The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance]

by Gregory A Kompes

  “So, you appearing to me like a ghost, I was able to see your spirit?”

  “Yes. Most folks aren’t tuned in enough to notice, but every once in a while, well, I’m found out. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” I contemplated this ability. “There’s always more to discover.”

  "My church program is about to come on. I do love to hear the Word," she said.

  Emma May looked solidly human and in physical in that moment.

  "I'll show myself out," I said, getting up.

  "Duke, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate the offer."

  I stopped and looked at her. Emma May’s face was smooth of stress and worry, content. "I just wanted to make this available to you. I hope I haven't offended you in any way."

  She reached her hand out to me. I took it in my own. "No dear, I think it's sweet that you even thought of me."

  I waited, I couldn’t hear her thoughts. I felt no flow of energy into her from me. And, most remarkably, I couldn’t get a read on her current health, either. Other than Aristotle, she was the first person I’d touched lately without any indices of health, life, death, or internal thought.

  We enjoyed a moment of connection. Then, suddenly, I could feel the many things wrong with her old body, the arthritis, cancer, poor lungs, weak heart…the list went on and on. Her body was in the final phase. It wouldn't hold out much longer. She allowed me my survey without comment.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Sam invited a few friends to the house. It had been his last night as Fiddler on the Roof conductor. He would have a few evenings free before the Little Shop of Horror previews started. Musicians, technicians, and actors drank, ate, sang at the piano. I was pleasant and polite, but not enjoying the crowd. I didn't know their show stories; I didn't share their memories.

  I looked up to see Harry enter the party. I thought it strange that he would be here. This was a night for the old, not the new. He motioned for me to come to him.

  Sam followed my glance toward Harry. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

  I tried to get a read on Sam, but he’d already turned back to his friends. I met Harry at the doorway and we went into the parlor.

  "Duke, sorry to crash your party," he said, a little out of breath.

  "Not a problem, Harry." I hugged him. “It’s really Sam’s party.”

  "Can we go up to your office and talk?" Harry waived back to Sam who had approached us.

  "What's up, Harry Boy?" Sam asked, kissing Harry on the cheek.

  "Would you mind if I steal your boyfriend for bit. I'd like to see if I can get some information from the other side." He tried to make light of his request, but something heavy was weighing on him.

  "Fine by me." Sam winked. He kissed my cheek and whispered, “Do him if you want,” before returning to his friends and their party.

  "Come on." I led our way up the stairs. The office was cool when I opened the door. I indicated a chair for him. He stopped, looked at the crystal ball on the shelf.

  We got settled across from each other at the small table.

  "I…" he started, but paused.

  I waited for him to continue.

  “First, I want to apologize for the last time I saw you. I was weirded out. I’d had a bad few days of rehearsals. Clara said some things about sex that had me confused, and...”

  “There’s no reason or need for you to apologize. We shared a moment. That’s what friends do, right?”

  “But, then I kissed you and we almost...”

  “It was...” I thought for the right word. “It was an experience we shared. I’m glad that it happened.” I watched Harry turn a light crimson and I changed the subject. “So, what is it you’d like to talk about?”

  "Okay, my mom died when I was very young. No one has ever told me much about it. Last night, I had a dream. It felt very real at the time. My mom, just my mom. She never said anything, but she smiled and smiled at me. It went on all night."

  As Harry talked, my team started to buzz. I asked: "Was her name Agnes?"

  "Yes," Harry said, his eyes growing wide. "I must have told you, although I never—"

  "Harry, just listen for a bit." I went into my routine. I shared his mother's thoughts and love. I connected the two. Finally, I allowed him to ask questions. She answered most of them. By the time she faded out, Harry was laughing through his tears.

  We sat in silence for a long while, the moment finally broken by a knock at the door. Malcolm came in with a tray of food and beverages for us. He left as quickly as he'd arrived. I've always wondered how Malcolm knew when I was finished with readings. I'd never asked after all these years.

  As we talked, more of Harry's dead relatives came through. His grandfather, an old aunt, a friend from high school. I lost track of time. Harry was so open to the readings that they were fun to experience for both of us. And, as the session continued, Harry and I also talked about psychic abilities and little things he could do to begin focusing his own connection to the other side. When I reached out and touched his arm, there were no longer thoughts of suicide or death.

  "Duke?" Sam asked at the door.

  "Yes, come in Sam."

  He entered, skeptical. I could feel that he was expecting to find us in a compromising position and I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or disappointed with what he actually discovered.

  "Duke, Harry, it's very late. Everyone downstairs has gone."

  "Lost track of time, Sam. We've been chatting with everyone Harry knows on the other side. It's been like a parade."

  He came over and sat on the arm of my chair.

  "Sam, you never told me Duke could do all of this. I mean, you told me about the cards, about seeing bits of the future, but this has been amazing." Harry was pumped up, energetic, enthusiastic, handsome. I wanted him then more than I ever had before.

  "Well, it's wonderful that you've had such a good time," Sam said to Harry, rubbing my back lightly. He leaned over, whispered in my ear, "Let's do him."

  I could feel the blush rise in my cheeks.

  "What's he saying to you that's got you turning so red?" Harry asked, still reveling in his other-world experience.

  "Is that something you'd like, Sam?" I asked, trying to get my own emotions in check.

  "What do you think?" Sam winked at me.

  "You're making me very uncomfortable," Harry said.

  "We're talking about whether we should have a three way with you. Is that something you'd enjoy, Harry Boy?" Sam asked.

  Harry’s grin nearly wrapped around his head.

  I smoked and watched Harry and Sam sleep, limbs intertwined. They looked good together, they fit well together. I replayed a few of our recently shared moments, fun positions, laughter, joy, release. Yet, even while I pumped my dick up Harry’s ass, I could see that the true sexual connection was between Sam and Harry. While I fucked Harry Boy, now a nickname I could use, too, Harry and Sam kept their eyes lovingly glued to one another. I was an outsider. Little more than a living, breathing dildo put to use to play out their shared fantasy, rather than one of my own.

  I knew, as they slept, as my team had already told me, my time with Sam was finished, that his time with Harry had begun. The two boys, they really were young, were lovely together. I let my mind wander; my team filled it with images. They'd be good for each other. They'd fight. They'd find a nice apartment. They'd travel. Over time, after the hurts healed, we'd bump into each other on the street one day, they'd come together to my home as a couple for a dinner party. They'd become part of my circle. And, along the way, I’d help Harry better understand and utilize his other-worldly connections.

  My heart would break a little, but in the end, I'd have more friends to add to my long list. Sam wouldn't want to go at first. He'd want to deny his feelings and emotions. It would be the only fight we'd ever have.

  Harry, still feeling it was me he was interested in, would protest for a bit. Yet, in the end, they would become a couple. Th
is wasn't the first time they'd been intimate, which was clear to me the first time I’d heard Sam call him “Harry Boy.” Any questions or doubts about their level of previous intimacy were gone as soon as the three of us were naked together. They didn't say anything, but I could see it as they kissed, as Sam took the role of top to Harry’s bottom. Their bond was undeniable. Hell, it might not even have started in this lifetime. My guides showed me two different looking young men, dressed in high waist coats, fluffy ties, walking through a green field, holding hands.

  I'd get over my heartbreak quickly, that's what I do. In short order, I'd help another stray out of the fray. Maybe that’s who I’d travel with?

  Sam had opportunities because of me. Harry would become a star because of the connection I’d helped him forge. They'd forget that over time, as it should be. They would find their own way, their own new experiences, together. They'd love each other for a long time. This was their moment to make their meeting, a moment made easier because of me, ever the middle man.

  I looked a little deeper at their lives. I wanted to make sure Sam would be okay, would be on the path he desired. I again saw his name on a theater marquis. His own shows, the ones he wrote, that would be what he worked on next. He and Clara—the marquis read "Tells & Teak, Together Again!"—would help each other grow to the next level of stardom. They were good for each other, too. Harry would be the male lead in the first of Sam's own shows, but that relationship, of actor and director and producer and writer, would get muddy. Harry would get a television offer just in time to save his relationship with Sam. They'd become bi-costal; Harry would become bisexual with his costar; to get even, Sam would attempt that with Clara, a try that would end in laughter and a greater love between them.

  My visions of their bright future ended when my office phone rang. I got up quickly, grabbed a robe, closed the bedroom door behind me, answered: "Duke Donovan."

  "Shit, the time. Sorry, did I wake you?" Pedros asked.

  "It is very late here, but I was up," I said, lighted a cigarette, enjoyed one last quick memory of me with the boys, now naked, spent, and entangled in the sheets of my bed.

  "Duke, it's all going as you said. My wife is thrilled. The people love her."

  As he filled me in on details that wouldn't make the news, I allowed my mind to wander. My team was with me. I shared my visions with Pedros: "Your wife will be chosen president in a landslide. She'll select a cabinet of smart, forward thinking men and women who will make your part of the world into a force to be reckoned with. The people will be happy. They'll reelect her two more times after that. She must step down after her third term. The people will say they want her to continue on, but success in democracy comes not only from the people having a say, but from good leaders leading by example. The free transition of power, from one leader to another makes all the difference."

  We talked together for hours. I shared with him my visions of the people that would come and go, of the changes that would be made. It felt good to share so positive a vision of his future. He listened, asked questions, offered ideas, filled in names. I knew that I would be invited to the inauguration. I saw a handsome man on my arm, not Sam. Someone tall, dirty blonde. Well educated with a political future.

  When we ended the call, I lit another cigarette. With it, I nudged all the snubbed out filters around in the ashtray.

  “Pretty proud of yourself.”

  “Oh, ghost, I’m so done with you. If you don’t want to tell me why you’re trying to haunt me, then move on. I’m just done with your presence.” I watched him. It seemed an effort for him to stay in a form I could recognize.

  “You still don’t know who I am?”

  “No.” The harder I looked at him, the less of him I saw.

  “When I picked you up on that pier, my only thought was fucking you. Well, fucking you and then dumping your dead body in the river.”

  “Why, after all this time, have you kept your identity hidden from me? Why did you deny your identity when I called you on it?”

  “Just to fuck with you.”

  I thought of the night I’d killed him and taken his money and tarot cards. I thought of the night on the park bench when I knew it was him, his ghost.

  “You know, I only used those cards as a ruse, a game that allowed me to get money and sex from the men I met. But, you. You found the truth of them, the connection of them. Frankly, I find that infuriating.”

  “Why didn’t you just throw me out? Why did you try and kill me?”

  “That’s what I did with the boys I picked up from the pier. I saved them, fucked them, then killed them and dumped them in the river they were contemplating jumping into when I found them.”

  “Yet, you speak of those that I’ve killed?” I was fascinated by his shifting form.

  “Only to torment you.”

  “Why haven’t you transitioned? Why do you remain here?”

  “Who says I haven’t transitioned? This is something to do. A way to pass my time. You weren’t supposed to kill me that night. I wasn’t ready for that. I got a taste of all that positive crap on the other side and I said fuck it. I want to be here. I still want to be the person that I was. Live that life. Fuck with people. And, so long as you hold on to me, to my cards, I have energy here in this world.”

  “That’s it? That’s the key to this?” I pictured the beautiful and well-worn tarot cards in the wooden box at the corner of my desk. I’d grown to love those cards. I’d worried for many years that if something happened to them that I might lose whatever powers and abilities I had found. Even having been gifted the original version of his cards I still used those I’d stolen as my own.

  I picked up the box and left my office. The ghost followed close behind me as I went downstairs to the parlor and dropped the box atop the neat stack of logs in the fireplace just waiting to be lit.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Letting the last of you go from my life, Henry.”

  “If you burn them, you’ll lose your powers. You’ll lose your income.”

  I thought about what the ghost claimed. I asked my team, but they were silent. Yet, I knew that the ability to connect with the other side had nothing to do with physical elements. It was mental, emotional, energy driven. Still, I hesitated before I lit the gas match.

  What if he were right? What if in the blaze I was about to start—as the smoke of it went up the chimney, as the ashes scattered into the wind—took my own powers. Could I live without it? I certainly had enough money and art that I could do anything I wanted. What if I couldn’t help people? The despots and killer leaders I could live without, but what about all the nice men I’d met over the years. Was it worth giving up the possibility just to get rid of this ghost?

  And, what if I burnt these beautiful cards and he didn’t go. What if he was lying to me?

  It didn’t matter. If there was a chance that I could release him from my life by setting ablaze this last connection, this last remnant of him, it was the right choice.

  I clicked the trigger of the long-necked lighter and held the flame to the paper and kindling under the logs. Within a few seconds, the kindling took the flame. I sat back and watched as that small fire took hold of the logs.

  “No, don’t do that,” the ghost said. His vapors reached for the box, but couldn’t attain a hold on them.

  From his tone it was easy to surmise that he believed the destruction of those tarot cards would bring his own final removal and release from physical.

  Slowly, the conflagration built, licking and nibbling at the ornate carved box. It had been a gift. Some ancient piece of art from the dark ages or the early time of enlightenment. I felt a twinge of regret as the flames bit into it. I watched the smoke of the box and its contents begin to drift up the chimney, its own heat drawing it out into the early morning sky. I imagined my tormenter, the man I’d killed, being lifted along with that smoke and heat, being released like ashes on the wind back into the world. Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust. I turned to look again at where he’d been near me. He was gone. I didn’t know if he was really gone, but I no longer felt his presence or energy.

  I stared into the flames, now leaping and dancing over the logs and box. Finally, the box gave way, spewing the cards into the flames, which burst in bright shocks of orange, yellow, and green as the ink and thick paper flared to ashes.

  They took a long time to disintegrate, all the while I watched them and wished my maker well. If it hadn’t been for him, my attempted murderer, I wouldn’t be where I was. If it hadn’t been for my father throwing me out of the house, I wouldn’t have been on that pier. If it hadn’t been...I stopped drawing the connections backward. My past had gotten me to this moment. Its purpose had been served.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as those cards transformed into flame, heat, smoke, and ash. A part of me went with them.

  I closed my eyes and searched the black canvas. I looked for my team, but couldn’t find them. I searched for my tormentor, but couldn’t find him either. Yet, I could feel the presence of other entities there, letting me know I was searching in the correct place.

  When I opened my eyes again, I discovered I’d fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fire. There was a blanket over me and a pillow under my head. Aristotle slept with his head on my foot. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up, exploring the ashes in the grate. Nothing but two, small hinges remained from the property I’d destroyed.

  I called on my team and could feel them buzz in my head. I asked nothing of them. Expected nothing of them. Just knowing they were there proved I still held my connection.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  "What's your dog's name?"

  I looked up at the handsome young man. He was thin and tall, much taller than me. His hair light, dirty blonde. His blue eyes were glazed from a night of partying. He smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. He was the man from the earlier vision of attending Silviana’s inauguration.