The Pool Boy

by R. W. Clinger

  He rose from the chair and left about three feet between us. I wouldn’t turn my head and acknowledge him because I didn’t like him, and would never like him.

  Silence hung between us for a few seconds.

  Then Katz said, “Kent politely asked me to leave.”

  I said nothing, listened.

  “I won’t cause any trouble, Mr. Fine. I don’t get to see Kent very often, only when he visits his aunt in these parts. Beverly Hills is a long way from here. I came here to ask permission from you if I could spend a couple days here to visit him. But now I see that isn’t going to be a possibility.” His voice sounded mellow, tamed, and somewhat stagnant.

  If I didn’t know otherwise, I would have said he was being honest. Slowly, I turned my head in his direction and looked at his tight jaw, a handsome and youthful face that seemed rugged and not all prissy. A total rough boy, also a bad boy, like a rugby player. Damaged in a way. Sexy.

  “Go on,” I said, willing to listen to his spiel, wanting to hear him out.

  “Go on. What do you mean?”

  “Go on, Katz. I want to hear more about why you should infringe upon my private affairs. Tell me why I should let you stay a few days and visit your old friend. How can I trust you when I don’t even know you?”

  Frankly, I didn’t know what I was doing or saying. The comments slipped out of me without me thinking them through. One would have thought I was inebriated, drunk off my ass, but I wasn’t. Maybe I was a softie, more mature at thirty-six, and didn’t realize the damage I was creating at the time by talking to him. Who knew?

  He shrugged, looked into the deep and dark end of the opposite side of the pool, searching for words or an explanation I would maybe fall for, and let him spend the night, or a few nights. Then he used his mellow and tamed tone again, saying, “I don’t know what else to say. I’ve just missed him. He’s missed me. We were so excited to see each other…the motorcycle is new…we wanted to have a beer together and catch up on our lives. Honestly, it was a bad decision. And I’m sorry. We got carried away. Our adrenaline kicked in because we haven’t seen each other in such a long time and things just got out of control. We made a mistake.”

  How naïve and silly he was…and honest. Katz Strong, I surmised there and then, was the total opposite of his last name. He seemed rough on the outside, looked dangerous with his blond hair and leather jacket, ill-mannered and wild, but when it came down to the shit of his life, he was mush. Simply weak and gunk. A nobody and nothing. Beneath me. In truth, he was just a boy. A boy. Nothing more.

  In the shadowy area of the pool and East Garden I gawked at tears in the corners of his eyes, his rugged jaw line, and solid chin. I wanted to pat him on the back for no reason. Maybe because I realized he was a child and nothing more. Maybe because I felt pity for him because he was a total fuck-up. Instead, I said, “Katz, I’ll give you two days with Tacoma. No more, though. Two days. You fuck this up and you’re out of here in a snap. Two days. Do you understand me?”

  He didn’t smile or thank me, merely whispered, “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” And then he backed away, keeping his gaze on me until he vanished from the pool and my side, returning to the pool boy—wherever he was—and the house.

  Two days.

  Forty-eight hours.

  What could go wrong, right?

  Everything.

  Chapter 39: Wicked

  There’s no such thing as a nice bad boy. I decided quite early in Katz Strong’s short visit that he was wicked to the core. Just the sight of his strangely luminous, blue eyes informed me that he had a devious and evil side to him. What lay under the beautiful layer of his skin was nothing less than pure darkness.

  Why did I fall for Katz’s game? How he slithered into the house and took ownership of Kent Tacoma, used a room to sleep in, ate my food, and freshened up in one of my baths. What spell did he cast over me when I agreed that he could stay for two days? How dared he, an interloper, use his boyish magic on me? How appalling I thought him. Damn him! And damn me for allowing him to stay!

  And Katz showed no sign of tender and caring feelings for me. His malevolent sneer when we made eye contact was sour and unapologetic. The stares he gave me showed that he thought I was pompous, arrogant, and a controller of his sullen friend Tacoma. Katz probably believed that I was as sinister as he, a relic of evilness, a mirror of himself, although I wasn’t. In reality, I really wasn’t sure what he thought or felt about me, but I did believe, and feel, with all of my heart, that he didn’t want me near Tacoma. He wanted to keep the young man to himself. He was ready to battle me for him. Tacoma was his. Only his. His. That’s how I honestly felt. Every fiber of me.

  Chapter 40: Something Bad

  During those first few hours into his visit, Katz found me alone inside the first floor bathroom, slipped quietly inside, and locked the door behind him.

  Positioned in front of the bathroom’s mirror, I stood at the sink, washing my face, and had chilled water drip off the end of my nose. He startled me, caused me to jump. His intrusion was unacceptable. I grabbed the cotton hand towel to my right as that familiar and unkind sneer spread over his face in the mirror. His white teeth gleamed and his vicious-blue eyes shined, putting fear into me. I handled myself well, though, tried to stay calm, and brushed the towel up and over my face. Being careful of his presence, not knowing exactly what he was going to do, I viewed the two of us in the mirror from our waists up.

  “Why did you lock the door?” I asked, holding the towel against my neck, terror hidden behind my eyes.

  “Never mind that. Tell me how much you know about me, Robert.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing really. Tacoma hasn’t talked about you at all. The two of you were friends as children…still are. Your family used to live in Ashtabula near his aunt. That’s how you met him.”

  “He hasn’t talked about me otherwise?” He sounded dangerous and threatening, perilous too. Was he hiding something? I imagined so. Most awful and heinous men did when they locked doors behind them and confronted people like a mobster.

  I shook my head. “No. I think he said a friend dropped him off here at the beginning of his stay. Was that you?”

  He nodded. No expression on his face. “Yes. That was me.”

  “Then that’s all I know about you, Katz. Are you a little disappointed that I’m unaware of your history, facts about your life, and fame?”

  He looked uneasily at me in the mirror. Flames sparked in his blue eyes. His straight-lined grin told me that he was not pleased with me for some reason. For a second I wondered what type of friends the pool boy had in California, and if they were anything like Katz: bitchy, biting, and snotty little half-breeds with anger management problems.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not famous. Did he tell you that?”

  “No. He didn’t. I was just making light of your intrusion,” I mocked. “Now, why don’t you unlock the door, make your exit, and leave me finish up here? What do you say?”

  Katz kept his menacing gaze on me as he slinked away.

  I concentrated on his movement, concerned, wondering who exactly I had allowed to enter in my home.

  The door clicked behind him after he left and I immediately locked it.

  “Something bad is about to happen,” I whispered to the mirror. “I don’t know what. I don’t know when. But something is. Be careful, Robert. Be very careful. That young man cannot be trusted. He’s dangerous.”

  Chapter 41: Taking Tacoma Out

  I didn’t like the idea that Katz was taking Tacoma out for the evening. I wasn’t informed right away about their planned escapade, which ticked me off. That unfolded unexpectedly…

  Tacoma hunted me down in the wine cellar, the deepest parts of the lake house, one floor beneath the kitchen, and informed me of his evening with Katz.

  I didn’t like the wine cellar in the lake house. It felt like a hidden and narrow tomb of sorts that left me claustrophobic. Bottles of chilled champagnes
, Bergeracs, Zinfandels, Bordeauxs, Franconias, cognacs, Montillas, and other spine-tingling beverages that I had collected throughout the years were stored there. Only the finest wines, spirits, and other hearty liquids stocked its niches. Another thing I didn’t like about the cellar: the Yale lock at the top of the rickety staircase’s door sometimes jammed, it needed repair, but I’d never called a locksmith to sort it out. If I didn’t leave that damn door open, I could have gotten locked inside the cellar until someone found me.

  The small, stony eight-by-ten-feet space resembled a bunker, hideout, or what I sometimes called a fallout shelter in case of a nuclear outcome, like during the fifties’ Cold War scare. Cobwebs decorated the dank darkness. Spiders lived in its hidden coves and corners, creating a webby environment for interested, but unwelcomed trespassers. Noises were barely heard along its sublevel stone walls. Although a secret and a hidden place, and perfectly quiet where voices could not be heard by eavesdropping guests or visitors in the kitchen area upstairs, the wine cellar did not feel cozy, warm, or friendly.

  I was surprised that Tacoma found his way down into the twenty-foot deep, hidden tomb where one could feel the dampness on their arms and the back of his or her neck. I didn’t hear his footsteps at first, but then, while I admired a dusty bottle of ‘72 Pauillac, Tacoma said behind me on the stairs, “Robert, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Yes,” I said, spun around and looked above a pair of readers that hung on the bridge of my nose.

  His shadowy figure stood creepily on the last step like some kind of awakened mummy, or the living dead. “This is important.” He looked from his left to right, admired the many cool and colored bottles of fine liquids in their wooden slots.

  “What is it, Tacoma?”

  “I just wanted you to know that I’ll be going out with Katz this evening. He’s taking me out for some fun.”

  “This evening? It’s such short notice.”

  “I know. There’s a bar in town that he likes. I can’t remember its name. He’s taking me there. I just wanted you to know.”

  Displeased with his news, I continued to admire the label on the bottle of Pauillac—a find years ago in Canada—and placed the bottle back in its slot on the shelf. “You will be home by midnight, right? I’ll be writing and don’t want to be interrupted.”

  “For sure. I can’t see why we would be out any later.” He sounded certain.

  “Because I would worry about you if you weren’t back by then.”

  “Are you treating me like Cinderella?”

  I shook my head, carefully reached for a ‘78 Anjou, slid it free from the shelf and admired its dusty label. “Not at all like Cinderella. Cinderella was not cared for by the people in her home. I just know you’ll drink and drive, which I’m totally against. Plus, you’ll make too much racket if you come in the house after midnight and I’ll be working. That’s my writing time. And if I’m not writing, I’ll be sleeping.”

  He chuckled like a boy. Always such a boy. “I can just see Katz’s Harley turning into a pumpkin. Wouldn’t that be funny? And I would be a little mouse.”

  “I suppose,” I answered, grinding my teeth.

  “Fairy tales are fun. You should write one.”

  Had he read any of Danielle Silver’s pieces he would have known that most of her plots were based on fairy tales. Shame on him. Whatever. A boy will always be a boy.

  I tried to smell the rich and clean flavor of Anjou through the heavy dust and the thick glass bottle in my hands, but failed to do so. Perturbed by his noise, and interloping, I slipped the drink back in its slot in the wall, turned, and told him, “Have a nice evening…I guess.”

  He turned on his heels and began his walk up the steps, said down and over his right shoulder, “You also have a nice evening, Robert. The pool is clean if you want to take a swim, okay?”

  “Yes,” I answered, upset that he would be leaving my side for the evening, missing him already. I followed him up the stairs without a bottle of fine alcohol to drink. Depressed, I watched the pool boy’s tight bottom move up the shadowy stairs toward the kitchen, admired his muscled legs, broad shoulders, and all of the swimmer’s build. How drunk he made me feel. How he captivated me. How lonely I would be without him at my side that evening. Damn Katz Strong for taking him away from me. Damn him!

  Chapter 42: Paired

  Tacoma and Katz hadn’t returned by midnight. I stared from a second-floor window for Katz’s Harley to pull up the drive with two masculine bodies atop it, but to no avail, it didn’t. My mouth grew dry and the back of my hands began to sweat because I was nervous. For the next ten minutes I didn’t blink and left my gaze to hang on the driveway in hopes of seeing the cycle’s single headlight bouncing up and down. I also listened for the machine’s familiar and rumbling sound, hoping to smell its thick and strong aroma of mixed oil with gas to fill my nose upon its return. The ten minutes proved to be useless, though, and by twelve-thirty in the morning, I grew restless and half-angered by the boys’ irresponsible behavior.

  Enough. I turned from the window and decided to go outside. I took a brisk walk down the long drive in the evening’s heat to the iron gates at the entrance to the lakeside property. There I stood surrounded by night, humidity, and the August fog. A hooting owl welcomed me. Noisy crickets and capering lightning bugs played. I did not hear the sounds of two boys on a motorcycle in the neighborhood, though. Perhaps I was facing a lost cause, wasting my time. After realizing that Tacoma and his friend were not coming back anytime soon, and disgusted with the pair, I turned away from the gate and trotted back to the main house, mumbling swear words under my breath.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes after two in the morning and the cycle finally zigzagged into the drive. Wide awake, I watched from a second-floor balcony as the Harley parked in a careless manner on the lawn near the west gate. Neither Tacoma nor Katz wore a helmet. Both boys were giggling and quite drunk. The young men staggered up to the front door that was left unlocked (my doing) and they stumbled inside, making a scene.

  Unnoticed, I made my way down to the foyer to watch them.

  Tacoma barely made it into the foyer, tripping over his own two feet. Katz followed behind, loudly whispering, “Wait up, faggot!”

  Positioned beside the statue of St. Sebastian, surveying the two boys as they laughed and chided; I watched them leaning into each other for balance. I smelled beer and cigarettes and a strong post-sex aroma wafting about their clothes.

  Tacoma giggled, placed a finger to his lips, and whispered around the upright digit, “Be very…very…very quiet, you’ll wake the writer.”

  Katz shook his head and garbled, “He can’t hear a thing because he’s too old. The old man is practically deaf.”

  “Stop saying that. He’s so generous. He’s letting you stay here for two days. How rude,” an intoxicated pool boy said, protecting me. He lightly punched Katz in the shoulder, but still laughed out loud. “You’re such an asshole sometimes, but I still like you.”

  Katz flopped to the floor, almost took Tacoma down with him. The visitor landed on his ass and his legs spread wide open like a pair of scissors as his shoulders touched the foyer’s clean, marble floor. He tried to sit up, couldn’t, and begged, “Help me up, peasant. I can’t move, pool boy.”

  Tacoma reached down, extended an arm. “Get up.”

  Katz pulled on the extended arm and brought the pool boy down and on top of him. Both boys lay drunk on the floor, chest to chest. Their faces almost touched and their arms and legs tangled together as if they were wrestling. Each loudly laughed with wide and playful grins.

  Tacoma asked, “Are you okay? Did I jab you in the balls?”

  “Fine and no. Now get the fuck off me, faggot! I don’t swing that way.”

  “Whatever. Didn’t you have me suck your dick and get you off earlier this evening? Isn’t that why you wanted to take me out tonight?” Tacoma laughed harder, pushed up off his friend. “I know you’re
a fruit. You can’t hide from me. I had your whole cock down my throat. You fucked my face. You didn’t mind it a bit.”

  “You’re a faggot, Kent. You’ve always liked dick…particularly mine. You can’t get enough of it when we’re together.”

  Tacoma snickered with a fist locked to his mouth. “Takes one to know one.”

  Katz nodded.

  “The writer’s a faggot too. He wants my cock, but I haven’t given it to him, and won’t.”

  I watched their silly and youthful act unfold. Such an absurd game right before my eyes. Nonsense. A sloppy, one-act play. A hideous and naughty scene between them. Such unthinkable chatter between drunks, but honesty nonetheless.

  Tacoma’s truthfulness put daggers through my heart. I didn’t enjoy his talk with Katz. None of it. Perhaps there was no better time to make an appearance and confront their immature scene, and question their mouth-to-cock evening date. I didn’t though and kept hidden behind St. Sebastian’s buttocks, arrows, and back. Instead, I continued to scrutinize the young boys’ movements and verbiage and listen to their obnoxious play, learning more about their evening together.

  The two men stood and Tacoma drunkenly suggested, “Come to my room and sleep with me tonight.”

  “Will you hold my dick?”

  “All night long.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And I’ll blow you in the morning when you wake up.”

  “Unless I want to fuck you.”

  “I wouldn’t stop you if you had that in mind.”

  “Good then. We’ll sleep together tonight…and see what the morning brings.”

  I watched the two men shake on it. No hugging. No kissing. They actually shook hands. And then they escaped upstairs, side by side, locking their arms over each other’s shoulders, thinking they were unseen, retiring to Tacoma’s bedroom, paired.

  And the house grew quiet again, still…except for the rage that built within me about the pool boy and his drunken antics.