by Jay Quinn
Austin straightened and leaned into the chair’s cushioned back. “What do you mean because of Bruno?”
Rory picked up his glass and stood. He looked around the living room nervously, feeling all the more claustrophobic for having said far too much. “Could we go sit outside so I can smoke? I’m dying for a cigarette.”
“Sure,” Austin said as he got to his feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t smoke unless…” Rory moved past Austin toward the sliding glass door to the pool deck, already reaching in his back pocket for his cigarettes. “I just don’t smoke that much anymore.”
“Am I making you nervous?” Austin asked, watching Rory as he opened the door and moved outside. He was aware of the mild flirtatiousness in his question and decided he would enjoy hearing Rory’s answer.
Rory only acknowledged the flirt with a grin and lit a cigarette. He looked around until he spotted a deck chair and sat down. Settled, he drank the last of his water and rattled the ice in his glass absently.
“Better?” Austin said as he sat on the deck chair closest to Rory.
“I get a little claustrophobic sometimes,” Rory explained. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t usually talk about things like this.”
Austin tugged a bedraggled potted hibiscus toward Rory’s foot and indicated he should use it as an ashtray. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just interested, that’s all. I mean, it’s so obvious you have all this talent. I wondered why you just walked away from it. It’s like your singing. I guess Bruno doesn’t approve of that, from what he said at your house the other night.”
Rory gave him a sharp look and thumped his ash into the potted plant. “I had this offer to be an assistant to a rather well-know painter in Manhattan when I graduated from college. He was someone who was doing some very interesting work and I admired him a lot. Bruno was going on for his MBA and he pitched a fit about me moving to New York. So…”
“So you chose Bruno. I understand,” Austin said gently.
Rory took another drag off his cigarette and examined the glowing coal at its tip. “One of us had to work. I’d taken all these electrician courses at the community college because my folks said I had to have a way to earn a living besides art. Bruno went to school, and I got a job wiring houses for a construction company. It was good money, but there wasn’t any room left in my life for painting after coming home dead tired and being there for Bruno.” Rory snorted. “If you back the queer part out of it, it’s a fairly typical story.”
“But now Bruno is doing well, and it seems like you have all kinds of time. You should get back to painting,” Austin said.
Rory cut him a sharp look, “That’s what Bruno says. But it’s not like this switch you can just turn off and on.” Rory looked out over the canal behind the house and studied the clouds laying fat and marbled over it. “I just don’t have anything to say.”
“So what’s his problem with you singing?” Austin prompted. “If he doesn’t mind you painting…”
Rory took the last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out thoughtfully into the soil around the plant before he looked up at Austin with a wan smile. “Two things. Singing requires me to be outside of the house with people he doesn’t know. And, being in a band again is something he considers me to be too old for. It’s a dream he’s given up and he doesn’t see why I shouldn’t do the same.”
“I don’t think you’re too old to be in a band,” Austin offered. “Hell, Sammy Hagar had to be fifty when he joined Van Halen. Wasn’t he?”
Rory shrugged eloquently in reply, then said, “Sammy Hagar already had a reputation of his own when he joined the group. That’s something I never stuck with long enough to have… for anything, really.”
Austin sat back in his chair and spread his legs wide before moving into a prolonged stretch with his arms overhead. His feigned indifference didn’t fool Rory, who watched him as he returned to a less showy ease opposite him. He tensed as Austin looked at him with a gently probing smile once more. The stagy stretch was only a bid for time until he could come up with another small liberty.
“I think you should go for it,” he encouraged. “The hell with Bruno.”
Rory laughed. “I’ve come to the same conclusion. I feel like I’ve got to do something or bust. You want to know what I’m going to do this afternoon?”
“Sure,” Austin said casually as he tried to hide his growing interest. He suddenly found the whole idea of Rory intriguing. “What’s up?”
Rory reached into his back pocket once more and pulled out another cigarette. He got it lit and looked out over the canal, stalling a bit out of fear he’d sound ridiculous. “My producer friend, Dazz Coleman—he’s the guy who’s hooking me up with the band—he’s made an appointment for me at this trendy hair salon. I’m going to get my hair buzzed and blonded up some. He says if it’s good enough for Brad Pitt, it’s good enough for me.”
Austin looked at Rory’s full head of reddish blonde hair and tried to imagine him without it. It was shorter than it had been all those years ago in college, but essentially it was much the same. On Rory it looked careless and comfortable. It suited him. “Wow,” was all he said.
“Old school… that’s what he said I looked like. Can you fucking believe it? Anyway, he thinks if I’m going to fit in with this group of cutting-edge musicians I’ve got to look… well, stylish at least. He even told me what to wear for my audition,” Rory said.
Austin ran his fingers through his own thinning hair. Once blonde, it had gone ash and darkened to only a memory of what it had looked like back in college. He couldn’t imagine a change so radical for himself. “So you’re going to do it? It sounds kind of severe.”
Rory snickered and took a long hit off his cigarette. He blew a long stream of smoke jauntily toward the canal. “At least it will be a change. Nothing ever changes out here. Even the damn weather stays the same day after day.” He looked at Austin and grinned, “Who knows, a whole new look might do me some good.”
Austin shook his head. “I never believed a new haircut could change my life.”
“But you’re not gay, are you?” Rory said and laughed. “Don’t you ever watch Queer Eye For the Straight Guy? I thought straight people loved that show.”
“I’ve never seen it,” Austin admitted. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never watched it.”
“No big deal,” Rory said breezily. “I don’t watch it myself. There’s one gay guy on it that makes me want to puke, he’s such a queer Step’n Fetchit. But the whole point of it is this group of gay guys come in and do over some straight schlep, and suddenly he’s a whole new man, still straight, but suddenly kewl. It would lead you to believe that a decent haircut, some personal grooming, a great recipe, and chic furniture can change your life.”
Austin thought about it. He wondered if Rory thought he was a straight shlep, and it bothered him that he cared. “So when’s your audition?” He asked, wanting very much to change the subject.
Rory visibly tensed. He feigned a casualness he didn’t feel by idly flicking his cigarette into the pot next to him. “In four days. If you hear something that sounds like a cat in heat being cut up with a hack saw next door, it’s me practicing.”
Austin laughed. “I promise not to call 911.”
Rory nodded and gave him an unexpected conspiratorial look. “I haven’t told Bruno, yet.”
“Are you nervous?” Austin asked solicitously.
Rory regarded the tip of his cigarette and stalled for as long as he could. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m going to be singing things that are not exactly out of my range, but they are nothing you’d associate with me by looking at me. It’s R-and-B inflected jazz rap. I don’t look the part, for real.” He glanced at Austin, then shyly looked away. “I’ll be trying out with this group of incredibly talented black musicians. I know they wonder what they ever did to deserve this white boy trying to invade them. The only thing I’ve got to prove mys
elf with is my ability to sing like they need the songs to be sung. I’m scared I’ll look like this gigantic poseur. Rory Fallon trying to be Eminem.”
“Who’s Eminem?” Austin asked sincerely.
Rory gave him a disbelieving look. “Austin, baby. I’ve got to get you out more. Where the hell have you been?”
Austin felt an electric shock both at being called baby and at the faint promise of being got out more. Then, he resented the implication that he was somehow out of it, somehow unhip, uncool. His world wasn’t bound by bizarre new television shows and au courant music. His world was limited by trying to keep two small sons from jumping headfirst into that very world that seemed so loose, so threatening, and yet shining with the vivid, digitally enhanced color of everything new, forbidden, and promising. He suddenly felt old and distinctly schleplike and he resented it. He resented being reminded of it a great deal. “I’ve been busy,” he answered with great dignity that betrayed his hurt. “I’ve been busy with other things.”
Rory knew he’d overstepped his bounds. He looked at the suddenly middle-aged boy sitting beside him and felt ashamed of his own unconscious condescension. Guiltily, he felt as bad as the guy he detested on Queer Eye. He felt like an ass. “Pretty amazing things, Austin,” he said. “Things I don’t do, like raise kids and keep a family going. I’m sorry if I sounded like an asshole.”
Austin sighed and then offered Rory a small smile. “I feel re ally dull next to you. I’m just stuck out here, with nothing interesting going on but trying to push medical equipment. I’m pretty boring.”
“No you’re not,” Rory said quickly. “I don’t think you’re boring at all. And don’t take it like I’m some big fascinating person. I’m just as stuck out here in this suburban Disneyland as you are. Hell, if I hadn’t run into Dazz Coleman a couple of weeks ago, you and I would be talking about how slow work is right now. I never meant to give you the impression I was some big deal.”
“No, you didn’t,” Austin offered quickly. “I never got that from you at all.”
“Tell me about you, Austin,” Rory encouraged. “I’ve been going on and on about my stupid little life and I know nothing about you, really.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Austin demurred.
“Sure there is, you’re not giving yourself any credit. You said something about getting laid off when you mentioned you’d met me and Bruno back in college, but I don’t really remember. Pretend I knew you well. Fill me in on what’s been going on.”
Austin turned his gaze out over the still canal. “I got married. I got an MBA. I moved to Florida, started a family and a career. Did well,” Austin replied in a sing-song voice. He sighed, then his face hardened. “About a year and a half ago, I was an assistant CFO with this software development company up in Boca. We managed to hold it together after the big Internet stock fall in 2001. Everything seemed like it was going well. Then, I discovered my boss, the CFO, was cooking the books. With all the Enron crap going on, I tried to be a good soldier and clue in the CEO. He didn’t want to hear it. My boss got wind of what I was doing and I got fired for not being a team player. I got a severance package and a hearty encouragement to seek excellence elsewhere. Only there was no elsewhere to go to. So, I ended up selling medical equipment,” Austin concluded bitterly. He looked at Rory with a hard smile. “I’m not very good at it. No. I suck. That’s my happy story. No big deal, that’s just the way it is, you know?”
Rory only nodded when Austin finished his unvarnished recitation of facts. He felt sorry for him in a way he hadn’t before.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like being stuck out here when you’re used to going in to an office every day of your life? When all your friends and all your social interaction is based on being this big, semi-important go-to guy?” Austin asked calmly.
“But you get out, right? Rory asked gently. “You make sales calls.”
Austin snorted. “That’s all bullshit. You walk in to see someone who really doesn’t give a shit. They pretend to be interested, but you know the minute you leave they’ve put you out of their mind like you never even showed up. Or, if they are interested, they’re covered by so many layers of bureaucracy that you may never see anything come of their interest. Then there are the ones who have the most stupid-assed problems and make some big federal case out of it if you can’t give them immediate satisfaction.” Austin paused for breath and gave Rory a genuinely pleading look. “I hate it. Goddamn, I hate it.”
Rory fought the urge to reach out and touch him in some way. There was no gesture in his cache of encouragement that seemed appropriate to soothe such naked unhappiness. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.
Austin shook his head as if tossing off a bad dream. “I appreciate that, Rory. I really do. I just wish you could have met me when I was at my best. I am better than where I find myself right now, and I’m not really happy.” He sighed and gave Rory a half smile. “I’m sorry I unloaded on you like that.”
Rory shook his head and gave him an encouraging smile. “S’okay. Good neighbors and all that.”
“No one really wants to hear it. My wife certainly doesn’t anymore. I hate it that you had to,” Austin said tiredly.
“Hey, I’ll ask for paybacks if I don’t get this deal with the band. I’ll come over and cry on your shoulder. Bruno will just be happy I didn’t get it. You’ll make me feel better, how’s that?” Rory said and stuck out his hand.
“Deal,” Austin grinned and took his hand in a tight grasp. For just a moment, he felt the returning clasp hesitate and then grip his own hand back firmly. He wanted to be surprised that he didn’t want to let go, but he wasn’t. He looked at Rory to read what he might be thinking.
Rory looked back, then dropped his eyes and let go of his hand. “Right,” he said hastily. “I guess I’d better be going,” he said as he stood.
“Right,” Austin said and smiled as he stood. “You have a whole new you to meet this afternoon.”
Rory looked at him questioningly.
“New haircut,” Austin explained. “If that can change your life, I wish I could go with you.”
Rory laughed and reached over to rub Austin’s unstylish layered hair brusquely. When Austin ducked under his stroking hand, he said, “Tell you what, I’ll go first. If it works, I’ll let you know.”
“You do that,” Austin said shyly and looked like he meant it.
5150 ST. MARK’S COURT
BRUNO CLOSED AND locked the front door behind him. He called out into the silent house and set his briefcase by the door. His greeting was welcomed only by the sound of Bridget’s over-long claws scrabbling over the hardwood floors. Loosening his tie, he knelt to absorb her great weight as she greeted him. “Where’s Rory?” He asked her. “Did you eat Rory? Where’s Rory, girl?”
The big dog responded by circling under his stroking hands and taking off for the family room. He followed along behind, stripping off his tie and yanking his shirttail free of his trousers. Stopping at the bar in the family room, he watched as Bridget looked back at him over her shoulder before she disappeared out the sliding glass door to the pool deck. Bruno pulled his belt free from the loops around his waist and laid it, along with his tie, over the back of a barstool. “Rory?” he called once more. “I’m home.”
Answered once more by silence, he strode across the room to the door and looked out. Rory stood under the roof’s sweltering overhang in an area cleared of deck furniture facing out toward the canal. Dressed only in a pair of loose cargo shorts, his feet were planted at shoulder width apart and his hips moved to a beat only he could hear, rhythmically pulsing through the headphones of his iPod. His shorn head moved sinuously on his neck with his eyes fixed somewhere out in the middle distance. In a smoky voice pitched at some level Bruno had not heard before, he sang:
My mind drifts now and then,
looking down dark corridors,
and wondering what might have been
Bruno knew the tune. It
was one of Rory’s favorites. It was from “Footsteps in the Dark,” an Isley Brothers song Rory had played unceasingly years ago, back during a time Bruno didn’t want to recall. After he’d gotten married, he’d often show up at Rory’s apartment without warning, only to find him listening to that song with a full ashtray and a half-empty vodka bottle on the kitchen table before him.
Now, he growled the song with an abandon unsoothed by an audible melody. With his hair cut nearly to the scalp and lightened as though he’d been in a summer’s worth of sun, he looked as if he’d stepped back in time to the early fall Bruno had met him. There was not a spare ounce of flesh around his waist. His slim hips betrayed the elastic of his boxers shorts above the top of the baggy shorts. The pants had slipped low as he moved his hips to the song playing in his head. He looked assured of his seductiveness, yet as vulnerable as a stripling boy. It was the voice that betrayed his years. Rough-edged and tinged with a weariness that ran as a stream of torn silver through the song, it made Bruno want to take him and hold him against any darkness he saw out where his eyes had fled.
Then he realized Rory was rehearsing. Anger flooded him with a sudden ferocity that made the cords on his neck stand out. He wanted to snatch the earphones from his ears and bitch slap Rory, then shake him until his neck snapped. This, this shapely form with a voice that could make sinners and angels cry didn’t belong to anyone but him. He did not belong out in some dark, hot club with writhing niggers nasty-dancing in a sea of sweat and funk at his feet. He had no right to shake his ass and moan to any half-drunk horny straight college boys with dirty dreams and hard-ons they couldn’t explain. Rory had no right to tease the single bitches who heard a promise in those hungry cries, panties wet with an anticipation of communication and shared pain. Those things belonged to him and him alone.
