by L C Barlow
I was too drained to think of anything. All I could do was stand and scream at myself internally to say something! Something! Find anything to tell him.
"Jack, what happened?" he asked softly.
I took a breath. "You can leave now, Patrick."
"No."
"I'm not asking." And when he tried to pull me close, I pushed at him and pushed at him, and he fought me until we were both falling to our knees, and then, finally, we crumpled to the floor. Finally, in exhaustion, I relaxed and rested my bloody head against him. We lay like that for minutes.
"Come," Patrick said, "You've got to get a shower and wash the wound."
We both went into the bathroom, and I stripped the clothes from myself, not caring that he was there and could see me. It didn't matter anymore. He turned away, though - became a gentlemen for those moments, as he started the hot water. Then, he sat against the bathroom wall, his white, buttoned shirt clinging to him in the moisture and heat.
"You don't have to tell me what happened," he said. I didn't.
"But you know you can if it will help," he continued. I did.
"Because after all that we've been through together, what's a bit more?"
He handed me a towel when I was done, and then he found clothes for me.
I dressed, feeling pains in parts of my body I didn't know existed. I found bruises all over - nicks and cuts in my wrists, at my mouth.
When I was dressed, I sat on the bed and sighed heavily, fatigued.
He sat down next to me. "What do you need?"
Only certain people would know what that tone of voice implied.
"Heroin, I guess," I said.
"I don't know..." he replied, and he rubbed his face with his hands. "If you do... I shoot you up, so you don't fucking OD." My eyes fell on him. He repeated his point. "I decide how much."
I rubbed at the scratches on my face. I licked my lips. "Patrick," I started, and then paused. I looked him in his mint green eyes. "I promise you it's not as bad as you think it is."
"Then what happened?"
I sighed and swallowed. "I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"That's part of it. You can't ever know. But... even if I could, I wouldn't. It would ruin this."
"Ruin what?"
"This... perfect friendship.
He laughed. "This is not perfect. This is anonymous."
"Exactly. Perfect."
"I don't believe so."
I said nothing more. I simply looked at him, thought of how thankful I was that this sprite was in my life, that he found me on the road that night and invited me to his world of reckless abandonment - of feeling something beyond my world, even if for a moment. I looked at the dimples by his mouth, the few freckles on his cheeks, the stubble that twinkled red in the lights. It would have been nice to have driven forever, the night that I met him.
"Look," he said to me. "I came here tonight because, actually, I was angry with you."
"Why?" I asked.
He smirked and took my hand in his. I looked at the curve of his thumbnail and found it to be picturesque. "Because, last night, when you arrived and I brought you to those three girls, and I asked you to pick which one I should fuck, you did.
"I didn't want you to. It made me so angry. In fact... I think that's why I tore Brian's pants off and burned them in the fireplace."
I chuckled quietly. "Then you shouldn't have asked me to choose."
"I know."
"And you shouldn't have fucked her."
"I won't anymore. I'm not going to anymore."
"What do you mean you're not going to anymore?"
"I want to be with you," he said.
That was the most perfect sentence ever spoken. It sped my heart.
I let a long pause drift between us, and then I responded, "To be fair, it was somewhat enjoyable to see you with her, at the piano, her singing, you swinging your hands down on the keys. I'm glad I got to choose her for you."
"Why?" he asked in disbelief.
"I got to hear your beautiful duet. Even if I was jealous... it was a different kind of peace. Do you know how long it's been since I've heard a piano in its ever-living presence? It was electric, that night."
"I didn't know it meant that much to you."
"How could you? It's just... the piano was such a part of my childhood. The good part. The only other person I loved played it, and it reminded me of him, in a good way."
"The only other person?" He said this like a question, but I gave him no answer.
Inside myself, I could feel within me a great swelling of something crystalline and pure. He was not perfect, or necessarily good, this man, but he was not harmful. He was not hateful. There was also something else there - something I knew that he didn't, that I would never tell him or anyone else in the world.
"I'll play more for you then. Music every day. And I mean it when I say I'm not going to be with anyone else. I mean," he said, "that if I fuck, it will be with you, and then it won't just be a fuck."
"You don't want to fuck me. You won't want to."
"Oh? Really? Do you realize who you're talking to here?"
That made me laugh. "I don't have enough of a soul for a person like you. You are alive in ways that I will never be, and I cannot catch up."
"I think," he replied, "it only seems that way to you."
He left the bed and perched himself close to my knees as he sat on the floor. I looked deep into his lime eyes, and as his lips parted, I sighed. He spoke. "Take as long as you want. I don't give a damn. But I won't turn away from you like you think I will." He touched my knees gently, and my moist skin drank in his warmth.
I smiled and ran my left hand through his hair, just barely, daring to touch the tips of the threads of flame. "Even if you did," I replied, "at least I would have this moment."
"We would."
I bit my bottom lip.
"Actually," he said suddenly, and he lifted his head from my knees, "I must come clear. I lied before. I came here tonight for two reasons, not just one."
"Oh?"
Patrick reached into the left side of his jacket and pulled out a black, slender book. "The second might cheer you even more than the first," he said, and from this book slid a piece of paper.
It was folded, and he handed it to me from between his pointer and middle finger. I gave him an inquisitive gesture. "Open it," he said. I did. It was a check for fifty grand.
"Mother of God."
"You deserve it. You did the job. Alone. Perfectly. Well, as good as possible. I couldn't fucking believe it." He patted my arm softly like 'atta boy,' but then just as suddenly as he had handed me the check, he snatched it from me and ripped it in half, and then again, and again. The shreds fell to my lap like dried bones.
I stared at him, utterly confused and breathless. In a single moment I had returned from my richest to poorest. "What is this?" I asked.
But Patrick was busy. He was reaching into several pockets and, I realized, pulling out stack after stack of solid, tight cash. "But do you know how crazy it would be for me to write you a check for that much?" he asked. "The taxes on it would be enormous."
"Yeah," I said, blinded by the ever-growing olive green pile. "Almost as crazy as walking through this town with fifty grand on you."
"Hm. But that's my type of crazy."
He collected all of the stacks, counted them, paused, and then pulled one more stack from behind his back. He sat the tower before me on the floor, and it leaned, threatening to topple like Jenga blocks. The money came up to my knees.
The bills were not wadded or crumpled. It was all so very streamlined, like a miniature skyscraper. "It's yours," he said. "Thanks again."
I was astonished. "I never really believed you," I said.
"I know."
I peered at him, but only barely turning my head from the money.
"I know you, Jack. Maybe not conventionally, but I do. You're not an addict, love. You're not completely am
oral. You're not voracious. I mean, visiting your sister the very day after I offer you that job? Come on, Jack! I'm not an idiot. You never wanted this money for yourself."
He surprised me. I did not expect my actions to leave any imprint on him or for him to analyze what they meant. I did not expect him to care to figure me out.
"Patrick, I thought you were dumber than you are."
"They expect from me a flicker, and I give them stars."
"That gets you off, doesn't it?"
He laughed. "More than you'll ever know." But when our eyes met, it did not seem as though the same laughing, joking, not-giving-a-shit Patrick was with me, but a different one.
I looked at the money and at the earnestness in Patrick's eyes. "I will expect the stars from now on," I replied.
"Always. I'd make them shoot for you."
I realized just how much of a chance he was taking with me - entrusting a person whom he did not know with money beyond which I had ever had. I understood that he appreciated me, that he felt he still needed me, though the job was done. And so I said, "You're wrong. The first reason you came is better than all this. It is."
"Then you do want to be with me?"
"One night... I'll tell you everything, about myself and my life and who I am... and if what I say doesn't trim your stars to a flicker, I will be with you. I promise."
There was a tension between us thicker than black ice. A sexual tension beginning to blister in its lack of fulfillment, and I could see the pain of that lack on his face.
"Alright," he said, "I'll wait. There is something about you," and he touched my cheek, "something within you, something so wonderful about you, that I would wait forever for." I felt the warmth in my stomach stir at this, and I wondered just what in me attracted him - if he could sense within me that that piece which I had been granted, which he could not actually see or hear or touch.
"Let's go to my loft," he whispered.
After I carefully hid the money, we left, and he shot me up. I went down, down, down. Downhill. Downhell. Like I was back in the tomb suffering the worst day of my life. But the angel that stood over me, looked down, and asked, "Are you alright?" was not stone this time. It wasn't my imagination, either.
The next thing I knew, the rosary was pulled over my head, and the cool stone pressed into my neck. He told me it would protect me.
I stared into Patrick's eyes as he ran his hands through my black hair.
Again he sang the all too familiar tune, but this time, rather than with maniacal energy, he sang it in a loving way - like a father, like a brother, like a lover. "There's no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going. There's no knowing where we're rowing or which way the river's flowing..."
"Patrick," I whispered, "You make hell so pleasant."
"Jack," he said, "I love you."
Days came and days passed, and I kept myself relatively high every hour. I barely left Patrick's loft, and when I did, I sat in class with sunglasses on and a hat pulled down. I was lucky that there were no tests for the next two weeks. I wouldn't have even been able to cheat, I was so fucked up. And Patrick had slowly begun to say, "No. No more, Jack."
When he finally cut me off, though it took a while to catch, a healing heat that stoked in my center finally reached my head.
In that warmth, I knew everything would be okay.
I told Patrick this a few days later, as he was tending to me like a dying rose bush. "I'll be alright," I said one morning, smiling. "I promise."
"Just like that?" he asked, like I might poof! disappear.
I nodded my head. "I have never been surer of anything in my entire life."
He touched my arm, and bent as though to kiss me.
Instead, he whispered, "Thank God. I have a surprise for you."
Chapter 25
SUBLIME
He took me to a nearby pond. It was dark, but still early night, and the stars were twinkling greens and blues and whites, reflecting in the water, so that when I dipped my hand in, I caught the sky.
Patrick told me to wait there, and he disappeared off into a wooded area. That was why I sat by the pond. I had been waiting for a while, and there were few things to do besides breathe the crystal pollen, taste the cooling air, pet the sweet grass, and whisper a song to myself.
"It's ready," he eventually said from behind me, and I followed him. I could not see his brazen hair in the night, or his bright blue shirt, or his long gray slacks. In the dark, he looked like he could be anybody, and a bit of paranoia hit me then, as though I had been smoking, though I had not.
I stopped walking side-by-side with him and drifted back, until he said congenially, "You better enjoy this. If you don't, I'm going to throw radishes at you." Then I was beside him again, made confident and comforted by his humor, forgetting the times Cyrus had led me into the dark. This was brand new, I remarked, and should remind me of nothing.
"What a cruel thing to do, Patrick," and I would have winked if he could have seen me.
"Aye," he replied. "I'm a badass."
After following him not that long, I saw a glow in the distance. It was bright blue, crystalline, and pure. Then, there was another, separated just a short distance from the first. Both levitated near my height. They peeked out from between the branches like two blue eyes of an enormous velveteen panther and watched us as we neared them. What is it? I wondered.
Finally, Patrick stopped us in what seemed a clearing, and he flicked a lighter on, began lighting candles all around, creating perhaps the worst fire hazard ever known to man. But as he lit the wicks, I could see various objects around us.
There was a white blanket laid on the ground, a bottle of wine, a... piano. I stared in awe. The two glowing blues sat atop a black piano in lemonade pitchers. I strolled to one as he continued to put the place alight, and I lifted the decanter and spun it lightly like there was venom inside. When I swirled the liquid, it glowed brighter so that the syrup smoldered a bluer sapphire than the other pitcher on the other end of the piano. I stepped to the other one and swirled it, too. Now they were even.
"Ah. Ah. Ah," said Patrick. I turned to him, and he motioned to the blanket. "Thou shalt not touch that just yet."
"This is beautiful," I replied, and he said, "Damn straight it is."
He kept motioning like a song on repeat until I sat on the white blanket and discovered its smooth material for myself.
"How the hell did you get a piano out here?" I asked.
Patrick was now opening the bottle of wine, bending and twisting his body as he corkscrewed the top. "Nothing that a good five, well-built and athletic guys can't drive here and then carry through the woods ten feet at a time."
The cork came out with a pop.
"You are insane," I said
Patrick picked up something from the ground, and he smiled at me. It was a glass. He poured the wine into it, holding it by its stem so as not to warm the wine. Though he often concealed it well, this was one of the many slips that showed he was well-groomed, well-cultured. He didn't smoke before meals, either. This was not a man who had ever had to pepper his vodka.
He grinned at me. "Oh, it gets better," he said, and he handed me the glass.
He then bowed to me, his hair flopping forward, and he straightened himself, strolled to the piano like a conductor in street clothes, and he sat at the bench, back straightened to a near arch, arms firm, knuckles comfortably curled, and he struck the keys like a masseuse with a living body.
I sipped my wine, tasted the burgundy, as the notes filtered out like leaves forming a tree, and his music combined with the music of the woods - the trickle of nearby water, the clicks and clacks of trees and branches, the rustle of tiny things on the floor beside me.
The notes filed out and skidded along these things, until the very woods were what came from the piano, and the notes, rather, were the most natural things in the world. The quarters and eights hung from the branches in brilliant colors of gold and red, and as each
leaf dropped, it played its note, and then died.
It did not make sense to me why such a sublime man might want me then, or why a man who could massage such blissful notes from the inside of an instrument would need to shoot heroin and pop pills, or why a man who could fuck angels would choose the devil instead.
I watched him and his crimson hair sway between the blue to the beat of the hallowed sounds, and I watched his shirt tighten against him as his arms moved with muscles only musicians and athletes had, his hard body like stone. He was molded marble and energy, and by the end of the song his brilliant hair was drooping in front of his eyes.
He turned to me, and before I could clap or speak or even smile, he said, "And now, my friend, for something completely different." He started to play again. Only this time, the song was slow, liquid, languid. When his head bowed, it was more like he was in a dance than a race.
Like a magician waving his wand, his left arm lifted up, then even further up, no longer touching the piano, though I could see the keys there still moving, and I forgot myself, nearly dropping my wine.
His fingers wiggled, and the keys moved as though tickled, like a living puppet on invisible strings beneath his hand. His arm dropped then, plunged itself into his pants pocket, and brought out a pack of cigarettes. This pack he gently placed beside the sheets of music. Then, his right hand as well stopped lifted, and again he wiggled his fingers as though a sorcerer bringing a body to life, and the keys beneath his hand continued to play. The music never stuttered.
This right hand plunged into his right pocket, and out popped a lighter. He lit a cigarette and swiveled in his seat. The piano continued to move and play on its own behind him, and the enchanter crossed his legs, leaned his back against the piano like it was a thrown.
I had heard of this type of piano before, but I had never seen one until then. It was the kind a person could insert paper into, and it played the songs for you - made it look like a ghost was at the keys. The lengths he had to go through to get the thing out there must have been extraordinary.
