Travelin' Man (10 page)

“Hey,” Cole says as KC enters the kitchen. “I was just gonna come in and wake you. You slept until dinner time.”

Cole's looking dapper, wearing slacks with a sharp crease and a pressed dress shirt, modestly buttoned at the neck. He's sitting at the table between an old man and woman. The old man's right arm is a stump without an elbow. He points at KC with the tip of his chopstick and unleashes a furious torrent of words. KC doesn't need a translator to understand he's demanding an explanation why a strange white man is standing in his kitchen. Cole's answer must satisfy him since he drops his head over his bowl and resumes slurping noodles into his mouth. His bald scalp bears the fiery scars of napalm burns from the long ago war; the thick, ruined skin is the texture of wax dripping from a burning candle.

Cole is holding a sippy cup under the woman's chin, encouraging her to finish her smoothie. Her twisted body seems tiny in the large wheelchair. Her legs are shriveled and her withered feet are no larger than a child's. She seems agitated by KC's presence, shaking her head and refusing the straw.

“Strangers make her nervous,” Cole explains. “Ba, this is Kevin. He's not going to hurt you,” he says in English. “Say something to her. She needs to get used to the sound of your voice.”

“I can't. I don't speak Chinese,” KC says.

“Neither does she. She's Vietnamese.” He laughs and KC thanks her for letting her spend the night in her house.

She stares at KC, unblinking, as Cole translates for her.

“Call her Ba. She'll like that. She doesn't really talk since the last stroke. But I can understand her. I know what she wants when she's making noises.”

The staff at the nursing home swore KC was the only one who could interpret the meaning of his Pop-Pop's grunts and snorts. It still hurts to be reminded his grandfather died alone in that place with no one at his bedside.

“Where did you put my bag? Is it still in your car?” he asks, anxious to collect his records and clothes and be on his way.

Cole looks puzzled.

“What bag?”

“My duffel bag. The red one with the Spokane Chiefs logo. I had it with me at the bar.”

“I don't know. It must still be there. We can pick it up tonight.”

KC can't wait until tonight. He wants to be on the road as soon as he decides which direction to take. Definitely not south to Sacramento. And he'll never head back east, back to Albany, giving his mother the satisfaction of knowing she was right about him all along. He's just come from the north, and west is out of the question since he can't swim across the Pacific. He's been on the move since being cut from the team, racing from one place to another as if he had somewhere to go. He can't run forever. All things in motion eventually come to a stop.

His gut tells him to head to Texas. He liked it there while he was playing winter ball. But everyone he knew in the state has scattered across the country, chasing their dreams of making the Show. There won't be anyone to offer him a place to crash for a few days, just long enough to get back on his feet. He'll need to find a way to earn money until the Coach releases his signing bonus. But he never finished his junior college degree and has no skills except hitting and throwing a ball. He's not qualified for a real job. All he can do is look for day work, like the Mexicans who stand on the streets in the early hours of the morning seeking cash wages for manual labor.

“There's leftover takeout you can microwave,” Cole offers. “And there's more noodle soup in the refrigerator if you want a bowl. You need to eat to keep up your strength or you're gonna collapse after an hour.”

Cole isn't in any hurry to send him on his way. He hasn't invited him to stay, but he hasn't asked him to leave either. He even seems to think he and KC are going to the bar tonight.

“We start work at eight. Saturday's the busiest night. You're gonna be dead on your ass by last call. We can get a six-pack and watch
The Notebook
when we get home. Love me some Ryan Gosling!”

Cole laughs at KC's confused reaction.

“You backing out on me?” I knew you were bullshitting last night when you said you wanted to dance. Too much weed and too much beer. I knew you wouldn't have the balls to do it! But just give me a little time. I'm gonna get you up there dancing on the bar flashing those buns of steel soon enough.”

KC's beginning to recall the wee hours of the morning, but it's an incomplete jigsaw. Bits and pieces of the puzzle are still missing. He remembers music. Loud music. Stripping down to his underwear and dancing in the tiny living room. Auditioning for an appreciative audience of one. Tripping over his feet and falling on his ass. Cole rolling on the living room floor, laughing hysterically. A hit on the bong. Another bottle of Coors. Another hit on the bong. Cole slipping a disc into the DVD player. He remembers sitting spread-eagled, staring slack-jawed, too stunned to react as Cole fast-forwarded to a scene featuring a lean, sinewy Asian, with well-defined muscles and a round ass, heavily inked with Chinese characters along his calves and down his forearms, Celtic circles on each of his biceps, and a finely rendered Pyramid Eye etched on his back. An actor named “Cole Lee” was energetically fucking a smaller Asian boy in high definition television before enthusiastically giving up his own sweet ass to a brute who was a dead ringer for Vin Diesel.

“You want to wash your clothes, Kevin? They don't smell so good. There's a robe on the hook on the bedroom door. Fuck. Where is my fucking sister? She was supposed to be home an hour ago. Just keep your eye on these two ‘til she gets here, okay? They won't give you any trouble. I can't be late for five o'clock Mass. I'm doing the readings.”

 

He'd never expected to stay in Eugene for more than two or three days. He's been here nearly three weeks now. Cole and his sister have come to depend on him. He says room and board is all he needs for taking care of their grandparents, but they insist on paying him cash, two hundred a week at first, increasing it to three hundred when he talked about going south to Texas. Ba has grown attached to him—Cole calls it a crush—and fusses whenever anyone other than KC tries to feed her. Cole's amazed at KC's patience with her, how he can sit with her for hours, holding her hand, speaking to her in a low soothing voice, just like he did with Pop-Pop whenever he visited the nursing home.
Ong,
which Cole says means grandfather, and KC have become good buddies. They play endless games of checkers and dominoes and cards with the television volume cranked loud so the old man doesn't miss anything on the Vietnamese cable channel.

He and Cole share the same bed as chastely as brothers. Cole swears they got so horny watching his video that they sucked each other's dicks the night they met, but KC doesn't remember it and the suggestion of anything sexual has never come up again. Cole says it would only fuck things up. KC's the best thing that's happened to him in a long time. His cunty sister isn't much help with their grandparents. She's in the Nguyen family business and works the same odd hours as her brother. A headliner at the city's swankiest gentleman's club, she's a legend in every frat house on the campus of the University of Oregon. Since KC's arrival, Cole's finally got the freedom to book his “appearances” without needing to coordinate schedules with her.

KC is never in need of cash. Nancy's not such a terror once you get to know her. She was almost maternal when she handed him his duffel bag, lecturing him that he needs to be more responsible, that he's damn lucky she happened to catch that hopped-up meth head trying to walk out the door with it slung over his shoulder. And she was the one who insisted on driving him to the urgent care clinic and paying for a tetanus shot and an antibiotic for the infected bite on his cheek. She's slipping him a few bucks under the table, putting his broad back and strong shoulders to use hauling heavy cases of liquor and beer up from the basement. He's cheaper labor than a contractor. He knows how to use a hammer and a screwdriver and there are a million little jobs in the bar to keep him busy.

It's odd, strangely liberating, having no future ahead of him, no goals, no destination. It's not entirely unpleasant being stuck in a holding pattern. He's told Cole about the money being held captive in Florida. Cole thinks he should open an account at a local bank and tell this Mr. Freeman to make a wire transfer. He knows a lawyer who will sue the old man's ass if he won't give KC his money. But KC refuses Cole's offer to threaten the only friend who ever tried to help him. He promises he'll write the Coach when Cole gets back from California. He's leaving for Los Angeles next weekend for two, almost three, weeks. He's shooting in L.A. and San Francisco. He's developed a loyal following on the Internet and demand for his services is peaking. The casting agent for Squirt Studios says Cole's a sure bet for an AVA nomination for best Asian bottom. He's not blowing his fees up his nose like most of the models. He wants to be an entrepreneur. He'll have saved enough to produce his first video by the new year. He already has a name for his studio. Snake Eyes Productions. He thinks it would be a good investment for KC when he's got his hands on his money.

“And I ain't just doing Asian shit either. I'm gonna have a brand. Like Falcon and Catalina. Lots of twinks getting rammed by straight dudes. I'm always looking for talent,” he teases KC, making him blush.

KC alludes to his own unhappy experience before Darrell Torok's camera. Cole's intrigued, pressing him for details.

“Dude, that guy is a perv. You should have called the cops.”

Cole says he'll be able to concentrate on business in California knowing Ba and Ong are in good hands. He's leased a new Audi for the road trip and is leaving the Explorer so KC can drive his grandparents around. KC's settled in, a part of the household, with no good reason to leave. Lately he's been thinking he might stay in Eugene, Oregon. It's nicer than Albany, not as hot and sticky as Florida. He's got friends here, unlike Texas where he doesn't know a soul anymore. People seem to like him. No one treats him special, but no one thinks he's a freak either. For the first time in his life, he isn't keeping any secrets. He doesn't have to lie about where he goes, what he does, who he does it with. No one cares that he likes to suck cock and no one judges him because he sometimes takes it up the ass. He almost feels normal here. He's never felt normal before. Maybe he can even coach Little League if he's still here in the spring.

There'll be plenty of time to think about his future while Cole is gone. Today there's a party to throw. It's Ong's birthday and even Cole's sister is joining the celebration. KC's job is to pick up the cake at Safeway, a special order with extra frosting and plenty of buttercream flowers. It's a beautiful evening, a full moon and clear skies, perfect for a barbecue. Strings of colorful Christmas lights illuminate the yard and the guy Cole's sister swears is not her boyfriend (Cole says he deals prescription narcotics supplied by a connection in Canada) has come through with boxes of sparklers and firecrackers. He's promising an impressive backyard fireworks display after they cut the cake. They light the cit-ronellas candles to chase away the mosquitos and gather at a picnic table set with festive plates and cups from the party store. Ong is pleased with his paper hat, but Ba struggles and grunts when KC tries to put one on her head. Cole says she's jealous of all the attention her husband's enjoying on his special day. He confides she was a real bitch before the stroke, constantly belittling his put-upon grandfather. He says Ong's a happier man now that his wife is unable to speak.

“How old is he?” KC asks, needing to know how many candles to put on the cake. He'd bought three boxes to be sure there were enough. The fucking cake is going to be a fire hazard.

“No one knows,” Cole says nonchalantly. “Not even Ba.”

Ong's age is a mystery to everyone. He met Cole's grandmother while they were in an encampment waiting to be evacuated. All of their documents had been destroyed; their personal histories are casualties of the war. Cole's father might have heard stories of the family's past when he was a child, but he was murdered during an armed robbery of the convenience store he'd bought with money earned and saved waxing and buffing the floors of the local hospitals and schools. But whatever his age, Ong's a spry old rooster, enjoying his liberation from the blistering tongue of his wife.

Cole's sister has prepared a feast to observe the occasion, a shock to KC who's never even seen her make a pot of coffee. There's sticky rice and steamed buns. KC, who had never heard of lemongrass and fish paste a month ago, is stuffing his face with spicy grilled sausages.

“So, how do you like your first taste of dog?” Cole asks, doubling over in laughter when KC, a look of horror in his eyes, spits a mouthful of half-chewed meat on the grass.

“I'm kidding, bro,” Cole confesses, wiping the tears from his eyes. “It's pork. Just like Jimmy Dean.”

But there's no mistaking the final course set before the birthday boy.

“Be careful you don't burn yourself Ong. I just took them off the grill,” Cole warns his grandfather who's salivating over the delicacy that's been brought to the table.

“You gonna try one?” Cole asks KC who's too appalled to answer, unable to believe anyone would willingly put a charred chicken head, skewered and roasted, in their mouth.

“It's easy,” Cole swears as he demonstrates the proper to crack the tiny skull and suck the brains from the head. “Make up your mind before Ong eats them all.”

Cole, his sister, and the man who she says isn't her boyfriend laugh at KC's squeamishness, insisting KC will never be a real Nguyen until he eats a chicken head. KC impulsively cracks one open and swallows the contents too quickly to actually taste it, a small price to pay to be accepted into a family.