Rafael Yglesias - Hide Fox, and All After

Three weeks before the performance, Alec’s mother and stepfather left for Europe for two and a half weeks — they would return just in time for the play. Raul asked his parents if he could live at Alec’s during that time and was given permission.

By this time Raul had dropped biology, the first class he had in the morning. This meant, as long as Raul skirted the attendance taken in an early study hall, he didn’t have to appear until eleven-thirty. Objectively, this was a risk; to Raul, it was as minor as cutting gym.

Alec lived in an old and still somewhat fashionable apartment house on West End Avenue. Raul saw only three rooms while he was there — the kitchen, the bathroom, and Alec’s room. The latter was to become the focal point of Alec’s and Raul’s life: everything revolved about this room. Simple human needs were carried out here, all appointments were made here — it was the offstage sanctuary.

It became all this beginning with those two weeks, beginning with Alec’s most important offer to Raul. After all, despite Raul’s objections, Alec had to limit his thinking to what else is there to do?

“All right,” Alec said to him, “forget your objections. Your interest is in art, isn’t it?”

Raul smiled vaguely, aware of Alec’s frustration.

“Well, I’m saying that it will develop you as an artist.”

“Look, I have no objections to taking it. None. However,” Raul smiled, “one should be able to do without it to develop one’s art.”

“What you say, from your premise, is logical. You’re saying you have no objections to it but that one shouldn’t need it.”

Raul, still smiling, nodded.

Alec turned, going over to his desk. He dragged on his cigarette, placing it in the ashtray. He leaned on the desk, grunting while he thought.

Raul’s tension was one of expectation. His ideas were clear — well thought out, as yet to be disproven. But his face beamed with irony, and a high cackle seemed lodged in his throat, ready to come screeching out.

Alec was angry. He did believe it would help Raul’s art, though he was not acting unselfishly. There was a strong desire in him to have Raul share his experiences. Not very hopefully, he suddenly turned to him. “Do you wanna smoke?”

Raul’s cackle nearly leaped into daylight. Smiling, a curious little boy, he said, “Oh, you have some.”

Alec’s dismay became consummate, tinged with paranoia. “Yes,” he said.

Raul was gleeful. “Sure.”

Alec was astonished but said nothing. Why the boy was agreeing against his principles could be asked later.

Raul, his legs drawn up underneath him, anxiously watched Alec prepare. Alec took out three incense sticks, placing them strategically about the room. He opened the record player, took out a record, and put it on. He then opened his drawer, removing a plastic bag filled with marijuana and a package of Top cigarette papers. He put a piece of typing paper on the desk and lay a cigarette paper on top of that.

Raul, his face suddenly serious, extended his hand and asked, “May I see?”

Alec’s face matched Raul’s for solemnity. He passed the bag to him. Raul opened it, smelled it, ran the grains through his fingers, tasted it, and handed it back. He looked up as he did so, and they both laughed.

Alec cleared his throat. He dragged on his cigarette, neatly returning it to the ashtray. He tipped the bag, some of the contents going onto the paper. It was a long process. Alec had to spread the grass evenly across the center of the paper and slowly roll it. He rolled three rather deformed, cigarettelike joints. He got up, telling Raul to follow him, and went over to a small window in a corner of the room. He opened the window, saying to Raul, “Listen, be sure to smoke a cigarette afterward.”

“Really?”

“Definitely.”

Alec went to get a match. Raul, shivering slightly, looked out on the dark avenue beneath. His nervousness, building all this time, reached a climax as Alec returned, the joint between his lips.

He lit it, the loose end going up quickly, and inhaled, keeping the smoke contained within his lungs. Silently, without breathing or stirring, he passed the joint to Raul. Raul followed his lead, the immediate effect being that he heard his loud sucking in of the smoke. He seemed to be dragging fruitlessly, until it suddenly pierced his lungs — he could feel the sharp stream descending into his chest. He quickly withdrew the joint, his throat seared from the heat. He coughed, his open mouth allowing a cloud of smoke to escape.

Alec carefully exhaled. “Hold it in,” he said.

Raul raised his hand while nodding. He dragged again, knowing what to expect. His lungs filled, he passed the joint to Alec, an ember falling to the floor. Alec hastily stamped it out. Raul swallowed and inhaled to force the smoke deeper. Alec dragged easily, as if he were smoking a cigarette. He took it in abrupt spasmodic inhalations; Raul, in one drag, sucking it in until the heat was too much. The process was repeated, with only the butt of the joint left.

A smile of sinister glee slowly appeared on Alec’s face. “It’s time,” he said, “for my number one roach holder.”

Raul smiled and laughed softly. Alec took out a long, thin plastic cylinder, with a funnellike opening, placing the butt there. He handed it to Raul, who put it in his mouth. Alec lit a match. “Take it easy on this, it’s very hot.”

Alec held a match at the funnel’s opening. Raul dragged, a small, sudden flare appearing at the bell of the funnel. Raul, at the back of his tongue, felt the charcoal remains of the roach.

Alec laughed through his nostrils. Raul swallowed, looking at Alec in shock. “Raul swallowed the roach, man,” Alec said.

Raul, a silly, uncontrollable grin on his face, rocked forward, finding the movement deliriously comfortable. “I swallowed it?” he asked woozily.

Alec laughed, a hand drawn absurdly across his mouth. “You’re so stoned,” he said through demented laughter.

Raul, his body flowingly elongated beyond belief, drew himself up, his grin reaching a critical point. His hand gracelessly came up from his side, knocking hollowly on his chest. “Me?” he asked, collapsing into laughter.

They both slid easily off their chairs, their frames quaking with senseless laughter. Raul, his head beneath the window, felt a breeze quietly pass over his face. He stopped laughing. Alec, a tempo behind, stopped too.

Raul rose, a great calm in his chest. Alec sat up, drawing his legs beneath him. They looked simply at each other. “We must be serious,” Raul said, each word somehow difficult to produce verbally.

Alec nodded, reseating himself in his chair. Raul returned to his.

As they smoked the second joint, the music on the record player slowly began to manifest itself.

In daylight, Alec’s room was obscene: it was made of subdued tones, only night went well with it. And now, in the soft light, with the music so eloquent as to become a presence itself, it seemed to give sway to any of Raul’s movements.

Alec smoked more of the third joint than Raul did. Raul took the joint only when the movement fit into the rhythm. He watched the tones of light in the room: the lava lamp, a mild stream of soft red, uniting with the moonlight from the window. He saw a strange and quiet melancholy in the shadow he cast: the desolation evident in the pale of the moon, the unsubstantial red to which he looked.

Alec tapped him on the shoulder, the joint in an outstretched hand. Raul looked up bewildered, suddenly realizing where he was. He took the joint, saying, “It’s okay,” to explain. Alec nodded: “I understand.” Raul dragged and dragged, not noticing or caring that he was getting anything, rocking silently with the music. He could feel a soft cloud descending; with great precision he felt the depth to which the smoke was going. Then, as an afterthought, the heat followed. And suddenly — the realization was charming — he knew he was going to feel all the heat at once. He quickly pulled the joint out of his mouth, Alec leaping forward to save it. Raul doubled over, coughing. He closed his eyes to pass the ordeal; the discomfort, he knew, promised the rewards.