Chapter Four - Asher
CHAPTER FOUR
Asher
I DON’T KNOW what it is.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t gotten my rocks off with some fella in a while.
Could be something in the air, summertime, and what it brings.
Heat and sunsets and air so alive, so vibrant.
Seasons pass, I hardly notice them now. It’s ironic, in a way.
We grew up living by their rhythm. Our very lives depended upon them.
And now. Here I am. Grown up and outgrown.
The garage is quiet today except for the records and the echo of metal against metal.
When there’s this kind of noise, I always hope it drowns out my thoughts, but they seem to want to poke through today.
They seem to want to remind me of Paul and his hands on my face and the way he looked at me.
Antonietta Stella is really trying, though.
She’s just hitting the A sharp at the end of Act I when I see a shadow behind me.
I spin around in the chair and see the outline of someone at the garage door. Paul steps inside, hands in his pockets, and I go over to the record player and take the needle off. Is it wrong to feel this flutter of happiness?
He scrunches up his face. “What was that?”
“ La Traviata .” I toss the wrench I’m holding into a toolbox. “What are you doing here?”
“La what?”
“I was first.”
And then he ducks his head, and I see he’s dressed all casual again, like last night.
I try not to think about his hands on me.
I try not to think about what he said, and in all honesty, it didn’t surprise me.
What did surprise me is that I wanted to, I was going to, I was so close.
What did surprise me is that I would’ve let his drunken ass sleep in my bed while I took the couch, and I would’ve made him breakfast this morning.
But he’s got that aunt, and I don’t know.
She might be protective, and since he won’t tell me why he’s there, I thought it was best to get him home.
And now he’s here.
“Wait, how did you get here?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I walked.”
“That’s kind of a long walk, pal.”
“Well, I had to.” He pushes up his glasses. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
It’s an awful long way for an unnecessary apology, but I know why he’s doing it. There’s an expectancy on his face as he waits; a hope I should have never given him in the first place. This was never more true than last night.
I wipe sweat and grit from my forehead and concentrate on polishing up the newly repaired windshield on the Impala. “You were pretty drunk. We all say things. Do things.”
“Yeah, sure.”
When I glance over at him, he looks crestfallen.
“It’s really okay,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been there.” I rub a cloth over the smooth glass. “I was in the city one time and had a few too many. Fell down some stairs. It happens.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t take the hurt on his face. “Don’t worry about it, pal. It’s all right.”
He nods, makes a glance around the garage, and backs toward the door. “I guess I should go.”
I toss the cloth over to my workbench. “Sure you don’t want a ride back?”
“No, I like walking.”
And then he turns, his head down, and I feel like such a heel.
It’s like holding in a breath while hiding.
When summer days were long and easy, I’d go into the barn during hide-and-seek.
My place was up in the loft where I could look down and watch my brothers walk in to look for me.
Glen never found me, and Jimmy would play along, act like he didn’t see me when he clearly did.
And I would try to stay out of sight, hold my breath, and I’d take the whole thing so seriously.
I didn’t want to be found, even back then.
I learned to stay quiet for hours, amuse myself, because I knew eventually they would stop looking.
They would give up. If there was no longer anyone to miss you, to look for you, to think of you, you could do anything. Go anywhere.
You’re free.
I go to the door, light a cigarette. I watch him walk away, hunched, hands in pockets, and I feel braced, cemented on the spot.
I can’t muster up the voice to call him back even though I want to.
I want to say what it was last night, give it a name, and give it life.
Because sometimes I want someone to search for me, never give up on me, and think of me.
But it’s just going to die now, the further he gets; it’s being pulled apart and this will be the end of it then.
I shouldn’t have put my arm around him. I shouldn’t have asked him over, and this is what I get.
But then, without breaking his stride, he does a full circle and comes back.
He walks right up to me and gets close, so close I take a step back, and he lifts his head to look at me, those eyes holding secrets I want to know.
A whole life ahead of him, and I don’t think those eyes have seen the things I’ve seen.
He’s green; he’s new. What right do I have?
“I wasn’t that drunk,” he whispers. “And you weren’t drunk at all.”
I avert my gaze. Take a drag from my cigarette.
“And you can’t tell me I imagined it because I was drinking. I know I didn’t.”
I look over at the parking lot owned by the place next door. A lady gets out of a Pontiac with two little kids. The girl shoves a lollipop in her mouth and gives us a long stare.
I finish my cigarette, drop it, stomp it. “I need to get this done.” I nod to the Impala. “See you around.”
And like a smooth piece of chocolate, I turn my back to him, and make my way over to the workbench.
I get a piece of newspaper and a bottle of window cleaner.
And I can feel he’s still there, his gaze on the back of my neck, pricking me like needles, but it’s the kind of sting I crave. I want. I deserve.
When I finally muster up the nerve to turn around, the garage door is empty. Sun shining, and no sound but the silence.
I stand just inside by the balcony door.
I’ve got my Pabst and my pack of Lucky’s.
It’s automatic at this point, just something that I do, but yet I’m standing here, unable to go through that door.
Just a few days ago, I would have gone out, sat in my chair, and quickly glanced to my lower left to see if he was in the shrub.
It got to be comforting after a while, something to expect, something to rely on.
It only got irksome when it looked like he wasn’t trying very hard to hide.
When I felt like I had to go to great lengths to pretend I didn’t see him.
Turn my head and act as if I were interested in something in the distance, focus on my cigarette, just something, and then it got to be tiresome. Annoying.
That’s where I went wrong. I spoke up, broke the spell, and now I can’t even smoke on my own damn balcony. I slump down at my kitchen table. I turn on the radio, light my cigarette, and roll through the stations until that annoys me, too, and I turn it off.
I smoke and drink at the table for a time, glancing out the balcony doors every now and again.
It’s quiet out in the neighborhood this evening, and I’m sure it’s because of the Dogwood Festival.
I handed over the Impala to the ass today so his daughter can smile and wave.
As I think about it, just the whole day in general, my foot starts to tap and there’s a dull ache behind my eyes.
I flick the lighter open and closed, turn the beer can around and around, then I spring up from the chair.
After a quick shower, I leave my apartment, go across the alleyway. I open the gate to his aunt’s yard like I did last night. And Paul was just hanging from my neck like an intoxicated orangutan, muttering shit about Texas. Without me meaning it to, a private grin forms on my face.
Last night I just went to the back door, but I feel funny about it now, so I walk around to the front and knock.
After about a minute, Paul’s aunt opens it and appears behind the screen.
“Oh,” she says. “Mister…?”
“The name’s Asher.” I pause. “Listen…is Paul here?”
She gives me a look over.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “About last night. I didn’t know he’d get…what I mean is, I didn’t really watch how much he was drinking. Just figured he was like any fella, had been out before, you know?”
His aunt gives me a flat smile. I don’t see much resemblance between him and her except for the thick dark hair. And she’s a big lady. Not fat, just big boned and tall.
“Well, I appreciate you bringing him back here,” she says.
“Was he all right?”
“He’s fine.” She looks at me for a handful of seconds. “Paul is…well, he’s had a hard time the last couple months.” She hesitates there and looks at me like she’s trying to decide something, then minutely shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m glad he’s made a friend, but…could I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you make sure he keeps out of trouble?”
I nod, give her my word, then he appears just behind her, the reflection of his glasses behind the screen.
His aunt turns. “Paulie, your friend’s here.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets.
“Hey.” I attempt to make my voice sound light. “You wanna go do something?”
He looks at her and looks at me. My mind turns over and over what his aunt just said, like turning over rocks. He’s had some trouble in his life, and worry begins to worm its way into me; worry cloaked with care.
And I’m not happy about it. At all.
Paul lifts his head, his eyes shining with humor, and nods. “Okay.”
Well, maybe a little bit.
I don’t say anything when he puts his arms all the way around me and rests his hands on my abdomen.
I don’t say anything when we park my bike at the far end of a row of cars and follow the smells of roasted peanuts and kettle corn. I don’t say anything when all the festival lights come on and everything is electric confetti, sugary sweet, and spinning laughter.