by Stanley Gray
“Uh, yes, sir.” Tom answered.
“Well, shit. Okay. I’ll put Susan on this. Thanks for the call.” Johnson said.
“Wait a second. Wait! You knew there were threats about the gallery?” Tom asked.
“Hey, what can I say? It’s a LGBTQ Plus, Plus art gallery in Texas. They get threats all the time. But, yes. Yeah, I knew. Why do you think we sent you?” Johnson said, laughing as he hung up.
Tom clutched the phone so tightly, he felt afraid that he would break it. Tears began to stream down his cheek. He turned his face to the turgid moon hovering in the obsidian night sky and unleashed a primal scream. He flailed his arms. He cursed. Or he thought he cursed. All he knew were that the worst, most vile obscenities flew through his mind like star fighters racing towards the enemy. He shouted so loud and so long that his voice grew hoarse and his throat hurt. Undeterred by the physical pain, he cleared his throat and renewed his fierce and hysterical manifestation of his profound rage.
Feeling something, some sort of pressure on his shoulder, he shifted his weight and tried to ward off whatever it was that was touching him. He batted at the presence. He tried to walk away. Where would he go? Tom couldn’t even be sure he knew where he was. A tunnel seemed to open up in the distance, filled with bright lights. A car roared past.
The pressure on his upper body wouldn’t leave. Tom turned, his fist balled up, and he only just barely escaped punching the one woman in his life whom had ever made him feel. He collapsed onto the ground, overwhelmed by the vortex of emotions swirling around inside his head, the vicious shrill whistle threatening to blow the edifice of his sanity to the ground.
He tried to focus on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
That seemed to work. For the moment.
But each time he felt himself calming down, he would see that fat, disgusting excuse for a human being. The harsh, vivid recollection of the degrading act Johnson Slayton had forced on him. He wanted to vomit. The way the man’s slimy cock had felt as it spasmed in his mouth. The warm, thick goop that felt like snot as it slid down his throat.
He bent forward, retching, his stomach churning. He could only spit. Thick, viscous strands of saliva spurted from his mouth.
Tom felt ashamed. He couldn’t even puke properly.
“What’s wrong?” Delilah asked.
The innocuous question carried Tom into a fit of frenzied laughter. He curled up into the fetal position, there on the side of the road. He laughed so hard, it hurt. Tears again found a way to escape their prison in his lachrymal glands. Tom could barely think. He merely rode the waves of his peals. He existed on the fringes of reality in that moment, captured in a space between the needs and demands of a finite existence on Earth and the intense catharsis that delusion formed. Tom felt himself slipping. Slipping into a dark and impenetrable abyss. The only thing tethering him to the cruel world he so wanted to vacate in that moment was the sound of his manic laughter.
He couldn’t say how long he laughed. His throat felt raw. Tom blinked. He rubbed his eyes with a fist, and saw that his hand was bleeding. Looking into the face of Delilah, he saw something. Something that struck him. He realized then that Delilah was afraid of him.
“How long was I laughing?” he asked. His body felt tired. As if he’d just run a marathon. He experienced a tingling sensation, and almost wanted to lay down. A wave of nausea inundated him. His stomach began to twist itself into knots. Tom wanted this night to end. He felt locked in a nightmare that refused to let up or let go.
“A few minutes. Are you okay? Should I call someone?” she asked. She kept her voice low. She sat near him, without touching him, watching him, alert. Even though fear etched itself into her features so plainly it was almost tattooed on her forehead, Delilah remained there.
Tom sighed. He sensed that this woman might be part of something bigger. As if maybe their meeting had been by some divine design. Serendipitous didn’t seem to cover it. He knew that there wasn’t a god, but yet, as he experienced the strength and beauty of this alluring woman, he knew that it defied conventional logic. Therefore, unconventional logic might be the better approach. At this point, unconventional logic might be all he had left.
“There’s no one to call.” he said. Tom took several deep breaths. He felt the hysteria, the bubbling laughter threatening to boil over from its cauldron deep inside. He focused on his breath. He looked at Delilah. Her face. Her voluptuous lips. Her sweet, knowing brown eyes. “I’m sure glad I didn’t buy that painting.” he said. He chuckled.
“What?” she asked, eyes on his face. “What painting?” she asked. Then it dawned on her. They both looked towards the diner at the same time. Mike sat inside at the counter, sipping a milkshake, lost in his own world. His attention seemed focused on the television fixed to the ceiling above the counter at an angle. “Oh. Was it that good? You went back into the middle of the madness to try to grab it.” she said. She shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever had…that sort of an experience, with a painting.” she said.
“Yeah. I don’t know. It’s weird. There was just… something about it. Still gives me the chills, thinking about it.” Tom said. He inhaled. The words danced on the edge of his tongue. He wanted to say them, but he wasn’t quite sure how. He felt embarrassed. Hurt. Shocked. Afraid. Angry. Worst of all, he felt alone. If she abandoned him, what would he do? Would he be able to continue on? To absorb the colossal blow that her abandonment would inflict on his delicate psyche?
“So, my boss raped me.” The words just seemed to slip out. He refused to meet her eyes. He looked down at the cracked black asphalt that shone an odd sort of orange color in the light cast by the diner’s sign. “My boss raped me. And he just told me that he knew the Mayhew Gallery had received threats. He dismissed it, saying something to the effect that a gay art gallery in El Paso would always get threats. He said he sent me there BECAUSE of those threats, though.” Tom said.
Delilah remained silent.
Tom cleared his throat. He balled up a fist. The anger welled up inside of him and threatened to overtake him. He took a moment to wait it out. “I was sent here from Denver. I actually just moved here a few days ago. My first time meeting the big boss, he raped me.” Tom guffawed. “Jesus.” he said. He looked up at the moon. “When I was in Denver, I learned about a group of media powerhouses who were doing some…extraordinary things. These were very powerful, very rich, very connected people. Have you heard of Terry Goldblum?” Tom asked. For the first time since his revelation, he looked at Delilah.
She shook her head.
“Yeah. I guess that figures. CEO of Reiser, which owns CNA.” The Commercial News Agency was one of the dominant cable news organizations, and they had played a large role in help influence voters for several progressive politicians. They were widely seen as one of the media choices for the Progressive Party. “The New York Sun-News, the Chicago Star, dozens of ACB television affiliates, all sorts of really big players in media. They’re supposed to be journalists. But.” He paused, trying to give the word special emphasis.
“But, what?” Delilah asked. Her eyes shone with curiosity. And something else.
“But, they were working with known terrorists and serial killers- well, we only knew they were serial killers later on.” he said. He licked his lips. He forced himself to look at her. Tom wasn’t sure if she would believe him. She didn’t say anything, though she was rocking back and forth and had an interested glow that seemed to take over her entire face. “So, obviously that is a pretty bold accusation. My entire career has been as a journalist.” He looked away. “I’ve never been around guns. I’m not really that type, I guess.” he said.
“Anyway, my entire career was devoted to substantiating fact claims. And this was a huge story. I followed it on my own time, without ever really telling. Which was good. But, eventually, I had a lot of proof. Boxes full of it. Photos, transcripts, recordings, a lot of stuff. Much of it may never be admissible in court, because I did
n’t exactly follow all of the normal rules and procedures in obtaining it. Anyway, I did end up telling my boss. I mean, this is a huge fucking story. The mainstream media, which I am a part of,” Tom paused. He laughed. “Am? No. Was.” He laughed again.
“The mainstream media, which I WAS a part of, they have horrendously low approval ratings. People distrust them almost as much as they do Congress. You know? A bunch of pretentious rich, mostly white, dudes schmoozing with serial killers? I mean, they were using tragedies, they were CAUSING tragedies just to keep people tuning in. The fear. THE FEAR. Their commodity no longer is about the viewers, the information, the advertising space. It’s about the political and monetary capital fear can provide.” he said.
“Wow.” Delilah said, after a silence stretched itself thin between them and she realized she was expected to break it. She blinked and looked back towards the diner.
“Yeah.” Tom said, nodding.
“Maybe we should…maybe we should go in, get somethin’ to eat.” Delilah said, pointing backwards towards the brightly lit greasy spoon. She made no movement to get up. Her shoulders hunched up, she looked vulnerable.
Tom thought she looked even more attractive when she was vulnerable.
Chapter 10
They walked into the diner together. The smell of grease and cooked meat assaulted his nostril as soon as the door opened. Tom followed behind Delilah, reaching out to catch the door when she let it go. The sound of the television filtered through the heavy air. A juke box sat in the corner, trying to coax him over with its flashing lights. Tom went and took a seat in front of the long curved counter. He picked up one of the tall plastic-coated menus sitting in a pile nearby and flipped it open. Smudged fingerprints coated the surface, making it hard to read. Thankfully there were plenty of colorful pictures to help aid his decision-making.
Though, truth be told, there wasn’t much of a decision to make. At this establishment, one got varying levels of cholesterol and pork. About the only choice was whether to have a toast or waffles on the side.
“You’re on the news.” Mike said. He pointed upwards.
Tom tilted his head at an extreme incline. He peered up at the dirty screen. He was, indeed, on the news.
“And tonight, the search continues for the suspected shooter in tonight’s deadly shooting that took place just a few short hours ago at the Mayhew Gallery, just behind me.” the Latina reporter said, turning her head and pointing. “El Paso police have asked for anyone with information on the whereabouts of Thomas Martinez to please contact them. He may be armed and dangerous, and is considered a suspect in the case.”
A picture of Tom flashed on the screen. A hotline number sat below it, pulsing in red.
Hey, that’s me. Tom thought. Then he tensed. It didn’t hit him until after staring at his own face for a few minutes that the reporter was saying HE was a suspect.
A large woman with faded red hair that grayed around the middle appeared. She wore a red apron with the diner’s logo stenciled on it in white. When she smiled, she revealed a mouth full of yellow teeth. “Getcha anyt’ing?” she asked.
She wore a transparent mesh hat over her head. The faint outline of a mustache spread across the tender flesh just under her nose, and her fat knuckles showed several long, wiry black hairs. Tom looked at the woman and couldn’t help but think maybe she might have lucked out in owning a restaurant, because she probably wouldn’t have many other prospects in life. Then he realized he might be mistaken in assuming the woman owned the place. In which case…
“An orange juice?” he asked. He wanted to instinctively ask if the juice were fresh-squeezed, but he felt safe in assuming that the answer would be no. Plus, he didn’t really want the woman to be near while he listened to his name being bandied about on the local news. Thankfully, at this early hour, not many people would be up to see it.
“That all?” she asked.
“Yes.” All three of them spoke in unison, and the lady stared at them with consternation. She shuffled away without another word.
“Authorities have confirmed that at least 12 people have been confirmed injured, with at least three fatalities. El Paso police were quick to caution that those numbers may rise, however, as more of the people at the gallery are identified and found. This is Lindsay Lopez, reporting for KMVR-12.”
“Wow.” Delilah said again.
The overweight server appeared again, sliding the juice forward, with a bill. Tom looked down at the flimsy blue slip of greasy paper with a long swatch of gibberish handwriting on it. He deduced that he owed three dollars. “Three dollars?” he asked.
“Yessuh.” she said. The words came out in a jumbled mass, as if they were, in fact, one single entity.
“May I ask you a question?” Tom asked.
“Jus’ did.” she said, and smiled.
Tom felt bad, but he wished that she would not smile at him ever again. “Do you own this place?” he asked.
“Yessuh.” she said. “Three dollah.” she said.
Boy, isn’t she a peach. he thought. He shifted his butt on the seat, reached back, and grabbed his wallet. He found a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the change.” he said.
“Thank ya kindly.” she said, and shuffled away.
“Well, I guess I should go. Do you guys want to come with me?” he asked.
“Of course. Maybe we should go to your house, get whatever you need. You can hole up with me for the time being. I mean, eventually, they’ll probably want to find me, too. I’m an employee there, you know?” she said.
Tom looked at her. Really looked at her. “Why?” he asked. By helping him at this point, hell, by even being seen around him, they were exposing themselves to considerable risk. He shifted his gaze, directing it towards the gentle painter. Both of them seemed…
Bereft of words, he got up and opened his arms, hugging them both. The server peeked around the corner and shot them a look, which Tom noticed but disregarded. With friends like these, why would he ever care what other people thought of him?
“I’ve never been involved in a manhunt or a conspiracy before.” Mike said.
Delilah and Tom both broke into laughter simultaneously. “Thank you, guys. I mean, we’ll see how things play out. I don’t really see this ending well. But, it means a lot.” Tom sighed. Looked at his feet. He didn’t want to start crying again. Or laughing. He sighed. “I’ve been through quite a bit lately, and it really helps, to know that at least someone has my back.” he said.
Mike reached out and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Dude, no one has ever looked at something I painted the way you did.” Mike had his own moment of resisting the darkness and hysteria that threatened to overtake him. Tears glistened at the edges of his eyes. “When I told my family…when I told them I was gay, even though…even though they always knew, they…they…they abandoned me. I would’ve killed to have a friend support me in that moment. But even my boyfriend left me, because he didn’t want to be outed, too.” Mike said.
Tom reacted instinctively. He moved forward and enveloped the man in his arms. The stood there, Mike’s face nestled into the soft nook of his shoulder, quietly sobbing.
“Get a room, ya weirdos!” the owner of the small diner screeched from the kitchen.
“Is that all you have to do all night, is sit and stalk your patrons?” Delilah shot back. “Hey, guys, we should probably head out. We don’t…” she cast a look towards the woman, who still sat staring at them, her hands hidden behind the pink wall. “Let’s just go.” she said.
The fresh air offered a reprieve from the stale and musty air of the restaurant. “That place…did you actually eat there, Mikey?” Tom asked.
Mike nodded. Sniffled. “Yeah. I mean, the eggs were a little rubbery and the bacon wasn’t too great, but it was cheap and somewhat filling.” he said.
Tom chuckled. “Not exactly a glowing review, but, hey.” he said.
They got in the station wagon. Tom’s car door c
reaked as he tried to shut it. The sound of it slamming rippled through the night and reverberated through the small, cramped interior of the vehicle. “Hey!” Mike yelled.
“Sorry, dude.” Tom said.
“The doors are…the car’s old. Sorry. Anyway, where to, my fugitive friend?” Delilah asked.
Tom blinked. This all felt surreal. Not long ago he had ridden in to town and hauled all of his belongings into a new place. Now here he was desperately trying to flee, after unwittingly becoming part of a conspiracy…against himself. Except, of course, things couldn’t be that simple. There were now two other human beings involved, people who, knowing the inherent risks, were willing to put their own lives and…everything on the line to help him. Tom had come in with a plan, and was about to leave without one. It felt exhilarating. It seemed scary. He wasn’t sure what to do.
And he wasn’t sure if he wanted the demise of these two well-intentioned people on his conscience.
“I live on Elm. But, are you sure you want to do this? I would…I would honestly understand, if you just…if you just left me here. I’m probably going to end up turning myself in, anyway.” Tom said.
“Do you have a lawyer?” Delilah asked. She turned and looked back at him.
“No.” Tom said.
“Then fuck that. After what you told me? Nah. This shit aint go’n fly, homie. Not in my house.” She wagged her index finger back and forth. Then chuckled. “Did you ever see that commercial?” she asked. She read the vacant expression on Tom’s face. “Never mind. Yeah, I think we’re all grown-ups, dude. Get off it. They’re trying to DBA you.” she said. “Elm? Whereabouts on Elm? That’s not the greatest part of town, dude.” she said. She cackled. “Nightmare on Elm Street. Get it?” she asked. Mike chuckled.
“Haha. Funny. What does DBA mean?” Tom asked. The only acronym he knew associated with that was doing business as. Somehow, he didn’t think that applied here.
Delilah shrugged. “Oh. Whoops.” she said. She smacked herself lightly on the side of the head. “It’s kind of an Air Force term. I kind of misused it, anyway. Means Dirt Bag Airman. Most of the time, the DBAs got treated pretty badly. People were out to get them, because they made everyone else work harder. You know? I mean, lives can be on the line, even in the Air Force. People shouldn’t fuck around on the job.” she said.
