by Marcus Lopes
Music spilled out onto the street from the bars and night clubs and restaurants, intertwined with laughter and animated voices of those who were feeling happy — antagonizing Malachi’s already fragile state of mind and wiping the smile off his face. Malachi was caught up, still, in a disabling tumult that he could not shake and that he was not sure he could survive. Malachi had, at Shane’s prompting and rather incessant nagging, agreed to participate in this night of drink and dance, but Malachi was sceptical of Shane’s assurance that it would, if only temporarily, remove any trace of Cole Malcolm and Zach Brennan. But it all still lingered — the afternoon of passionate lovemaking with Zach, Cole’s tender kisses and penetrating blue eyes — and, with all of this weighing heavy on Malachi’s heart, Malachi wanted to flee, return to Claredon, hole himself up in his condo until the wave of grief galvanizing his body had receded. Shane was right, there was nothing more Malachi could do about Zach, but it was hard for Malachi to let go when they had really just found each other. And Cole… Malachi wasn’t sure what to do there, or what he felt anymore. As much as Malachi wanted to deny it, he did feel something between him and Cole the night they were together, a spark, tinder ready to ignite. “Sex could not possibly be that right without some type of connectedness,” Malachi thought. Perhaps Malachi needed to devise a plan to deal with Cole Malcolm, find a way to “hook” Cole, or was Malachi searching for a way to flush Cole out of his system, like an exorcism? Whatever it was that Malachi needed to do, he was now angry with himself for believing that he was even capable of such careful contrivance.
Malachi slowed his pace, watching the distance grow between him and Shane. Shane laughed with his long-time friend Cory, and Eric, Cory’s temperamental boyfriend. Malachi had the feeling that Cory did not really like him and that Cory resented him for tagging along, but did not know why. Cory liked to talk past Malachi, looking at Shane and Eric. Cory also avoided direct eye contact with Malachi. Eric seemed to be aware of this and would smile faintly at Malachi from time to time. Was Cory jealous of Malachi’s friendship with Shane? Malachi occasionally thought so, but that just seemed silly. Malachi could not recall having done something to offend Cory, and finally assessed that the dislike had to be more innate, inborn — the type of “hate” carried so easily from one generation to the next — wounds handed down with the rest of the inheritance and kept active in the heart and mind. There were times when Cory did look at Malachi — Cory’s wide-apart green eyes burning, it seemed, with the desire to strike down Malachi. Or better yet, wipe Malachi out, as if Malachi were some sort of menace. “Let it go,” Malachi said to himself, and stopped and read a poster on a lamp pole about an art show, not really reading the poster in detail but scanning it quickly. Malachi noticed Cory and Eric holding hands as they joined the long line of people waiting to be let in to Urbane.
Shane made his way towards Malachi. When they were standing side by side, Shane wrapped his arm around Malachi’s neck and said, “You okay?”
“I’m not up for this,” Malachi said, his gaze focused on the sidewalk.
Shane said, “Sure you are,” and removed his arm from around Malachi. Shane touched his hand to the centre of Malachi’s back, and Malachi took a step forward. “Get inside, have a drink, and you’ll be fine.”
Malachi did not feel fine. Shane was trying to comfort Malachi, but no amount of coddling was going to lift Malachi’s spirits. Malachi had already decided that this was not where he wanted to be. It was also “late” for Malachi, a little past ten. Even on a Saturday night, Malachi was usually crawling into bed at this time, settling in to read a chapter of one of the many books on writing he kept next to his bed. Despite the success of his own writing career, Malachi still needed to be reminded of the little tricks he could use when he did not feel like writing, when he felt uninspired. Malachi wanted to be curled up with Dorothea Brande or Julia Cameron instead of standing in line to get in to Urbane, the newest gay bar that everyone was flocking to. There were a few people between them and Eric and Cory as the line moved slowly ahead. Malachi stared blankly at the full black mane of the guy with broad shoulders standing in front of him. As Malachi took a step forward, he stepped on the back of the guy’s right shoe, and the guy turned around, his face austere, eyebrows scrunched, and then the guy’s expression immediately relaxed. It was the black-haired beauty Malachi had waved at earlier.
Malachi said, “Sorry,” and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Chad Peterson,” he said and extended his hand. Chad was wearing a white T-shirt now.
“Malachi Bishop.” Malachi unclasped his hands and accepted Chad’s firm handshake, which lasted a little longer than what would be considered normal between strangers. When they let go, Malachi pointed to his left and said, “And this is Shane —”
“Hi,” Shane said, but he and Chad did not shake hands.
“We’re just here for the weekend,” Chad said, and looked quickly behind him to see if the line had moved any. It had, and Chad took a couple of steps backwards. “Drove in from London last night, a stag for a friend who’s getting married.” Chad looked at Shane, who seemed completely uninterested, and then at Malachi. “Are you from here?”
“No,” Malachi said with a hint of relief. “We drove in from Claredon this afternoon.” Malachi shot a cool, dismissive look at Shane and then said to Chad, “This really isn’t my scene. I’m not twenty-two anymore, and standing in line to —”
“I hear ya,” Chad said and chuckled. “I’d much prefer a quiet evening at home, but every now and then…” He winked. “You never know who you’ll meet.”
Malachi dropped his gaze. The line moved forward, and the rugged, mean-looking bouncer manning the door threw his arm down in front of Malachi and Shane after Chad and his group of friends had been let in.
“Look for me,” Chad said, “I’d like to buy you a drink,” and disappeared.
Shane was shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he said in a barely audible voice. “It’s like he has ‘Fuck Me’ tattooed on his forehead.” And then, in a darker tone, “Don’t think that you’re kicking me out of our room for that.”
Malachi sighed. “Please. That’s the last thing I need.”
Malachi caught a glimpse of Chad holding out his hand to be stamped by the girl with red spiky hair sitting on a stool just inside the entrance. Chad looked back again into the crowd and flashed Malachi a generous smile. Shane had witnessed the brief exchange and groaned annoyance, and then the bouncer waved them in. Malachi paid the five-dollar cover charge for both him and Shane, and as soon as they entered the main section of the bar, Shane was swallowed by the crowd. Malachi turned his head from side to side, searching the faces around him but not recognizing anyone. The strong stench of sweat and cologne invaded Malachi’s nostrils and made him gasp. He shoved his hands in his pockets and edged his way towards the bar, still hoping to stumble across Shane, or Cory and Eric. Malachi joined the mass of rowdy and horny beer-thirsty men standing in front of the bar, exchanging doubting looks with some of the men around him. Malachi wished that he hadn’t let himself be talked into this escapade, but it did seem pathetic that he often spent his Saturday nights at home alone. There were days when he could not see himself in the world, or the world in him. This was one of those days, and locking himself away in his condo helped to ease that heaviness. And there was truth in Chad’s assessment that nights like this, dancing the night away to Madonna and Cher and Céline Dion, unlocked a world of possibilities, opened the door to love.
After securing himself a drink, Malachi shoved his way towards the dance floor, and surveying the sea of men thrashing their bodies about, he glimpsed Cory and Eric sandwiched in the middle of the mob. Malachi could not think of two people more suited to each other, although he wasn’t certain as to why he thought this. He continued to navigate the bar, hoping to find Shane, and ended up in the section known to the regulars as the “Cave” — a room at the back of the main level etched in darkness with cus
hioned benches lining the walls, where indiscriminate lovers gathered to “acquaint” themselves. The chorus of moaning and slurping sent Malachi rushing back into the main area of the bar. Malachi’s head was spinning, the palms of his hands sweaty, and he had already had enough of this scene when Chad appeared in front of him.
“What happened to your friend?” Chad asked, leaning in to ensure he was heard overtop the music.
Malachi shrugged. “I lost him as soon as we were let in.”
“You’re welcome to hang out with us,” Chad said, and took a swig of his beer.
“Thanks,” Malachi said, “but I think I’m going to head upstairs and get some air.”
Chad said, smirking, “We’ll be down here, around the pool tables, if you change your mind.” He took a step forward and whispered into Malachi’s ear, “You have a beautiful smile,” and cupped his hand briefly to Malachi’s shoulder, squeezing it gently and then moved away.
At about the same time Malachi had run into Chad, Cole Malcolm was queuing to get in to Urbane. Dean stood next to Cole, watching as a tall dark-haired man a few feet away made eyes at Cole. Dinner had gone well, or at least Cole found it tolerable. Cole found his concentration had drifted constantly but was thankful that Dean liked to talk a lot… about himself. The two bottles of red wine that they had shared worked to dull the contempt Cole was developing towards Dean. Dean had rambled on and on, and Cole had quickly concluded that Dean was a snotty stick-in-the-mud, a bore. And Dean’s suggestion of hitting a club afterwards seemed to Cole the perfect way to escape Dean, have some peace.
Dean hung very close to Cole as they moved through the club and Cole, who had not been out clubbing in some time, was unaccustomed to the intent stares of interest, the coy smiles. Cole did not consider himself attractive, although he had been told, repeatedly, that he was. That made him squeamish, anxious, and he blinked magnificently at the attention. The strobe lights bounced off Cole’s face, at times blinding him. Cole was frustrated that he could not push his way through the crowd, and that he had not yet managed to ditch Dean. Dean, for his part, had looped his fingers through Cole’s belt loops. Cole worried how that looked, like they were a couple, and reached behind his back and pried Dean’s fingers away. Cole squeezed between a square pillar and a group of guys huddled in a circle talking animatedly and laughing, and then stopped suddenly. Dean stumbled into Cole. Cole’s eyes latched onto Malachi, but Malachi was finishing his conversation with Chad and did not see Cole at first.
Dean pushed his way next to Cole, taking in the distracted yet intent glare, and searched the crowd for the recipient of that look. Chad had moved off, and as Malachi took his first step forward that was when Cole came into view. They held their intent gazes to each other it seemed without blinking. Dean, having realized who Cole was fixated with, swung his head back and forth from Cole to Malachi and back to Cole.
When Dean touched his hand to Cole’s arm, Cole dropped his gaze. Cole had forgotten that Dean was there, and was again on edge — partly because of Dean but mostly because of Malachi. Malachi revived the restlessness and agitation that enveloped Cole, and the voices Cole heard of the demons that sometimes seize control of the mind. In the days before Cole had bought his new house and before his ill-fated dinner with Malachi, Cole had become a bit of a recluse, a homebody — barricaded in his loft after work watching Charlie Chaplin films and reading Tom Clancy novels. The date with Dean, even if it held no promise, helped Cole to escape the psychotic unfurling that was set to destroy him. Cole still dreamed of Malachi. Most troubling of all, was the recurring fantasy. Malachi was, once again, deep inside Cole, and Cole groaned and moaned and trembled. Cole felt ashamed, too, that he jerked off regularly to the fantasy. And now to see Malachi — having been certain that they would not see each other again — Cole had wanted to go over to Malachi. Cole’s iron-weighted legs would not move. Dean squeezed Cole’s arm, and when Cole looked up — his narrow blue eyes gleaming shame and embarrassment — Malachi was gone.
“Who was that?” Dean asked, curt.
Cole stared blankly into the crowd. He was breathing deeply, and could feel himself trembling. He said, “No one important,” and continued to make his way towards the bar.
****
Dean said, “I’ll be right back,” and pushed past Cole. Dean grabbed playfully at Cole’s belt buckle as if he were going to undo it, winked and then made his way towards the washrooms located at the far end of the main level, near the Cave.
Cole, biting down on his lower lip, felt relief as Dean shoved his way through the mob that was not always eager to step aside for people. Cole could not handle being in Dean’s presence anymore — the clinginess, the sense of being possessed. When Dean was out of sight, Cole made a beeline for the stairwell near the entrance. The winding stairwell was narrow and dimly lit, and there was a steady stream of people moving in both directions. Cole held onto the railing to keep his balance as he sometimes twisted his body, pressing up against the wall, to avoid the hard thump of someone’s shoulder into him as they barrelled down the stairwell. He stood for a few minutes in the middle of the stairwell, the line not moving and, taking in the snippets of conversations of those near the front of the line, realized they were managing the number of bodies on the rooftop patio at any one time. It wasn’t long before he emerged onto the crowded patio, the dark sky lit up with the white Christmas lights that were strung around the three walls that enclosed the patio.
Cole did a quick inventory of the area — the bar immediately to his left, the white patio tables and chairs that took up a lot of space since everyone seemed to be standing, and the small area to the right that was marked off as a dance floor. He glanced behind him to make sure that Dean hadn’t followed him, and then edged his way through the multitude, graciously accepting the sheepish smiles and slight nods of head offered to him. None of the faces were recognizable to him, and of course he knew they wouldn’t be. Most of his friends were coupled, and not gay, and he had never been into the “club scene.” Weaving around and behind the plethora of men who had the looks of supermodels, he was attempting to reach the front area of the rooftop patio, which looked onto Yonge Street. The music, the roaming clouds of cigarette smoke encircling him and the sudden outbursts of laughter pushed him near to a state of delirium. Certainly the alcohol was contributing to the effect — light-headed, an anxious breathlessness, feeling as though he was being watched. There were noticeable beads of sweat on his brow that he regularly wiped away with his hand.
As Cole approached the metal railing that a number of guys were leaning against as they chatted and observed the goings-on on the street below, he stopped and closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath, the unpleasant scent of cigar smoke filling his nostrils, and opened his eyes as he exhaled. His heart was beating faster, the muscles in his shoulders knotted. Malachi had been standing a short distance away when Cole had closed his eyes, and Cole thought that it might have been his overactive mind and tiredness getting the better of him, but Malachi, standing with his back to Cole, was still there when Cole opened his eyes. “I don’t understand why he’s able to possess me,” Cole thought, and rubbed at his moist brow. He did not know what to do. Cole was, on the one hand, curious as to why Malachi had not shown up for their date. There his heart was open to forgiveness, and reconciliation. On the other hand, Cole was still angry and hurt. If only Cole could erase Malachi’s lingering imprint. There Cole’s heart was open to vengeance. Cole lifted his near-empty beer bottle to his mouth and gulped the rest, and set the bottle down on one of the empty patio tables. His hands were at his sides, and he curled his fingers into fists and then uncurled them, repeatedly, as if summoning up the courage to face down Goliath, and then advanced and stood next to Malachi.
Leaning sideways against the railing, Cole contemplated Malachi, who had yet to look at him, make any sort of acknowledgement of Cole’s presence. Cole didn’t feel nervous anymore, perhaps a little unsettled. At times, when Cole knew
he had to be strong, or strong-minded, he gave the impression of a weak man, some flowery wallpaper no one ever took notice of. Cole hesitated a moment and then placed his hand on Malachi’s shoulder, and Cole, taken unawares by Malachi’s mocking look, said, “You don’t look that surprised to see me.”
“Should I be?” Malachi looked away, resolved to show no emotion or give any indication that seeing Cole had somehow affected him.
Cole, lately so easily ruffled, let his hand fall from Malachi’s shoulder. Cole shoved his hand into his pants pocket only to pull it out again as he turned his body so that he could, like Malachi, rest his forearms on the paint-chipped railing and watch the people and cars moving about on the street below. The heavy bass-laden music streaming from the speakers around the patio wasn’t able to distil the street noises or the conversations colliding into each other in competition with the music. Cole’s last swig of beer seemed to stay lodged in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried he could not seem to force it down, disconnect from it — that would be like disconnecting himself from the things that love was all about. And the fantasy of love had firmly planted itself in him like a confounded cold that he could not shake.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him. Cole stole a sidelong glance of Malachi. Now he’s acting like I’m not even here. Cole remembered the look they had shared earlier. Malachi’s shocked look had penetrated Cole — and the iciness of Malachi’s dark brown eyes was both terrifying and irresistible. It only took that brief exchange to call up the tenderness that Cole had for Malachi. Cole welcomed that feeling, smiled to himself over the triumph of finding himself again in close proximity to the man he so badly wanted to possess him.
Malachi shifted his beer bottle from one hand to the other, and his arm rubbed briefly against Cole’s. Malachi looked quickly at Cole, who smiled faintly and dropped his gaze. “He probably thinks I’m an oaf,” Malachi thought. Malachi had wondered if he would run into Cole during this excursion, and even though the possibility seemed remote, Malachi imagined various conversations between them nonetheless. The last time they had seen each other Cole was simply a beautiful stranger providing a “quick fix.” Malachi could see now that Cole had been much more than that, and that made Malachi anxious and confused and agitated because Malachi had no defence against these feelings. They were a menace that went straight through him, strangling, cutting, and ruthless.
