Be Safe

by Doug Weaver

  “Spread” actually consists of one of the long folding dining room tables that’s been covered with paper plates and plastic spoons, all of which are symmetrically laid out to showcase the main event: a concoction of Ramen noodles and softened macaroni that’s been mixed together while inside a large, black, heavy- duty plastic trash bag with hot tap water and generous amounts of ketchup and/or Tabasco sauce and/or salsa and/or about a quarter pound of salt and pepper and/or – depending on its availability, a whole jar of mayonnaise, and/or about a hundred thinly sliced canned hot peppers. This trash bag is somehow sealed shut and shaken by two or more said gang- bangers simply because it’s too unwieldy for one guy to handle, then emptied into a large plastic mixing bowl. The trash bag is then discarded, apparently, because it’s only plastic. There’s an essential and charming bit of willful blindness that defines “Spread”: Charity.

  The spreaders – the guys putting on the banquet – have talked themselves into believing that this offering of food is somehow a charitable sacrifice of jealously hoarded foodstuffs to be distributed to those less fortunate, even though shortages of food at both state prison, the birthplace of the ritual, all the way to Cri- Life, where it’s continued, are about as rare as paid- off BMWs tooling around the palm- lined avenues of Beverly Hills – even forgetting the most obvious fact that the food used in Spread is owned by the institution, which renders the only commodity capable of being provided charitably the good intentions of the spreaders, that and the time it’s taken to prepare and showcase it. The intentional use of the plastic trash bag in which to mix the various ingredients of the feast locates Spread on the same level as faithful reenactment of any number of historical events, like people dressing up in Pilgrim suits to share early American Thanksgiving dinner with Indians, who shoot turkeys with bows and arrows and who eschew any newfangled European devices for food preparation in favor of what’s traditionally been used by the natives. While they just as easily could have mixed the ingredients inside one of the available huge aluminum mixing bowls, a decision was made to use the plastic bag so as to retain Spread’s authentic flavor. Flickering candles help to lend Spread its ritualistic air – not to mention a definite flavor of tender camaraderie, a detail that, to the uninitiated, seems to dangle its toes into the steamy waters of Lake Intimacy, which, along with its all male quality, imbues Spread with a pretty homoerotic flavor. On good nights, there’s also several open loaves of both white and wheat bread, which is actually a nice touch, given the fact that what’s in the bowl might not be sufficient quantities of carbohydrates to ingest just before beginning a night’s sleep, or extrapolating back to the ritual’s prison heritage, a night of crazy butt fucking, something that (it’s hoped by the CDWs) would never happen inside the walls of Cri- Life.

  Since his “honesty- tinged” performance at Step Study, Rogarth has moved past the anonymous label of “that new guy” to actually being recognized and acknowledged by name. He’s bravely ventured out of his room and downstairs to the dining room for maybe a minute or two of TV news before bed, an infraction of the Jesus/Recovery- Only- kind- of- media- to- be- exposed- to,- but- being- late- at night,- and- the- house- techs- being- by- now- completely- worn- down- because- they’ve- been- herding- residents- and- cataloguing- disputes- for- twelve- plus- hours- already,- they- allow- it- to- happen, and he’s recognized by aforementioned gang- bangers, who, with an air of unmistakable solemnity and self- conscious generosity, invite him to partake of their bounty, with proffered paper plate brimming with red- tinted concoction along with a plastic spoon in outstretched hands: Hey Holmes, join us for some Spread. Almost automatically Rogarth accepts the plate of noodles, and right away realizes that this is a ritual of utmost seriousness and one that he’s not dressed for. Rogarth is wearing worn Levis with holes at the knees and a misshapen stretched out t- shirt emblazoned with a Venn diagram on the front, the areas of colorful intersection designed to remind people seeing the shirt that the humble Mix Master, when used by members of certain populations, may serve as both ornament and instrument; while all the Mexicans are dressed in perfectly pressed chinos or Bermuda shorts and skin- tight white wife beaters with images of their wives and/or girlfriends and/or saviors and/or sons and daughters all interspersed with arcane numerals and/or letters/and/or signs signifying one’s particular affiliation and number of deceased rivals, all peeking around their glistening biceps and/or neck and back muscles. Their shoes are pristine white Nikes worn over long tube socks that have been washed with a bleach- heavy mixture which suppresses even the tiniest divergence from the purest white that might soften their brightness. They’re all recently showered and generously scented – they’ve literally dressed for dinner.

  Rogarth, whose judgment has been temporarily knocked offline because of the veritable ocean of testosterone, tattoos and muscles and good will all seemingly aimed directly at him, realizes he’s accepted the plate, even though he has yet to place both the plate and what’s on it in any sort of accurate context. The idea occurs to him that rather than somehow being the object of an impossibly wonderful erotic dream, he’s just expected to eat the food on the plate, much like that one time in Bordeaux when he mistook the traditional greeting from his handsome French tour leader, the one with the rough hands and two- days’ growth, as an invitation to make out, so he opened his lips wide and stuck his tongue out mid- peck, an eyes- lightly- shut romantic swoon that Jean- Louie deflected with a practiced deftness, when he was really in the process of just saying hello.

  Even though Rogarth has rallied, though, and after making the necessary adjustments to his perception, he decides not to demur, offering an unadorned “Thanks” before seating himself between Luis O., the forty- something tattooed banger with the generous rolls of cholesterol that bulge and hang over his belted shorts, and Tony B., that absolutely dreamy I’d- do- him- in- a- fucking- heartbeat stud, who often lingers towel- less outside the showers while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. And Rogarth slowly – distractedly – lifts a spoonful of noodles/macaroni to his mouth. Tony B… I’m actually sitting next to Tony B.!, his thoughts savoring the absolute chance of it all. Rogarth has never seen Tony smile – he’s serious – “really” serious, though – not that kind of serious that some guys advertise while hulking around darkened gay bars, the guys with the huge muscles decorated with arcane- looking tattoos, tribal symbols that are supposed to contribute to some kind of a two- dimensional life of danger and/or hurt past, like white supremacist- whose- been- redeemed- because- after- beating- the- shit- out- a- defenseless- homo- he’s- decided- to- go- ahead- and- taste- a- bit- of- the- cock- and- in- the- process- has- embarked- on- some- kind- of- redeeming- progressive- path- illumuminated- by- kind- of- spiritual- light instead of what they’re really masking: an apron- clad housewife who’s spent her afternoon primping and sipping cocktails a little – or a lot too early in the day – waiting for that man o’ mine to either materialize for the first time or return home from his day selling pastel- colored shirts at Macy’s.

  ###

  Rogarth sighs while happily accepting the reality that Tony’s persona is legitimate, and he finds that he has an overwhelming urge to help Tony out of his “darkness.” Flawed? Injured? Rogarth imagines a subsequent moment of serendipity when maybe he and Tony B. will be alone – maybe out on weekend pass or something, even though Rogarth is aware of the House rules that dictate that passes must be made up of at least three residents – three’s a crowd, obviously – but he allows his imagination to go there. Maybe the staff will acquiesce to allowing a duet to venture forth together – a harmless duet of “earnest” residents – after all, they’ve shown nothing but unvarnished eagerness to enjoy a life free from drugs and all they really want to do is to take a trip to the LA County Museum of Art – all the way down Highland on the bus and down Wilshire Boulevard. It’s not like they planned for their third party to bow out – just the victims of
circumstance. How could they – or anybody – have predicted Smith’s stomach flu, which has confined him to his room, sweating and throwing up all day, which reduced the number of residents on the pass to two. And they actually did make an honest effort to recruit another member to accompany them on their outing – but to no avail. Recovery house residents are just as tribal as anybody in any population – and just as petty and mean, and weekend pass groups of three or four will sprout and grow prejudices against all others on an ad hoc basis. Just circumstances, really. They’re good boys actually – why not make an exception – just this one time? They’re responsible, aren’t they? Yes, Rogarth thinks. We are responsible members of society, me and Tony. I won’t be effusive on our private pass. I’ll be a little aloof with him – can’t seem too eager – too hungry. Don’t want to spook him. We’ll get a coffee at Coffee Bean – best to steer Tony into my sphere of influence with the little things at first. Guiding someone away from Starbucks is trickier than it seems sometimes, I mean, especially if they’re used to Starbucks, like it’s still some people’s vision of moonlight. Hard to explain what my preference is based on. Okay. If Tony insists on Starbucks, then so be it: Starbucks it will be. But hopefully he won’t object to my preference of trying Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Maybe one of their little sweet desserts with the coffee – one for each of us, of course – much too early for a Lady and the Tramp spaghetti slurping moment that ends in a happy little kiss. No – separate desserts and coffee – probably a caramel machiatto (my fave!) that will maybe awaken a childlike curiosity in Tony: “This is good, Holmes! I wish I’d known about this – what you call it? Caramel mach” – “Machiatto,” I finish for him. He’s looking at me adoringly with a broad honest smile: “I love it!” Then the museum, where I want to steer Tony right away to the Kandinsky stuff, even though it may seem horribly modern and unapproachable to him. But I’ll still be there to guide him – to elicit intelligent questions from deep inside his naïve soul. “It’s not representative, Tony. It’s beautiful, no? The shapes and their colors are just – there. Right? There’s a kind of rhythm and tempo to them, I think. You know those words, right? Rhythm and tempo? Like in music? Arnold Schoenberg really admired Kandinsky and vice- versa. Oh, Schoenberg? A composer of twelve- tone music – from early twentieth century? Never mind!”

  We’re having a great time together – I catch Tony’s expression of anxiety now and again as he steals glances at me – and I imagine a future time when we meet up on a forty- eight- hour pass – a practice that’s strictly forbidden by Cri- Life, but what you gonna do when you’re in love, right? And we get into bed together – just two really good friends (for now!) and I’m finding it hard to suppress my passion. My hand passes his crotch and there’s no objection – no shrinking – just his sweet breath on my face. With practiced deliberation bordering on solemnity, I burrow under the bedclothes and make my way to his cock, which gets hard in a flash. And I’m sucking him – tenderly at first – me imagining what’s going on in his mind. I continue for a few moments – he awkwardly fumbles to reach my hard cock too, and he’s actually caressing my boner. It’s heaven. I wedge my forearms between his thighs and push them apart slightly, then scoop his buttocks up, while, at the same time, I encourage the blankets to fall off our naked bodies. I add a bit of pressure onto his tightly closed asshole – and he squirms slightly when my forefinger crosses the threshold. His muscular legs close, forcing me out, something that I’m actually kind of relieved about. Plenty of time to explore there in the future. I’m actually glad he’s said no – not like Elmer, that guy who was paroled to his mom’s house across Avenue 43 after spending nine years in Corcoran.

  It was much the same thing I’m currently having with Tony, but I was anything but sober at the time. I’d talked Elmer into slamming a good- sized shot of speed so that I could get “there” with him. I dove right for his cock, and after a minimum of protest, Elmer’s legs opened wide, inviting me, trumpets blaring, as I made my entrance into his anal canal, which, it turned out, was a route about as untraveled as the 405 at rush hour. In about one second his ass opened to swallow my cock – and I’m sure would have had room to accommodate most of Van Nuys and Cincinnati as well. Either Elmer’s the earth mother of ex- cons and just naturally has a sense of freedom about life and sex, which allows him to banish any and all objections about penetration in the service of pleasure – or he’s spent the previous nine years taking enormous cocks into his ass, either or both of these possibilities having the ability to drain the blood from my cock and the intention from my heart. My remaining time inside Elmer’s ass was kind of like flopping around inside a huge inflatable pool resting, all bloated and moldy, on a dying front lawn of brown grass in a shabby part of town. I withdrew my flaccid dick and headed forthwith to the shower to wash away the ickiness of the experience with him.

  ###

  Rogarth really wants to comment on the food offered at Spread, but restrains himself, instead lifting spoonful after spoonful of noodles and macaroni into his mouth, knowing that a suggestion of maybe adding a side of cornichons to the meal might not be appreciated.

  With unmistakable intention, Tony B. casually leans in to Rogarth’s “space,” and lays his arm over his shoulders, then whispers into his ear: “It’s good, huh, Rogarth. You and me, Rogarth, right? To the hubs, huh?”

  Rogarth’s imagination again, right there in the dining room, takes flight, soaring up to the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, then darting to the deserted serving line with the Plexiglas guard, then performing virtuoso feats, slaloming between chair legs for the length of the room until he finds himself resting between Tony’s legs staring at his still zippered fly. He finds himself between the horns of a dilemma, whether to respond demonstrably and give in to his desire, a decision that his imagination has already constructed the consequences for: either, right there on the spot, giving Tony B. the best blowjob of his life, something that would cause a Cri- Life upheaval similar to tectonic adjustment that would place Los Angeles smack dab into the Pacific, or practicing restraint. “Yeah,” he says to Tony without turning his head.

  “You gonna be my dog, Rogarth. You’re my dog, right?”

  There’s a split second of indecision in Rogarth, which isn’t lost on Tony, who’s immediately constructed an exaggerated expression of profound disappointment on his face, a crestfallen look that Rogarth uses to construct a complete context that he can fit into. This is kabuki, Rogarth deduces. This is gangbanger kabuki, and he has a part to play.

  “Yeah,” he answers as he looks squarely into Tony B.’s eyes. “I’m your dog.”

  El Ocho is part of the Spread cohort, but he’s remained silent for the duration of Tony’s interaction with Rogarth. El Ocho smiles and nods, then helps himself to another plate of noodles.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The AIDS Clinic

  It’s Tuesday. Gallagher grips the wheel of the Cri-Life van. Sitting next to him is Shoshanna and behind her are Rogarth and Eric P. and behind them sits El Ocho, who, even though he’s one of the few fiercely heterosexual guys of the gang-banger variety at Cri-Life with HIV, he wants to make it pretty clear to everybody, both inside the van and out, that he’s not queer. His condition is closely guarded, so he never talks about it, either in Rick’s Saturday morning support group, or in larger groups where men are encouraged to speak freely about why and how often they’ve beat and/or abandoned their wives and/or kids. One thing he truly dislikes is the interest his nickname – El Ocho – has fostered among most of the gay guys at Cri-Life, who spend a lot of time speculating on what exactly the “8” refers to. Shoshanna has HIV too, which she insists she caught from using dirty needles, a factoid that hardly has the ring of truth, given her considerable girth. The skin on her arms is pretty much pristine, which betrays the fact that even under the best of circumstances, and utilizing uncommon skill at finding v
iable veins, overweight people are almost impossible to hit. Not only are the veins obscured by layers of cellulite, they’re tiny hair-like vessels that spider off, seemingly in an effort to resist scrutiny or puncture – so the Cri-Life AIDS cohort kind of doesn’t buy her story – not that anybody really cares how she got it. Once you got it, you got it. It just seems silly to lie about it. She attends the HIV support group, and she dislikes Rick as much as anybody in the facility.

  This is one of the few times when the House has agreed to let the AIDS residents drive themselves to the clinic, which has imbued this little errand with a holiday-like mien. Patients are usually driven there, dropped off and picked up after one of the more senior residents in the group calls for pick up. But Gallagher’s Completion Date has been recorded, signed and blessed by just about everybody in North Hollywood, so he’s been awarded the considerable responsibility of driving the van-full of residents himself.