Chapter Forty-Five - Decisions
Louche, meaning attractive, alluring, sexy, and evil. I had never heard the word used by anyone but it perfectly described Slick; and I had to watch him at work. The balcony of my room in Talledega was right next to his, although his was private; mine, part of a longer balcony, was separated by a plexiglass screen from Todd's portion. Still, it wasn't bad. I will say Talledega had better motels than Shelbyville.
Louche was the description of Pozdnyshev's wife's musician-lover used by the Tolstoy translator I was reading. Each translation I read presented a different version of the story. Sometimes the differences were slight; sometimes the differences were huge, as was this one, presenting Troukhatchevsky as a louche roué, determined to nail Madame Pozdnyshev. Even in this translation, however, it was not entirely clear whether he succeeded, which doesn't matter to the story. In another version, the musician had been presented as an innocent violin teacher whose actions and motives were entirely of Pozdnyshev's sick invention. The differences made me want to learn Russian; what was Tolstoy's actual view? Or was the original Russian itself vague?
Slick, however, was direct and obvious and I had to watch, or else read in my room, which was a little musty smelling. He was singularly pursuing the corruption of a young man, today's young man; there had been a couple of others during our brief time in Talledega. I could hear him describing his injury last year and explaining to the boy what a problem wearing the cast on his leg had been. To illustrate, he used both hands to encircle the boy's thigh, up as close to his torso as possible.
“It was this far up! Man it rubbed and itched! And, dude, I had to wear it for six weeks!” He moved his hands around, rubbing the boy. The boy was wearing loose cargo shorts and Slick was obviously rubbing more than just his thigh. I could see the boy's erection from six feet away.
Earlier in the day Slick let the kid sit in one of the cars, another opportunity to check him out. “You gotta strap in, Roscoe,” he said. The boy said his name was Ross, but Slick paid no attention. “Use the single point release,” he said. “Here, let me see if those straps are tight enough.” It was another opportunity to check the kid out as he ran his hands under the upper and lower straps. The boy giggled as Slick touched a sensitive location. “Sorry, Roscoe. I need to check those straps.” The boy giggled again.
And now here he is on Slick's private balcony, drinking something he probably shouldn't, and taking in every word Slick utters as pronouncements from a minor god. Which I guess Slick was to these kids. A semi-famous NASCAR driver suddenly drops into their world; of course they're paying attention. Slick's success rate with these kids was not one hundred percent, one had walked out of his room in a hurry; but others had stayed and left later, sometimes days later. I wondered how this one, Ross or Roscoe or whatever, would work out. Based on Slick's manhandling of him so far, I figured this kid was good for an overnighter at least.
Todd Hinckley, showing athletic abilities I never suspected, acrobatically swung around the plexiglass and landed on my side of the balcony. “Hey, hot dude! 'S up?” he asked as he sat without invitation in the other available chair. “What are you readin' that's giving you a hard on? Tolstoy? Who the fuck is he?”
It's embarrassing to admit that Slick's seduction scene was arousing me. I laid the book in my lap and leaned closer to Todd. “It's not the book. It's Slick. He's working on another one and I have to hear it all.” I think Slick heard us talking. He and the kid went inside.
“He's probably gonna succeed, too,” Todd answered. “That kid was here yesterday, you know. He knows what's goin' on and he's not as young as you think. Almost your age in fact, at least that's what he says. I gave them both a massage … that's Slick's ploy to loosen 'em up. And let me tell you my finger ain't the only thing that's been up that kid's poop chute.”
“What!?!” I had no idea that Todd was part of Slick's seduction operation.
“Yeah … We worked it out during the break. While you were eating apples in Virginia or whatever the fuck you do there, Slick and me discovered that he is a real celebrity to these boys. Slick's the biggest thing to ever show up in their lives.” I frowned at his story. “Think of it this way: dumb country boy who's never even see a real band perform suddenly is talking to a winning NASCAR driver. The driver is good looking, talks a good story, and has more money than the kid can imagine. It's the biggest thing that's even happened to him or ever will. He's awestruck. He wants to share the glow. He wants it to last longer – please, just a little longer. He's winning to compromise a lot if he can just … I mean suckin' a dick is no big deal, right? Sometimes they balk at getting fucked, but you'd be surprised how easy it is. I mean your boyfriend did it. These farm kids are easy pickin'.” Todd looked around. “You got anything to drink?”
He went into my room to get some vodka. I said no when he offered to pour me a glass. When he got back I let him take a sip before asking him, “How well did you know B. J.?” I knew I didn't want to hear the answer, but I couldn't help asking. Todd didn't answer me directly.
“Is he why you're sitting home reading – who was that? - every night. Let me tell you, B. J. isn't sitting home. Not if I know B. J.” He sipped again.
“When did you meet him?” I tried another approach.
“Summer after high school. He had a big football scholarship, people lookin' at him like he's Joe Theismann or somebody, and not two pennies to rub together. He wanted to be livin' the life, but didn't have the bucks. I met him at a bar near Strasburg one night. He'd heard I could maybe supply him. I was cagey but my brother Truman says, 'Yeah? What's in it for us?' 'Money,' your boy says. 'Not enough,' says Tru and he just waits for your boy to supply answer. 'I can get you football tickets,' is the best he can think of. Tru snorts at him.”
It was driving me crazy, the amount of time it took Todd to sip and swallow a small amount of vodka on the rocks. I think he knew he was teasing me. Finally he says it. “ 'Suck my dick,' Tru says and your boy thinks he's just jokin' 'til he adds, 'And suck my brother off, too.' And he just stares old B. J. down until he whispers, 'Ok.' 'WHAT?' Tru demands. 'Say it LOUDER.' But your boy won't, so Tru makes to walk out of the place. He's almost at the door when he calls back to your boy, 'You comin' or not?' ”
More sipping and savoring. Todd's actually swishing the vodka around in his mouth before he swallows. It wasn't great vodka. Just a Popov 1.75 liter and Todd's pretending it's Grey Goose Cherry Noir or something.
“So next thing we're out in the parking lot and B. J. sucks off Truman and he starts on me. I open my jeans and he starts to make some funny comment, you know, 'cause I'm a little small, and Tru says, 'Don't say it. Just suck it.' We gave him a key to sell. And he does and he likes the money and he's back for more. Suckin' and sellin' – all through July. August comes along and B. J. is suckin' me off one night and Tru is watchin' and decides he's gonna fuck B. J.'s ass. And he does! And B. J. just grunts a little and takes it.”
“Todd, put the vodka down and finish the story!”
“Figured you were about to say that!” he laughed. “So I'm straight out gay, you know that, right? But Truman wasn't. At least not before he got send to Alderson. Lotta pervs in Alderson. West Virginia boys, you know? So there he is bangin' B. J.'s ass and out of nowhere he pulls out and pulls his pants up. 'Shit,' he says and goes to the truck wait for me to finish. Which I do. And all the way home he won't talk.”
“So that's it? That's all you know?”
“There was more – more nights like that. What I know is – and I know this 'cause I'm queer as a three dollar bill – so's your boy, Racer. He's a full-fledged homo and he needs sex. It's like the air he breathes. So don't think he's sitting home readin' Tolstoy waiting three weeks for you to come home.”
I wanted to ask him more but Slick stuck his head out the sliding door and called over to Todd. “Get your ass over here. We got two tired and achy drivers waiting for your magic fingers.” I glanced over at him. He was wearing only a towel.
“Yes, sir,” Todd says, leaping up and smiling. “Racer, there's a red-headed boy with tight jeans and a cute ass hangin' in the bar. Why don't you go see what he's up for?”
What I did was pour myself a glass of Popov and think about B. J. Todd's story didn't match B. J.'s words or his actions either when I went to Strasburg with him. Except for the blow job. How true was Todd's story? How much of it was what Todd wanted to believe happened? How much was real? It was like the different translations of The Kreutzer Sonata. Madame P. dies in every one, but everything else comes in flavors like vodka. Which one is right or best? Or does that even matter? Maybe the question should be which one do I like? Which one do I want to be true?
I picked up my phone and pressed contact number one without even looking. “Beej, how you doing? I was just sitting here reading and thinking about you.”
“Awesome. I was doing the exact same thing.”
“Tolstoy?”
“No. The GW football playbook. You know what? Those fuckin' plays were designed to get me injured. I should have seen that! I should have …” He paused. “Fuck it, Racer. I'm sitting here thinkin' what if, what if, and if only and why didn't I. Gettin' nowhere doing it. I wish you were here. You can always get me out of these funks.”
“Another week, Beej.”
“These weeks all seem to have fifteen days in them, Race.”
“I finished third yesterday,” I told him.
“Good for you. You're turning into the star athlete instead of me.”
“Driving a car is a skill, but it's not athletic.” He didn't say anything. “Driving a car is not gonna get me an awesome ass like yours.”
“You already have an awesome ass.” He pretended to chuckle a little when he said it.
He sounded morose and it was plain I wasn't doing anything to cheer him up. The time we spent together in Warrenton, like those few days in the cabin in Tennessee, seemed perfect to me. I wondered if they had been the same for him. I heard a voice in the background.
“Mustard or mayo?” it called out.
“Who's that?” I asked.
“Oh, just Jared. He stopped over with some sandwiches.”
We talked some more about stupid stuff like did he pay the electric bill and then the call was over. There was no talk of love, just B. J. saying hurry back. He sounded desperate; but with Jared on hand he wasn't going to be lonely. I thought about Todd's comment, “He needs sex. It's like the air he breathes.”
Well, he's getting' it, if Jared is there. Briefly I wondered if the red-haired boy with the cute ass was still in the motel bar. I reached again for my phone. It was early. He might still be at work. I waited for the click meaning a switch to voice mail, but instead I heard, “Racer? Is that you?”
“Hey, Adam. I'm in Talledega. How far away is that?”
“About one and a half states.”
“Do you think you might ...”
“I'm already walking to my car. I'll be there by nine.”
At exactly eight forty-seven I heard his knock on my door. I opened it and a rambunctious golden retriever poked my leg wanting attention.
“Racer, meet Racer.” Adam said.
“Adam, I'm not sure the motel allows ...”
“They do if you pledge three hundred on your credit card against her ruining the rug.”
The three of us sat on the floor. That is, two of us sat on the floor and one of us jumped all over the place demanding and getting pets and hugs and sweet talk.
“I wish I could be like that,” Adam said. “Just jump in your lap and lick your face until you hug me.” That broke the ice and renewed our easy friendship. I gave him more than a hug.
Racer, the four-legged and furry one, sensed that sex was a private thing and lay quietly on the floor until she heard her name, generally, something like Adam saying, “Fuck me, Racer.” Then she'd bound onto the bed and wonder how to join in.
After the third interruption I told him, “Maybe you better call me Brendon.” And he did. I liked hearing my real name coming from Adam.
Thanks Rory.
