Edward Lee - The Black Train

“Glad’ja had a good time,” Jiff’s voice etched from the dark. “So where’s that thirty?”

Collier pulled away and slipped into the bathroom opposite. Now I’ve seen everything. He backed against the bathroom wall, squinting from the sudden change of dim light to bright light. Jiff’s a male prostitute. He turns tricks, and J.G. Sute must be one of his clients. It was an age-old story that worked for gays and straights alike: the Fat Older Man falls in love with the Hot Younger Prostitute—then gets rebuffed. That must be why Sute was nearly in tears during lunch.

The bathroom was more like one in a gas station. Collier relieved himself, then washed his hands, thinking, I guess Jiff’s mother doesn’t pay him enough at the inn. He wasn’t as shocked as he would expect, but suddenly a curdling image assailed him. The scene he’d just witnessed in the little lounge room, only with J.G. Sute as Jiff’s customer…

He waded back through the darkness toward the bar.

“You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Collier?” the keep said, surprising him at the end of the hall.

“Whuh—”

The keep put his arm around his shoulder, then—

“Say cheese!”

snap!

Somebody took a picture of them. The sudden flash left Collier blind.

“Thanks, Mr. Collier,” he heard the keep say. A hand on his arm led him back to his bar stool.

“That’ll look great, framed behind the bar. Our first celebrity!”

Collier could barely see. I better get out of here and sober up before tonight. He reached for his wallet.

“Oh, you can’t leave yet, Mr. Collier. Frank and Bubba bought you beers, too.”

“No, really, I have to—”

“Aw, come on. It’s not every day we have a TV guy in here.”

I guess one more won’t kill me, Collier thought, but was still semishocked by the revelation of what Jiff’s “handyman” work really was.

He spent the next hour trading banter and TV stories with the keep and other patrons. The beers slid down fast, and God knew how many autographs he signed. “Oh, that’s right,” the keep eventually remembered, “you wanted to see Jiff. Mike, go back there and see what he’s up to, all right?”

The beautiful female impersonator rose from the booth, went down the hall, then reappeared a few moments later. “He’s not there, Buster,” Mike said in a silky voice. He hoisted his bra beneath a tight blouse.

They seemed to be shielding the conversation from Collier, but even through the alcohol haze, he could hear traces: “He’s supposed to slip me a ten each time.” “He probably went out the back.” “How do you like that!”

The extra beers were exactly not what Collier needed. He felt narcotized. “Problem?” he asked, when the keep came back.

“No, no biggie, Mr. Collier. But I’m afraid Jiff’s gone; he must’ve left out the back door. If he comes in later, I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”

“I’m sure I’ll see him back at the inn…”

A Pabst clock told him it was past two thirty now. Less than five hours and I’m on a date with Dominique …The fact buffed off the weirdness of his current situation. He was determined to leave soon; he needed some time to nap off his buzz. He had one more beer to be polite, but then his head was spinning. He put a twenty down for a tip, took another fifteen minutes saying good-bye to everyone, and at last stumbled out into daylight.

Holy smokes, I’m drunk out of my gourd…

He had to concentrate on each step. Focus, focus! he ordered. If he fell down on the sidewalk, everyone would see. By the time he got to the end of the street, that last beer was overriding his liver. Collier walked as though he had cinder blocks tied to his shoes. Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall, he kept thinking.

When he looked down Number 3 Street, he saw a drove of tourists moving toward him. There’s no way I can fake it, he knew, and with my luck they’ll all want autographs. I’m so stewed right now I doubt that I could sign my name… He made a forty-five-degree pivot on the sidewalk— Here goes! —and walked right into the woods.

I’ll walk through the woods around the hill. No one’ll see me, and that’s a good thing because I’m pretty damn sure I’m gonna fall on my face a couple of times.

Among the trees, he found a convenient footpath, then—

flump!

—fell flat on his face.

The town buffoon, he thought. Me. Washed-up TV hasbeen alcoholic wreck and L.A. burnout useless waste of space! Gets shit-faced in the middle of the afternoon… Collier hoped there was no afterlife. He didn’t want to think that his dear dead parents might be seeing him now, lamenting tearily, “Where did we go wrong?”

He dragged himself up, then lurched from tree to tree for about a hundred yards. He could only sense where the inn was. Over there someplace, he thought, and gazed drunkenly left. He squinted through double vision, saw that he still had about four hours before his date…

I can’t make it, I need to sit down for a little while. His butt thunked to the ground, and he thought he heard the seat rip open. He heard something else, too, a steady disconnected noise…

Running water?

He shot his face forward and thought he saw a creek burbling through the woods. I ought to go put my face in that, he considered, but now that he was down, he wasn’t getting up. There was no bed to spin here, only the woods.

He nodded in and out. The steady sound of the creek reminded him of those sleep-machine things that supposedly offered calming sounds but only wound up alerting the sleeper. He nodded off again, quite heavily. He felt as though he were being buried in sand.

Pieces of dreams pecked at him: the clang of railroad workers, and men singing like a chain gang. He dreamed of Penelope Gast fanning herself in a posh parlor as female maids tended to her, and then he dreamed of the smell of urine.

A splendid horizon, into which a steam locomotive chugged briskly, smoke pouring, and a whistle screeching as it disappeared into the distance…

“I wanna do it, too,” the voice of a young girl whined.

“Don’t be stupid!” insisted another older-sounding girl.

The brook burbled on, but beneath it crept a fainter sound:

scritch-scritch-scritch

“Then let me do it to you…”

“You’re too little, stupid! You’d cut me!”

“No I wouldn’t!”

Something like alarm pried open Collier’s eyes. The voices weren’t from a dream. He craned his neck and stared forward, at two young girls doing something near the creek. One dirty blonde who looked about thirteen or fourteen, and the other about ten, with a ruffled helmet-cut like a 1920s flapper, the color of dark chocolate. They were both barefoot, wearing white smocklike dresses.

Shit! Two little kids, and they don’t know I’m here, Collier realized. It would likely scare them if he announced himself. The young one stepped into the water and continued looking down at the other, who sat with her back to Collier and seemed to be leaning over.

scritch-scritch-scritch

What the hell is she doing? Then Collier almost screamed when a feisty mud-colored dog trounced in his lap and began licking his face. “Jesus!”

Both girls looked over, and the younger one said, “Look. A man’s there,” in a sharp Southern accent.

The blonde’s accent seemed more lazy. “Hey, mister. That’s just our dog. Don’t worry, he don’t bite.”

“He’s a good dog!”

Collier had to palm the dog back. He wasn’t sure, but in the animal’s enthusiasm, he thought it might be humping his leg.