palm. “Down or up?” he asked Billy.

Billy rubbed his nose. “Up,” he said. It was faster that way. If he swallowed the stuff he would have to wait twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour, for it to kick in. Snorting it would bring instant joy.

Red took a short piece of plastic straw from his pocket. Picking up one of the rocks between his thumb and forefinger, he crushed it into powder. He repeated the procedure with the remaining rocks, then swept the powder into a neat pile on his palm. Handing the straw to Billy, he said, “After you.”

Billy took the straw and, inserting one end into his nose, leaned down and snorted half the powder from Red’s outstretched hand. He winced a little as the crystal entered his nose, but gave several short snorts to draw it into his sinus cavity. He stood up and leaned against the stall door, closing his eyes. He heard Red snort the rest of the ice. Then, a moment later, he heard the sound of Red fumbling with his belt.

“All right, Billy boy,” Red said. “Time to pay up.”

Without opening his eyes, Billy turned around to face the door. He undid the buttons of his jeans and pushed them down to his knees. He felt Red’s hands at his waist, then heard the sound of spitting. A moment later there was a sharp stab of pain as Red entered him. He clenched his teeth and leaned his forehead against his crossed arms, feeling the cool metal of the door against his skin.

Thankfully, the crystal was good and began to work quickly. Red’s shit was always good, Billy had to give him that. He made it himself, and he was proud of his product. It was—mostly—worth the price he demanded for it.

Billy’s head began to spin as his heart sped up. This was the moment he loved best, when the ride was just beginning and the anticipation was at its highest point. It always made him think of being on a roller coaster, poised at the very top of the first hill, waiting for that first sharp drop that made his stomach leap and caused him to shout with joy. As a kid, at the county fair each summer he would ride the coaster over and over, always sitting in the very first car, never getting enough of that rush, coming back again and again for the two weeks the fair was open.

Now he was once again climbing to the top of that hill. He saw himself let go of the bar that kept him safely inside the car, lifting his arms high above his head as the coaster’s chain chucked-chucked-chucked beneath him. Then the sound stopped as the car crested the top. For one long, breathtaking moment he was looking down the other side, anticipating the fall, and then the car was hurtling down and his ears were filled with the delighted screams coming from his mouth.

The sound of Red buckling his belt brought him back. He reached down and pulled his pants up, wordlessly tucking his T-shirt inside and buttoning his fly. He unlocked the stall door and opened it, stepping out and going once more to the sink. Red followed. As he passed Billy he slapped him on the ass. “Hope you feel better,” he said as he left the men’s room.

Billy once again regarded his reflection in the mirror. “Yeah,” he said to himself. “Yeah, I feel a whole lot better.”

He washed his hands again, not wanting to leave the bathroom. When one of the other stall doors opened and a man emerged, he thought at first he was imagining it. When had the guy come in? Had he heard everything? Of course he had. How could he not?

The man came over to the sinks and stood beside Billy, washing his hands. Billy glanced at him and recognized the face. He tried to put a name to it.

“Greg,” he said. “Your name is Greg.”

The man turned and looked at him briefly. “Right,” he said.

Billy stared at him for another moment, trying to remember. “You’re from Syracuse,” he said finally. “We did it once. In your car. You have a Beemer.”

Greg turned the water off and drew a paper towel from the dispenser. He said nothing as he dried his hands.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Billy asked him. “Greg. From Syracuse. You have a Beemer.” He reached out and ran his hand over Greg’s arm. “It was nice. I remember that. You were nice.”

Greg pulled his arm away and moved toward the door. “I don’t think that was me,” he said. “Maybe someone else.”

“But your name is Greg,” Billy insisted. “Greg from Syracuse. And it was nice!” He shouted the last word as the man disappeared back into the bar, leaving him alone.

“It was nice,” Billy said again, his voice now a whisper. “You were nice.”

He turned to his reflection in the mirror. “He was nice,” he told himself. “He was.”