Travelin' Man (11 page)

 

Cole says God doesn't care who or what he is. After all, who made him this way? All that matters is that you don't hurt anyone else, he explains. He and his sister are good Catholics. They attend Mass every week, taking communion, and there are holy pictures of the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart throughout the house. KC doesn't know much about being Catholic. He was baptized but never went to Mass as a kid and only attended Augustinian because they gave him a full scholarship to play baseball. He doubts he'll be going to any more churches or listening to any pastors and their sermons like he did when he lived with the Freemans. But he still reads the Bible Coach gave him every night, finding solace in the words he sometimes struggles to understand. He's started keeping a list of his favorite verses and is committing them to memory.

Matthew 5:16.

Luke 7:47

John 8:12

And always, he returns to his favorite passage and the words that prove Jesus doesn't hate him, that Our Lord and Savior has a place in His heart for everyone.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

He closes his Bible when he hears Cole screaming into his cell in the next room, ripping someone a new asshole in both English and Vietnamese. KC doesn't envy anyone who'll be working for the owner of Snake Eyes Productions. Cole's temper could sandblast an entire salvage yard.

“Kevin, you gotta help me out tonight. You got to. It's no big deal, I swear. That fucking Thanh is fucking high as a kite and I promised a duo. It's nothing really. Just some old dude's birthday party. Some really old dude. He's, like, sixty-five. He's paying us two-fifty each just to dance in our jocks. You don't have to do anything else. I promise. If anyone asks if you want to go off to a bedroom and do a private dance, just say no.”

He took money from that old rich guy in Spokane. What's the big deal? He doesn't have to get naked and no one's gonna expect him to blow a load at the end of the show. He can't really say no. KC can shake his bare ass in a bunch of guys' faces to help out Cole who's done so much for him. Just this once, he swears.

“You want to get high first?” Cole asks as he parks the car in the driveway of a three-story house in a tree-lined neighborhood near the university campus. It's an impressive residence, solid brick, with a real front porch with a green canvas awning, shaded by two massive pines. Men, most of them balding or silver-haired, wander in and out of the house. They're well dressed, in khakis and bright pastel polo shirts, and carry drinks and bottles of beer.

“Nah, I think I'm okay,” KC says tentatively, already regretting agreeing to do this favor for Cole.

“Well, I do,” Cole says, firing up a joint.

KC wonders if it was really such a short time ago that he would have been worried about second hand smoke causing a positive drug screen on the frequent random samples that are the scourge of the minor leagues.

“Don't worry. They're all really nice. And they're all fucking harmless. This is the easiest money you'll ever make.”

The birthday boy, according to Cole, is a big shot at the university. Cole's been told he's actually famous and gets paid a lot of money to lecture around the world. Cole thinks he's some expert in Greek or Roman, one of those ancient languages nobody speaks. He's also morbidly obese, three-fifty at least. Cole warns KC not to laugh when he's introduced to the host. He'll be wearing a silk kimono and gold slippers and has a big pumpkin head that makes him look like Jabba the Hut
.

“But he's really, really cool. The Professor's a real gentleman. So don't get all grossed out if he asks to touch your dick. Don't piss him off. It takes me a whole weekend at that fucking bar to earn what I'm making tonight.”

Even Cole's vivid description doesn't prepare KC for his first sighting of their host. The Professor drifts among his guests like a parade float, utterly placid, able to move while appearing to remain perfectly still. His arms are folded across his rotund belly and his hands are hidden in the sleeves of his kimono.

“Lovely,” he announces when Cole introduces him to KC. “A wise choice. Many of my guests have a distinct appetite for these All-American boys. Now don't be jealous Master Coleman. You know my preference for exotic and delicate things,” he says, causing KC to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing he won't be asked to offer his pecker to the Professor tonight.

They'd been invited to arrive after ten, just in time for the champagne toast and the cutting of the cake. The Professor graciously offers both young men a slice and a flute. Cole whispers to KC to accept the champagne, but decline the cake. Eating carries the risk of a pooching stomach and the flatter the belly, the fatter the tip. Cole quickly gives KC the run down. Once the music starts, everyone will gather in the living room. The two of them are being paid to be showmen. There's an art to dancing. Timing is everything.

“Just follow my lead. Milk it for tips. Don't rush to strip down to your jock, but don't take so long they start to get restless. We have to dance for a half hour. After that you don't have to do anything else unless you want to. Use the blue bedroom if you want to make some extra cash.”

KC doesn't feel particularly sexy as he begins to sway to the music. The soundtrack is almost as old as the guests. Cole expertly pantomimes every groan, every moan, of “Love to Love You Baby.” KC mimics his mentor as best as he can; he's never really learned to dance. But he's an athlete so he's coordinated enough that he doesn't move like a spastic monkey. No one seems interested in his dance steps anyways. They're admiring his pecs, his biceps, his tight abdomen, and his perfectly shaped ass. They practically throw bills—five, tens, even twenties—when he reluctantly obliges the request that he spread his cheeks and show off his pink hole. He's exhausted after ten minutes and the idea of keeping this up for the entire bargained-for performance seems impossible. But more and more bills are flapping from the waistband of his jock strap. Cole lied to him though. This
isn't
the easiest money he's ever earned.

The show is over by eleven and some of the guests have left. KC senses that those who remain are anticipating an after-party, something less button-down and proper (all things being relative) than the official celebration that preceded. Cole has disappeared. Most likely he's entertaining the birthday boy in the red bedroom, soliciting a significant withdrawal from the Professor's wallet. KC's standing alone, nursing a beer, aware that he's the topic of several whispered conversations in the room. He's been allowed to put on his jeans, but is expected to remain shirtless until it's time to leave. He smiles awkwardly as a man shyly approaches.

“I wanted to tell you that you are very beautiful,” his admirer admits, his eyes falling on KC's chest rather than his face.

“Thank you,” KC says, feeling stupid and vain for acknowledging the compliment.

“Would you like to come upstairs with me?” the man asks.

“No. No thanks,” he says nervously. Kevin Conroy will never take money to have sex with men again. He'll let them stuff dollar bills in his jock, but nothing more.

He's rude to the next man who approaches him, helping himself to another beer and putting on his shirt despite the expectation that he keep the goods on display until he leaves. A pair of unattractive bald men with sloppy guts are kissing and groping each other on the sofa, attracting an audience who are stroking the bulges in their pants. KC's rejected admirer is on his knees, working on a silver daddy who's removed his shirt and is tweaking his own nipples.

“Let's get the fuck out of here before they push aside the furniture and start fucking on the Oriental carpets,” Cole says, sneaking up behind him, giggling as they make their escape unnoticed.

 

Cole's in high spirits as they speed across town, ignoring stop signs and barely touching the brakes at traffic lights. It's been a more profitable night than expected. Between his fee and tips and a generous donation of an additional two hundred dollars to ram a ten-inch dildo up the Professor's ass, he's eight hundred dollars richer than he was at the beginning of the evening. He's curious about how much KC was able to earn. Cole assures him his four-hundred-sixty-dollar haul counting tips is a good showing for a novice.

“But with that fucking body you should be making more. Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it.”

Cole cranks up the volume of the car radio. They're playing his favorite, Brad Paisley, on the Country Hot 100.

“You know what?” he says, stricken by inspiration. “We're gonna get you a white cowboy hat like Brad wears. That's a good look for you. I even got a name for you.
Brock Paisley
. Like maybe you're his hot gay brother or cousin.”

“I don't think I want to do that again,” KC says, refusing to commit.

“Of course you do, dude. Just think of all the fucking money you'll be making.”

Further discussion is put on hold. Cole's got an incoming call he has to take.

“Hey, man. How's it coming? When can I see it? Excellent! I'm gonna pick up a bottle of Jack and come on over. See you in about twenty minutes.”

Cole is too anxious to wait until he returns from California to see what Omar, his trusted tattoo artist, has designed for his lower back.

“I'll ask him to do something for you too. My gift to you for looking after Ba and Ong while I'm gone.”

The idea of allowing someone to scar his skin with ink and needles frightens KC. Not the pain, though he's always been squeamish about shots. It's something more compelling that bothers him. It's a sin, forbidden, if he remembers his Leviticus correctly.
Do not cut your body for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the LORD.
Just like Leviticus forbids him from lying with another man.

The studio is brightly lit, modern, a respectable place of business in an ordinary shopping center, nestled between a craft supply shop and a vitamin store. It's as sterile and antiseptic as a doctor's office, hardly the dingy, filthy back room he'd imagined. He expected Omar to be a squinting Popeye, an outlaw biker, with shaky hands, not the well-spoken, clean-shaven, and modestly dressed man who could pass for a schoolteacher if not for the erotic and colorful tableaux of mythical creatures—naked sea nymphs and sirens—inked into the skin of his arms. He and Cole greet each other with an elaborate ritual of palm slapping and arm grappling, culminating in an affectionate embrace.

“This is my buddy Kevin,” Cole says, introducing KC.

KC feels more naked than when he was wearing nothing but a jock strap. But Omar's intense gaze isn't sexual. He looks at KC and sees an unblemished canvas, a bare wall crying out for a mural.

“Okay, my man. Don't keep me waiting any longer,” Cole pleads. “The suspense is killing me.”

Cole is awestruck by the intricate stencils presented for his approval. Two crouching dragons, mirror images standing face-to-face, encrusted with bejeweled scales, breathing fire, will make a noble pedestal for the Pyramid Eye.

“It's fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “You are a fucking genius. I wish I didn't have to go to California so we could get started tonight.”

He cracks open the seal on the bottle of Jack and proposes a toast. He and KC knock back three shots in a row while Omar barely sips from the rim of his glass.

“I want you to design something real special for my buddy Kevin. He's a fucking virgin and he's gonna get his cherry busted by the master.”

The whiskey and the late hour weaken KC's resolve. After all, Josh Hamilton's a Christian who's famously and proudly inked. He's a walking billboard for his faith. Jesus would never disapprove of that.

Omar has dozens of sample books. He recommends that KC study them closely, take his time, and not make any rash and impulsive decisions.

“Think about it, use these ideas for inspiration. While Cole's in California, reflect on what is most important in your life and how you want to express those ideas on your body,” Omar advises.

KC insists that Omar provide him with a consent form. He knows exactly what he wants and where he wants it. Nothing can deter him. If Omar won't do it, he'll go to one of those sleazy tattoo parlors on Highway 99 where the only question they'll ask is if he has the cash.

Omar capitulates, encouraged by Cole. It's a simple enough task and KC's chosen to have it stenciled at the base of his neck, easily hidden by a shirt collar if he regrets it in the morning. KC snorts another shot of Jack, bracing himself for the pain. He removes his shirt and offers his back. For some strange reason he feels like crying as the needles pierce his skin. It's an act of courage, irrevocable, irreversible. He's branding himself an outlaw, a pariah to some, hopefully an inspiration to others.

“All done my friend,” the artist announces.

Cole takes a picture with his cell phone for KC's final approval before Omar covers the wound with a bandage. It's perfect. A short and simple statement rendered in beautiful calligraphy, a solemn declaration:
1 Samuel 18:1

Omar says he'll have a real shot of Jack now and Cole pours another round to celebrate the milestone. KC, without any forethought and only a fleeting moment of regret afterwards, reaches for Cole's phone and texts the photograph to a number with a Sacramento, California area code.

 

The worst thing about Cole being gone is there's no one but KC to bathe and dress Ba. He'd pleaded with Cole's sister to relieve him of the job, but she'd laughed, promising him the old lady's cunt lips don't have teeth and can't bite. At first, he tried averting his eyes from her shriveled titties and was too squeamish to wash her pussy and her ass. But familiarity and necessity are a sure cure for modesty and he barely blushes now whenever a small turd floats up in her bath water. Ong expects his breakfast and his dinner on time and at least one game of checkers or a hand of cards with his nightly glass of Four Roses at bedtime. KC drops him off each morning at the community center to spend the day throwing dice and smoking cigarettes with other survivors of the black days of the war. He picks up a few extra bucks bar backing for Nancy when Cole's sister isn't working. Usually he's in bed by ten, his Bible open beside him, falling asleep while the Mariners lose yet again on the nightly broadcast.