Chapter 12
TWELVE
Blake
The Firehouse looked very different during the day. At night, the red light over the bar and the flashing lights over the dance floor concealed a lot of scuffs and scrapes. But when daylight streamed through the high windows in the garage doors, it became apparent how run-down the place was.
The clientele was different, too – a motley crew of chaps Tenny referred to as “Daywalkers.”
There were the middle-aged men who’d been coming to the club for years, who met up every Sunday to chat over Bellinis.
Then there were the “digital nomads,” the hipsters that would park themselves at a table with their laptops and nurse a single beer while they “worked.”
A few younger guys were always hunched over the bar, hollow-eyed and miserable, self-medicating their hangovers with some hair of the dog.
This afternoon, Enzo was seated at the bar, his spangly blazer draped over the stool beside him. He leaned on one elbow, chin in his palm, lazily stirring a Bloody Mary with a celery stalk. When he saw Blake, he perked up and managed a small wave.
Tenny was drying glasses and chatting with a handsome man whose long, shoulder-length black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The guy’s skinny jeans highlighted the long, graceful lines of his legs.
“Oh hey, Blake,” Tenny said as Blake approached the bar. “This is my friend Rhys.”
Rhys smiled and shook Blake’s hand with a confident grip. The man’s clean-shaven face was so dewy it practically glowed, and his eyes were a piercing sapphire blue. He could make serious money as a dancer.
“Rhys and I were both go-go dancers at the Slide Whistle,” Tenny said.
Rhys chuckled. “That was a long time ago.”
Blake was already picturing Rhys in nothing but barely-there briefs, collecting tips from a crowd of horny men. “Do you still dance?”
“Professionally, yes. Exotically, no. I don’t have the body for it. We can’t all be beefy and burly like Tenny.”
“Rhys is legit now. Works in the theater,” Tenny said, drawing out the word theater in a mock-haughty British accent: thee-a-tuh.
“I pick up a musical every now and then. It isn’t as glamorous as Tenny makes it sound.” Rhys drained the glass in front of him. “Anyway, I have to head out. Nice meeting you, Blake.” Pointing at Tenny, he added, “We have to get together soon. If I’m not mistaken, it’s your turn to buy the drinks.”
Tenny stroked his beard. “Hmm, that’s not how I remember it.”
Rhys laughed, then slid off his stool and sauntered toward the door. A shaft of sunlight slashed across the floor in a sharp line as he opened it and vanished just as quickly as the door swung shut behind him.
Blake stepped behind the bar and tied an apron around his waist. “Is Rhys serious about not having the body to dance? He’d make bank. Don’t you agree, Enzo?”
Enzo nodded. “I was ready to tip him just for sitting there.”
Tenny draped his towel over his shoulder.
“It’s not his scene anymore. He prefers musicals.
” He picked up a few of the clean glasses and squeezed past Blake to stack them on the shelf below the liquor.
“Before you get settled, can I have you run upstairs and grab a bottle of Grey Goose? We had some rich Daywalkers who went a little wild with their Bloody Mary’s. ”
Blake glanced at the hallway leading to the second-floor stairs, rubbing the back of his neck. He hated being alone on the second floor. The guys joked that the upper level was haunted, and whenever Blake was up there, it felt like someone was watching him.
He crept down the dark hallway leading to the back of the building.
Virgil’s office was at the bottom of the stairs, wedged between a bathroom and a closet that probably used to hold cool things like axes and hoses, but now only contained cleaning supplies.
A vintage brass name plate that said Fire Chief was still nailed to the office door.
Light bled out from under Virgil’s door, which struck Blake as odd. Sunday was the one day of the week Virgil didn’t spend at the club.
He jogged upstairs and flicked on the lights in the main room, which at one time had been a common area for the firefighters. Now it was a storage area packed with boxes of junk, old holiday decorations, and moldering costumes.
Two dormitories opened off the common area. One hadn’t been touched in years; the other was where they stored their back stock of alcohol.
Blake speed-walked to the dormitory and scanned the cases of vodka for Grey Goose, tapping his fingers against his thigh in a nervous rhythm.
Out in the common area, a floorboard creaked.
Blake peered around the doorframe to see if anyone had followed him upstairs.
“Hello?” he called out. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. There was no answer. No movement.
He resumed his search for Grey Goose, groaning in frustration when he finally found its case, which was, of course, on the very bottom of the stack.
He moved the boxes one by one, carefully re-stacking them to the side, certain that the ghost was gliding toward the dormitory as he worked.
A ghost probably couldn’t hurt him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to meet one face-to-face. What kind of ghost would haunt a firehouse, anyway? One of the dead firefighters?
Would he be burned, like Freddy Krueger?
Another floorboard creaked, right outside the dormitory.
“Fuck this shit,” he mumbled, yanking a bottle of Grey Goose out of the case and rushing back downstairs.
On his way by Virgil’s office, he heard a man’s voice that he didn’t recognize.
“The club is falling down around you. How much longer are you going to put this off?”
Blake bristled, his free hand tightening into a fist. All the dancers knew the club was run-down, but that didn’t give outsiders the right to criticize it.
“I’ve had the club for thirty-four years, Curtis.”
When the unknown man spoke again, his voice was kinder. “It’s a fair price.”
There was a long pause. Blake put his ear against the door and cupped his hand around it. When Virgil finally answered, he sounded utterly defeated.
“If I take the deal and pay everything off, will I have enough money to travel?”
“The payout will cover most of your outstanding debts, but it won’t leave you with a lot. It’ll be tight, but I can move some things around and free up some money. I’ll run the numbers tonight and let you know what I can do.”
Chair legs scratched along the floor, and moments later the office door swung inward. Blake stumbled forward and barely caught himself before tumbling headlong into the tall man that filled the doorway. He offered an embarrassed smile and lowered his hand from his ear.
With a frown, the man mumbled, “Excuse me.” He buttoned his navy blazer and stepped around Blake, tucking a manilla folder under his arm as he walked down the hallway toward the bar.
Blake stepped into the office. “Who was that?”
Virgil sat with his elbows braced on his desk, rubbing his eyes. “Curtis Davies, my financial manager. How much of that did you overhear?”
“Enough. Are you closing the bar?”
Virgil looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed, as if he hadn’t slept for days. “Close the door.” He tucked a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a match. He took a drag, holding in the smoke then blowing it out with a sigh. “Have a seat.”
Blake took the seat in front of Virgil’s desk, cradling the bottle of Grey Goose in his lap.
Virgil leaned back in his chair and took another puff of his cigarette. “I’ve been thinking about retiring for a while. A week or so ago, a developer approached me and offered to buy out my lease.”
“A developer? Do they want to tear down the club?”
“No idea. I don’t know what their plans are.”
An unexpected rush of tears burned Blake’s eyes. He blinked them away and swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Are you going to take the offer?”
“I haven’t confirmed it yet. I know it’s time to let go, but I’ve had this club since 1989. Saying goodbye is going to be hard.” Virgil stubbed out the cigarette in his ashtray. “You’re my boys. My family. When I sign that contract, it’s over. There’s no coming back.”
Blake hung his head, using his thumb to trace the pictures of geese on the vodka bottle. He’d taken for granted that the club would always be there. He knew Virgil was getting older, but he never saw him as old. Virgil was always at the club, steadfastly refusing to slow down.
“I’ll keep the place open through the end of summer,” Virgil said.
Blake nodded and stood, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. If he looked at Virgil, he’d break down.
When he got to the door, Virgil said, “It’ll be okay, Blake.”
The concern and fondness in Virgil’s voice tipped Blake over the edge. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He quickly stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.
This wasn’t just any club. It was The Firehouse. A fixture in the San Francisco gay scene. The place he’d called home for four years.
And currently, it was his most reliable source of income. It was the money he counted on, especially since Hollis kept warning him his SeeMen income would dry up if he wasn’t doing cam work.
Blake ducked into the bathroom to compose himself. After blowing his nose and splashing some cold water on his face, he made his way back to the bar.
Tenny was cutting lemons and humming to himself. Half a dozen yellow wedges were lined up on the cutting board, with stray seeds flicked off to the side. He plopped down another plump lemon and sliced off its ends.
Blake slipped behind the bar without a word. After shelving the vodka, he gave the bar top a few half-hearted spritzes of disinfectant and listlessly wiped it down.
After a sideways glance, Tenny placed the knife in the sink and dried his hands on his apron. He sidled up next to Blake. “You okay, big guy?”
Blake glanced toward Enzo, who was pacing at the far end of the bar with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Satisfied their co-worker wouldn’t overhear the conversation, Blake said, “Virgil might close the club.”
“I thought he still had a year or two on his lease.”
“A developer made him an offer, or something.”
Tightening his mouth into a line, Tenny nodded. “Well, I’m not surprised. He’s been dropping hints for a while that he’s ready to retire.”
“He has?”
“Babe, Virgil’s running out of steam. Even if he stayed, the club might close anyways.
We’re not keeping up with the times.” Tenny wrapped his arm around Blake’s shoulder and pulled him close.
“The club needs an overhaul. A fresh look. It needs someone to guide it in a new direction, like maybe a young porn star who wants to transition into burlesque?”
Although it hurt to hear it, Blake agreed with Tenny’s assessment.
The Firehouse was well past its prime. Guys didn’t really need meeting spaces anymore because of hookup apps.
They were hungry for experiences they could share on social media – experiences like burlesque shows.
Burlesque was an artful blend of showmanship and sexuality, which is why Blake fantasized about having a club one day––
Hey, wait.
“Are you talking about me?”
“Now’s your chance, man. You could offer to take over the club. Make it your own.”
A brief thrill of excitement fluttered in Blake’s chest, a happy butterfly behind his ribs that was crushed seconds later by a boulder of self-doubt. “I can’t,” he said, dropping his gaze to the bar. “There’s no way I could do this alone.”
Tenny lightly punched his bicep. “You wouldn’t be alone. You have plenty of people who’d help you.”
The butterfly in his chest crawled out from under the boulder and shook its wings open again. Blake had some money set aside. He had a creative vision. When he closed his eyes, he could see his dream club down to the last detail.
But running a club required a lot of paperwork. Just the thought of all that math made his head hurt.
“All the money stuff, though. I can barely cash out a bar tab. But there’d be ordering, and paychecks, and oh god, taxes––”
“Shh.” Tenny squeezed Blake’s bicep. “You can hire people to help with that. Look, The Firehouse didn’t happen overnight. Virgil had a dream, and he showed up. He figured things out as he went along. He got help when he needed it.
“You’re the most talented dancer here, babe. The costumes you make are amazing. You understand how to please a crowd. The vision is the hard part, and you’ve got that. You can figure out the rest.”
“You really think I can do this?”
“I know you can.” Tenny kissed Blake behind his ear, the wiry bristles of his beard tickling Blake’s skin.
Blake wasn’t convinced his best friend was right. But for the rest of his shift, he fantasized about singing in front of a packed house, a single blinding spotlight warming his skin like the sun.