Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

— Why don’t you go away or sit down? The man finally asks, leaning back in his chair.

Rob finds speed again, comes around the short railing. Sits. — Nice to see you.

— No it isn’t, says Harrold, who tells the truth. He is much too thin, you can’t hide any secrets in a body like that. And his mustache is long, a U turned over his lips, hanging down. Gray. On his cheeks and neck more hair grows in, enough to unsmooth the skin, but it will never be a beard. His fingers are slim but the tops are fat bulbs. The nails are dirty. I drive a truck, he explains.

— You take a lot of coke? Rob smiles, earnestly asks.

He laughs, and the teeth are bad, dull. — Not so much anymore. I don’t meet boys like this, really.

Rob nods, he loves the liars, leans forward and tries for sultry. — Then how do you meet them, really?

Harrold coughs on some crust causing clutter in his throat. — I didn’t mean it like that.

Behind them are the young women and men, a few years older than Rob, standing in a long and winding cord before they buy their tickets for Greyhound buses; upstairs the same line exists for Short Line tickets and this is the painted pattern many mornings. These young people are on their way back to college, the names stitched across their sweatshirts Rob’s first, best clue; some are with their parents, but most are with the people they call Honey or Sweetheart, then kiss quickly and, with a jumble of sad and happy, watch the bus make concrete the distances between them. Rob turns back to Harrold. — Leaving isn’t always sad. It can be a good thing.

Harrold doesn’t understand he’s being given a hint, a suggestion, but he nods because he is polite enough and Rob is pretty, which always coaxes manners from the worst of men. He asks, — So, how does this work? You want to go to the bathroom or something?

There is an information booth, empty, twenty feet away. The lights are off, glass on all sides, there is no mistaking the vacancy, but people still walk to it, stand there expectantly. As though their need for something is enough to make it appear. As though you don’t have to put in any effort. Rob knows better, you have to work things. — We could do that. If that’s all you want.

— What else? Harrold asks, touching his pocket. You selling vacuum cleaners too?

Anxious. Anxious. Rob does not want another night in the room he shares with three other boys, the way wind seeps through the window frame despite the black tape Rob has put up as insulation. He is desperate. He offers, — I can cook.

Again, Harrold’s coughing. He’s a shy one, it won’t work to be dirty or prurient, that will not coax charity, affection. Women are used to this, the way they sometimes have to set it all up before their date will reach out and hold hands. It can be playful, it can be infuriating: leaning close, smiling often, brushing near, grabbing elbows. But it can be done. Rob says, — My biscuits are nice. My mother taught me how to make them. Or cinnamon French toast, I know how to do that too.

Harrold’s legs are long and, while his upper half leans back, far, they reach forward. He is conscious of it, but not in control. They would not listen if they could. He touches the insides of his boots to the out-sides of Rob’s sneakers. Harrold says, — I live alone. But he had not meant that to come out; internal monologue, not for Rob. Harrold, embarrassed, sits up quick, pulling his feet back from their foreplay. Someone younger, less experienced, would have jumped on the admission, but Rob pretends he hears nothing. He says, — I want to get some soda.

— I’m not paying for it, Harrold burps, quickly, like he’s caught Rob at something.

Rob laughs easy. — I don’t want you to. I have money, I just want to know if you’ll stay here.

— And if I won’t?

— Then I’m not moving.

Harrold dips his head. — Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I’ll wait.

Rob walks, careful not to wiggle or strut, so when Harrold looks, and he will look, he’ll see a boy, with a gentle limp. Rob does not romanticize it with emphasis.

— I’m not gay, Harrold explains when Rob returns.

He nods. — Me neither. Rob reads; in other places they will eat bugs for food, the will to survive so strong; Rob understands them.

— I’m Harrold, with two r’s.

— That’s weird.

— Telling me? Two of anything in your name and people think you’re strange. Just your name can make people call you a monster, low.

— My name’s simple: Rob. Want some? He lifts the drink and gestures like it’s a gift or a secret to share.

Harrold stands, walks away. Nothing said. He creeps off to the newsstand, goes around to the far end so Rob will think he’s left altogether. Rob has spent some of the two hundred for the drink, just a dollar, but accounting is Andre’s passion. Rob looks around, agitated, for a purse, a man not watching his pants pockets, a way to replenish that one bill. The fluorescent lights live on, unaware of what and whom they illuminate; they are just a mechanism. Rob begins to weep. He’s exhausted, had really thought Harrold was it. At least momentarily, someone who’d take him in. He should have at least gone for the blowjob, that’s twenty all for yourself, off the books. He gulps his soda but there is too much ice, the drink cold enough to awaken the nerves of his teeth, too easily roused. They flare, grouchy yawns. Rob eats soft things because he’s brittle. He loves ice cream despite the temperature; the occasional pint of vanilla-chocolate-cookie-dough is an exercise in gratification and self-flagellation.

Harrold then returns like he wants to be: a hero. — Why the tears? I just went to get a pack of gum.

— Oh. Rob grins. Can I have a piece?

Harrold has lied, has bought nothing. He feels stupid in front of this kid.

Rob asks, — Are you going to sit back down? He shifts in his seat as the older man comes back around. He touches his face, rubs the skin and pats down his hair because when he gets tired age grows in like a beard. What does this guy like? Young and stupid? Young and mean? All the variations, they go through Rob’s computer; how to convince this man to take him along, it doesn’t matter where. It begins to confuse Rob and when confused he taps his legs with his hands but knows that annoys others so he tries to stop but then only taps more. In a panic he blurts out, I can be really beautiful.

— Huh?

— You could put me in a dress. Or anything. Whatever you like. I’ll make you dinner or lunch like that, dressed up. I wore makeup before, I know how to make it look real nice. I could be your pretty young wife. Rob is sobbing, biting his lip, but not yelling, it is ingrained that, in this world, you keep things quiet. I don’t care, whatever you like.

Harrold finds his courage. Evaluates the boy: small shoulders, little hips, nice mouth, he will be gorgeous; and look at him, he’s terrified. Abject fear can breed a kind of loyalty. And it can be arousing.

They walk near each other but not together; like the old idealized wife Rob trails back five feet, out of deference, gratitude. Upstairs they leave the Port Authority, walk until they reach the garage where Harrold hands a short man a ticket, when the car comes, a tip. Rob walks ten feet of sidewalk, then waits for the blue Chevy Corsica. When he gets in, Harrold’s pants are already mostly down. Rob goes to touch him but is brushed away. — Not yet, Harrold says. Tell me something. He begins a self-caress. Tell me something bad.

When Rob started, working, was on his own, before Andre had pulled him over in Washington Square Park, asking, — You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, do you? Before Kim had him posing for pictures for men in apartments and homes; before the five of them had come together, four to work (Rob, Kim, Caps and Monty) and one to manage (Andre), prior to all that Rob made money where he could, a freelance man — most often in the lovely public bathroom or pacing through Central Park in the areas under bridges, dark tunnels that hid men needy and willing to pay someone so young.