They finish off the joint they’d started earlier, and Robin feels himself flooded again with a need for Scott. This time, he speaks his mind. “I want to do ... more stuff with you.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Sex stuff.”
“I don’t know.” After a silent moment Scott runs a few feet, picks up an empty beer can, and throws it into the river. It lands in the gray water with a faint splat. He finds one thing after another to throw in the water: a sliced-off stretch of tire, a chunk of asphalt, a newspaper that he crumples into a wad. The whole display is so unhinged and jittery that Robin decides to ask again.
“So you don’t think we should?”
“I said I don’t know. I don’t really know if I like it that much.”
“Um, which part don’t you like?”
“I don’t know. I mean, sometimes I like it. Better than beating off, anyway. I mean, it’s not like I do it that much.”
“You think I do? I never did it with anyone before you.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Scott says, his voice nearly whining. “Why do you always have to talk so much about everything? You’re like a girl that way.”
“You drive me crazy, Scott. One minute you’re nice and the next minute you’re an asshole. Just like Todd.”
“Shut up!” Scott shouts. “Just shut your mouth! You don’t know anything about me. And you don’t know anything about Spicer, either. Before that time his father beat him up, he used to be a really great person. He used to treat me nice, not like you, always acting like you’re better than me or something. I don’t even care if you’re doing it with him, because he’s just a totally different person now.”
If Scott’s accusations didn’t sound so untrue, Robin might feel stung by them. He might feel jealous, listening to Scott describe this special bond he once shared with Todd. Instead he’s just skeptical. He’s known Todd for most of his life, and Todd has never been nice. “Why don’t you ever tell me about what happened with you and him?” he says, lowering his voice. “You act like I know what happened, and I don’t.”
“Nothing happened.”
It is one of life’s great injustices, Robin thinks, that he doesn’t have a way into other people’s thoughts. He wishes he had ESP to take him to where he is prohibited, to see where he cannot go, to understand what hasn’t been explained. He wants to know what other people think all the time, but it’s impossible because, even if they tell you, you can’t be sure it’s true. Does anybody not lie? People lie to avoid getting in trouble, to stop other people from reacting badly, to get what they want (or not get what they don’t want), to not hurt your feelings. Even when you think that someone is being totally up front with you, in the back of your mind you still wonder if they are lying. What part of what they’re saying isn’t true?
There are more reasons to lie, Robin has come to realize, than to tell the truth. Sometimes, when people believe they’re being honest with you, you actually know better than they do, so what they’re saying turns out to be a lie anyway. You can knowingly tell someone a lie and then convince yourself it’s true. So what’s the truth, anyway? You make it up as you go along.
He’s sure Scott liked doing it with him, but Scott now says he didn’t, so either Scott is lying outright and knows it, or he thinks he’s telling Robin the truth and nothing Robin says to him will persuade him otherwise. Neither of those possibilities offer much hope in this moment.
Darkness and cold settle early upon them. They are arguing at the top of the stairs to the Number 1 train—neither of them sure exactly what to do next—when a pale, skinny guy with wild eyes approaches them. He’s more heavily dressed then they are, but his body shivers feverishly. He says furtively, “Ludes?”
Robin says, “No,” not exactly sure what kind of a drug a lude is—but Scott, in the same breath, says, “Maybe.”
The guy waves Scott into a doorway. Robin tries to protest but follows a few steps away. “Just be cool,” Scott says, looking back over his shoulder.
The guy pulls out a Sucrets box full of little white pills, each with a line cut down its diameter. “This isn’t real,” Scott says, fingering one. “It’s supposed to have 714 on it.”
Robin is surprised by Scott’s knowledge, but he keeps quiet, narrowing his eyes at the dealer, pretending he’s also suspicious about the pill’s quality.
“They’re Mexican,” the guy says. “Very strong.”
The guy wants ten dollars. Robin reluctantly hands over his last couple of bucks to Scott, and between them, they scrape up six, which turns out to be enough. Watching their last money disappear into the guy’s pocket, Robin blurts out nervously, “Wait. We shouldn’t do this. How are we going to get home?”
“We won’t care after we split this,” Scott says.
Robin asks the dealer, “What happens to you when you take it?”
“Oh, man, I don’t take this shit. I just sell it—then I buy the good stuff.”
As the guy walks away, Robin sees that he’s just a teenager, though his bedraggled appearance made him look much older.
“The good stuff—I bet he was talking about acid,” Robin says.
“He was a junkie,” Scott says.
“Exactly.”
Scott laughs. “Exactly,” he mimics. “Don’t you know the difference between a junkie and an acid head?”
Robin looks away, embarrassed. “So how do you know so much, anyway?”
Scott steps into Seventh Avenue as the light turns green. “You know what your problem is, Robin? You never had an older brother. You got no one to show you anything about the world.” He darts into the little park at Sheridan Square.
Robin runs to catch up with him. “I know plenty about the world.”
“Yeah, but Danny—he was the one who showed me everything.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah, he was cool. He was a lot older than me. Like ten years.” Scott sits on a park bench, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Robin steps closer, curious. He asks tentatively, “He died, right?”
“Yeah, like two years ago. He had a heart attack. He was only nineteen. That’s why my mother went nuts.”
“You can’t get a heart attack when you’re nineteen!” Scott shoots him a look, daring him to doubt this story. Robin quickly adds, “I mean, I’ve never heard of that.”
“He took a punch in a bar fight, supposedly a big, mother-fucking punch,” Scott says, shaking his head as if unable to make sense of it. “A blow to the chest—that’s what they told me. It was a freak thing.”
“Maybe his heart was weak,” Robin offers.
Scott shrugs. “Maybe. What do I know? He used to do a lot of drugs. Too many of these.”
Scott snaps the Quaalude along its seam, pops half in his mouth, pinches his nose and swallows. He offers the other half to Robin, but Robin waves it away. Scott is doing his best to act nonchalant about Danny’s death, but two years doesn’t seem long enough for the hurt to go away. Robin wonders if after Danny took that blow to the chest he was hospitalized for a while, like Jackson; he wonders if Scott visited every day or if he avoided it like Robin has. He’s amazed that Scott has spoken of this at all, and he wants to ask him more about it, but Scott is suddenly on his feet again.
“I got an idea,” Scott says. “Let’s just ask someone for bread.”
“You mean beg?” Robin takes a look around. Who would they ask? The only other people in Sheridan Square are a couple of old bums and a few homos.
“All we need is a few bucks for some food and the bus, right?”
“You shouldn’t have bought that lude.”
Scott again offers him the remaining half, but when Robin again refuses, he swallows it as well.
“All right,” Robin says, heaving a sigh. “Let’s get some money. If you’re going to have a heart attack, we better do it fast.”
The guy’s apartment is dark and run-down and curiously empty—“It’s mostly
a weekend place,” he tells them as they enter. Thick leaves of paint peel from the kitchen walls; a cupboard door that won’t shut reveals only bare shelves behind it; the toilet, in a tiny closet at one end of the kitchen, hisses without stopping. A shower stall, dingy curtain exposed, stands next to it. The living room walls are bare. A chenille couch, a cracked glass coffee table, a lightbulb glowing green under a lampshade scarred with cigarette burns.
Robin hadn’t really believed anyone would give them money, but this guy was more than willing, as long as they came here, to his apartment. He was clean and dressed well enough to seem harmless, and he lived only a couple of blocks away. They agreed without consulting each other, just followed along, listening to him tell a sort-of-funny story about an elderly couple arguing on the subway.
His name is Vincent. Late twenties, Robin guesses. Italian or Greek—a thick, low hairline, a prominent forehead, a long face and wide chin. He’s not quite handsome: his eyes are deeply set, his skin sallow. He got them stoned almost as soon as they walked in the door, and now he’s playing classical music and serving Pepsi. Scott is about to drop off to sleep on the couch, and Robin is worried that it’s going to be hard to get out of here. Why did he trust this guy? Because it was cold out, and he was worried that Scott was spacing out from the lude.
Vincent walks over to Scott and pushes his shoulder. He waves the pot pipe in front of Scott’s face and whispers, “Scott, we saved some for you.”
Robin giggles. “So then we ran across the highway and left those guys in the dust,” he says. He had begun this story a while ago and has just remembered to finish it. The pot is either stronger than he’s used to or it’s laced with something. The numbness is disconcerting.
“So you’re wanted criminals in New Jersey. For assaulting a cop car with a milkshake.”
“We’re not wanted. ” Robin takes the pipe from Vincent and sucks in harder.
“Sure you’re wanted,” Vincent says. He lays a hand on Robin’s shoulder, lets it drop down his back. “I want you.”
Smoke explodes from Robin’s throat, his chest constricting. He steps away from Vincent’s touch. “I hope Scott wakes up soon. We gotta get going. Do you mind giving me that money now?”
Vincent walks into another room. “This way.” Robin moves toward his voice tentatively. “The view from over here is spectacular,” Vincent says.
Robin steps into the doorway. Vincent is sitting on the edge of a big, unmade bed. His gaze is fixed out a bank of windows at the deep blue night sky, orange lights glowing all the way down Seventh Avenue to the Twin Towers. The entire view is repeated in a mirror above the bed. He crooks his finger, beckoning. Robin takes another step in.
Vincent pulls a wallet out of his back pocket, lays it on the bed, and pats it twice. Robin hesitates, waiting for some other invitation, but Vincent remains transfixed on the view. After a moment Robin picks up the wallet and opens it. There’s about sixty dollars inside, all in tens and twenties. He pulls out a ten.
Vincent’s hand slaps down on top of his. “Hey!” he yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Robin drops the wallet and the money. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I could take—actually, five bucks would be enough.”
“Are you trying to steal from me?”
“No, you said—” He cuts himself off, uncertain what has just happened. Vincent grabs Robin under each arm and holds him in place. The tightness of his grip is a shock; he is unable to move. “I’m sorry. Really.”
Vincent leans his face close enough for Robin to smell his breath, which has a sour tinge to it. “I guess I’ll believe you. You’re young, and you probably don’t know any better. You just haven’t learned your manners yet. I’m doing you a favor and you seem very unappreciative.” He squeezes his fingertips into Robin’s rib cage.
“No, I’m very appreciative,” Robin says. “I’m just stoned. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Besides, you’re not in a rush, are you, Robin? We hardly even got to know each other.”
Vincent loosens his grasp and runs his hands firmly along Robin’s back. He hooks his thumbs into the waist of Robin’s jeans. Robin thinks of fleeing, but Scott remains sleeping in the next room, most likely still unwakable. He knows he couldn’t get them both out of here quickly. Vincent moves one of his hands to his own zipper and tugs it down. He fumbles inside the crotch of his jeans like he’s fishing for something at the bottom of an aquarium; his fingers emerge, wrapped around an already swollen penis. Robin looks and then looks away. Vincent is bigger down there than anyone he’s seen before. “You’ve done this before, right, Robin?”
“I guess so.”
Vincent grabs one of Robin’s hands and moves it onto his cock. It feels hot and damp; he tries to pull away, but Vincent won’t let him. With his other hand he is shuffling his pants down. “Why don’t you do the same?”
“I don’t want to,” Robins says quietly.
“Don’t be so shy,” Vincent says. His voice is no longer angry, but Robin is still afraid. He unclasps his jeans, pulls down the zipper. Vincent tugs them down.
“Take off your shoes and pants,” Vincent commands.
Robin follows his orders, first relieved to be free of Vincent’s touch, and then stupefied to find himself standing in his underwear and socks while Vincent strokes himself. What if Scott wakes up and sees him like this? He couldn’t explain himself.
“Can we close the door?”
“Leave it open,” Vincent says firmly. “If Scott wakes up, he can join us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Robin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what he wants. Maybe Scott will wake up and help him get the fuck out of here. “Sit over here,” Vincent commands. Robin lets his body be swept onto Vincent’s lap, neither helping nor hindering him. His legs straddle Vincent’s. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Vincent’s face.
The penis is like a warm roll under his ass. Vincent slides back and forth and Robin remembers all those “Here we go on the Bumpity Road” games from years ago, getting passed from aunt to uncle, from lap to lap. He is suddenly very sad, ready to cry.
Vincent squeezes some goo from a tube, reaches underneath Robin and wipes it along his crack. Robin bucks up. “That’s cold!” he protests, but Vincent just shushes him and wipes the rest of the lubricant on Robin’s dick. Robin pushes away from him, wanting at least for Vincent’s hand to stop making him hard, but Vincent does not let up. He is petrified at the idea that Vincent, sliding beneath him, is going to try to stick it up his butt. He can feel the head prodding his asshole. He opens his eyes and says, “Let’s stop.” Vincent pulls the head away from his hole but keeps grinding, sliding back and forth, and Robin can tell from Vincent’s eyes, so transfixed on him, that there will be no stopping until Vincent comes.
Vincent grinds away, his breath getting heavier, his fingers pressing deeper into Robin’s ribs. His face reminds Robin of the guy at the urinal this morning, lost in his own world, which reminds him again of Scott on the couch. Robin tries to will his erection away but the sensations take over until he finally stops squirming and just lets Vincent finish him off. Ploop, onto Vincent’s shirt.
Vincent groans, “Oh, yeah, baby,” and slams up from his hips. Again, then again. Robin winces as a jet of stickiness hits his asshole and balls. Vincent slides it around his thighs, the sound increasingly gummy, their flesh adhering to each other. Vincent’s pubic hair is covered in milky foam.
“Do you have a towel?” Robin asks. He looks back to the doorway, afraid Scott is standing there.
Vincent traces his fingers along Robin’s face. “You’re one hot number—you know that? You got me off so fast. You got so into it.”
Robin feels his insides clench in confusion. Maybe he was into it and only trying to convince himself otherwise. Maybe Vincent saw something in his expression or body language. He shouldn’t have taken his pants off; he shouldn’t have let himself come. He pulls on his cloth
es and hurries past the couch, where Scott is still zonked out.
In the mirror over the kitchen sink, he sees a zombie face—tense, deadened, lost—that he hardly recognizes as his own. He splashes cold water on his forehead and eyes and scrubs his hands with a cracked chip of soap.
Vincent’s face appears in the mirror; he places one hand on Robin’s neck, stroking his hair, and stuffs the other in his back pocket. “You feel good?”
“Yeah, sure,” Robin says, squirming away. “I’m just worried about Scott.”
“He’s your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know.” Robin avoids Vincent’s stare. How is he going to get them out of here?
“We don’t have to tell him about us. We don’t have to tell anyone.”
“Sure.”
“I like you.”
“Thank you. I mean, I like you, too.” The longer this gets dragged out, the dirtier he feels. “So what about the money?”
Vincent pats his ass. “Right there.”
Robin pulls two ten dollar bills from his back pocket. He hurries past Vincent to the couch where Scott lies, caught in a vivid dream, his eyes dancing under his lids. Spit hangs from the corner of his lips.
He repeats Scott’s name over and over, shaking him forcefully. “We got the money. We’re going.” He’s sure he cannot keep himself from crying if Scott doesn’t wake up.
At last Scott’s eyes open, though he doesn’t respond or even seem to comprehend where they are.
“What time is it?” Scott mumbles.
“Time to send you guys back into the world.” This is Vincent, carrying two glasses of Pepsi. He stands above them, his crotch at Robin’s eye level. Robin turns away, disgusted. Vincent’s fly is only partially zipped.
The World of Normal Boys Page 28
