The Show House

by Dan Lopez

  Her first thought is earthquake despite the fact that Central Florida doesn’t experience earthquakes. She drops the nozzle and the weed killer. The nest can wait. Her instinct is to get to low ground, to find shelter, but with the shaking intensifying and a howl filling her ears, she no longer trusts her legs to move from rung to rung. Everything is wet and her balance falters. She grasps for the nearest handhold, finding purchase on the lower track of the shutters—right on top of the carcass of the fallen sentry. The stinger pierces her palm. Pain blossoms out from the puncture, throbbing its way up her arm. The physical process takes a fraction of a second, but her consciousness lags, stretching the event. She stares at her arm, as if watching the wave of pain approaching. When at last it registers, she yelps.

  The ladder stops shaking. Miraculously, she doesn’t fall.

  “Careful where you’re dropping shit!” Alex yells up at her. “You almost hit me in the fucking head with the vacuum cleaner.”

  In a flash, the sequence of events rights itself. There is no earthquake. There is no howling. There’s only Alex.

  “Yo, what you doing up there anyway?”

  “What am I—” She scurries down the ladder. Skipping the final rungs, she leaps to the concrete patio slab, nearly landing on him, but Alex slides out of the way just in time. “You have got to be kidding me!”

  She kicks at his shin, wanting to punch him, but her hand stiffens around a quickly forming welt. Flexing the fingers sends her into a paroxysm of tears. Cortisone, she thinks. Antihistamines. Epinephrine in the case of severe allergic reaction.

  “Yo, damn, Lails, chill the fuck out! That hurts.”

  She thrusts her hand in his face. “I got stung by a goddamn wasp because of you!”

  The swelling smoothes the lines of her palm, and for a brief moment the venom rejuvenates her skin, returning it to an earlier, teenage appearance. But the moment doesn’t linger, tilting instead into the grotesque. In the rain, her hand looks waterlogged, puffy, and diseased.

  “Gross!” He pushes her hand away. “That looks sick. Get it out of my face.”

  “Where the fuck have you been all day, huh? I’ve been texting you since this morning.”

  He shrugs, then finding nothing to do with his arms, he gathers up the vacuum to push it out of the rain. He moves slowly, his arms and legs uncoordinated, his eyes bloodshot. He’s stoned, she thinks. The pharmacology of weed comes to mind, an inhibitor, a blocker of emotional gravitas. To a certain degree it’s out of his control.

  “Answer me!” she shouts, hoping to pierce the fog in his head.

  “I don’t know. Out, or whatever.”

  With her good hand she brushes back her hair, which frizzes in the humidity. The rain does not appear to bother Alex, his purple tank top stretching under the weight of the saturating fabric.

  “How do you not know where you were?”

  “My phone died. Sorry, damn. I lost track of time.”

  “Oh, you lost track of time,” she scoffs. “I guess that’s okay then! I just had to climb the ladder myself and get stung by a wasp because you ‘lost track of time.’”

  “Do you want, like, a Band-Aid or something?”

  “I want you to answer my question, Alex.”

  “I’m here now. What’s the big deal? It’s not like this punk-ass storm is gonna do nothing anyway.”

  “You should’ve been doing this! That’s the point!”

  “You’re pissed because I didn’t get stung by a wasp? Damn, that’s cold.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  He rolls his eyes and brushes his tongue rapidly back and forth across his lower lip. The tattoo on his arm twitches—the stupid tattoo that nearly gave Esther a heart attack when she saw it for the first time. “You’re being a hella bitch right now—Mom!”

  Her eyes narrow into slits. The pharmacy, the wasp—all she wanted was a quiet day to herself.

  “You know what? You can take that attitude and get the fuck out of my house!” Her palm throbs as she says it, underscoring a different venom surging through her body.

  “Dude, chill out. I’m only playing.”

  “I’m not. You couldn’t be bothered to come home all day anyway—”

  “I told you I didn’t hear my phone!”

  But she’s past the edge. She’s committed now. Alex may have inherited his mother’s quick temper, but Laila inherited something strong, too: their father’s stubbornness. Seventeen years of animosity peaks her blood pressure. The bitter taste of bile fills her throat. The first telling shine of a massive migraine flares behind her closed eyes. “There’s the door,” she says in a quiet voice that builds. “My door that I pay for. Walk your inconsiderate ass out it now—”

  “And go where, huh?”

  “You wanna act like a grown-ass man, all big and tough, doesn’t give a fuck about anybody but himself? Well, fine. Here’s your chance. Because you know what? You’re not my responsibility. I don’t have any kids!”

  Alex balls his hands into fists, cracking each knuckle in succession under the broad pads of his thumbs. He puffs his chest to approximate the convexity his slim build lacks and snorts. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be? All right.” He stares her down, drawing on his height advantage. “I didn’t wanna be here anyway. I was doing you a favor so you wouldn’t be alone or shit tonight. You Gorton’s-fisherman-looking bitch—”

  She slaps him with her good hand. “I don’t need any favors from an arrogant little boy.”

  “Fuck you!”

  He kicks the vacuum into the patio screen, ripping it, and walks right through the house and to the open front door and out into the storm.

  For a long time, she doesn’t move. Her vision blurs and her neck sweats. Her skin feels clammy. Adrenaline courses through her body and she contracts her muscles to try to control it. The rain helps. Its heavy bombardment ebbs to a steady patter splashing against her slicker.

  Calm, she finds herself alone in the indigo-and-gray night.

  Alone in the rain.

  And the shutters still need securing.

  “Fuck.”

  YOU RECOGNIZE HIM AT ONCE.

  At Independent Bar he introduced himself as Alex, and you remember that he prefers vodka and cranberry. You remember because you thought that one day you might see him again and that the knowledge would be useful then; of course, you never expected to see him here, today, so you watch with urgency as he makes his way from the front door to the intake desk, where you sit arranging a row of marbled erasers and sharpened pencils.

  Trailing from the waistband of his tight jeans is a purple tank top, cut in the chemise fashion popular with his generation. When dry, it probably billows around him like a sail off the wind; wet, however, it creates a slick of rainwater on the gray carpet. Flecks of azalea, bougainvillea, and mulch speckle his otherwise bare torso in a way that leaves you wondering if perhaps he didn’t launch his lithe body into a well-manicured hedge to escape the weather. He may have. Feeder bands have been cycling over the shelter for hours now, heralding Hurricane Natalie’s westward track in from the Caribbean coast. The eye will pass somewhere along the I-4 corridor later this evening, but until it does you must endure the raging caprices of its seemingly deliberate slow jog.

  You assume he caught the brunt of the last pass before reaching the shelter because every inch of him is sopping, and what initially appeared to be a steady drip is actually a stream originating from his head and traversing his sinewy back before discharging through the hem of his tank top.

  None of this, however, affects his slow amble toward the desk. He approaches, taking the time to greet the handful of residents in the shelter tonight individually with a wave, a wink, or a wet hug and a kiss. To your knowledge, he has never been inside this building before, yet he commands the space with a familiarity usually sprung either from antipathy, affinity, or the intersection of the two. It’s likely he knows everyone from the clubs, and that complicates your design.
You prefer your victims to be unattached, loners—certainly at a remove from you and your sphere of influence.

  By the time he saunters up to you at the desk, he’s already tread across the kitchen’s stained linoleum, navigating the habitually sticky spots unceremoniously, as well as perched atop the tattered arm of the maroon couch in the television corner for a short chat with one of the shier residents. He’s taller than you remember and he stares you directly in the eye.

  Immediately, he breaches the improbable authority heaped upon the old aluminum desk by planting his palms on the speckled wood veneer, curling his delicate fingers over the lip, and hiking his torso across the desktop. “Hola,” he says, affecting a southern drawl. “Whatchu gettin’ into?”

  He resembles nothing more than a skeletal cantilever, propped up by elbows bowing above a trunk of thick veins, but before anything, however, you need to know if he remembers you.

  He brushes a tangle of wet hair from his face with an intimate, effeminate touch that reveals thin eyebrows arched above a pair of eyes light brown in color, bordering on amber. “I’m not homeless,” he says, anticipating your first question. “Let’s get that straight.”

  It’s both tenacious and hopeless—the hallmarks of a last resort—his coming here, enduring winds and slashing rain to seek shelter within these cinder block walls buttressed, as they are, by generations of cast-off furniture. The roof leaks after an afternoon thundershower, let alone at the height of a tropical system. It’s not at all certain that the building will survive the night, and for a moment you allow yourself to feel a bond with this familiar boy and his reckless ego. You slip him a smile.

  He smirks.

  Separating the work from the individual has become increasingly difficult. You don’t come naturally to this type of work. There’s no sense in pretending otherwise. The calculated coldness it demands wears on you, and you fear whatever splintered bulkhead remains after two and a half years of breakneck progress may breach in his presence. But almost immediately his hair falls back, obscuring his eyes, and your anxiety recedes. You see him for what he truly is: an entitled faggot—just like all the others—unwilling to help himself. A body better utilized as an example to others.

  “I got a home,” he says, his voice cracking. “I just need a place to crash tonight.”

  They all say this in one way or another, and the predictability of this statement—along with the desperate insistence on some minimal level of normalcy it conveys—allows you to marshal the resolve to continue.

  You hand him some forms and a pencil. “These are for our records. Fill them out.”

  You enumerate the rules of the shelter and explain that certain things will be expected of him; chief among these are daily chores and a strict adherence to the curfew. All residents must agree to these provisions, you tell him—matching his gaze—in writing before they are allowed to stay. The rules serve to promote the betterment of the space as a whole and, in turn, the community of residents and staff. Together you help the residents help themselves.

  Pointing at the forms, you assure him that his information is confidential.

  He shifts positions so that his hip rests against the desktop, then he dries his hands—large, a small callus below the thumb, and free of any hair—as best he can with the moist shirt before grabbing the forms with a sigh. He scans the pages. After a moment, he dismisses them.

  “Look, I just need a place to crash tonight.” He emphasizes by tapping the desk.

  You nod, adding: “Three months is the limit.”

  “What did I just say?”

  Dangling from his small brown nipple is a stainless steel hoop. The lip ring you remember appears to have migrated to his chest. It’s an improvement, and hiding your hand beneath the level of the desk so that he can’t see, you press your fingers together, recalling the subtle friction of jewelry sliding through a pocket of flesh.

  You’ve felt the sensation hundreds of times, and the memory of it returns with little effort. The nipple, you recall, does a commendable job accommodating lateral movements, but fails entirely when the stress is applied in a perpendicular direction away from the body. It provides resistance in the form of something tough and unaccommodating, like tugging a fork through gristle, and the memory elicits a ghost of a smile from you as you recall the human body’s eternal ability to teach you about limitations. For instance, you don’t fully appreciate the nipple’s pliability until the moment just before the jewelry tears free.

  “You still need to fill out the forms,” you say, signaling him to take a seat. “Just in case.”

  “I’m telling you I won’t need it.” Smiling, he straddles the aluminum chair. All the muted browns and sterile grays of the space unfold behind him. There’s a mincing theatricality to the place and its residents, and by scooting his chair so that the room lies over his shoulder, he instinctively separates himself from it as if to suggest a tired tableau that may have once amused him but which no longer does.

  Leaning forward, he winks. “Ain’t you heard from these bitches? I’m the luckiest motherfucker around.”

  That may be true if, in fact, he has a home. Those with any other place to go have gone there to ride out the storm. The ones left are the most desperate. You yourself should be at home.

  “Fill out the forms.”

  “Ooh, look at her,” he says, dismissing you with a moue. “What’s the matter, papi, got your panties in a twist or something?”

  You say nothing, and a moment later he draws a bead on you with a long finger.

  “I remember you,” he says, biting his thumb. “Don’t look so surprised. I never forget nothing.”

  Perhaps, he thinks he can charm you with his bravado. He wouldn’t be the first.

  Asher and the dozens before possessed a similar confidence, but in one way or another they all failed to go beyond the attitude and embody real change. They lacked the will to strip away everything—their entitlement, their families, their very identities as tolerated members in a failed social order—to strip it all away in service to something larger. They all failed, so you made examples of them. There’s no reason this one should be any different. Yet you sense a restrained violence in him that you’ve rarely encountered. You remember it from your first meeting at Independent Bar, and, frankly, you find it highly erotic. It’s that kinship that you acknowledge now with a slow nod.

  Amused, he licks his lips.

  “Shit, did I just blow up your spot? Yo, I’m sorry, son.” He holds up his hands in mock chagrin. “I wasn’t trying to tell everyone how you was trolling the club.” He says this last part loudly, then laughs, but even his laughter contains a tinge of forced spontaneity, a terse, lonely hiss, and hearing it you can’t help but feel the tiniest bit of sorrow for him and his situation.

  But you maintain your silence. He’ll think that by recognizing you he’s garnered a measure of control over you and the shelter, and, no doubt, he’ll seek to exploit it. Allow him the fantasy. You can use it to your own advantage.

  Reaching for your hand, he says, “I’m just playing, papi. Damn, don’t be so serious.”

  Squeeze the offered hand until he winces.

  It takes only a moment for him to fix his face into a forced smile and squeeze back.

  He’s strong, but you’re stronger, and though you can feel the bones in his hands fold over one another and compress in what must be excruciating pain, he refuses to pull away or flinch.

  “You know I was just playing, right?”

  “Sure,” you say, smiling. “But don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”

  At last he flinches and draws back his hand. He massages it as he speaks. “I know you’re lying.”

  For the second time in his presence you’re speechless.

  He flares his nostrils and the dusting of hair on his arms stands straight up. He flicks the hoop in his nipple before leaning over close to you. “Know how I know?” Not waiting for your answer, he continues. “’Cause I�
�m a stud and everyone wants to fuck me. That’s how I know. And you do, too, Alex.” He grins. “Oh, yeah. I remember your name, papi.” He bends the corner of the form, then leans back far enough so that you can see the full mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’s the same as mine. You told me at I-Bar. I told you I don’t forget nothing.”

  To your left lies a medical supply cabinet. Any prescriptions the residents have must be kept under lock and key, to be handed out by a staff member only. It’s one of the rules, and because you need a distraction right now to derail his ego, you stand and inventory the contents, making bullshit notations in the log.

  “Not only do I know you remember me, but I know what you’re thinking right now, too.” Springing to his feet, he wipes the back of his hand across his wet brow. “You’re thinking: Oh, he’s so hot I just wanna bean him right here.” He crouches over the chair and humps the backrest, smacking it with an open palm. “Yeah, you just wanna drive it into me again and again and again!”

  Water flies from his sinewy body like from a sprinkler as he ravages the aluminum, grinding its already dented frame further into the intake desk with each successive thrust. Despite yourself, you marvel at the smooth curves of his body, so young and so full of potential, and you feel that old blindness again work its way into you, softening you up.

  “Ay, papi, yeah, that feels sooo fucking good! Give it to me hard.” He’s screaming now, and the handful of residents in the building tonight stare slack-jawed as he grinds and twists and pantomimes any number of sex acts with such theatricality that you seriously wonder if he’s ever had sex at all.

  When he’s satisfied, he sits down with a heaving laugh, breaking alternately to cough or to snap his fingers through the air in a series of explosive cracks.

  “Are you finished?” you ask.

  He smirks. “Didn’t know I could read minds, did you? I got lots of secrets you can learn, but you’re scared to ’cause I’m here”—he spreads his arms in disgust, vaguely encompassing everything from the dirty lavender walls to the peeling tint on the windows—“but I’m not some strung-out loser. Okay, papi?” Leaning close, he bites the tip of his tongue and sneers. “I’m just a lucky motherfucker who needs a dry place to crash. So don’t feel bad about wanting me.”