A Novel In Weekly Intsallments



After a chance meeting, three unlikely friends hatch a plan to turn a conservative, sleepy Texas town into the home of the greatest gay nightclub venue on the planet.

A new chapter is posted each Saturday before midnight.

WARNING: This e-novel contains subject matter of an adult nature and features adult situations, adult language, graphic sexual content and violence. It is intended for mature audiences.

DISCLAIMER: This e-novel is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons living or dead is entirely co-incidental.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Chapter Seven

"Messieurs et mesdames, est placé s'il vous plaît. Le spectacle est sur le point de commencer."


"Le signore ed i gentiluomini, è seduto per favore. La mostra sta per iniziare."


"Las damas y caballeros, son sentadas por favor. La exposición está a punto de empezar."


"Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. The show is about to begin."
 
A sultry female voice, with a faint British accent, purrs these multi-lingual announcements through the club's sound system. A theme song that I don't recognize at first follows. As I am settling uncomfortably onto the top rung of the rickety step ladder and familiarizing myself with the hand controls for the spotlight, I suddenly determine that the tune is the opening music from 'Star Search', the weekly, nationally-televised, talent show hosted by Johnny Carson sidekick Ed McMahon. I smile at the cleverness of this.
A general murmur from the assembled audience below attracts my attention. I watch as the crowd, which has swelled to well over one hundred people, begins to instinctively re-orient themselves to face the far wall of the dance floor. The people closest to the make-shift stage sit cross-legged on the floor in a horseshoe shaped ring, leaving a small square of dance floor for the performers. Behind them, people sit on barstools and, behind them, a ring of onlookers stand around the perimeter of the room. The archways that connect to the bar area also fill with watchers. Thanks to the few steps up to this area, these customers are elevated above those standing on the dance floor. The electric buzz of anticipation and excitement is palpable.
"You ready?" Jesse asks me.
I nod that I am, but my hands are shaking a little and my palms are sweaty. I rub them on the legs of my pants. The mental image that keeps returning to me, is of those wonderful black and white Little Rascals re-runs I lived for on Saturday afternoons as a kid. Darla, Spanky, Alfalfa and Froggie, staging impossibly elaborate productions for the other poor children. Those were always my favorite episodes - when those inventive kids put on a show.
Jesse lowers the volume of the introduction music a bit to make his announcements over the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and those of you struggling somewhere in the middle... welcome to Jesse's Place's and our fabulous Friday Night Follies!"
A surprising thunder of applause, whistling and yelling erupts from below me.
"Tonight we welcome our Follies regulars, Peaches LaRue and Robyn Banks PLUS... our very special guest from Space City USA... the incomparable talents of Sylvia Estrella!!!"
The applause surges at the mention of Sylvia's name.
"So sit back, relax and enjoy the show!" With that, Jesse increases the volume again and lets the introduction music play out for a few seconds, while he busies himself with the box full of cassette-taped music and a clipboard, where he has written the line-up of the entertainers and the music they plan to perform. The professionalism and seriousness of it all is both amusing and impressive to me. The introduction music ends and Jesse addresses the audience again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, the mouth of the south... Peaches LaRue!!!' More applause and whistling.
I can barely make out a dark mass moving through the bar area, behind the audience members that watch from the archways. The first few strains of violin music from Madonna's wildly popular song 'Vogue' are instantly recognizable over the speakers in the club. I think back to the creature named Peaches that Javier introduced me to in the dressing room earlier - a three hundred pound man with belly hair that occupied two of the dressing room chairs. I turn on the spotlight and aim it at the back wall of the stage.
Peaches walks into the circle of light and turns his back to the audience. He is dressed in a long black grim reaper-style robe with a hood. He stands there, unmoving, during the first few opening bars of the music, until a loud snapping of fingers begins. A hand with long blood-red nails slowly rises from the side of the cape, snapping in perfect unison with that of the recorded music. Peaches' other hand emerges from the cape and begins snapping also. And then another hand emerges from the cape. And then another. And another. And another. The image of the six hands, all snapping in unison, is visually arresting. I realize I am holding my breath with anticipation. And then, just as Madonna's voice utters those first immortal words, "Strike a pose," the black cape whips off of Peaches with a dramatic flourish and my jaw literally drops open.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Chapter Six

    








     When Javier and I re-enter the bar proper, I am a surprised to find forty or fifty customers clustered in small groups around the club. The front doors are now propped open and I can see Teddy perched on a barstool in the vestibule, checking IDs and stamping people's hands as they enter. A few customers wander over to greet Javier, who excuses himself to mingle with his patrons. I stay glued to the end of the bar, scanning the room for students that I fear may recognize me. I am startled when Jesse bursts through the curtained doorway and runs into me.
     "Whoa! Sorry, man," he says, while trying to detangle himself from the curtain and juggle a clipboard and a plastic box filled with cassette tapes.
     "That's okay. I should get out of the way." I scoot around to the front of the bar and signal Steven by pointing at my empty glass. Jesse leans in close to my ear.
     "Order me one too and meet me in the booth," Jesse whispers and then dashes toward the far side of the bar. He looks back and catches me watching him leave and winks. The sound of Steven clearing his throat makes me turn back to the bar.
     "I wouldn't play with that particular fire," Steven says, with a hint of admonishment. "I can almost gaurantee you'll get burned."
     "I wasn't. I mean... I'm not. I would never."
     Steven slides my drink slowly across the bar.
     "I need two actually," I say. Steven makes no move to make another drink.
     "Is it for Jesse?"
     "Yeah, he asked me..."
     "Honey," Steven interrupts me, shaking his head slowly from side to side, "Jesse isn't supposed to drink while he's working. I can't."
     This makes perfect sense to me, but Steven's attitude suggests something more. I decide to skirt the awkwardness and change the subject.
     "So, there's going to be a show tonight I guess?" I'm surprised by Steven's reaction to the question.
     "Oh girl!" He yells at me and begins to dance about. His excitement is barely containable. "You couldn't be here on a better night! Sylvia Estrella, Robyn Banks and Peaches LaRue! You're gonna get a big ole' dose of real Texas drag tonight, honey!"
     "They put on a good show?" I ask, feigning interest. The few times I had seen drag shows in Ohio, the entertainers were a boring collection of poorly dressed men, pantomiming love songs at AIDS benefits. I'd pay my respects for their efforts and give them dollars for the worthy cause, but the sad show itself was always more of a chore to watch than something to actually enjoy. Steven recognizes my lackluster enthusiasm.
     "Where you from?" Steven asks. A hint of irritation in his voice makes me feel scolded, yet again.
     "Ohio," I say, with the false bravado that one has to try and muster when admitting their Midwestern origins to a Texan. Steven rolls his eyes and chuckles.
     "So, you've never even seen a drag show." This isn't phrased as a question. It is a firm declarative statement. He begins to actually 'shoo' me away from the bar like a bothersome fly. "Go. Go claim yourself a good spot to watch."
     "But I..."
     Steven silences me with a raised eyebrow and punctuates it by dramatically crossing his arms over his chest.
     I take my drink, slide off my stool and head through the nearest archway to the dance floor side of the bar, looking back at Steven like a wounded puppy the whole way. He grins at my corny acting and I turn, just in time to avoid running into Javier.
     "Why don't you watch the show from the booth, I have a little problem to take care of," he says, never stopping his forward momentum. In one swift gesture, he physically sets me aside by grabbing my shoulders and gingerly, but firmly, moving me out of his way.
     His considerable strength is evident, but so is his care and restraint. The look of concern and determination on his face is both worrying and comforting. That unfamiliar nervousness returns, and for the first time I recognize the feeling. It's that unique sensation of watching a horror movie when you know something really bad is about to happen. That odd sense of doom, offset by the comfort of the theater seat. Nail-biting fear cut by the comforting fact that you are safely ensconsed in a smelly cinema. He moves straight to the door where he and Teddy engage in a heated conversation. I decide to follow orders and head to the DJ booth.

     Jesse is hunched over two spinning turntables when I climb the two, steep steps to the booth. With his back turned to me, I can see over his head and shoulders, through a cutout window in the front wall of the booth. The dance floor beyond is occupied by only a handful of people, but the crowd around the perimeter of the room is growing by the minute and some of them have dragged stools over from the bar. While there is no actual stage, you can clearly see that the majority of the people here are oriented to face the far wall of the dance floor, which is draped from floor to ceiling with raggedy black curtains.
     Jesse turns, sensing my presence. Tethered to the sound board by his headphones, he takes my drink from my hand and then points to a barstool in the back corner of the booth. He downs the drink in two giant gulps, hands me the empty glass, sqauts to the floor and begins rifling through a metal crate of albums. He removes a cardboard sleeve and gently slides a shiny black record from it with surgeon-like care. He then replaces the sleeve at an angle to serve as a placeholder, gives me a quick, evil grin and turns back to the sound board.
     Javier climbs the steps to the booth and begins to approach Jesse, but then backs away slowly.
     "Watch," he says to me, gesturing to Jesse with his chin.
     With a record spinning on the left turntable, Jesse adjusts his headphones and places the record he has just retrieved on the right turntable. He releases a small lever and the arm of the player slowly drops the needle onto the inky black vinyl. Jesse's head begins to bob immediately. With his left hand on a small sliding knob between the turntables, he uses the thumb of his right hand to act as a brake against the edge of the spinning album. He does this for a second and then, using his index finger, begins to 'wind' the album faster using the paper label in the center. He repeats this braking and accelerating over and over, with the kind of concentration usually reserved for organ transplants and shuttle launches. Slowly, he inches the sliding lever on the sound board to the right. For the first time, I can hear a new beat slowly gaining volume behind the song that is blaring through the club. Jesse's bobbing becomes more prominent and he begins a tight, lock-step dance. Then, with a masterful flourish, he slides the knob all the way to the right and a new beat seamlessly blends into the first. The first few bars of the orchestral Army of Lovers song "I'm Crucified" fills the club - a chorus of singers backed by strings and keyboards. Jesse lets out a 'whoop' and jumps back from the turntables as if he has been shocked. The few dancers on the floor surge with renewed vigor.
     "Never interrupt when he's mixing," Javier warns me and slides up behind Jesse and puts his arms around his waist. Jesse turns and pushes him away.
     "Ugh... not now," Jesse says and removes the record from the left turntable and tucks it back into its sleeve in one of the crates. Javier rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at him behind his back.
     "Okay kids," Javier says, "Showtime in five minutes. Jesse, I don't have a spotlight person tonight. Can you find someone real quick?"
     Jesse quickly scans the crowd before turning to look at me. "You think you can do it?" Jesse asks.  
     My eyes widen with fear.
     "It's easy. You just point the light at the queen and follow it wherever it goes."
     "Yeah, it's easy Jack. You can do it," Javier chimes in.
     They both point to a small step ladder beneath a theatrical spotlight mounted on top of the wall that surrounds the booth.
     "Um... I don't think I... I've never..." I stammer, trying to back further away from the step ladder.
     "Trust me," Javier says laying a firm hand on my shoulder and looking pleadingly into my eyes, "it's the best seat in the house."
     I tentatively climb the stairs as Jesse gives me a rudimentary lesson on the operation of the spotlight.    
     "Okay folks, it's showtime!"Javier exclaims, and claps his hands together loudly. He winks at me and then leaves the booth as quickly as he came.
     I look down at Jesse from the second step of the ladder with a mixture of fear and excitement.
     "Welcome to show business!" He says and then slaps me on the ass and presses play on the tape deck.
    
  
  
  

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Chapter Five

 

Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum

     




     I brighten up a little when Javier buys me a drink and invites me to join him in his office.
     "Things won't pick up until about ten or so, you wanna come keep me company?" He asks.
     The bartender, named Steven, acts a little less chilly in Javier's presence and makes me a bourbon and cola so strong, it resembles weak iced-tea. The first sip actually stings my nose and I recoil like a high school girl doing her first tequila shot.
     "Oh honey," Steven says, "we gotta toughen you up. That's just the Grand Marshall in this cocktail parade." He slams two shotglasses on the counter, fills them with healthy shots of Southern Comfort and raises his glass to me.
     I look to Javier, for permission I suppose. He just shrugs, smiles and heads off around the end of the bar and through the curtained doorway. I am suddenly struck by a chord of nervousness that is new to me. The feeling is colored with anticipation and a low note of apprehension. I feel like I'm being tested. As if I am experiencing the first few rites of passage for entry into some underground fraternity. I raise my glass and offer an old Ernest Hemingway toast to the bartender.
     "An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk - to spend time with beloved fools."
     Steven puts his free hand on his hip and raises his eyebrow.
     "Well, that's the hard part about being a bartender. Figuring out who's drunk... and who's just stupid."
     "Cheers," we say in unison and down our shots.

     The warmth of the liquor is just washing over me when I round the end of the bar and pull back the gauzy, black curtain that leads to the mysterious guts of the operation. When I pass through, I am at the end of a long, very narrow hallway that runs almost the full length of the bar. Giant patches of drywall are missing in spots, revealing the wooden studs, coils of silvery cables and crudely engineered plumbing. The hiss and piston-like pop of a soda gun system startles me and I almost face plant into a time clock that juts out awkwardly from the wall.
     "Be careful... it's an obstacle course!" Javier shouts from the far end of the hallway before disappearing through a doorway.
     I move a few more feet down the hall and pass a cork board filled with handwritten proclamations like, 'Your mother doesn't work here... CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!' and 'MANDATORY STAFF MEETING THIS THURSDAY. BE THERE!!!' Below that sign, someone has written 'This means you Jesse!' This is underlined several times.
     Just beyond that, I encounter an open doorway. Inside, the drag queens from my rescue party are cackling loudly. The sweet, distinct smell of face powder hangs in the air. When the skinny, black queen spies me passing in the mirror, he jumps up and covers his chest and crotch with splayed hands and screams like a woman.
     "There's a white man in my dressing room! There's a panty-sniffin', white man in my dressing room!"
     The older queen, now wearing an elaborate kimono-style robe and a headband, looks up at me from his make-up mirror and then at the black boy.
     "Oh please, you can smell your panties in the parking lot, Robyn. Ain't nobody gotta come back here to get a whiff." They both laugh maniacally. I move on without saying a word.
     After dodging a row of empty beer kegs, a stack of Rubbermaid containers full of holiday decorations and an industrial mop bucket, I find Javier sitting behind the desk in a small office. I stand in the doorway sipping my drink while he counts one dollar bills into neat stacks of twenty while talking on the phone. He waves me to a chair in front of his desk. I am mesmerized by the money counting. After he finishes five stacks, he paper clips each of them neatly together and then layers them into a clear, plastic box, like slices of bread. He then withdraws another bank-bundled stack of ones from a zippered bag and begins the process all over again. He is lightening fast and continues to jabber into the phone, in Spanish, the entire time.
     The office is surprisingly homey. The walls, unlike the hallway, are finished nicely and painted a soft camel color. Shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, each loaded to capacity with kitschy knick-knacks and beautiful, jeweled frames containing personal photos. Between the shelves, prints of famous artworks by Salvador Dali, Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo decorate the walls, each matted and framed with care. Javier's massive, heavily carved, antique desk is virtually barren, save for an ancient office phone, an adding machine with a long, curling receipt tape lolling over the edge and onto the floor and the cash he is counting. He ends his phone call with a hearty laugh and hangs up.
     "Como estas?" His voice booms in the small room.
     I stare at him quizically.
     "How are you doing? How's your head?"
     I hadn't thought about the lump on the back of my noggin since taking the Southern Comfort shot, but I discover the tender spot quickly when I reach back to find it.
     "I think I'll live. Look, I don't want to be in the way, you seem very busy and..."
     Javier silences me again with the wave of a hand.
     "I brought you back here to ask your opinion about something. You teach art. What do you think of this?" He stands up and reaches beside his desk and produces a large painted canvas. Clearly the work of a young student, the painting is a noble attempt to capture the likeness of a young, attractive couple. Their clothing is vintage looking, but the garish colors and ham-handed textures make them seem costumed, like one of those sepia-toned, wild west photos from a county fair. The couple is posed in front of an old jukebox. But, oddest of all, just behind the jukebox, a group of men in loincloths and feathered headresses carry a scantily clad woman towards a volcano. I blame the booze for a laugh that escapes me before I can stifle it.
     Javier turns the painting around to look at it himself.
     "It does suck, doesn't it?"
     "Well, it's a little 'amateurish', but it's not the worst painting I've ever seen," I lie.
     "Do you think you can fix it?"
     I am startled by the request. It' sort of an unwritten rule among artists - you just don't toy with someone else's work, regardless of how bad it is. I am searching for an excuse to decline when Javier walks around the desk and leans the canvas against the arm of the chair I am sitting in.
     "The original photo is in an envelope taped to the back," he says.
     I open my mouth to explain my moral predicament, when I feel a presence fill the doorway behind me. A shadow falls over half of the room. I turn and discover a mountain-of-a-man wearing a skin-tight, black t-shirt with the word 'security' screenprinted across the front in giant, white, block letters. His head is shaved bald and his hardened face is made less appealing by a  heavy brow and a flat, wide nose. His arms, which are easily as big as my thighs, are covered with tattoos of skulls and flames. But, his size is not nearly as disarming as his complexion. He is powdery white from the top of his bald head to the tips of his fingers. His eyes are an eery, milky green. I shiver violently when he speaks.
     "Everything okay in here Javier?" The hulking mass asks in a deep, authoritative tone. Javier turns and smiles.
     "Oh yeah, everything's fine. Thanks Teddy. I want you to meet Jack Wescott. He's a professor at Lang."
     Teddy extends his hand and I shake it. His fingers are massive and it feels like I've grabbed a bunch of unripe bananas.
    "Teddy's a big art lover, aren't you Teddy? And quite an artist himself."
     I am disarmed when the giant man looks down at his shoes, shoves his hands deep into his pockets and scuffs the ground with his foot. A boyish 'aw shucks' grin breaks out across his face. Javier crosses the room, grabs the man by the head and plants a loud, wet kiss on his forehead. The giant giggles and then picks Javier up off of the ground effortlessly. He nuzzles Javier's neck, making loud nibbling noises and then gently sets him back down. It is very much like watching a bear trainer roughhouse with his charge - adorable and terrifying at the same time.
     "Steven said someone passed out? Was that you?" Teddy asks me.
     "Guilty," I say, meekly raising my hand.
     "What happened? You drunk?"
     Javier cuts him off. "No, no, no Teddy. Everything is just fine. He just had some blood sugar issues." Javier winks at me. "Go ahead and open up the front and make sure to put down all of the mats. People are going to be wet from the rain and I don't want anybody busting their ass."
    The world's biggest little boy lumbers off down the hallway. I shiver again when I see that the entire back of his head is covered with a tattoo of a Mako shark. Javier stands in the doorway and watches him go with a smile.
     "And don't stop to chat with the girls! It's already after eight!" He yells after him.
     Over the next few hours, two more bartenders, a door attendant and another barback make visits to the office upon their arrival. Each has a personal exchange with Javier that suggests a connection unlike any I have ever seen between employees. Kisses and hugs are plentiful. Inside jokes, that inspire gales of laughter, mark each encounter. One particularly cute bartender, a Hawaiian student I recognize from school, actually sits on Javier's lap during our introduction. It is like watching a family come home and greet the loving patriarch - one by one. The sweetness of it all is a welcomed surprise.
     Between visits, Javier speaks candidly with me and answers loads of my burning questions without my ever having to ask. In fact, I don't say much at all. I get the impression that Javier is thrilled to have someone to talk to - a lonely father figure, talking with an adult for the first time in months. I listen intently and soak in every detail.

     Apparently, Jesse's Place is not actually Jesse's place at all. Javier rented the abandoned mechanics' garage five years ago and, thanks to a small investment from his brother, turned the space into an open-air icehouse that enjoyed little success.
     "We pretty much painted the place and turned on the 'open' sign," Javier confessed. "We would throw open the garage doors and people would just wander up, order a beer and then sit around outside on folding chairs. That's all we sold - iced beer. We didn't even have coolers then. It became the hangout for all the neighborhood winos and a few bikers. Teddy was one of them. But business was never good enough to do more than pay the bills and keep me fed. Until I met Jesse."
     Jesse had, apparently, come looking for a job as a DJ during their second year, just as Javier was entertaining the idea of closing the ice house. He decided that this would be his last effort to generate business. He paid Jesse one hundred dollars to play that following weekend. The industrious, upstart DJ plastered fliers all over Lang's campus and drew a substantial crowd of friends, family, curious neighbors and a handful of students.
     "It was so amazing to see Jesse work that first night. I had my doubts when he started lugging in all of his raggedy equipment, but once he fired it all up... it was like watching a crazed conductor being seduced by his own.... genius. He mesmerized everybody. And I sold lots and lots of beer. He played, without a single break, until a neighbor called the police at four am. By the end of the night, Jesse was officially on the payroll as the house DJ."
     Things continued that way until Fall, when it became clear that the loose, outdoor setup was just providing free entertainment to anyone in earshot. Some would set-up lawn chairs and card tables across the street and dance the night away, others would mill about carrying beers bought from the convenience store down the block. The general 'streetfair' atmosphere had also inspired suspicious loitering, something the Mecca police weren't altogether excited about.
     "So my brother Ricky and I decided to enclose the space completely," Javier continued. "We walled over the garage doors and the windows and I convinced Ricky that we should capitalize on Jesse's popularity and rename the club Jesse's Place." Javier grinned slyly when he mentioned this. The truth, Javier eventually confessed, was that Jesse had gone home with Javier that first night... and had never left.
     "He was so beautiful, I couldn't stop looking at him. His hair was longer than it is now and he was an avid soccer player then. His body was unbelievable. Just a mass of muscle covered in flawless bronze skin. I offered him the couch and, instead, he headed straight for my bed." Javier says.
     I think back to my quick glimpse of Jesse's naked torso. It was hard to argue with his instant attraction.
     "And when he DJs, he's just lost in those headphones. Oblivious to everything around him. Yet, capable of sizing up the crowd on that dance floor and giving them what they want to hear - at the moment they want to hear it. He is..." Javier trails off in this memory and a forelorn look crosses his face. "Well, you'll see," he finishes abruptly.
     With that, Javier glances at his watch, which makes me look at mine. It is almost eleven pm.
     "Well, you ready for another drink?" Javier asks, pointing at my empty glass. "Come on, let's go rally the troops!"

     We leave the office and head down the long hall. The muffled thump of the sound system vibrating through the walls has, almost imperceptibly, gained momentum and volume throughout my visit with Javier. The exposed, rib-like, wooden studs of the hallway and the constant driving beat make me feel very much like I am walking through the belly of a beast that is waking for it's evening meal. We make a pit stop at the dressing room on our way.
     "How are we coming in here ladies?!" Javier sings as he enters.
     "Well, it's hotter than Satan's armpit in a wool sweater in here!" The older queen fusses.
     I peer over Javier's shoulder into the room, but look away quickly. Everyone in the room is in various states of undress and a general atmosphere of seriousness seems to have settled in. I try to move on down the hallway, but Javier pulls me into the room by the hand and starts introducing me to the cast.
     "Everybody, this is Jack. He's a new professor at Lang. It's his first night here." They all mutter a general greeting at once, but none of them look up at me. Each of the nearly naked drag queens is completely consumed by final preparations.
     "This is Sylvia Estrella," Javier says, gesturing to the older queen. He has his face buried in a lit, magnified make-up mirror and I can only see one giant nostril from my angle. He grunts something I can't understand and resumes applying a pencil to his lips.
     "And this is Robyn Banks," he continues, pointing to the skinny, black boy. He is completely naked save for a patch of silver duct tape across his chest and an enormous afro puff wig. He also mumbles something inaudible, while stretching a double-wide strip of duct tape from his pubic area, between his legs and up the crack of his buttocks. He finishes by firmly pressing the end into the skin at the base of his spine. I cringe with sympathy for his penis, which must now be painfully wedged somewhere in between.
     "And this is Peaches LaRue." Peaches is easily four hundred pounds and occupies two of the dressing room's five chairs. He is clothed only in pantyhose and high heels and is in a deep, heated discussion with Jesse, who is sitting next to him and writing notes on a legal pad. Both are sweating profusely and neither looks in our direction or acknowledges us.
    "Are we ready for a good show?!" Javier asks.
     "I'm ready for a great show," Sylvia says, "but you'll be lucky to get anything good out of these two," he adds while pointing to Robyn and Peaches with the unsharpened end of a lip pencil. I crane to get a look at Sylvia's face, but only catch a glimpse in the mirror - a razor-sharp red line ringing his bottom lip.
     "No ballads tonight ladies! I want energy, energy, energy!" Javier says, banging the door with his fist to emphasize his last three words. With that, we return to the hallway and head toward the black curtain that leads out into the club. That unusual pang of nervousness hits me again as Javier pulls back the curtain and ushers me out into the club.
     "Welcome to the freakshow," he says, as we step into a cloud of machine-generated fog and a riot of colored lights.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Chapter Four


Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum

     I'm not sure how medically sound it is to slap someone who has just passed out, but that is exactly what I awoke to.
     "Is he with you?" Someone asks. "Should we call 911?" From another.
     I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. I decide to start small and open my eyes. Four people are looking down at me. I am slightly comforted to see that one of them is the handsome, long-haired stranger that climbed into my car, just a few minutes before.
     "Are you okay?"
     "Do you need an ambulance?"
     I make up my mind to pull myself out of this ridiculous haze and sit up. I can feel a throbbing lump rising on the back of my head and I rub it.
     "I'm fine," I finally offer. "But, could I get some water?"
     The long-haired stranger dashes away and the remaining three individuals help me to my feet. I am gingerly escorted to a bar stool where I am deposited and then scrutinized from a distance.
     "I'm so sorry," I say, "I've never passed out before."
     Feeling a little more 'myself' by the minute, I am struck by the oddness of the threesome standing before me. One is clearly the person that entered the bar just after me. Still dripping from the soaking rain, he is in his late forties, heavyset and completely devoid of hair. None on his head and no eyebrows or lashes. In one hand, he is tightly clutching the handle of a massive, rolling suitcase and in the other, he is carrying an elaborate wig mounted on a Styrofoam head, shrouded in a clear, dry cleaning bag.
     The second member of my rescue party is a well-built, Hispanic man with a hint of graying hair at his temples and a cleft in his chin that you could easily wedge a matchbook into. He is the shortest of the group, but is clearly the most formidable. Despite a bulky, black turtleneck, you can tell that he is muscled and rugged. His wide stance, five o'clock shadow and crossed arms reinforce his authority.
     The third member is a young, painfully thin black boy, stripped to the waist. His head is covered tightly in a pair of suntan-colored pantyhose, the legs and feet of which hang over his shoulders like long, droopy, brown, bunny ears. He is also devoid of visible hair, but the beginnings of an elaborate eyebrow are lightly sketched above one eye.
     "You all get to the dressing room," the leader orders, waving them away dismissively with one hand. The two drag queens look me over suspiciously before sauntering slowly away.
     "If he passes out again, I have a dildo and a video camera in my bag," says the queen carrying the wig. They both laugh and disappear through a curtained doorway behind the bar, whispering and giggling as they go.
     As soon as we are alone, I begin a rambling explanation of the events leading up to my mortifying faint, dropping every name I can think of that might lend me some credibility. Within a few minutes, I have managed to divulge the bulk of my life story. When he finally seems satisfied that I am not drunk, crazy or internally wounded, I relax a little, but my cheeks still burn with embarrassment.
     "I'm Javier," he says offering a fur-covered, firm hand with chewed nails. "Why don't you sit here for a minute, get your bearings, and I'll be back to check on you in a bit, okay?" His voice is a velvety growl with the faintest Latin accent. I melt a little when he smiles and walks away.
     The dimly lit bar stretches out before me and, for the first time, I am able to survey my surroundings. Jesse's Place is roughly the size of two single-wide mobile homes slammed together side by side and with about as much design consideration. A shoddily constructed wall of archways separates the space precisely in half from end to end. Every surface is drenched in high-gloss, battleship gray paint and covered with handmade posters and neon beer signs. Millions of staples, the tattered remains of posters still lodged in their teeth, litter every wall. The room on the side of the wall where I am sitting is dominated by a long, well-worn, Formica-clad bar and is bordered by a hodgepodge collection of black, vinyl bar stools in various states of disrepair. A bartender and a bar back busy themselves behind the counter. A well-rehearsed flurry of glassware stacking, ice toting, lemon and lime cutting and money counting, keeps both of them too busy to pay me any attention.
     I get up from the bar stool to test my stability and meander through one of the archways. The adjacent room, which is actually two steps lower than the first, is largely an empty space. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice a small, hastily-constructed DJ booth at one end. The only other discernible feature is a modest mirror ball suspended from the center of the ceiling. While I'm gazing at it, the mirror ball sparks to life, lit by a single blue light. Thousands of pin lights appear, splashed on every surface, and slowly begin to rotate as the mirror ball motor trudges to life.
     "You feeling better?"
     For the second time tonight, a booming voice from nowhere. I catch on a little quicker this time. I see the long-haired stranger fiddling around in the DJ booth. He is talking into a handheld microphone. His smoky voice fills every corner with surprising clarity.
     "Yeah, thanks. God, I'm so embarras..."
     Before I can finish, the club's sound system roars to life. A bump and grind R&B song, smoother than a cashmere blanket, envelopes me from everywhere at once. The effect of the spinning pin lights and the amazing acoustics is surprisingly transporting. I get lost in the sensation for a minute. Until, through the window to the DJ booth, I catch a brief glimpse of the long-haired stranger peeling out of an A&M sweatshirt. Underneath, his hairless bronze torso is toned and athletic looking. He frees his hair from a rubber band and deftly slides on a white tank top with one hand while turning off the small, gooseneck lamp that illuminates the turntables with the other. I am yanked back to reality when I realize he is approaching me in the darkness.
     "So," he says, stopping so close to me that I can smell his piny cologne, "did you ever get that water?" He subtly shifts his weight to one hip and begins to re-tie his hair into a ponytail. With his arms raised, his torso forms a perfect 'V' shape and I can see his tiny, brown nipples through his thin, white cotton shirt."
     "I did not." I say robotically. I feel as though I have been caught doing something but I am not sure what. "I'm Jack, by the way," I add, more warmly and with a smile for the first time.
     "I'm Jessie," he says, continuing to fiddle with his hair.
     "Jessie. As in Jessie's Place Jessie?" I ask, pointing at the floor? "Like, the Jessie?"
     "The one and only," he says, gently guiding me by the small of my back, through an archway to the bar area where I started the evening.
     "Nice to meet you, again." I say when we are far enough from the music to hear each other better.
     "Again?"
     "Well, yeah, you got in my car outside. By mistake."
     "Oh, yeah!" He says as if remembering a detail from a distant, hazy memory. A broad smile breaks out across his face and he leans in close to my ear. "Sammy has the good shit." He finishes with a dramatic snort through his nose, steps back, lets out a loud "Whoop!" and then breaks into hysterical laughter. While I am still reeling from the display, he steps up onto a bar stool, onto the bar top and then drops to the floor behind it with a loud thud. The busy bartender snaps to attention.
     "What the fuck Jesse?!" The bartender screams.
     "Now calm down Princess, I'm just getting my friend a water," Jesse says, rooting through a giant cooler under the counter.
     "Stay out of my beer box, Jesse!" The bartender screeches and runs to the cooler, slamming it shut on Jesse's arm. Jesse slowly retracts his arm and then comically raises both arms into the air like a thief caught in the beam of a policeman's flashlight.
     "Well, if it's Jesse's Place, doesn't that make it Jesse's beer box?" I say, laughing.
     "Hardly!" The bartender barks at me. "You know the rules Jesse!" He reaches into the cooler, slams a bottled water in front of me on the bar and lays out his hand with the palm up. "That'll be one dollar."
     Jesse reaches into his front pocket and extracts a mess of one dollar bills. He gingerly lays two of them in the bartender's hand and then flips him off directly in his face.
    "I hate you," the bartender says with a soft sneer before wiping a boot print from the counter and returning to his task at the far end of the bar.
     "What was that all about?" I ask, cracking open the water and taking a sip.
     "They all hate me because they either want me, or they want to be me," he says loudly enough for the bartender to hear. The bartender offers him a middle finger in return, but never looks in our direction. I realize that this banter is familiar between them.
     "So, what was that all about?"
     "Yes. What was that all about?" Asks a voice from behind me. I turn and discover that Javier has returned. He takes the bar stool next to mine. He eyes Jesse in a way that demands an actual explanation.
     "I was just getting this guy a water and Princess down there," he says, nodding in the bartender's direction, "gets all pissy and loud!"
     "But you aren't supposed to be behind the bar," Javier says calmly.
     "Whatever. It was water. You're such a dick." With that, he leans against the back counter behind the bar, crosses his arms over his chest and visibly sulks.
     At this point, I am confused by the hierarchy of the bar and want very much to be anywhere else.
     "Why can't the owner be behind his own bar?!" I wonder to myself.
     We sit in silence for what seems like a month. Suddenly, Jesse lets out an exasperated sigh, hops up onto the bar, down onto a bar stool and drops to the floor with a thud again.
     "I'm outta here," he says to no one in particular and strides off to the far side of the bar, headed for the DJ booth. Javier makes no move to follow him. Instead, he swings back around to face the bar, drops his head into his hands and laughs dryly.
     "Gotta love him," he says quietly.
     "I think I might," I say jokingly, taking another sip of my water.
     "Well, don't get too attached. He's my boyfriend."
     I choke a little on my water. Javier laughs. I laugh too, but I'm not sure why. Truth be told, I'm a little disappointed to discover that both of the only attractive gay men I have met in Mecca are taken. And by each other, no less. I turn to Javier to apologize, but he stops me before I can say anything.
     "Don't worry. I get it. He's beautiful," he says with a grin.
     I sip my water quietly, fearful that I will embarrass myself further.
     "Now, let's get out of the way and let these boys get finished setting up."
     "Finished setting up what?" I ask.
     "The bar."
     "What do you mean set up?" I ask, looking around. "What are they setting up for?"
     "To open the bar."
     I look at my watch and discover that it is just six minutes until eight. I turn red yet again. My entire foray into the club has happened before they have even opened.

Chapter Three

Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum
     When I enter Jesse's Place, wringing wet, I am standing in a very small vestibule, lit by a single, bare, red bulb. To the left of the door that leads into the bar is a framed mirror and I am relieved to have the opportunity to pull myself together before making my entrance. I toss my hair around a bit to try and revive it. I smooth out my favorite, black leather car coat and pop the collar up. I decide this is too much and fold the collar back down. I suck in my gut and then let it out several times, reviewing this pointless act from every angle in the mirror. I toss my hair some more. I decide my shirt needs to be re-tucked, so I loosen my belt, unfasten my jeans and drop them just past my hips.
     "I need to see some identification please," a voice booms from nowhere.
     I look around for the source of the voice to no avail. In the dim red light, I can only make out the framed mirror, the doors and... the reflection of me with my pants undone. I am frozen like an idiot.
     "Just hold it up to the window please. Er... uh... your I.D. I mean," the voice adds. You can tell the individual is trying not to laugh.
     I am appalled to realize that I have been preening into a two-way mirror and God only knows who, or how many people, have been watching me re-enact my morning bathroom rituals. I fumble with my jeans and belt, trying to redress and remove my wallet from my pocket simultaneously. My pants fall to my knees in the process and I drop my wallet. I can now actually hear muffled laughter through the walls of the entryway. Just as I bend over to retrieve the wallet, the outside door to the street and the inside door to the club are both flung open violently. I quickly stand up and fasten my pants.
     Some odd combination of the red light, the rush of blood to my face that accompanies this brand of embarrassment and the vacuum created by the simultaneous opening of the two doors, causes me to do something I have never done before. I pass out cold and slump to the floor.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Chapter Two

Cover Design by Jeffrey Linthicum
     Lang College's catalog boasts an intimate, modern campus nestled in the quaint town of Mecca, Texas. I had learned from my job-seeking peers not to trust the glossy booklets that America's colleges and universities publish to promote themselves, so I wasn't expecting much. But, arriving there on a sweltering August afternoon in 1990, I was pleasantly surprised.
     Preston Lang, one of Mecca's early Mayors, created the liberal arts school in the 1950's as an alternative to Texas A&M University. At that time, you were not welcome at A&M unless you were a white male interested in learning mechanics and farming taught in a strict, military environment. In stark contrast, aesthetics were the main course of study at Lang and I loved the idea of being submerged in a culture that appreciated beauty for beauty's sake. I was eager to settle in and see the city, so on the first Monday after my arrival, I accepted an offer to tour the town.
     My 'tour guide' was a student named Jill Garrison, a gorgeous 22-year-old Senior at Lang, who was majoring in architecture. Her small stature, elfin features and lilting, West Texas accent belied an aggressive, good-ole'-boy persona that made me feel like a failure as a man. After fiddling with the wires beneath the hood of her well-worn, topless, white Jeep, the engine roared to life. She climbed into the driver's seat, reapplied a coat of pearly-pink Chanel lip gloss, tied her wheat-colored mane of hair into a messy knot and patted the passenger's seat - by way of inviting me to join her. I had barely fastened the seat belt before we rocketed into traffic.
     "So, what do I call you?" She asked, her hair whipping across her face as the thick, humid Summer air assaulted us from every angle.
     "Jack. Jack Wescott... well... Professor Wescott," I stammered, having never considered how I might be addressed by students that were, essentially, my age. I reconsidered using such a professional title. "Jack." I finally offered.
  "Where you from?" She half-yelled over a loud, passing truck.
     "Ohio!" I yelled back a little too loudly while casually glancing into the open, rear bed of the Jeep. An impressive collection of discarded paper coffee cups, a greasy toolbox, a pair of mud-crusted Timberland boots and a decimated Neiman-Marcus shopping bag, containing what I surmised to be a carburetor, littered the floor.
     "Well... keep that to yourself," she said. "Folks 'round here don't take too kindly to Yankees takin' a job in these parts."
  My eyes bugged a little at the notion that I might not be welcomed in this pleasant place. I immediately envisioned a mob of angry townspeople, wielding torches, picketing my duplex and waking each morning to discover 'YANKEE GO HOME' and 'PANSIES AIN'T WELCOME' spray-painted on my front door. Jill grinned, as though she could hear what I was thinking.
     "I'm teasing you!" She managed to mutter through gales of laughter. "Oh man! You should have seen your face!" With that, she cranked the volume on the Jeep's radio and drove, at break-neck speeds, toward the center of town. Janet Jackson's 'Escapade' blared the soundtrack of my dizzying introduction to Mecca, TX.
     Had I been giving the tour, I might have stopped to point out features of interest - impressive statuary, bronze plaques marking notable historic sites and century-old buildings. Not Jill. We shot through downtown Mecca like a runaway train. I had been gripping the Jeep's roll bar so fiercely that when we finally came to a stop in the gravel parking lot of a shabby restaurant on the West side of town, my hand was reluctant to let go and my forearm ached.
     "Here we are," she said, "the social hub of Mecca."
This 'hub' was a restaurant called Ruiz's Famous Mexican Grill and Bakery. I was not enthused. From our parking space at the rear of the building, I could see directly into the kitchen through a rotting screen door that was propped open by a broken, cinder block. As I clumsily climbed out of the Jeep, a kitchen employee - carrying an enormous stock pot - came to the door and nonchalantly dumped the green-ish, steaming contents of the pot onto the ground. I was not successful at masking my horror.
     "Come on Mister Fancy Pants," Jill said mockingly. "I promise you their tacos are to-die-for."
     I looked at my watch and then at her. "Tacos at nine in the morning?" I thought.
     She rolled her eyes at me and headed around the building to the front door. I followed, reluctantly.
     Ruiz's had seen better days, for sure. The expansive front windows, yellowed by grease and smoke, were covered with fliers, handbills and business cards - some dating as far back as 1987. The hand-painted sign above the front door was faded and peeling and streaks of rust, trailing from the bolts that precariously anchored the sign into place, ran down the building's facade and onto the sidewalk. Jill pulled open the front door and I was encouraged immediately by two things. The place was packed to the rafters with noisy diners and the aromas were intoxicating - familiar and exotic at the same time. I was suddenly starving. We took the only two remaining seats at a long, diner-style counter.
      "Two carne guisada tacos and two coffees!" Jill hollered to a waitress at the far end of the counter. The coffees materialized almost instantly, followed quickly by two red, plastic, woven baskets, lined with waxed paper. Each contained a tinfoil-wrapped log the size of my foot. I watched as Jill opened the foil and a puff of steam wafted out. I followed suit. Inside, I found a flour tortilla filled with a foul-looking, brown gravy and large chunks of unrecognizable meat.
     "Just eat it," Jill said, noting my disgust and rolling her eyes again.
  I picked the taco up tentatively. It was heavy, blazing hot and dripping from both ends and I had no idea how to approach the first bite. I watched as Jill turned her head to the side and attacked the behemoth as a shark might attack an unsuspecting swimmer. My graceless attempt to mimic her technique failed miserably and searing, hot gravy dribbled through my fingers and down my arm. I didn't care. I would have happily bathed in the savory, stew-like concoction after that first bite. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the velvety-smooth mess running down my chin, and devoured the remainder as if I hadn't eaten in weeks.
    "I told you." Jill said smugly.
I decided at that moment that I adored her.
For the next hour, we sat at the counter at Ruiz's, drinking coffee, gossiping and laughing with an endless stream of customers who stopped to chat with Jill. She seemed to know everyone and, incredulously, introduced each of them to me by name. With each encounter, a new tidbit of Mecca's past, present or future revealed itself. After an hour, I felt as though I had pieced together a better portrait of this intriguing little town than any scenic car ride ever could have.
     I learned that Mecca's 60,000 residents are largely descendants of migrant laborers that flooded the area in the 1870's, when the Texas Legislature approved funding for the construction of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas - now known as Texas A&M University. Hundreds of impoverished and desperate families relocated here to serve as the tireless workforce that would help construct one of the first, and arguably finest, institutions of higher education in the state. Determined to build their own community and put down roots near a continued source of employment, the migrant workers ensconced themselves in a tent city near a fast-moving section of the Brazos River - a comfortable distance from the watchful eyes of their employers.
     As it became clear that the college would continue to grow and provide steady work, the residents began to form a concept for a permanent city. Using their newly acquired skills as stone masons, bricklayers, wood carvers, glass cutters and iron workers, the laborers created Mecca - from scratch. Each early building, regardless of it's utilitarian use, was designed to showcase the craftsmanship and artistry that these proud people had learned while toiling in the blazing Texas sun. The pride in this achievement is evident to this day. In the older downtown area, every tile, brick, window and archway, every sidewalk, lamppost and flowerbed - is a masterpiece. Which is why they decided to call it Mecca - an important place for people to convene and pay homage to the beauty of arts and crafts.
      I also learned that my own neighborhood on the East side of Mecca, where I had rented half of a duplex house, features homes that were built in the 1970's by a builder who swindled the school and the city out of millions of dollars. And that Mecca natives refer to the area as 'Ciudad de Jovenes' or 'City of the Young'. One local even told me that Mecca-ites prefer corralling the artistically inclined students in that area, as they consider the majority of them to be, "a bunch of potheads and crazies." I made a mental note to review my lease and the cost of breaking it.
     I was also told to avoid the South side of Mecca entirely. Actually, a waitress offered this advice with some authority - as she lived there. She was vague about the details, but Jill later underscored the warning by regaling me with stories of gang violence, drug-smuggling rings, prostitution and murder. I was somewhat relieved to learn that since the Brazos River bisects the city just South of the downtown, there is a clear line of demarcation where the South side begins - a two hundred yard long structure called 'The Long Walk'. The bridge is actually named after a former founder, but has always been referred to as 'The Long Walk' by the poorer blue-collar workers that hiked across it every day. One old-timer told us that in the 1950's, 'The Long Walk' collapsed and a busload of school children perished there. Another claimed that while many have jumped from it in an attempt to end their own lives, amazingly, none have ever done so successfully.
    After our hour at Ruiz's, Jill and I made a wide loop through the West side of Mecca, which is largely industrial and dominated by businesses that service the oil and gas industry. We stopped only once there - to see Jill's favorite example of architecture in Mecca. Where the Brazos River hugs the West side of town, an eccentric member of the wealthy, local Lang family had tried, in vain, to harness the fast-moving water for the purpose of generating hydro-electric power for the city. The Art Deco-inspired design of the plant, the adjacent offices and the out-buildings was impressive. Dormant for over three decades, it was sad to see the beautiful place crumbling behind locked fences. Jill claimed the eccentric owner still lived inside, not unlike Willy Wonka, hermited away from the town that called him crazy. 
     We sped Northeast from there, through the upper class 'Heights' neighborhood. Jill pointed out the home of the Dean of Lang, the beautiful estates of several prominent local families and the glorious Lang Mansion on Live Oak Boulevard - a continuous assault of lush lawns, wide verandas and sparkling fountains that made me a bit jealous.
     Finally, we entered Lang College campus - and my heart skipped a beat. I felt perfectly at home almost instantly. The funky blend of mid-century modern structures, dotted with public art and the electric buzz that only a college campus can generate, made me excited and eager. I originally chose Lang College not for it's outstanding liberal arts program or beautiful setting, but rather for its distance from the hateful Winters of Ohio. Of the schools that were interested in hiring me, despite my lackluster grades and perfunctory letters of recommendation, Lang College was, simply, the furthest South. But being there, I knew that some divine connection had been made. That I would be a part of something special, during a special time and in a very special place.
     Late in the afternoon, Jill deposited me back at my home, dizzy with anticipation and feeling slightly euphoric.
     "Thank you so much Jill. It was - and you were - such a pleasure," I gushed.
     "The pleasure was all mine," she said. "You know, Mrs. Carlisle, the lady with the blue hair at Ruiz's this morning, said she thinks we'd make a cute couple."
     "Well, as sickeningly adorable as it would be for a couple to be named Jack and Jill, I have some bad news for you. I like boys."
     Jill giggled a little and gave me a wink. "It wasn't an invitation Professor Jack, I just thought it was cute."
     I blushed with embarrassment. But since the ice had been broken and Jill seemed unbothered by my confession, I couldn't help but ask a question that had been burning in my mind all day.
     "There wouldn't happen to be a gay bar in Mecca, would there?" I stage whispered 'gay bar' for no apparent reason.
     "There is actually," she said plainly, "but I have some bad news for you."
     "What? It's closed? It's off limits to teachers? They play polka music?"
     "No. Well... they may play polka music, I've never been," she joked. "The bad news is... you'll have to cross 'The Long Walk' to get there."
     With that, she peeled out, leaving long black rubber burns on the pavement - Guns N Roses' "Paradise City" blaring loudly enough to be heard long after her Jeep was out of sight.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Chapter One

Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum
It occurs to me that I am being silly, but I continue to lay almost flatly reclined in the driver's seat of my white 1984 Chevrolet Caprice Classic - a hand-me-down from my mother. It is raining. It is cold. It is February, 1991.
   As cars approach, I can hear the hiss of radial tires on wet asphalt, sending a chill of fear and anticipation through me that feels not unlike that wonderful shiver that comes during a long overdue piss. Some puzzling combination of the rain-slicked street, the angled, rearview mirror and the passing headlights creates a three-inch wide strip of light, reaching from door to door. As cars pass, this band of light slowly sweeps across the ceiling of the car from the windshield to the rear window before it quickly snaps back to the windshield and then slowly fades away. I lay there staring at the ceiling of the car watching this trick of light and am amused by the sudden notion that I am laying inside of a giant Xerox copy machine.
   I am 24 years old, but I look 19. I have already decided to split the difference in my favor and claim to have just turned 21. This is just another of the long string of untruths that I have prepared in the unlikely event that I actually screw up the courage to go inside the only gay bar in the small town where I have just taken a job as an art teacher at a small, liberal arts college. I have been laying here in the car for well over an hour.
   I pull the handle that releases the seat back, quickly bolt upright and meet my own gaze in the rearview mirror. My eyes are probably my only noteworthy physicality. They are almond-shaped and peridot green with long, dark, chestnut brown lashes. On me, they are a pleasant discovery among a collection of average features: short barber-cut brown hair, freckly skin that tends to burn in Summer and a slightly doughy physique supported by a 6-foot frame.
   A rapid tapping on the passenger-side window nearly sends me through roof of the car.
   "Hey! Is that you Sammy?!"
   I squint to try and bring into focus the dark figure on the other side of the watery window.
"Hey!"
More tapping.
I turn the ignition switch and begin to lower the power window just as the door opens and a soaking wet stranger gets in and slams the door too hard. A surge of panic and fear is colored by excitement when the stranger slides back the hood of his jacket and reveals his face. He is only slightly older than me with shoulder length black hair, loosely tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Wet hunks of it hang across his dark eyes and stick to his full, pink lips. A smile breaks out across his handsome face and seems to illuminate the car even after the interior light snaps off.
"Did I spook you?!" He says too loudly, laughs and then belches.
The smell of thick, dark liquor finds its way across the front seat and assaults my nose. I wince as if I've done a shot. He adjusts himself and tries to wipe the rain from his face. Each movement is slow and deliberate, as if he were being controlled remotely by a novice puppeteer.
"Did you get a new car?" he asks, petting the cracked dashboard and worn upholstery. "Business must be bad!" He laughs and belches again. When he finally makes an attempt to look directly at me, I notice that his eyes are red and watery and small globs of white goo coat the corners of his mouth. The realization that I am not Sammy washes slowly across his drunken face.
"Shit dude! Sorry! I thought you was Sammy!" he gushes. After a brief struggle with the hardware and a slurred series of barely audible curse words, he opens the car door and steps back out into the rain. He stops the door before it closes completely and pokes his head back in. "You comin' inside? I'll buy you a drink. Sorry man!" He slams the door too hard again.
I stare at the passenger seat vacated by the stranger and am compelled to touch the burgandy velour upholstery there. It is damp and slightly warm. Tangible confirmation of the odd exchange makes it seem even more surreal.
Pulling my jacket over my head, I step out into the icy rain just in time to watch as the stranger opens the passenger door of another white car just across the street. I hear the relief in his voice as he confirms that the driver is, in fact, the Sammy in question. As he prepares to climb into the car, he pauses, smiles at me and points to the bar.
"Meet me in there!" he yells across the roof of the car and disappears into the passenger seat. The solid vault-like sound of the door shutting makes me take stock of Sammy's car. It is a white 7-series BMW sedan.
"Business must be good," I think to myself.
As I cross the street and head toward the bar, I begin to consider the limited number of legal 'business transactions' that could possibly take place on a Friday night, in the front seat of an idling car that costs more than my yearly salary. I falter for a second. Everything about this feels wrong. But the brilliant smile of the stranger and the excitment of his invitation proves too strong to resist and I run across the street, dodging puddles and smiling like an idiot the whole way.