Travelin' Man (9 page)

“Where to, young man?” the driver asks, growing impatient.

He can't go back to that fucking shelter and the only person he knows in Eugene is Carl. He's sure Carl doesn't want him sleeping on the streets. Carl likes him. Why else did he keep calling him handsome? He didn't flinch or back away when KC hugged him. But he didn't hug KC back. He just stood there, not moving, waiting for KC to release him. And he has a son. So what? But what if he's wrong and Carl isn't a queer? He can't just show up at the hospital and ask him. He's got an idea. It's Friday night. People like to go out after a long week at work.

“The meter's running, buddy. It's your money.”

“Blair Boulevard,” he decides abruptly under pressure to make a decision.

He feels like he needs to tip the driver well and gives him a ten-dollar bill for a three-dollar fare. Another waste of precious money. He waits until the taxi pulls away before walking into Lucky's. He hopes he does indeed get lucky tonight and Carl walks through the front door before closing time. Eugene is a creepy place, at least the parts he's seen. There's a cheap Best Western down the block, advertising rooms for fifty-nine bucks a night, but he can't spend the money.

The sign above the bar announces dollar well drinks during Happy Hour. The dancers start at nine o'clock. The place is nearly deserted despite the promise of cheap liquor. An old man is slumped on a stool at the end of the bar, his head resting on his hands. The bartender eyes KC suspiciously, asking for ID. The cop in Spokane took his fake license and his Florida license will only confirm he hasn't reached the legal age for drinking.

“Can I have a Coke?” he asks.

The duffel bag makes her wary and his bruises scream troublemaker.

“What's in the bag?” she asks before she agrees to serve him.

“Just my clothes.”

“Let me see. I don't want no one bringing guns into my bar.”

He's getting used to the routine by now.

“Is there a pay phone in here?” he asks, thinking he could call the hospital to make sure Carl's working tonight while she inspects his records and dirty clothes.

“Not for years. Why don't you have a cell?”

“I forgot it in Seattle.”

” I'll let you use the bar phone if it's an emergency. For a local call only. Or collect.”

“Thanks, I'm okay,” he says. “My friend told me to wait for him here until he comes to pick me up.”

“Who's your friend?”

“Carl. He works at the hospital.”

“Carl Fisher?”

“Yeah, Carl Fisher,” KC says, instantly brightening. It pays to follow your gut. He's absolutely sure this Carl Fisher must be his Carl, the Six Million Dollar Man.

“Where's Dennis? Is he staying in Portland tonight?” she asks.

“I don't know,” KC says, unnerved by the mention of this unknown Dennis.

“Fucking Carl's like a dog in heat. If I were Dennis I would have cut off his dick years ago,” she says. “You make sure that son of a bitch buys you breakfast in the morning.”

Customers are starting to wander into the bar and the bartender quickly loses interest in the infidelities of her regulars.

“Nancy! Nancy! We need the fucking keys to the basement!” a young man shouts, trying to get her attention. “Fucking bitch expects us to undress here at the bar,” he says to KC, expecting commiseration.

“I need you to bring up three cases of PBR right now,” she shouts. “And stock the bar with vodka and tequila. You don't go on for another hour. Find something for those two assholes to do other than getting high. They're gonna be two sorry faggots if they're too fucked up to work tonight.”

“What the fuck happened to your face?” the kid asks KC, ignoring her commands.

“I got into a fight,” KC says.

“What's the other guy look like?”

KC just shrugs, not wanting to be the butt of a joke about a blonde-wigged man in a dress and high heels kicking his ass.

“I never seen you around here before,” the kid says.

“What's your name?”

KC stops to think. Is he Ricky or KC? Neither. He's Kevin now.

“Kevin. Kevin Conroy.”

He realizes he'll need to explain giving a fake name at the hospital to Carl when he arrives at the bar tonight.

“I'm Coleman Nguyen. You can call me Cole. That's my real name but everyone thinks I made it up because I don't want to use my real name working here. Like I give a fuck. They're the ones paying to touch my dick.”

KC finds it strange that anyone would pay good money to grope this Cole. He's not good-looking, at least not to KC. His face is too broad and his nose is flat. He must look better undressed than he does in his street clothes. But KC supposes a guy might find Cole attractive if he's into Asian dudes.

“What are you doing in Eugene, Fucking, Oregon, Kevin?”

“I came up to see a friend”

“Who? I know every fag in Eugene, Fucking, Oregon.”

“Carl Fisher.”

Cole rolls his eyes and slaps KC on the back. “Ask him if he still has the crabs before you take your pants off.”

Nancy is charging down the bar, on the warpath.

“All right! All right! Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm going! Christ,” Cole says, turning back to KC. “I saw you sitting at the bar and was afraid Nancy had hired some new guy to compete for the few lousy dollars we make in this dump. But even she ain't stupid enough to pay a guy who looks like Freddy Krueger. Unless you have a really big dick. You have a really big dick?”

“Pay for another Coke or stop taking up space at my bar,” Nancy says as she takes KC's empty glass.

“I got him covered,” Cole insists, throwing two twenties on the bar. “Let me know when he's gone through that and I'll give you more. Give him a beer. I know him. His name's Kevin Conroy. He's twenty-three.”

“Well, aren't you fucking Lady Bountiful tonight?” she sneers as she pulls KC a draft.

Cole flips her the finger when she turns her back.

“Thanks. You didn't have to do that. I have my own money,” KC says.

“I'll take it out in trade later,” Cole informs him, winking playfully. “I'm a whole lot more fun than that ancient Carl Fisher and I won't give you an STD.” He laughs as he heads for the basement to haul up the beer.

There are hours until last call and he's got nothing to do but drink while he waits for Carl to stroll through the door. He quickly grows bored staring into a pint glass. If he had his cell phone he could look up Carl on Facebook now that he knows his last name. There's probably pictures of him and Dennis doing couple things, like decorating their Christmas tree or playing with their dog. He'd send Carl a message, telling him he's waiting for him at Lucky's. He's soaking up beer like a sponge, getting drunk as a fucking skunk on an empty stomach. He should stop after he finishes this last one, or at least slow down. He doesn't want to make a bad impression when Carl Fisher walks through the door. The bar is starting to get crowded. Cole and his buddies are going to make some cash tonight after all.

The music changes from Toby Keith and Tim McGraw to pounding dance tracks with shrill female singers. KC doesn't recognize Cole at first. The body he'd thought was merely skinny is lean and sinewy, with well-defined muscles and a round ass. He's heavily inked, with Chinese characters along his calves and down his forearms and Celtic circles on each of his biceps, tattoos KC's seen on a hundred gay guys. But the design on his back is arresting, a finely rendered Pyramid Eye of the All-Knowing God. He's stripped down to a jock strap and athletic socks. There are a few appreciative catcalls as he scampers up on the bar.

“Keep drinking, stud, as long as you can get it up tonight,” he teases KC before turning his attention to the slobbering drunk offering a ten-dollar bill to get a peek at the works.

Cole and his buddies are conserving their energy, barely working up a sweat. It's a long shift until closing time. They spot each other through the night, one of them having a smoke or snorting a little energy booster while the other two strut on the bar. They know how to work the crowd. Bending at the waist and spreading their ass cheeks is a favorite. Making eye contact will persuade a reluctant tipper to open his wallet. The bar is packed by midnight. So many ones and fives are flapping from the waistband of Cole's jock it looks like he's wearing a hula skirt.

“Well, you've been waiting all night for your boyfriend to arrive. Aren't you going to go say hello to him?” Nancy asks as she serves KC yet another draft.

He spins on the stool, losing his balance, almost toppling to the floor. How many beers has he drunk? Six? Seven? Enough to be shit-faced. He stands and steadies himself on the bar, searching for Carl's handsome face, unable to find him in the crowd. He's disappeared, probably taking a piss. He'll be right back; last call isn't for another hour.

“Carl!” Nancy screams, her piercing voice easily carrying over the loud music. “Your new boyfriend is nervous about seeing you! Come over here and give him a big kiss,” she snarls, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What the fuck are you talking about you crazy bitch?” the man approaching the bar shouts. His smile is unfriendly, vaguely sinister. His beard is peppered with gray whiskers and he has a mouthful of jackass teeth. He's shirtless under his leather vest and is wearing studded wrist and armbands. His blue eyes are washed-out, faded, and his hair is cropped close to his lumpy skull.

“I don't know why she's being so shy, Carl,” Nancy says, mocking KC. “This little queen's a fickle one. Maybe she's already found someone else. Two hours ago she was in love with you.”

KC flinches when Carl Fisher places his hand on his shoulder. He believes Cole now. He can easily imagine crabs nesting in this guy's pubic hairs and deadly viruses floating in his bloodstream.

“Nancy says you been asking after me. You seen my profile on Leather Daddies?”

KC's vaguely aware of his guardian angel hovering overhead. Cole peers down from his perch on the bar and announces he's already staked his claim on KC for tonight,

“Bad choice, good-looking. That little Chinese pecker ain't gonna get any bigger when it's hard,” Carl Fisher sneers.

“Fuck you, Leatherface,” Cole spits as he dances away.

It's probably just all the beer KC's had, but Carl Fisher seems ominous, evil. Cole's right: the man looks like the mutant from
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
KC steps away from the bar, beyond Carl Fisher's grasp, and trips over his duffel bag on the floor by the stool. He tries to steady himself, grabbing at the bar to keep from falling, sweeping every drink in arm's length to the floor.

“Someone get this fucking mess out of here before he tears down the place!” Nancy commands and Cole hops off the bar to help KC to his feet.

“I think it's time to put you someplace safe until I can get out of here,” he says as he leads KC to the storage area in the basement the dancers use as a makeshift dressing room. KC's aware of the curious stares and the cruel remarks as he's maneuvered through the crowd. He wishes he were invisible and could slip away without being noticed.

“Dude, try not to break any more glassware while I'm working. Just stay put for another hour and then we'll vamoose and go someplace to have some fun.”

KC's mouth is as dry as a sand dune. His lips are cracked and his tongue is sore and swollen. He must have bitten it while he slept. Last night is a blur: the ugly man in the leather vest, sleeping on a bed of beer cases, being shaken awake and walked to a car, watching a video, passing out. His head is throbbing and he's nauseous. The undershirt he slept in smells vaguely like puke. His pants and socks are on the floor. His wallet's in his pocket and he quickly thumbs through the bills, relieved his money hasn't been stolen. His belly rumbles when he stoops to pull on his boots. He doesn't know where he is, but he wants to get out, now. There's only one problem. His duffel bag is missing.

He throws a blanket on the mattress, having been taught never to leave an unmade bed, and goes searching for his bag. The house is a small place, a ranch with cramped rooms and narrow halls. A flat screen television and an oversize sectional sofa dominate the living room; dirty glasses and empty bottles and an elaborate bong are on the coffee table. KC vaguely recalls taking a hit and chugging a beer as a pair of Asian twinks fucked on video. Across the hall is a larger bedroom than the one where KC awoke. There's a hospital bed and a twin bed pushed against opposite walls. The window is shut and the shade is drawn. The air is stale and smells of old people, like the nursing home room where KC's Pop-Pop died, a sour odor that reminds KC of boiled milk. He hears loud, staccato voices in the back of the house, speaking a language he doesn't understand.