Greg Abraham: Front Man

Tonight a man could be in two places at one time, or a thousand, romping the summit of every dream between here and the Pole Star, playing bass chords on the Pleiades, hammering harmonics out of Arcturus, falling into Spica’s lap, drunk because a man didn’t need to fear dying or fear losing Thump… maybe because he was already lost.

Th’b’b’banh! Thump danced.

Sh’tka’heh paused, the stars keeping time, slipped the guitar strap off his shoulder and draped it over Thump’s head. Ron had never seen Thump so suddenly still and full of love. It showed in the downward tilt of his chin, the way he braced the Fender against his hip, stance hesitant for an instant before he received the weight and took command.

There was respect in the way that Thump grinned at Sh’tka’heh as he started to pluck a sassy backbeat and threw the starry snares into syncopation. He nabbed a little riff out of the air and juggled it between octaves.

It had none of the majesty of Sh’tka’heh’s song.

But it was happy, sure, complete. Thump danced the only way he really could, not in his feet or legs, just in his hips and shoulders. His music disappeared amid the stars and nebulae, hid behind Seyfert galaxies with their laughter, became a pulse that played hilariously, then caressed like a hand in the darkness, and plunged back to this world as the Earth began to sing.

Ron closed his eyes and tried to retreat from the glow. It was such a sad song underneath the humor, full of loss that got buried when people died, full of hurt that the the world hid inside herself so that the future could still hope. And Thump made it unbearably beautiful as he jostled Earth with his rhythm.

Ron had felt that rhythm inside him and never understood. Now he recoiled back into the certainty of a French door, yanked it open, blinked beneath the chandeliers.

Chad sat alone at the long table. He diverted his eyes from Ron, looked fearfully at the glow instead, then grabbed a carrot stick and speared it into dip. When he finally swallowed he said, “I guess they get this way, the Noiesni.”

“I’m sorry.” How did you get forgiven for wrecking a party where miracles were implied, if not quite real? He could throw away his pride… could throw almost anything away to make his host accept this apology. There were lovers, even startlingly rare ones, but then there were your friends.

Chad ate another carrot, no dip this time. “I think Thump made Sh’tka’heh homesick. How?”

“Sorry,” Ron whispered again. He headed for the hallway so he could grab his jacket and leave.

Chad called out, “What about Thump?”

Ron got the coat. Going to the door, he muttered, “Call you tomorrow?”

“If Thump gets out of there, he has a place to stay… tonight.”

Ron pulled the door shut and stood on the porch, desolate. Sure, Thump was still good for one thing… tonight. Ron checked his watch. It was almost eleven. Where had the time gone?

He drove home, reckless, heater on high, October air as sharp as the city against the dark. Sometimes the wind carried a scent, earthy like Thump and his clothes. The smell became tainted decades, sex, and love that would destroy your soul if not your body. He pulled into the driveway and triggered the garage door.

Cold, he hurried in, slammed against the cutting block as he rushed across the kitchen to switch on the light, turn up the heat. He smelled Thump, as if his feet had stunk up the entire house. Almost choking, he tumbled into the hallway and onto the stairs. Huddled, he gasped, wondered if he’d have to burn everything to get rid of that stench.

Bright kitchen light bounced from copper pans, wrapped sedately about the banisters; be quiet, Ron heard the light say, there’ll be other boys, other smells. And it came to him, the rich odor of the leather couch in the living room, the furniture polish in the dining room, the stirring of old summer dust as the heater kicked on… the familiar smells of aloneness.

As long as you loved nobody, it was easy to be brave when you were alone.

The clock standing at the end of the living room chimed midnight. He’d sat on the steps all that time, knees in his chest, arms on his knees, face buried between his arms.

How much life could one memory shape? And such a small memory… Ron’s dad had bought some groceries. Afterward they’d stopped at the lunch counter for a milk shake. Sun gleamed on the cars, on the window behind the waitress. The milk shakes, plain vanilla, were worth more than every treasure in the world.

Almost finished, Ron was playing around and spilled the last of his. But Dad reached over and ran a hand through Ron’s hair while the waitress wiped up the little spill.

“Don’t worry,” his dad told him.

And Ron began to cry. His dad lifted him up and hugged him. Stubble burned his cheek and he cried even harder. Dad understood, hugged him more gently this time, kissed his temple…

“Hey, Ron?” Thump whispered.

He looked up, blinked in the shadowy hallway. “I didn’t hear the door.” The words rasped out.

“I didn’t come in through the door. Sh’tka’heh gave me a lift.” He grinned. “You should’ve waited, then you could’ve come, too. The car could have sat till tomorrow. Nobody’ll fuck with it in that neighborhood.”

“Why do you talk like that?” The face he had loved a couple of hours ago disgusted him.

“Why not?” Thump sat down next to him on the steps. “Hey, I was so proud of you when you came in to hear me and Sh’tka’heh jam. Kind of scary, right?” Thump put his arm around him.

Ron pushed Thump away, got up, turned at the foot of the stairs. “Why can’t you act normal? Why can’t you just act normal ?”

Thump rose slowly. “Hey… sorry. I only stopped by to change. This sweater’s great, but it’s hard to play in, especially with the shirt. Sorta too hot, y’know? Anyway, I gotta go.” He started up the stairs.

“Where? It’s after midnight.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even look back.

Ron waited. He circled through the house, turned on every light in the living room, hallway, dining room, then stationed himself back at the foot of the stairs.

When Thump came down, he wore rust-colored Levi’s and a T-shirt. He gripped his suede jacket hard as he edged by. The back of the tee said “Einstürzende Neubauten.” Somebody had given it to him when he and the Prague-Matics had gone to Amsterdam. Probably some trick.

Without moving, Ron listened to footsteps on the basement stairs. A minute later Thump came back into the hallway, his guitar case in one hand and the jacket in the other. The shitty boots were on his feet untied. He stood in front of the door, hip-slung and shoulders concave. His cowlicks stuck out the way they did when he’d been playing hard, impossibly cute and a little forlorn, the way that bad haircuts always were.

“Sorry about tonight… I guess. I mean, if I fucked up, I’m sorry. I got to go, Ron.”

“Where?”

“I… love you, Ron.” Thump looked up. His eyes burned with love, but not for anybody or anything human.

“Where?”

“Out to the island. I gotta see the cows.”

“Oh, come on! With your guitar?”

“Me and Sh’tka’heh. It’s the only place I could think of with lots of room. We’re gonna need it.” Thump suddenly beamed like he had at the party. “Hey, maybe the cows’ll like it!” The smile faded. “You… you can come, too, if you want.”

“Sh’tka’heh’s meeting with the Pope.”

“He cancelled. C’mon?” Thump grinned, raised his brows. As they settled, he winked. “C’mon.”

“You’re not going anyplace.” Ron folded his arms. Why am I doing that? he asked himself. I never do that… but my father did. Did every man, even a gay one, have to become his father? Arms unfolded. “You’re coming to bed.”