by Rick R. Reed
Inside his studio apartment, he kicked off his shoes near the front door and then collapsed on his futon, which functioned as his main seating, bed, and often the dining room for his meals. He wanted nothing more tonight than to take a hot shower, put on the TV, and lose himself in the most mindless sitcoms he could find. He didn’t want to think, to strain his eyes, or to even contemplate that tomorrow morning, the sun would again rise, and he’d be on that morning L train downtown.
He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again to glance at the end table where his phone and answering machine were. The light on the machine was blinking. Normally, this signal would indicate to Tyler something positive—someone had reached out to him. Maybe Cole. Maybe one of the guys he’d given his card to in one of the bars over the weekend. The thing about that little red light was that it signaled anticipation, new prospects on the horizon.
But this evening, Tyler was so exhausted, all the flashing red made him feel was dread. He contemplated simply ignoring the answering machine until morning, but whom was he trying to kid? He could no more ignore the red light than he could if the smoke alarm suddenly went off.
He had to know.
Sighing with the weariness of an old man, he leaned across the futon and pushed the play button.
There was a message from Cole, reminding Tyler he’d promised to treat him to lunch tomorrow downtown. Cole had just gotten a job at the Marshall Fields on State Street, selling men’s suits and tomorrow would be his first day on the sales floor. He’d call Cole later and confirm. Right now, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to even eat, let alone talk to Cole, who hadn’t yet embraced the idea of a quick phone call.
The second message was a surprise. “Hello Tyler. It’s Emory Hughes. I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner. Maybe tonight even? Or sometime soon? Please return this call and let me know when you’re available.”
“Well, well, well,” Tyler sat up straighter, smiling. “What’s gotten into you? Being all Mr. Host with the Most?” Tyler laughed. The message had given him a little more energy.
He got up from the futon, crossed the room, and voila! He was in the kitchenette. He opened the refrigerator to find half a loaf of moldy bread, a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid, and some leftovers from the Orange Garden. He opened the red-and-white containers and sniffed. There was one of Kung Pao shrimp, another of Mongolian beef, and a third of white rice. All three smelled slightly off. It was no wonder. He’d ordered this food when Cole was over almost two weeks ago. He jettisoned them into the trash.
He peered again into the chilled and very empty fridge. He opened the few cupboards he had and was confronted with Cheerios, a bag of sugar, two cans of kidney beans, and a package of angel hair pasta.
Dispirited, he sat back down in the living room area and wondered about ordering in a pizza.
The phone rang.
“Tyler?” Emory’s nervousness was apparent in his soft voice.
“Hey buddy. How you doin’?”
“I’m all right, thank you.” He went silent for a few moments, and Tyler was about to say something, anything, to break the silence when Emory said, “I was wondering if you got my message.”
“Yeah, yeah, I just listened to it. It was a nice surprise…and I’d love to come over for dinner. That’s sweet of you.”
Emory cut him off. “Tonight?”
Tyler looked at the clock on his VCR. It was already going on eight o’clock. “Oh, I don’t know, man. I’m beat. I had a hell of a long day.”
Silence rose as a response. Tyler swore he could almost feel disappointment making its way through the phone lines. At last Emory said, “Okay.”
“But another time? Rain check?”
“Sure. Of course.” Another pause. “Well, I should be going.” But he didn’t go. He stayed on the line, not saying anything.
Even though everything in Tyler was telling him to stay home tonight, even if it meant eating plain pasta with Cheerios for dinner, he said, “Isn’t it awfully late?”
“Not for me,” Emory answered. “And I have stuff all ready to go. Burgers, coleslaw, even some French fries.”
Mention of the food made Tyler’s stomach growl and prompted him to ask, “Is there anything I can bring?”
“Just yourself,” Emory said, cheerful at last.
*
When Tyler got off the train, he paused in front of the Forge. The door swung open as a couple of patrons emerged into the neon-lit darkness of Granville Avenue. The bar was fairly crowded for a weeknight, the revelers lit up by electric blue and red signs advertising Old Style and Bud and the TV over the bar, which was showing some ancient porn—Boys in the Sand, maybe. There was a lot of deep male laughter, conversation, and the clinking of glasses.
The Forge looked very inviting.
He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, contemplating whether he should slip in and have a quick gin and tonic to take the edge off his fatigue and, yes, dread, at the evening ahead. He knew Emory was unlikely to have any hard liquor to offer up, so the idea of a drink was tempting.
But in the end, he pictured Emory sitting alone in his apartment. That thought made Tyler flash on a scene from an old black-and-white movie he’d seen when he’d been far too young to understand it. The Last Picture Show. The scene that came up on the interior screen of his mind was with Cloris Leachman, as the small-town Texas wife of the local high school football coach, waiting in vain for her teenage lover to show up. She was in a darkened room sitting on the bed in a white dress. The stark, shadowed image cried out loneliness and despair. He remembered how sad this simple moment was, because the audience knew the boy would never show up. And he was the only light in her love- and attention-starved life.
Go! Go! He’s waiting for you.
Tyler continued to Emory’s high-rise apartment building.
He relaxed some when Emory opened the door to him. In a pair of sweats and a red Bulls T-shirt, he appeared less crazed than he had the night Tyler ran into him at Sidetrack. In fact, he looked kind of delicious, a little thuggish, a skinhead fantasy. Tyler grinned. The fatigue vanished as he stepped around Emory and into his apartment.
He sniffed. “Something smells good.”
Emory said, “I’ve got hamburgers on the stove, sizzling away in Mother’s old cast-iron skillet. I’m cooking them in butter and Worcestershire sauce, just like she did. She called them sizzle burgers and we just loved ’em.” He eyed Tyler. “I hope you will too.”
Tyler proceeded to the couch and sat.
“Let me make sure our burgers don’t burn! Medium rare, right?”
Tyler nodded.
“I’ll grab you a beer while I’m in the kitchen, okay?”
Tyler realized how parched he was; the beer sounded like a gift.
When Emory came back holding two cans of beer, he was smiling. “I turned off the heat on the burgers. They were pretty rare, but they’re tented under foil, so they’ll continue to cook. I’ve also got coleslaw and some tater tots.”
“Oh my God, I love tater tots.”
Emory nodded. “Me too. And there’s an apple pie for dessert.”
“Did you make it?”
“Nah. I couldn’t ever compete with Mother’s apple pie. Hers was simply the best in the world, no exaggeration. She used walnuts, raisins, and a touch of maple in hers, but I don’t know what the ratios of each were. I didn’t even try. It’s just good old Dominick’s bakery. Hope that’s okay.”
“I’m sure it’s all going to be really good.”
“I hope you’re right.” Emory glanced at the unopened can of beer in Tyler’s hand. “Oh! Where are my manners? You need a glass!”
Tyler popped open the can. “No need.”
“No, no! What kind of host would I be if let you drink out of a can? Besides, beer is better when poured into a glass to release its bouquet.”
Tyler handed the can of Old Style back. “If you say so. I’m hardly a connoisseur.”
&
nbsp; Emory stood. “Me either. But I was raised right. Gimme.” He gestured for Tyler to hand him the can.
Emory disappeared into the kitchen. Tyler stood and stooped in front of an ancient hi-fi, a relic from the 1960s, he imagined. Next to it was a stack of record albums—Andy Williams, Jerry Vale, The Boston Pops. The most recent one was a collection of The Mamas and the Papas greatest hits. Doesn’t this guy listen to any music ever? These must have been his mom’s! Tyler shrugged and took The Mamas and the Papas collection out of its sleeve. He placed it on the turntable and watched it drop into place, the arm with the needle sliding over and lowering itself onto the spinning disc.
“California Dreamin’” began playing.
Emory hurried into the room, frowning. He glanced at the record player and then at Tyler. “That belongs to Mother.”
“Is it okay? I thought it would be nice to have a little music with dinner.”
Emory looked at him as though he’d suggested bringing in belly dancers and a team of performing elephants to accompany their burgers and tots. But then he shrugged and said, “Sure. Nice.”
He returned to the kitchen and came back holding aloft two mugs of beer, heavy with foam heads. “Here you go!” He set Tyler’s on the coffee table in front of him, beneath a paper towel.
Tyler leaned forward and lifted his glass. “To renewing our friendship.”
The toast pleased Emory, who smiled. He clinked his glass against Tyler’s. “Amen to that. And maybe more than friendship?”
Tyler cocked his head. “Okay. We’ll see.”
“Yes, we shall.” Emory drained half of his beer in one long gulp. He then peered at the beer in Tyler’s hand. “Drink up. You don’t want it to get warm.”
“Oh, it won’t be around long enough for that.” Tyler laughed and took a big drink. The beer tasted good, cold and bracing. But after it had gone down, Tyler licked his lips and couldn’t resist making a little face.
“Everything okay?” Emory eyed him, leaning in closer.
“Sure, it’s fine.” He paused. “Did you have a chalky aftertaste from your beer?”
Emory shook his head and allowed himself another long swallow. “Tastes fine to me.” He belched and then giggled. “Drink up. Supper’s almost ready.”
But Emory didn’t get up. He watched and waited for Tyler to drink more of his beer. “Down the hatch,” he urged, and Tyler was reminded of fraternity parties from when he was in college, when the object of drinking beer was to chug as much of the stuff as fast as possible—you know, to prove how manly one was.
The aftertaste remained, but Tyler finished the beer anyway. Emory seemed to expect it. When the glass was empty, Emory grabbed it and stood. “Refills! And I’ll get supper on the table. Gimme a couple minutes.”
Tyler watched Emory leave the room. He was glad he’d come over and hadn’t given in to his fatigue. The guy was a strange one, that much was for sure, but there was something in him that resonated with Tyler, that made him want to, if not fix, then be there for him.
He laid his head back on the couch and closed his eyes as he listened to The Mamas and the Papas sing “Do you Wanna Dance?” Tyler had always thought the song was a Bette Midler original and was surprised to hear this version. Still, it was a gorgeous rendition of a romantic song, and it relaxed him further. He smiled, rather than feared, how heavy his limbs suddenly felt, as though weighted down, and at the burning sensation just behind his eyelids. It had been a long day. He sank back into the cushions of the couch, feeling oddly at home. Beneath the music was the sound of water running in the kitchen, meat sizzling, cupboards opening and closing, and the slap of the refrigerator door shutting.
For a reason he couldn’t fathom, the moment reminded him of being in bed as a child, safe and secure, and listening to the sound of the television downstairs and his parents’ occasional laughter and conversation. He felt safe. And safer still when they would, together, mount the stairs and come to bed themselves. When they were all tucked in for the night, their big house dark, he could relax and sleep.
Tyler wondered what Emory would make of him if he asked, “Do you wanna dance?”
*
They stand, almost in a formal pose, holding each other close. Music, lush, swells up. An orchestra. And Emory begins to glide Tyler around the room. But where are they? The light is diffuse. Shadows lurk in the corners. There are no windows, only plain white walls that rise up and up until they disappear into these same queer shadows.
Mist swirls around them as they spin.
Tyler places his head on Emory’s shoulder and closes his eyes, transported, wrapped in heat and security.
*
Tyler woke to a hammer banging. Is that bang, bang, bang what’s making my head throb with pain? He turned and his head pounded and ached even more. He worried that he was about to throw up.
The worry became real, a self-fulfilling prophecy. He lifted his head a couple of inches off the hardwood and up came a yellow bile, acidic, choking him. It splashed onto the floor beneath him and Tyler could do nothing more than stare at the puddle as though it were something foreign rather than something that had emerged from his own body.
And at last, he opened his eyes, just a crack.
His vision blurred, then focused. Pale light verged on darkness, but not so dim that he couldn’t see Emory, wearing only a pair of white Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs, standing at what appeared to be a small window. He was nailing boards over the glass. The light filtering in through the cracks in the wood appeared orange as though it might be coming from a streetlamp outside.
Tyler wiped his mouth and even though it made his stomach roil anew, got up on his elbows and tried to squeak out a few words, which sounded very much to his buzzing ears like, “What the fuck?”
Emory continued to hammer the last board in place.
“What the fuck?” Tyler repeated, louder this time. Panic was rising in him like a flight of bumblebees taking wing and swarming inside his body.
Slowly, Emory turned and peered down. He smiled kindly.
This isn’t right.
Panic rose, making Tyler’s heart pound so rapidly and with such force he feared it might burst through his chest. He barely held the nausea in check. Sweat slid from his hairline into his eyes; it trickled down his spine. He tried to swallow, but there was no spit in his mouth. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
This isn’t right.
This isn’t right.
A monstrous sense of terror rose. Tyler turned and tried to get to his knees as step one to rising to his feet. But when he attempted this, he collapsed back to the floor, dizzy and panting.
My feet are bound.
His ankles were close together, the bones scraping against each other, sheathed in wrap after wrap of duct tape.
“Emory? Emory, what’s going on? What are you doing, man?”
Emory had a hammer in one hand, and it made Tyler cringe. He was grateful as Emory set it on the floor. He squatted beside Tyler, who now realized at some point Emory had removed all of Tyler’s own clothing.
Emory swiped Tyler’s forehead with the palm of his hand, wiping away the slick sheen of sweat. He put his hand to his mouth and licked. “Salty,” he pronounced. “Shh, shh now. Don’t you worry that pretty little head. Old Emory here, for once in his life, has everything under control.”
Quickly, Emory grabbed a roll of duct tape Tyler hadn’t noticed from the floor and even more quickly, wrapped a length of it around Tyler’s wrists, binding them together.
“Why? Why are you doing this? Emory! I thought we were friends.”
Emory’s face drew near, and Tyler shut his eyes and held his breath at the smell of meat issuing from Emory’s mouth when he spoke. “It’s all gonna be okay. This is for your own good. For our good. You’ll see.”
“What are you talking about?” Tyler tried to wriggle his hands free, but it only upped the pain and nausea plaguing him. He scooted back a little on his ass, away from Emory. He h
ad enough sense now to look around him.
They were in a walk-in closet. Dresses hung from hangers, some flowery prints, others made of heavier fabric, in various shades of royal blue, purple, and a deep crimson. Brocade? Hat boxes lined one shelf. Above that, a couple of suitcases and a stack of sweaters. “How is this for my own good? Where are we?”
Emory moved close again and poked Tyler playfully in the chest. “We’re in my apartment, silly. You knew that. More specifically, we’re in Mother’s closet. I’m going to drag a mattress and some bedding in here for you if you behave. And I can tell you can use a glass of water.” He touched Tyler’s lips. “They’re all dry. Yuck.”
No words came to Tyler’s muddled mind. His mouth hung open, and he could do nothing more than simply stare.
This wasn’t happening. Not really. It couldn’t be. The dream he was having earlier? The one about slow dancing with Emory? What was happening here and now was simply the result of that very pleasant dream betraying him and morphing into nightmare.
As much as Tyler tried to convince himself that where he was right now and what was occurring in this cramped and claustrophobic closet smelling sickeningly of mothballs, he couldn’t deny how the hardwood floor made his tailbone and spine ache, how his stomach roiled like the waves on Lake Michigan. The physical pain and the sickness were rude and crude reminders that this was no dream.
Tyler is keeping me prisoner?
Laughter burbled up inside, spilled out over his parched lips. Again, he tried to tell himself this wasn’t really happening. The alternative was to believe what was right before his eyes and that was simply unacceptable. Being poisoned (the fact of that just dawned on him—horrifyingly) and bound in a closet? That shit happened in novels, something by Dean Koontz, Stephen King, or maybe Jack Ketchum. Tyler’s life revolved around a stupid, dead-end job that he was too good for, getting drunk on the weekends and having sex with strangers. It was what twentysomething gay boys did in the 1990s.
“This isn’t really happening.”
Tyler thought he’d said the words only in his head, to himself. But Emory stiffened a bit at the words, cocking his head. “Silly. Of course, this is really happening. This is the beginning of our new life together.”
