Tom Mendicino - Probation

Cleaned up and on the road, he tells me his rock and roll dreams. He claims he’s the cousin of the bass player in a famous band. They share the same last name. I ask if they’re close. Very, he says, crossing his fingers to emphasize how tight. He squirms when I ask why he’s not on the road with the band. Well, your cousin must have helped you get the job with the label, I say, trying to bolster his fantasy. Right, he says, and changes the subject.

“I love you, man,” he says, grabbing my hand.

He feels safe now and he knows I’m his savior. He’s escaped another scrap, another ugly confrontation, and he has me to thank. He knows only one word to describe how he feels. And tonight, when he says he loves me, he means it.

“Where we going?” he asks, smiling.

“Next town over.”

“Cool,” he says, feeling completely at home in the car now.

There’s an endless string of cheap motels between Charlotte and Gastonia. Free cable. Pool. In-room coffee. Vacancy. I have enough cash in my pocket to front a week in any one of these dumps. I should pull over, check in, wear him out with another bout of sex, then sneak away when he’s in a deep sleep. But something keeps the car on course, the autopilot set, destination home. I’ll spend the night watching over him, feeling his chest expanding and deflating until dawn. Maybe I love him back. It’s a vague enough word to describe how I feel.

“Cool,” he says again. “What’s your name?”

I tell him.

“Sorry, I must have forgot. Sorry.”

I tell him not to worry. I’d never told him.

“Look, man!” he says, pointing at the big white moon looming ahead.

He listens, enraptured, while I tell him the old Indian legend of the buck moon.

“You know a lot about a lot of things,” he says, impressed.

“Not really.”

“I know something too,” he says, self-conscious.

“What’s that?”

“I know I’m glad I met you.”

For the first time in weeks, months, a year, since the arrest, years before that even, I am exactly where I want to be. Not ten minutes, three hours, a month, a year in the future. Not yesterday, last week, five years ago, not revisiting every crossroad, taking a different turn this time. And then, on the radio, a drum roll and a power chord and Joan Jett is singing about loving rock’n roll.

“Hey, it’s our song!” he says. He tightens his grip on my hand. “Let’s just keep going.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Just keep going. Drive through to Tennessee. Let’s go to Gatlinburg.”

“What’s in Gatlinburg?” I ask, laughing.

“You’ll be there.”

I pull my hand away to downshift, tapping his gently to reassure him.

“But I’m right here in Gastonia,” I say.

“Can I stay with you in Gastonia?”

“Tonight. Sure.”

“Only tonight?” he asks, heartbroken.

I think ahead to tomorrow, the morning call to the hospital, the status report, and, then, hours and hours of sitting and staring into space. Tomorrow at least I’ll have him to think about, after he’s disappeared into time and space, nothing left of him but a first and last name, maybe real, maybe not. For a week, maybe two, I’ll obsess over him, an object desired because it’s inaccessible. I’ll imagine him going about his mundane routines, brushing his teeth, yawning, scratching an itch, charmed as if they were something magical. I’ll coast on these pleasant fantasies until they’re exhausted, stale. In the months to come I’ll think of him now and then. I’ll never know how it all turned out, his story, never know if he’s checked out of this world, a victim of a collision or gunfire. I’ll tell myself I loved him and mean it since it’s easy to love someone who touches your body once and disappears in the morning.

“We’ll see,” I say.

“I love you,” he says, taking my hand again.

I pull the car into the drive and turn off the engine. We’re home, I say. He likes my choice of words. I hold the car door for him, as if it was 1957 and this was the prom. He asks for his duffel, the precious bag.

“Hey, this is nice,” he says, impressed by the big house, lots of rooms to get lost in, “real nice.” I lead him to the kitchen and find a couple of beers.

“You live here alone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, shocked by my answer. It’s true. She’s never coming back. Her clothes are still in the closets. Intimate items-combs, pins, sprays-are scattered on her dresser. Her magazines, manuals on Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens, are stacked in her bathroom. Her collectible porcelain dolls stare wide-eyed, thinking she’s going to return. But the hospital bed is gone, shipped back to the rental company. The medications have been flushed down the toilet. The milk in the refrigerator has a later expiration date than my mother. Yes, I live here alone.

“Ever get lonely?” he asks.

Wait a minute. Back down. He’s playing with me, trying to manipulate a one-night stand into an extended visit. Do I ever get lonely? How could I possibly get lonely when intimacy’s so cheap, no more than the price of a few beers? How can I be lonely when there’s always someone like him, charming me with sincere endearments that don’t have to be accounted for in the bright light of day?

“No. Not really,” I say, lying.

“I do,” he says. “I wish I didn’t.”

He asks if he can kiss me, for real this time, not like in the bar. I’m ashamed of myself. This kid, this overgrown boy who’s in way over his head, is incapable of guile. His wet lips roam the contours of my face, grazing my cheeks, eyelids, nose, finally settling on my mouth. His tongue is tentative, not sure how it will be received, and when it finds a warm welcome, he whimpers as if he’s in pain.

“Wow!” he says when he comes up for air. “Need to cool off,” he says, fanning himself. “Break time!”

We take our beers out back. He looks up at me, thick bangs falling over his eyes, Dennis the Menace shit-eating grin on his face.

“You know what?” he asks.

“What?”

“There’s nothing I like better than to do some blow and suck a big dick. Back in a minute,” he says and disappears, leaving me alone in the dark.

The buck moon casts a silver sheen on the damp, neglected lawn. Deep in the night, between midnight and dawn, when each dark hour is the same as the last, it’s impossible to tell time without a watch. Mine has stopped, suspended at 11:17. I shake my wrist, trying to revive it. The battery’s dead. Weird. How can it be? My Rolex isn’t three months old. Douglas returns and drops to his haunches, squatting like an Asian as he carefully packs a little metal pipe with powdery granules. He strikes a long kitchen match against the rough concrete patio and, guiding the wild flame with a steady hand, lights a small fire, all crispy crackles, in the bowl. He rocks on his heels, back and forth, striking a second match, then a third, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs.

I look up to the kitchen window, expecting to see my mother’s face, frowning at backyard crimes and misdemeanors, ready to toss the dish towel in the sink and rush outside to make everything right. But there’s no one there. I touch his shoulder and he grabs my leg, clinging to me like I’m the last piece of flotsam in the raging sea.

“How long can I stay here?”

“You need a place to stay?”

“Yes. Yes.” And he starts crying, really sobbing.

“Hey. Hey,” I say, sitting beside him on the concrete. “What’s going on? Who are you afraid of?”

He doesn’t answer.

Then a hoarse, tired voice is calling my name.

I tell Douglas to hide in the yard, lie flat on the grass, away from the light of the windows. Keep quiet, be still, everything will be all right. He’s terrified, not certain he can trust me, but doesn’t have a choice. He dashes into the yard and throws himself facedown in the grass. Prone, he’s well hidden, out of sight.