The Show House

by Dan Lopez

  The shower transforms him.

  When he finishes it won’t matter what he was before stepping into the stall. It won’t matter at all that last night he submitted to leather restraints and answered to “slave”—that all it took to relax his sphincter in anticipation of your fist were a few scant weeks of goading, a dollop of grease, and a hit of alkyl nitrites. Or that later you set a video reenactment of an anonymous political prisoner before a firing squad on repeat so that you could both watch the dissident’s impassioned final speech uninterrupted while you dribbled some piss on his face. It won’t matter that you asked him if he liked it and that he said yes. Yes, sir.

  None of that matters after the shower. This morning you are two respectable gentlemen. You indulged the night before, and so what? Nobody got hurt. It took place in the privacy of your home—or in a model home, the show house, which is the same thing. You woke up. You showered. Today, this morning, nobody could look at you and draw a comparison with that other person from last night. That person was a beast, pure id.

  This person, you, wears sweaters in muted tones, peeking collared shirts with subtle geometric patterns. You have an aesthetic and that aesthetic is synonymous with anything modified by the term design or sustainable. You and him. You are the type of people who subscribe to newspapers from other cities, who purchase organic, locally sourced produce and fair trade coffee, and who believe in transportation alternatives. You support health care reform, tougher gun regulations, and amnesty for illegal immigrants. You oppose war. You do not value victory over life. You resent that family values have been consigned to a political agenda because, despite everything, you are a stalwart supporter of the family. You regularly share a table with people who disapprove of your lifestyle on religious grounds. You are tolerated in their homes, and that is enough for you. You lead a perfectly adequate existence and you don’t take up too much space.

  Except.

  Except somebody did get hurt. Many, in fact, and they will continue to get hurt, and you are the one who will do the hurting. You see, the showers accomplish nothing. This morning person doesn’t exist. He’s a mask. And something else: you enjoy hurting those people, and, unlike last night, with him, it is never consensual. You are angry, and you are not alone. A great many people are angry. A whole country of angry people shouts into the wind. But why take the next step? You’ve asked yourself this question. Why not trust in the natural progression of things, place your faith in the machinations that have accomplished everything up to this point? Why hurt your own people? The answer is simple: Because the minority lacks a critical mass and is therefore dependent on the sympathies of the majority. Because somebody must be vigilant that those sympathies never wane. And nothing rallies the masses like genocide. Last night you were a monster consumed by your work. This morning you are the righteous mechanism of that work’s fruitful implementation. You and him. A narrative of provisional acceptance is unacceptable.

  The slapping sound of wet palms brushing across a wet face brings you back. That brief interruption is enough to rally your willpower. Your knuckles will ache, but that’s nothing you haven’t overcome before. You move to the kitchen, continuing to listen.

  The faucet locks, followed by the hollow thump of the stall door releasing from its magnetic seal. A towel shushes off the rod, and as you listen to him dry off, you can almost feel the friction between the terry cloth and your own electrified skin.

  Then he’s beside you, a towel draped loosely around his waist. He picks at his ear with a cotton swab while the Virgin on his arm dances. “Yo, I asked you a question. You deaf or something?”

  “Guess so,” you say, quickly slicing a potato for an omelet. You toss it in with the peppers and the onions already in the small bowl to your left.

  “Shit,” he says, pouting in the sarcastic manner he employs when you act evasive. “Guess I can’t whisper sweet nothings in your ear then.”

  He flicks the cotton swab into the sink along with your peels. There’s no garbage can here, because officially nobody lives in this unit. You carry out all the garbage with you when you leave, as well as make the bed, wash and set the dinnerware on the table. The bath products you store in a plastic baggy and place under the sink. Occasionally, one of your coworkers will come to work after a long night and will shower in this unit. It’s understood that bath products are kept hidden here for just such an event.

  “Guess not,” you say.

  He presses into you from behind and you can feel the bulk of his flaccid penis through the towel. “That’s a real shame.”

  His arms work their way up your chest until he has you in a tight hold with his naked torso pressed against your back and his hands locked around your neck. Then he begins to massage your shoulders, which are sore from extended hours at the gym and the sustained acrobatics of intercourse with a clumsy teenager. He nibbles on your earlobe.

  “I asked why you going through all the trouble of sneaking me in and out of here every night?” His voice threatens the slightest interrogation.

  You close your eyes. “Why do you think?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he kneads your muscles until you’ve shifted some of your weight into his hands. Only then does he stop, and you’re obliged to peer back. Follow his movements. With a motion so languid that you have time to notice that the cornice above the oak cabinets needs painting—a new task for later this week—he drops the towel from his waist and tugs on his heavy, hairy testicles while teasing his puckered urethra, which peeks out from the silky sheath of his foreskin.

  He sneers. “I think it’s ’cause I got this prized Puerto Rican pinga, and it kills you that I might let some skanky-ass putos suck on it a little.”

  You turn to face him with a smile.

  He moves a bit closer, then beckons you the rest of the way with a wink. You oblige. Moaning, he relaxes into a gentle stroking rhythm. Some life slides into his penis and he allows the organ to loll back and forth between his thighs like a sunflower chasing the light. He squeezes it until it gets rigid and points straight at you from within his ample fist. When he’s certain that he has all your attention he lets his penis drop and whips his fingers through the air in an explosive crack. Then he erupts in laughter. His penis deflates with remarkable speed.

  “Coño,” he says, hopping onto the granite counter bare-assed. “You should’ve seen your face, son! All slack-jawed and shit.” He wags his tongue and taunts you with his now soft penis. “Yum, yum, yum,” he says, mocking you, laughing again. “But yo, nah, seriously, you don’t need to worry about it, papi. Okay? I got standards.”

  You return to the omelet, which, no doubt, he interprets as a method of mature restraint, and this intrigues him.

  “Or maybe it’s something else?” He squeezes between you and the counter, his naked bottom shifting to the rim of the undermounted sink. His long fingers pull the whisk from your hand and lay it beside the gas range with an elegant economy of motion. The knife is nearby. “I think you like me, papi. I think you like me so much you wanna be, like, my boyfriend.” He bats his eyelashes in an intentionally feminine appeal to your performed masculinity—that tired heterosexual rubric.

  “No boyfriends,” you say bluntly, surprising even yourself. “I tried that and it didn’t work. Monogamy is a hell for straight people.”

  You ignite the stove and set about combining the ingredients in a pan.

  He searches your face for signs of sincerity. Honestly, you’re not sure if you believe that or not, but it’s a simplifying narrative in regard to your complex situation so you stick with it. He continues to stare, and you wonder if perhaps his anus is sore at the moment, if the inevitable tears sting at present, and if he’s acutely aware of the pain.

  You flip the omelet, pleased at the browning on the underside. “I understand if you want to leave.”

  But you know he can’t. Where else would he go? Returning to the shelter is no longer an option. Besides, he’s too proud for th
at. He has no home to return to. Of course, he must know that you’ve determined that by now. No, his only options are to stay on with you or to live on the streets—perhaps he could move to the coast and sleep on the beach.

  “Damn,” he says after a minute. “I was just playing.” He thumbs his nose and hops down from the counter. Sniffling, he rolls his shoulders on the way to the refrigerator to pour a glass of orange juice. “You think I want that either? Shit, no! Too much ass and too little time for that exclusivity bullshit.”

  You nod, and over the next few minutes the two of you settle into a comfortable domestic rhythm. He pours you a glass of juice and then rearranges things on the table. His unwillingness to let the thread die out is how you know that he hopes that you’ll come around.

  “This shit works for me the way it is,” he says. “If I wanna fuck some other guy, who the fuck are you to tell me I can’t?”

  “Exactly,” you say.

  “Damn straight. We don’t have to be stifled by all that bullshit.”

  Grabbing a serrated knife from the artfully canted chock, you slice a loaf of bread and arrange the pieces on a tray. From the refrigerator he retrieves a couple pads of butter. Along with the orange juice, the butter makes the stale bagels and muffins that accompany an open house more palatable, so those supplies are always on hand.

  “That shit’s fine for some bitches, but me...” He regards you with an incriminating glare, as if monogamy had been your idea, and maybe it had. You’ve done everything to send such a signal. “Me, I got to keep my options open.”

  You ask him to pass the salt, which he does. The ground pepper, too.

  “And why would I want to be with you anyway? For all I know, you’ll go back to your boyfriend. I mean, I appreciate you letting me crash, but we’re just chilling. I’m not about to get tangled up in whatever shit you got going on at home.”

  He has an unnerving knack for extracting information, and despite your reluctance to share anything personal, he’s learned that you and your partner are considering a separation and that occasionally you stay here. Up to now, you’ve managed to satisfy his curiosity while remaining aloof, but if he inquires further, you fear what confessions may come.

  “Eat,” you say, slipping the omelet onto his plate. “You’ll need your energy today.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  “I have a surprise for you. Happy early birthday.”

  “Ah, hells yeah! Now that’s what I’m talking about, son! Getting some respect!”

  He may be about to turn legal, but he’s still a child. You roll your eyes. The option to kill him remains available, if you need it.

  A DENTED HANDICAP SIGN STRETCHES OUT OF THE asphalt in front of the squat, whitewashed building. It’s the only one of its kind, a survivor of countless bang-ups and petty vandalisms. The whole lot is cracked and uneven like a cooled lava flow and ghostly white where faded lines suggest parking spots. Three older cars cluster together in one corner. These, Thaddeus figures, must belong to the employees of the Little Sunshine Scholars Day Care and Preschool. The only other storefront is a run-down grocery at the far end of the plaza.

  He grinds the transmission into park before the Cutlass Supreme comes to a full stop. A strip mall sets the bar low. What do they want Gertie to grow up to be? The least they could do is give her a shot at something better like he and Cheryl did with... with... Steven’s name escapes him for just a second. Senior moment. The important thing, though, is that he remembers how they sacrificed so that Stevie would have a leg up. And this is the payoff? They sacrificed for this? So that Stevie could take away his granddaughter, cut him right out like you’d cut a bruise from an apple, all because of an accident (which, truth be told, wasn’t even his fault)? So that Gertie could blossom here, in a second-rate strip mall? What a joke. Last night he tried to save her life. But he doesn’t suppose that means much. Stevie’s always blamed him for everything. He’s never understood the sacrifices made, the necessary deferrals. Like a retirement plan, family is an investment to enjoy once it’s matured. Thaddeus pulls at the loose skin along his jaw. How did he end up in a position to be judged by people who leave their daughter in a strip mall? At least he and Cheryl never did that.

  Staring at the water-stained stucco, he thinks he arrived just in time. That he even got here is an accomplishment all by itself, and congratulations would be in order if he weren’t at loggerheads with the folding road map on his lap. A hell of a time for his phone to die. This map and that stoned clerk at the 7-Eleven deserve all the credit. Without them he wouldn’t be here now.

  Last night Peter mentioned something about Gertie’s day care being east of downtown off the 408. He and Steven were happy with the curriculum, he said, and felt lucky to have found a good place nearby. Peter even gave the intersection where the day care was located in that anxious way people do when attempting to conjure an image of a place out of nothing but proper nouns. At the time it meant nothing to Thaddeus, but he remembered the name.

  At least he had a direction and a name, but he was hardly out of the subdevelopment when his phone died. It wasn’t long after that he got lost. That’s when the questioning began: maybe Peter had said Colonial and Semoran. Was it half a block past Washington and Summerlin? Or maybe—and this now seemed most likely—he’d said it wasn’t close to the 408 at all. He crisscrossed the city looking for the Little Sunshine Scholars Day Care and Preschool until he ran out of change for the tolls and was forced to find a gas station and purchase an up-to-date map; the one he had, a relic from their first year in Florida, was splotchy with undeveloped areas where now existed a network of communities.

  In his haste to exit the car, he tears the map, but that hardly matters with Gertie so close.

  The torn map finds its way into the glove box. The seat belt unfastens. The door opens. All of it unfurling smoothly, automatically, because he’s focused on that one, present thought: Gertie. This is what it’s like to be alive, he thinks, to be fresh.

  Even the oppressive afternoon heat cannot wilt his determination. He feels invincible and the feeling catapults him toward the tinted glass door of the day care. Inside, the cracked asphalt gives way to soft gray carpet and a smallish reception area. Potted ferns frame a water cooler. Ergonomic playthings with chipped veneers litter the far corner, and the crisp smell of a/c mingles with a faint citrus aroma, which reminds him of visits to the pediatrician when Stevie was a baby.

  A slender receptionist with long, curly auburn hair bends over a row of file cabinets, her skirt taut over her wide hips. This is one worker I could really get behind, he thinks.

  The young woman glances at him over her shoulder and smiles. “I’ll be right with you,” she says in the honeyed lilt of the Deep South.

  He returns the smile. “Take your time.”

  Hanging from a wall in the waiting area, a framed lithograph of an elaborately etched stone vase captures his attention. Though lacking any formal training on the subject, he often ponders aesthetics out by the pool with his pipe. He spends a few moments now debating if the vase is more beautiful because of the etchings or in spite of them, ultimately resolving to ask Peter. The owner of an art gallery should be able to settle the matter definitively.

  The receptionist returns to her seat and calls him over. Even from a few feet away, he detects the unmistakable shadow of a bra beneath her light peach-colored blouse, and as with the vase, he wonders whether her breasts are more beautiful because of the brassiere or in spite of it (that’s certainly not something he’ll be asking Peter).

  “What can I do for you?”

  The first words out of his mouth must establish an immediate rapport. If he’s to see Gertie, she’ll need to trust him, but despite his best efforts, he can’t move past the bra. The shadow beneath her blouse casts a shadow over his brain. All he can think to do is wink, which has the unfortunate effect of making him look like he’s suffering from a neurological tic or a pollen allergy.

&
nbsp; She cocks an eyebrow.

  He’s going to blow this. He’s definitely going to blow it because all he can think about is how young and beautiful she is. He winks again and this time she frowns. “You okay?”

  Words fail him so he simply nods. His pits begin to sweat. Never before has he yearned so much for something small with which to break the ice, even the most banal of puns would do. He’s almost at the desk and certain that he’s failed. He’ll be found out and then Gertie will be snatched from him before he’s even had the chance to say a proper good-bye. The receptionist moves her hand along the desk and he imagines her reaching for a panic button that will bring the cops in seconds, guns blazing, handcuffs whipping through the air. I just wanted to say good-bye, he’d say, just one last good-bye. But they won’t listen. They never do. He’ll end up on his knees, beaten. Everyone will cluster around him—Stevie will appear, Cheryl. They’ll take pity on him, but it won’t mean anything to the cops. He’ll end up languishing in a prison somewhere. If he’s not shot first.

  The receptionist’s hand moves under the desk, and he nearly runs for it.

  But this is all for Gertie, he reminds himself, for her.

  That one solitary thought strikes a flint in his brain. The receptionist with the beautiful hair and the striking breasts sits two feet from him now and he doesn’t have time to second-guess. Peering directly at her, he curls his lips into a wry smile and riffs on the flash of inspiration. “The iceman cometh,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  Not the reaction he intended, but it’s something he can work with.

  He stretches his right arm to infinity and lays his left on his breast, in what he believes is a gallant pose, then takes a deep bow across the desk. “A play by Eugene O’Neill,” he explains. If he can’t think of anything to say, at least he can pretend to be smart.