The Heart is a Poor Judge Ch. 04

He fell in behind the young man. "Don't you get tired of hunching over all day long?" he asked, referring to Peter's considerable height. "The ceiling's so low in there. Even I have to duck a little."

Peter shrugged without turning around. "It's better than to be out in the sun."

"I guess that's true."

He stopped and turned around. "Where do you go now?"

"What?" asked Miguel, taken aback. "Oh. Anywhere I want."

"Cool. Do you want a ride?"

"Okay," said Miguel quickly.

Peter's battered pickup was parked with the windows down, in the weeds along a narrow street leading up from the water. They climbed in. Bits of trash lay strewn about the small cab. The hot gray vinyl seats stuck to Miguel's thighs.

"I can take you home," he offered. "Where do you live?"

Miguel thought he had been clear. "I don't live anywhere."

He would never forget the stunned look that followed. "You're homeless?"

"Some people call it that, yes."

"Because it is the right word. You don't have a home."

Miguel shrugged. "Sure."

"You don't look homeless."

"I don't know what that means."

"Your clothes are clean. You don't have a smell."

"I bathe each day in the ocean, or in fresh water when I can find it. I have soap and extra clothes stashed away in places."

"Doesn't anyone ever steal it?"

"Once or twice." He paused. "But I don't get upset when stuff I've stolen is stolen from me." So far, it was the only thing Miguel was ashamed to reveal. He had become a thief.

"Oh. I can understand." Peter had creamy-blond hair and a prominent nose that fit his face. He wore large glasses that he now removed to wipe clean before driving away. "I can take you for a burger. Then maybe we can find a quiet beach."

Miguel had been trying to guess the direction this encounter might be headed. The look in Peter's eyes now left little for interpretation. "I would really like that."

Peter drove him up the narrow, crowded northern market lanes, then turned out onto Belmont Avenue. He asked Miguel to open the glovebox, where a premium stereo deck had been haphazardly mounted. Miguel got a CD playing, then Peter ordered him to turn it up, then up again, then up one more time. The massive speaker behind Miguel's seat turned his muscles and bones to jelly. Peter lit a cigarette, handed it off to Miguel, then lit another for himself.

A few mines north, they turned off toward Saint Barlow's Drive-in-and-Dine, pulled into a stall. As they ate, Miguel started to feel safe opening up, so he gave Peter a simplified account of why he left home. Peter sat listening the whole time with great focus, and when Miguel finished, his only response was, "I have never met a Mormon before."

"I bet you have," said Miguel, stuffing the last of his burger in his mouth. "You just didn't know it."

"Maybe I have."

Miguel took a swig from a swollen plastic cup filled with cola and ice. "Anyway, I'm not a Mormon anymore."

"Do you still believe in God?"

He looked out his open window. Streams of cars flowed up and down the avenue. "I don't know."

"I believe in God," announced Peter proudly.

Miguel turned back to him. "Can we go to the beach?"

They drove another mile or two north, then Peter left the busy avenue behind, making a convoluted series of turns until they were pointed down a steep gravel trail just wide enough for the truck, clinging to the side of a short cliff. "We'll have to make a run at it to get back up. I don't have four-by-four. It's okay. I've done it lots of times."

"If you say so."

"This place is never busy," Peter told him as they descended and drove partway out onto the sand. "I don't know why. It's very beautiful."

It was true. The sand here was clean, barely touched in places. A cluster of pines peeked majestically over the cliff's edge a quarter-mile to the south, standing guard over the slowly rolling sea. Miguel stepped out onto the sand, which was still hot from the day. The sun would be setting soon. He did not look to see what Peter was up to, just stripped immediately down to his underwear and ran to the water, where he slammed his way through a breaking, waist-high wave, then submerged himself. He resurfaced, shook out his hair and turned around to see Peter laughing, barreling toward him.

"You're crazy," the young man shouted.

"Am not," said Miguel. "Just getting rid of the smell of fish."

"You will get used to it, one day."

They floated around for a few minutes, chatting peacefully, ducking under the forming waves, reemerging. Miguel soon made for the shore, then relaxed his whole body as a cresting wave carried him up into the pebbly brine. He rolled onto his back, smiling a little, pretending to have lost consciousness.

"He's out cold," shouted Peter, grabbing Gabe by the wrists. "He's down for the count."

Miguel loved how half of everything Peter said sounded borrowed from the movies—even better when filtered through his clunky accent. He felt himself being dragged up the beach by strong arms. The sand turned dry and warm beneath him. He opened his eyes, looked around. Peter stood still above him, and they were alone.

Peter got down on his hands and knees, straddled Miguel, looked straight into his eyes. "Do you want mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?" A fat drop of seawater fell from his smooth chin into Miguel's mouth.

Miguel turned to the side and spat. "You're not supposed to ask."

Peter cocked his head, then went in for a kiss. His lips were full and soft. He pulled away after a few seconds. "You are so very beautiful, Miguel."

Miguel didn't know what to say.

Peter flipped onto his back, settling into the sand beside Miguel. "I need to come now." He pulled his underwear down around ankles, then flicked them several feet away.

Miguel watched, stunned, as Peter became quickly, impressively aroused.

The young man's eyes were back on Miguel. "Will you get naked too?"

Miguel tore down his own underwear, mimicking the casual manner in which Peter had tossed his aside.

Peter immediately began pleasing himself at a furious pace. Miguel joined him. After a minute or two, Peter got up on his knees as he began to climax, ejaculating a short distance across the sand. Miguel stayed on his back, releasing on his stomach and chest, then made a furtive dash back into the water to clean himself.

When he came back up the beach, Peter said, "Come home with me."

Miguel agreed.

Peter's tiny second-floor studio stood level with the elevated tracks of the Galaxy Line, an ancient, snub-nosed train that caused the whole unit to rumble when it passed.

"Bet you don't even notice anymore," said Miguel after the first pass.

"I still do, but I like it."

Miguel looked around. On a table by Peter's bed stood a few small picture frames. An older photo appeared to be of his parents; the other looked recent, in which Peter smiled broadly and hugged a thin white girl close to his side.

"Is this your sister?" he asked.

"No. It is my girlfriend." Peter looked away then, as if he understood the weight his words carried, though he offered nothing to follow them up.

Miguel wanted to leave right away. But then he looked down at the bed. He hadn't slept in a real bed in very long time. He chose to let the moment pass, smiling at Peter to show that he was not alarmed. "Alright."

"Do you want anything to eat or to drink?"

"No," said Miguel, looking back at the bed. "I'll just lie down if that's okay. I'm very tired."

—

Two more nights came and went down at the warehouse. Miguel could feel himself taking to the kid right as it happened. No, he wasn't Marco Junior, and Miguel no longer wanted him to be. He was drawn to Gabe squarely for the unique individual he was turning out to be. But their talks had gradually lost steam, and Gabe had shown signs of withdrawing once again. Miguel began to feel that something was at stake, something precious he stood to lose if the kid wasn't interested...though he wasn't sure yet exactly what it was. When Friday night rolled around, he made up his mind to abandon formalities and invite himself to Gabe's house. After a bit of reluctance, the kid agreed.

There wasn't anywhere to sit in the dim condo (which Gabe kept referring to as his parents' place), but it was too hot to stay inside anyway. The kid hurried Miguel through the empty house and onto a balcony with iron railing that was painted black. He draped a Mexican blanket over the wide plastic chaise lounge and offered it up graciously, then unrolled a foam mat on the cement floor for himself.

He sat down and threw a worried look up at Miguel. "I told you it wouldn't be comfortable."

"It's perfect," countered Miguel. "It's more than enough. Can I smoke?"

"Be my guest—here." Gabe crawled over and retrieved a red clay ashtray from along the wall. Miguel reached into his pocket, but Gabe stopped him. "Wait a minute," he said, disappearing through the balcony door, returning with a crumpled box of Marlboros. He opened it up to reveal the treasure that remained: four perfect amber-and-white stems. "Guess who these belonged to?"

A surreal feeling washed over Miguel. "Gabe...I couldn't."

The kid waved the box intently in his face. "You want me to throw them away, then?"

"Of course not."

"They're going in the trash if you don't want them."

"Don't throw them away." Miguel reached out and took hold of the box. It was still warm from the interior of the condo. "I always called him an old man for smoking these."

"You know he would want you to have them."

Miguel tried to remember their last smoke, just the two of them, but found he couldn't separate one memory from the rest. They all blurred together now. "A few more from Big Boss." He glanced up in thanks, but saw only the cobwebbed underside of another balcony. He lit one up and stood out at the edge. Gabe came to stand beside him, arms folded on the railing.

"You were always a favorite of his," said Gabe. "Other than Eddie and Otero, I only ever heard your name before I started."

"He mentioned me to you?"

"Once or twice. You know how he wanted to keep us all isolated. The fact that he brought you up at all says a lot. As least, I think it does."

Miguel didn't want to seem vain. If the kid still saw even a speck of mystique in him, he wished to hold onto it...but he couldn't help himself. "What did he say about me?"

"He said I could trust you, no matter what." Gabe paused then, as if trying to remember his father's exact words. "He told me once that you hadn't been dealt a fair hand in life. He said it turned you golden."

The cigarette nearly fell from Miguel's mouth. "I wouldn't take it that far."

The kid didn't say anything, just kept staring straight out toward the buildings lining the shore.

"I was dealt a better hand than a lot of people," Miguel continued. He looked at Gabe. "Who's to say I've had it worse than you, or anyone else?"

"No one's to say."

Miguel dragged deeply from the cigarette. He loved the way the kid talked. "Losing your mom the way you did...I'm sorry. It's just so terrible."

Gabe looked down.

"You're so quiet about it," Miguel went on, aware he had breached a fragile subject. "How am I supposed to know if you're doing okay?"

"I'm doing okay," Gabe said firmly. "When she was around, she didn't treat me very well. It got really bad after my father died. As much as she wanted to disappear...sometimes I wanted just as much for her to go. Maybe there are worse outcomes than what happened."

Miguel looked over and saw a tear carve a thin, wet path down Gabe's cheek. It fell and landed on the rail.

The kid looked up at him. "Do you understand?"

"I do."

Gabe shivered at Miguel's side, even as warm air came rolling up from the water. "Anyway, I've got other problems."

"Like what?"

"You know."

"You keep saying that. I'm not sure I do."

Gabe sighed. "I just notice things I wish I didn't. Things like—I don't know...I'll see your muscles under your shirt. And I just get that feeling. Like I just want so bad to reach out and...maybe..." The kid trailed off, letting the statement hang there, tragically unfinished.

"Reach out and what?"

"I know what it means about me."

"No point in fighting it, then."

The kid looked at him accusingly. "Don't you know it's not that easy for some people? Can't you understand how it might feel for someone other than yourself?"

Miguel turned away. "No, I can't." He stubbed out his cigarette in the tray behind him. Then he came back to Gabe's side, rested his elbow on the railing and flexed his bicep. "Feel."

Gabe reached out and touched the skin of his forearm. He brushed his fingertips down through the crook in Miguel's arm, then up, stopping just below the white cotton of his shirtsleeve. He cupped his warm hand around Miguel's swollen muscle. He drew suddenly back, without so much as a squeeze.

"How was that?"

Gabe looked all of a sudden very sad. "I need to tell you that I've done a lot more than this before. In secret."

"What does that mean?"

"I go to a bathroom at Central that is known for this kind of thing."

Miguel tried not to let his surprise show. "Well, that's okay. Not my cup of tea, but I know some guys are into it. Are you safe?"

Gabe looked at him like he was stupid. "Are you kidding? Extremely."

"I'm just asking."

"Well, the answer is yes." He pressed up against the rail. "Anyway, I'm never going back again."

Miguel had not yet forgotten the odd remark Gabe had made just the night before about not going to the bathroom. Now he understood. "I mean, it's not the worst thing anyone's ever done, as long as you're safe about it, and don't get caught."

Gabe shook his head. "No. My mind is made up. I don't want it that way anymore."

Miguel deliberated over his next words. "You mean, not with a stranger?"

"Something like that."

"What if you got to know someone first?"

Gabe looked over, and Miguel tried to read him. He could sense deep confusion (and, he hoped, longing) beneath the kid's pained expression. Miguel looked back out toward the white towers. He saw for the first time that the mysterious void among them was actually a small ocean view. He knew suddenly what to ask Gabe. "Are you afraid that will make it real?"

Gabe looked away. "I know it will."

It's already real, he wanted to tell Gabe. Nothing you say or do will change that. He lit a second cigarette, one of his own this time, and allowed the busy silence of Gabe's neighborhood to take them both over.

A minuted passed before Gabe spoke. "Let me have some of the some of that."

Miguel eyed him cautiously. "You don't smoke."

"Not as a habit." He motioned for Miguel to hand over his half-spent cigarette. "But if I have some first I won't taste it on you." He set it on his lips and took a long drag, releasing a thick stream of smoke out into the night air. He deposited it in the ashtray, held his open palm to Miguel's chest and leaned up to kiss him.

Miguel felt the heat of the kid's soft lips press into his own. He shuddered out of immediate lust, releasing a single, quiet whimper. He had been taken completely off guard.

Gabe pulled away, taking a step back to reestablish the space between them. "I'm sorry. If I didn't do it then, I just...I don't know if I ever would have."

Miguel tried to look cool. He even reached back to reclaim the smoldering cigarette. "No apology necessary."

"You can tell me if it was out of line."

"It wasn't."

Gabe put another step between them. If there had been a car for him to shut himself into, Miguel was pretty sure the kid would have done it.

"I'm glad you went for it. I wanted it, too."

"It doesn't mean anything. We're getting to know each other. We're..." Gabe looked away. "We're friends now, like how Eddie wants us to be."

"Hey."

Gabe looked back at him wearing a tortured expression.

"I'll be a good friend to you, okay? I'll be there. You can trust me. I'm just like your dad said I am."

"Look, I'm not going to believe it just because he said it. You didn't know my father like I did. Even he got things wrong sometimes."

"Well, he was right about me."

The kid didn't respond. Miguel lay down on the chaise, lit up a third cigarette. "It's my last one."

Gabe turned angrily toward him. "What the fuck do I care how many cigarettes you smoke?"

Miguel said nothing. He inhaled, draping his arm (and the glowing cigarette between his fingers) over the plastic arm of the chaise in a way he imagined to look classy. The kid came over and lay on the foam mat. Miguel put out the cigarette prematurely, turned on his side and peered through the metal railing at the blank night sky.

Gabe's hoarse voice drifted up to him. "I'm sorry."

"Plenty of room up here," said Miguel.

Gabe sat up and slowly crawled in beside Miguel on the chaise. He turned and laid his head on Miguel's chest. Miguel took him into his arms.