by Stanley Gray
Tom thought about that. It was a trick question, of course. “Yes, of course I do. Reporting on the truth is always important.” he said.
Mr. Slayton raised a finger and wagged it. He nodded his head. Reaching down with his free arm, he rifled around, scrabbling for something without looking. A hot dog materialized, and the man bit into it. His gaze remained steady, and they looked each other in the face while the man consumed a raw hot dog.
Tom wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to reach across the desk and pluck the pinkish piece of meat from the man’s hand. Pondering this, he reflected on the fact that, if that action were designed to put him off his guard, it was brutally effective.
“I like that. ‘Reporting on the truth is always important.’” Slayton nodded his head. He smiled. “However, truth is relative. Whose truth? You are aware that, at least here, at the El Paso Gazette, the truth is whatever I say it is?” Slayton asked. He indicated with his eyes that he was perfectly serious.
Tom looked away. He felt the oppressive and suffocating smallness of the office. It pressed in on him. He seemed to sense the phantom presence of the editor’s cloying stench, lingering like a wet floor sign. A strong urge to get up and walk out while he still could poked at his temples. But, he took a breath. The realization that he’d just signed a year-long lease and had no other significant job prospects trickled through his righteous indignation. He needed this.
“What if your truth is patently untrue?” Tom said. He didn’t reveal that the words had kind of just hopped out of their own accord. He sat there and watched, trying to assess the other man. Upon closer inspection, Slayton appeared more vile than at first blush. Tom resisted the urge to smile when he thought this. He had to admit, as he sat there quietly waiting for a response, that he felt impressed. The man had appeared pretty ugly when they’d first met. Hot dog boy wasn’t the only one with a few surprises up his sleeve.
“You see, that’s not possible. That’s what I am trying to tell you. There is no other truth. If someone says I’m wrong, you call them a liar.” Slayton said. “Maybe you don’t want this job. I don’t know.” He waved his hands in the air and sighed. He began to get up. “I’ll go ahead and draft a quick letter of resignation. You can come back in an hour, and I’ll have Gloria at the front desk give it to you.” he said.
Tom cleared his throat. His heart raced. He felt sweat begin to trickle down his side. “That’s not necessary.” he said.
Slayton stopped. He smiled. “You see, I get to say what is necessary. Because, well, I’m the boss. I’m” he pointed a finger at himself. “I’m the boss. If I’m the boss, see, that means you are not the boss. See, I didn’t go and uncover an embarrassing conspiracy that threatened my old boss. I didn’t get demoted and sent to professional Siberia. So, I’ll see if it’s necessary.” Slayton went back to his seat. Something nasty, predatory appeared in the man’s eyes.
Tom felt fear. He’d chased terrorists. Literal terrorists. In Denver, he had spent over a month digging up a wealth of evidence proving that a number of very influential media people were collaborating with terrorists. They were giving serial killers jobs in warehouses and providing legal defense. Tom had sat across from the Black Canyon Killer. He’d been fired and sent here, and still he’d never felt the fear he felt as he looked into Johnson Slayton’s cold and avaricious eyes.
“You’re gay.” Slayton said.
Tom didn’t know how to respond, so he elected to remain silent. He trembled. His hand to put his hands on his knees, clutching a fistful of cloth so hard his knuckles went wide. His mind felt numb. Things seemed to go slower. He wondered if he had heard the man correctly. “Wha…what?” he asked.
“You’re gay.” Slayton repeated. He grinned.
He shook his head. He knew that this was not true. Knew it with all of his being. He’d been married to a woman for many years, had two children he adored. Sure, it’d been a while since he divorced, but the thought of having sexual relations with another man had never entered his mind. Tom always felt strongly about supporting his gay friends. But, he’d never experienced even the inkling of desire, not even a nascent physical attraction for another man. “No.” he said. He wanted to leave. He wanted to begin his new job. He wanted anything but to be here, right now, in this room with this fat man.
“Are you contradicting me? Because I thought we had some ground rules. I told you what the rules are. They’re very simple, really. My job was to bring you back into line. Now, what was the golden rule I gave you?” Slayton asked.
“Your truth is the only truth.” Tom said. The words seemed hollow. They almost literally hurt him as they came out. He bounced one leg with nervous energy. He tried to avoid the probing stare of his new boss. Tom attempted, struggled to find anything to draw his attention away from the reality he found himself sinking in.
“Good. Good boy. Tom. Tom, look at me.” Slayton said. He smiled that ugly smile when his subordinate complied. “Come over here and suck my cock.” he said.
His mouth moved. No words came out, though. His palms were sweating. He felt his chest grow tighter. His vision began to blur at the edges. What was he supposed to do?
A white house, surrounded by a small fence. A little yard and a cobblestone walkway. A garage. Tom had used the last of his savings to make all the requisite payments, so he could move in on such short notice. He possessed little money. He was a disgraced newspaper writer in a bad job market, and he’d never held any other job. He had no contacts in the area. Hell, he didn’t have any contacts in the entire state of Texas. At least, none that he could think of in the heat of the moment.
Tom still thought about leaving. Fleeing. Trying to report this incident. He thought about trying to get his phone out to record things. He began sliding one hand up towards his pocket. His phone rested in the left back pocket. He could feel its weight, all of a sudden. He stalled as his hand continued its forward momentum.
“I…I don’t want to.” Tom said.
“But, you’re gay. You’re gay, aren’t you?” Slayton said.
“Ummm…yes. Yes. You say I’m gay. So, I’m gay.” Tom responded. He was almost there.
Slayton got up. He walked around the desk. His movements might have been slow, deliberate, and ominous. Or Tom might have been caught up in a panic attack. Everything seemed distorted. Sounds and smells, his vision, it all seemed to coagulate into some ugly white film on the top of his befuddled consciousness. Tom watched with horror. His heart continued its efforts to climb Everest. His phone! He felt his hand getting closer. He knew he could do it, he could get evidence of the man’s crimes, if only he could stall for a few more minutes.
He couldn’t stall for a few more minutes.
His boss was standing directly in front of him.
Johnson Slayton reached down and grabbed the moving hand. He didn’t exactly jerk it. Not that Tom could tell. He was having a hard time gauging anything, really. He didn’t know what was real. But he felt his hand being guided by an external force.
He felt something.
Tom wanted to throw up. His stomach felt like it was trying to churn butter. He looked away, towards the bookshelf. He heard something. A sound. Belatedly, he understood that it was the sound of the man’s dirty, ketchup-stained khakis being unzipped.
“Tom, look at me. Tom.” Slayton said.
Tears began to course down his face. He felt himself blushing. He wanted to conceal his shame. He felt the last of his resistance being broken. Knowing that this creep could see, could see his evident pain and shame. That was the last straw. He would do it. He knew in that moment that he would do whatever the creature wanted. Because he had to. There was no real choice.
He looked into Slayton’s face. He gave a weak smile.
At that moment, he resolved within himself to do the only thing he knew how to in the situation. It was the last and only line of defense. The only way to retain a shred of dignity. He was going to prete
nd to like this obscene violation. He was going to deprive the man of any further satisfaction. This wasn’t about a blow job. It was about power.
“You like sucking cock, don’t you?” Slayton asked.
“I do.” Tom said. He nodded.
Chapter 3
Bang!
Tom woke up, startled. He lashed out, an incipient scream dancing on the tip of his tongue. His pulse revved its engines. Looking around, his eyes heavy with sleep, he blinked at the sudden intrusiveness of the morning sun.
Bang!
A little red-headed woodpecker sat in the tree just outside the window. It turned and fixed its beady little eyes on Tom. Then it went back to its slow assault on the thin walnut tree.
He stretched. Yawned. His body felt as if it had been hit with a bag of bricks. His mouth tasted as if he’d been chewing on a pile of petrified dinosaur dung. Tom swung around, putting his feet into his blue slippers. His mom had gotten him the footwear for the holidays several years ago. For some reason, when he wore them, he always thought of her. The only problem was that, this time, the memories lacked the familiar fondness. Thinking of his mother no longer brought a smile to his face.
Reflecting on this, he felt nauseated. He rushed to the nearby bathroom, pushing the half-shut door so hard it ricocheted back and hit him in the back as he hastily knelt and tried to make sure his vomit made it into the dingy porcelain toilet. When he’d first seen the house, there was a scorpion in there. At least, he’d thought there’d been one in there, a menacing little black creature hanging out down by the cool water. The property management representative had said that he’d been mistaken, but he wasn’t so sure.
Breathing hard, he sat up. He looked down. He saw flecks of ecru vomit on his white shirt. The light streaming in through the small window above the sink assailed his eyes. But Tom felt too weak and shaky to get up and close the curtains. He suffered. He bent his head and rested it against the cracked toilet seat, trying to calm down.
A dick. In his mouth.
Another wave of emesis struck.
He heaved, his temples bulging, his stomach in knots, his throat burning. He spat into the bowl. His mind felt cluttered by a thousand thoughts. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes. Slowly, he began to feel at least sane and strong enough to stand without fear of collapsing back into another violent fit of expulsion.
He walked slowly. One arm out, his eyes barely open, his feet de-slippered and cold as they touched the cool tile. He got into the bedroom and rushed, shuffling his feet more than walking, towards the Queen-sized bed. He fell face-first onto it. He began to cry. The tears streamed down his face, and he sobbed. He buried his face in a big white pillow. He bit it. Then he thought better of that and pressed it down, hard, onto his face and unleashed the most primal scream he could have ever imagined.
He felt betrayed. Violated. Hurt. Alone. Everything he stood for, everything he’d ever tried to work against in the world, it all had been shredded in less time than it might take to get a cup of coffee. He had been raped. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Tom tried to calm down. He focused on what he needed to do that day. Thankfully, he didn’t have to work. Perhaps even the monster that was Johnson Slayton knew that forcing his victim to immediately return to work the day after the heinous act would be too much. Tom refused to give the man that much credit. However, he did acknowledge, silently sitting there, watching the woodpecker that had forced him to emerge from the protective cocoon of sleep as it slowly peeled back the many layers of someone else’s tree, that the hiatus allowed him some time to recover.
Breakfast seemed out of the question. Yet, Tom felt the first pangs of hunger. He thought about it. Would he even be able to keep anything down? He guessed he would have to at least try and find out. Because that’s what people did. They endured. The relative smallness, the banality of the task might even help him some.
Reaching over onto the nightstand sitting beside the bed, Tom retrieved his phone. He checked his emails. Seeing that he’d been sent a few assignments (no introduction from his direct supervisor, the arts editor), he decided he might need to begin preparing to tackle them. His was a very deadline-driven business. As was made abundantly clear yesterday, it could also be a ruthless, thankless business, one where those who failed to produce consistently would be cast aside. Tom Martinez was expendable. And he hated it.
Getting out of bed, trying to move slowly to make sure he didn’t fall. The recent nasty conversation with the toilet bowl still clung tenaciously to his consciousness. After a few moments without nausea, he picked up the pace. It felt good, to be somewhat normal again. Entering the small kitchen, he opened the wooden cabinet above the stove. He blinked. Only dust balls resided in that one. He could have sworn that this was where he’d placed his coffee.
Shrugging, he went to the next one, leaving the other’s door hanging wide open as a reminder to clean it. “Shit.” he said. Tom stood there and stared. Again his eyes were confronted with an empty cabinet. Tom scratched his head. He closed the cabinet, and then re-opened it. Still empty.
His heart began its upward climb again. Hands shaking slightly, he rushed to the only remaining upper cabinet and hastily jerked it open. Nothing.
Tom leaned against the faded, yellowing vinyl counter. He knew. He knew he’d purchased comestibles just before moving in. He’d even bought wine, to have a cheesy solitary celebration for finally completing the move. It felt hard to believe, but there was a time not long ago when he’d genuinely felt excited to have the move out of the way. He’d thought he was about to start a new journey. Opening a new chapter, blah, blah.
Unfortunately, that new chapter seemed to include pure terror and helpless rage.
Fear clouded his mind’s skies. An imminent thunderstorm hung in the air, grumbling as it approached, growing closer by the charged minute.
Tom took each step carefully. He tried to count them out in his head. Focusing on his footsteps helped him both actually move, but also momentarily focus on something other than the fact that his life might be collapsing. He opened the cabinets again, one by one, trying to see if maybe his mind had been playing cruel and unusual tricks on him. But, they still remained empty. He sank to the floor and covered his face with his hands. He cried.
He tried to think. If the food and supplies he’d bought were not there, where were they? Was it possible he’d moved them? Was it possible…someone else had moved them? The latter thought seemed like it might too much to bear, at this particular moment. It felt like he was constantly one angst-ridden moment away from a stroke at every turn, these days. Yet, the idea grew. It metastasized. Tom had uncovered some dark secrets. Secrets that many powerful people wanted very much to keep contained, hidden from the antiseptic light. They were cockroaches, those men and women, and they thrived in the fetid sludge of the sewers.
But why? He hit his head lightly against the bottom of the sink. Why? They could just kill him. Why break into his home, and…hide his groceries? Maybe they wanted him to do the job for them?
Tom uncovered his face. He began to laugh. Reaching up, he braced himself and slowly stood. If living were the only act he could feebly muster to resist these monsters, then he would live. He wouldn’t give them the pleasure of allowing them an easy and neat denouement to their sick games.
Walking back down the hall, he checked the laundry nook. And he laughed even harder. He fell onto the wooden floor, there in the dust-infested alcove, and surrendered to the cathartic peals.
There, on a shelf above the rusty washer and dryer, sat his dry goods. Coffee, chips, bread…all there. Tom had probably put them there, and just forgotten.
As the realization dawned that he probably wasn’t the target of some weird, complicated game, a new sense of depression descended. For a short span of time, it had felt kind of…good. The idea that his old bosses would travel to such lengths to attack him held a certain allure. It elevated him. It made him important. Tom Martinez w
anted to feel important.
At some point, laying there in his new- albeit dirty- rental on the border to the cartel’s wild west, he realized he’d wasted a good portion of the day trying to figure out where the fuck his coffee was. He needed to get up and get moving. So he did. He moved everything from the laundry room to the kitchen, and began brewing coffee. At least the pot was new. He’d seen the maker on some sort of informercial, a hot celebrity actress shilling for the thing. But, it did make a great cup of joe.
As he waited for his caffeine fix and a bagel sandwich that he popped in the oven, he seized the opportunity to do some light cleaning. He swept the floors of the kitchen and bathroom, and dusted out the cabinets.
With the sausage-and-egg bagel and his large cup of black Ethiopian coffee in tow, he went and sat on the sofa. He sighed. He paused, allowing his gaze to linger on a certain box, sitting in the corner. The lid was up, just slightly. Alan blinked, and tensed. He could have sworn that when he’d moved in, he’d put the box in the bedroom. He couldn’t ever see why he would put it right under the living room window. And he hadn’t opened it. Yet the tape was undone.
Truth was, he didn’t want to open it. Not now. Not ever again.
Because the contents of that box had ruined his life.
Chapter 4
He sipped coffee and looked at old photographs.
A certain pride attached itself to these pictures, invisible barnacles that told a different story. The story of the photographer. Tom ran a finger slowly, longingly over the surface of one. In it, Sarah McDougal, former editor at the New York Sun-News sat across the table from Masala Mugabe. Mugabe possessed quite the record. The tall, muscular Nigerian man had taken off his sunglasses for this shot, one of the few times he ever did that in public. Tom had trailed Mugabe for almost a year, just to snap that moment.
