Dark Thunder

"I can't help you, Richie," he says. "I can't fix you for you. You have to do that on your own."

And he leaves.

*****

I can't stay here. I call my mom and tell her that I'm coming home.

"But school's in, hon," she says. "Won't you miss classes?"

Classes don't matter anymore. "I have a break."

"Okay," she says.

I buy a ticket, then I take my wallet and start to leave. I notice that gene has left some stuff behind. A digital camera, and the Bob Marley cover. I start crying again. I stop abruptly after a few minutes, and pick the stuff up and walk out the door.

*****

I'm sitting on the beach with Bob Marley around my shoulders. The sun is setting behind a cruise ship in the bay, and the few people on the shore during this time of year are packing up to leave before darkness falls. I'm wondering what dying will be like.

It's not something I've given a great deal of thought in my life, but now I ask myself whether it'll hurt or not. If I'll go to heaven and whether there's angels and pearly gates like they say; if there's hell where I'll be tortured for forever. If there's just quiet blackness.

I think I would prefer this last; either of the others guarantees that you'll miss at least a few people. I pick up the camera to look through the pictures again.

The memory card must be missing, because there are only about thirty photos. They're all of Gene and me. The good times.

There are three of the backyard party where we met; a few of the ocean, some sunsets. One of our entwined hands. And the rest are of us, smiling, cooking, smoking. There's even one of me sleeping, where Gene's giving me bunny ears and grinning at the camera.

The last one is of us on one of our beach walks. He must have asked someone to take the picture, because it was shot from a distance. In it, our backs are facing the camera, and we're holding hands and barefoot, wearing cargo shorts and carrying our shirts in our unoccupied hands. Seeing it makes me want to cry again, but I'm finding it difficult at the moment; there just doesn't seem to be any point to getting all worked up.

It's getting to cold to keep sitting here, so I get up and head back inland. There's a shuttle to the airport that picks people up in the parking lot, and I get on it, looking through the pictures again on the ride over.

*****

My flight leaves an hour or so after I get to the airport, and I sleep on the plane. When we get to Connecticut, my mom is waiting for me by the luggage thing. I try to smile when I see her, but I don't succeed. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Where's your stuff?" she says.

"Didn't bring any," I say. "I've got stuff at home."

"If you say so," she says. She turns and walks out the door. I follow.

They've bought a new car, a Ford Edge; it's nice, and I tell her I like it.

"It is pretty nice, isn't it? Your father doesn't like it much, though. Prefers the Mercedes."

We don't speak again until we get home. Before we get out of the car, she looks in the rearview and applies more lipstick. It's only then that I notice how dressed up she is; she's wearing her special diamond drop earrings and a silk blouse. Her skirt is nice, too, though I can't tell what it's made of.

"Going out?" I ask.

"Meeting a friend."

"Do you think you could stay home tonight?" I say. According to both Gene and intro psych, sad people can sometimes start to feel better if they have a "support system." I guess my mom could be that, if she tried. Maybe. "I kinda want to talk to you."

"No," she says. "I haven't seen Dave in almost five years. We'll talk...some other time."

She sits there, like she's waiting for something. I realize what it is. I get out of the car.

"Bye," I say. "I love you." She looks at me for a moment, and I swear she actually sees me. Then I close the passenger door and she backs out of the garage and leaves. I let the door down and head into the house.

My Dad is sitting in the living room, looking at some papers in his briefcase. I walk around in front of him so that he can see me. Even so, I stand there for five minutes before he sees me.

"Hey, Rich," he says. I hate that name. "What are you doing home?"

"Didn't Mom tell you I was coming?"

"No, she didn't mention it. It's late. Aren't you tired?"

"Nah," I say. "I think I'm gonna change and then go for a walk."

"Okay," he says.

"Dad?"

He's already gone back to reading his papers. "Yep?"

"I'm gay."

He stops for a moment, considering whether or not I'm serious, I guess. He must decide that I'm not, because he goes back to reading.

"I love you," I say. He doesn't say anything back, just squints to read something.

I head up to my room to change. I decide that intro psych is a bullshit class.

*****

My room is exactly as I remember it. This should be comforting, but it isn't.

My bed here is oak, just like the one in California, and so are the night tables. I have a black desk and trash can, and my closet doors have mirrors on them. The window has horizontal blinds. They're beige.

I've never taken the time to notice before, but I do now - my room doesn't have any posters or pictures or band t-shirts on the walls. There are no secret stashes of rare pennies or baseball cards or even porn; I have a computer for that. My desk is completely bare, save for some lint and a paper clip, and my night tables have lamps on them and nothing else. My books from high school are stacked on my closet shelf in a neat row, and my clothes hang just as I left them on their oak hangers.

I take out a dark button up shirt and a nice pair of jeans and put them on. I start to hang my other clothes in the closet, but I stop. I toss them onto the bed along with my shoes. Let there be some sign that I was here; that I existed, however empty that existence may have been.

I put on some Vans and grab Gene's blanket and camera.

*****

I start out just wandering around the neighborhood, wondering what I should do. I've never really done much of anything, so I don't know the first thing about having an adventure.

Eventually I make my way to the middle of our little town, and I pass a place that my aquaintances from high school used to make fun of. It's called the Blue Iguana, and it's a gay club.

I go in. The place is packed and everyone is dancing to some lame techno beat. The place isn't very big, and I guess it's not classy enough to have a cover charge. They probably make up for it in drink prices.

I've never been out dancing before, but it doesn't look too hard, so make my way to the middle. I close my eyes and start moving randomly in hopes of blending in. I guess I do, because before long someone's standing behind me and feeling me up.

I let him, more because I'm looking for an experience than because I'm horny. All that rubbing does start to take its toll eventually, though, and after three songs I'm hard and aching. He grins at me, takes my hand, leading me off the dance floor.

We end up in some sleazy room with old couches and chairs. There are a few other couples in here having sex and before I can say anything I'm on my back and Dance Floor Guy is unbuttoning my shirt, talking about cocks and fuck and dick. I think briefly of Gene and how I've never been with another guy, but I push him away quickly: if there was ever a night where I had the right to be completely selfish, this is it.

He's quick and a little rough, but I let him fuck me, and when he's done he finishes me off, too. A quick kiss on the cheek and a sneer, and he's gone.

I lay there for a few minutes, looking at the ceiling and thinking about Gene again, and then I get up and leave the place. I'm thinking I'll head over to Winston Bridge to see the view of the river.

I pass the little park on my way there, and they've set up a big canvas screen and a projector. There are some kids watching a movie, and it seems like it's near the end. I stop for a while to see which on it is, and it's one of my favorites. Up.

I stand there for longer than I mean to, watching the old man and the little boy eating ice cream, and it finally hits me full force: there isn't, and there never was, a Paradise Falls for me.

This thought is strangely comforting, and I feel a weight I've been carrying for a while lifted off of me. I actually smile to myself as I head on over to Winston, thinking of me and Gene and the trapeze act we've been in since last summer. He let go of my hands a long time ago, and it was only me, foolish me, who thought the show could continue.

I look down at the water flowing so far beneath my feet, and I wonder what he'd say about me now, out and about in the city, experiencing life without the assistance of Dark Thunder. The wind blows, and I wrap Bob Marley around me. I look at the last picture in the sequence again, and then put the camera into my back pocket.

It's finally my turn to let go of the swinging bar; I couldn't hang on forever. I do, and as I fall, I wonder if Gene will be waiting for me in a net somewhere below.

*****