Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 13

Author's note: This is the final chapter. This chapter is maybe twice the length of a normal chapter, and I thought about splitting it in half, but I think it's better this way. I hope you enjoyed the story!

*

Leroy's phone rang around 11am, though he was in no frame of mind to deal with the world. He was still asleep, but as his phone buzzed, forcing him to tune back into the world, he felt hungover to infinity. He rolled over on his mattress and flung his handset into the bedroom. He dragged his sorry ass out of bed, but only as far as the bathroom. He pointed his massive black cock at the bowl and unloaded the contents of his bladder. He was glad that the room didn't begin to spin until his stream had nearly ended. He shook the stray drops away and managed to squeeze in a quick flush before his body buckled. He sank to his knees and threw up into the bowl.

His goal last night was to turn his emotions off. He wanted to feel completely numb. Vodka was the vehicle, and the mission he'd set himself was accomplished, but regret always arrives the next morning. His temples pulsed in synchronised agony. His stomach convulsed again, but this time, nothing came out. He poured as much fresh water into his body as it would allow, but he immediately threw half of it back up. He waited until his stomach felt settled before wiping his mouth and rinsing. He crawled desperately back into bed.

He could feel his heartbeat pounding through his skull. He wished he was dead.

Friday didn't exist. Leroy slept until early evening, waking as the sun began to set.

He rolled over, feeling thirsty. Another desperate slug of water.

Slowly, he tuned back into his reality. He remembered parts of what happened last night. He'd lost his best friend, the man he'd recently realised was the love of his life. His empty stomach sank as a deep depression took hold. Everything was fucked. Emotionally, he felt naked, completely raw, stripped to the bone.

He heard the vibration of his phone. He reached for it on his bedside table. That's where he thought he left it at night, but it wasn't there anymore. It sounded like it was buzzing from the other side of his bedroom. He followed the sound and eventually found it on the floor. He couldn't remember how it got there.

Uncertainly, he staggered across the room and picked up the still-vibrating handset. Tyrone was calling.

"Wassup?" croaked Leroy.

"Dude!" yelled Tyrone. "Fuck, man, I' been tryna fuckin' call you all fuckin' day. You OK?"

Leroy's head was pounding. He checked his screen. There were fourteen missed calls. "Uhh ... sorry." He wasn't sure what to say. "Yeah, I'm fine." He nervously shifted his handset from one ear to the other.

A few seconds of silence passed. Leroy wasn't sure why Tyrone was calling. Last night came back to him in glassy shattered fragments, and he felt sure that Tyrone made his feelings quite clear. Leroy's feelings were not reciprocated. At least not in the same way.

Leroy wasn't sure how their friendship could possibly survive last night.

"I need to see you," said Tyrone.

Leroy croaked something unintelligible.

"You busy?" Tyrone questioned.

"I ... now's not a good time," answered Leroy. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Coo'," said Tyrone.

Leroy ended the call and held his head in his hands. At least he'd slept most of the hangover off. He found last night's vodka bottle in the kitchen. There wasn't much left over from last night -- he nearly drank the whole fucking bottle. He unscrewed the cap and tipped the rest into the sink. He retreated to bed and slept some more.

Later, he opened the fridge and made himself a sandwich. His empty stomach craved food, but he had no appetite. Each small bite had to be forced down with sheer willpower, and it took fifteen minutes for the food to finally disappear. He desperately hoped he could keep it down.

He flipped on the TV and skirted around the dial. Nothing grabbed his attention. Besides, he wasn't in the mood for being entertained or informed right now. He didn't want to do anything. After last night, he wasn't even sure if he had anything left to live for.

Night began to fall. He grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out onto the street. From his building on west 122nd street, he found the nearest avenue and began walking north. He had no specific destination in mind. It was just something to do to occupy the time.

Harlem was alive this Friday night. Bars were bustling with people, diners were full, and the sidewalk was busy. He smelled food, but so far, the sandwich he'd already eaten was the only nutrition he wanted. Taxicabs hurtled past him as they took their passengers to urgent destinations. Leroy knew there was a unique story on the back seat of each and every cab, but all he could think about right now was his own sorry tale.

He kept walking north. It was all he could do to keep his mind blank and calm. His immediate mission was to just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Leroy stopped on west 145th street. Hunger and thirst had reasserted themselves with a vengeance. He took a seat at a diner and ordered a chicken sandwich and some water. The waitress wondered if he was ill, and she was probably right. The sandwich went down so well he ordered another. He sat for a while, but he started thinking about Tyrone again. He paid the check and bought a bottle of water to take with him before hitting the road again.

It took three more hours, but around midnight, Leroy arrived at 218th street, close to the northernmost tip of Manhattan Island. Walking east underneath an elevated Broadway, he walked down a narrow green corridor of earth wedged between to large carparks. He sat down on in a small park on the banks of the Harlem River. He couldn't go much further north than this. Not without a car or a boat.

It'd be busy up here in a few short hours, well before the sun rose. He was just a few blocks north of one of the city's major subway depots, but right now, nobody else was around. He knew he was the only person in the small green reserve, but the city never goes quiet. Just on the other side of the river lay a major expressway, carrying intercity traffic.

As he drank some water, Leroy watched the headlights and taillights of the cars flying by on the expressway. He couldn't remember the last time he cried, but tonight, the tears wouldn't stop. He knew he'd fucked up bad.

He'd ruined everything, and the river was tantalisingly close. The pain was immense, and he knew how he could make it stop.

Despite his marathon walk, his feet felt free. He stood up and began walking the short distance toward the water.

In his pocket, his phone rang. He looked at the screen. Tyrone was calling. For the splittest of seconds, he pictured himself hurling his phone into the river, still ringing and vibrating through the air before landing hard on the surface of the water, slowly gurgling its way down to the mud and trash below. Instead, he pressed the green button and accepted the call. "Wassup," he said.

"Hey, Leroy. I needs to talk wit' you. For real, dude. Is now a good time?"

Leroy wiped his nose on his sleeve and dried his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Go 'head."

"Firs' of all," said Tyrone, "where the fuck are you? You don't sound like you' at home right now."

"I'm not," Leroy replied. "Wait a second." He blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on the grass. "I'm at the river."

"The river? Which one?"

"Harlem River," Leroy whispered. "I'm sittin' way uptown near the subway car depot."

"What, up near Inwood? Shit, dude, I don't go that far for my vacation!"

"I walked all the way up here."

"You fuckin' did what?"

"Yeah, I walked. About a hundred blocks from 122nd street."

Tyrone tried to make a joke. "Fuck, dude, you' in training for the motherfuckin' Olympics?" It fell flat.

"I couldn't unwind after las' night. I couldn't think of what to do, so I went for a walk. I thought I'd walk around the block, jus' to try to clear my head. I didn't plan on comin' this far."

"How the fuck you' gettin' back?"

"Don't know," admitted Leroy. "Hadn't thought that far 'head. Like I said, I didn't mean to come this far in the firs' place."

Tyrone had an idea. "Wait there. Like I said, I needs to rap wit' you. Imma get a fuckin' cab. Stay put. I'll find you."

Leroy waited. He drank some more water. In this moment, his soul felt like it was floating somewhere in between life and death. Tyrone's phone call was the only thing that kept him tethered to earth.

*

Mitch's Friday was a complete contrast to Leroy's. He went to work floating on a cloud. Even the Franklin account couldn't bother him today.

For probably the first time in his life, he felt like he was in love with someone. Looking back, he'd felt a kind of affection for his ex-wife Trina, but he was only ever fooling himself. It wasn't love. But whenever he thought about Brontë, he felt like one of those old-time cartoon characters whose heart beats out of their chests.

Until last night, he wasn't sure how Brontë felt about him. They say a picture tells a thousand words, but in Mitch's case, it was a picture of a triangle that did all the talking. He hated that fucking thing while they were at the art gallery, but the act of Brontë gifting it to him had completely transformed it. He was going to hang it up on the weekend, but just for now, it was leaning against the wall, next to his TV set.

He wasn't sure whether he'd hear from Brontë today or not -- let's face it, he was a well-connected man who probably had something planned for tonight already -- but just in case, Mitch brought a change of clothes and his overnight bag to the office with him.

His phone buzzed midway through the afternoon. It was a message from Brontë: 'how's the triangle?'

Mitch smiled so hard it nearly hurt. He stood up from his desk and turned to his colleagues. "Gonna grab a coffee from the cart in the lobby, back in ten."

He replied to Brontë's message in the lift: 'still a perfect 180 degrees'. He added a smiley face. 'how are you?'

Mitch had just finished placing his order when his phone buzzed again. 'took a shower after you left, there was cum in my hair'

Mitch: 'im so sorry abt that'

Brontë: 'its ok, at least i know what to expect next time'

Mitch: 'im free 2nite'. He collected his coffee and took a sip.

Brontë: '*sigh* no, wait, dude, you have to let me ask you out first, that's how this works'. He added the tongue-pokey-outy emoji.

Mitch: 'ok so ask me out then'

Brontë: '*clears throat comically* ... are u busy 2nite?'

Mitch: 'lemme check my calendar, this time of the year im in high demand'

Brontë: 'u already told me u were free tonight, smartass'

Mitch: 'what have u got in mind? ... but just to be clear im only asking that question to make conversation, id literally watch paint dry on a wall with u if u asked me'

Brontë: 'well thats a coincidence because ive been invited to another art gallery opening and its about watching paint dry on walls'

Mitch threw his head back in laughter. 'im totally in'

Brontë: 'actually i was thinking maybe dinner and a movie, u know, classic date night material'

Mitch: 'cant wait 2 see u again'

Brontë: 'same! ok meet you somewhere near your neighbourhood?'

Mitch: 'no need, i brought some street clothes 2 work with me'

Brontë: 'that's very presumptuous of you'

Mitch: 'you're making me blush'

Brontë: 'imma make u do more than that later tonite, sexy. ok so if u dont need to go home, how bout i meet you in the financial district'

Mitch: 'ok lets meet at clinton hall, it's a bar on the corner of rector and washington ... maybe around 6?'

Brontë: 'it's a date. now get back to work, sexy, time is money'

Mitch drained the rest of his coffee and let the elevator escort him back up into the sky. Or maybe it was the flutter of anxious, nervous butterflies in his stomach that lifted him up.

The rest of the afternoon passed by like an impatient dream. At 5.45, he logged off and packed up for the week. Work-wise, things were a little more quiet for Mitch than usual, which meant his weekend was completely free. He changed in the bathroom, folding his business shirt and pants and packing them at the bottom of his backpack. He put on a Daydream Nation era Sonic Youth t-shirt, a pair of baggy cargo shorts, a pair of long stripy tights (colours: pastel blue and pink) that rode all the way up to his ass, and the 8-hole Doc Marten boots he wore to work this morning. A few heads turned as he rode the elevator back to street level -- 'shit, was that Mitch from legal?' -- but he couldn't give a fuck.

On the way back down to streel level, Mitch held his headphones in his hands. He bluetoothed them to his cell as he left the building. He walked the few short blocks toward the bar. He entered, took a stool and ordered a beer.

6 o'clock came and went. Mitch flicked through socials on his phone as he listened to music and drank his beer.

6.15 passed by, and Mitch began to worry. Had Brontë changed his mind?

6.30. No sign of Brontë. Mitch sent him a polite text, but it went unanswered.

6.45. Still nothing. Had Brontë been in an accident? The butterflies in his stomach began to flutter again.

Mitch had finished his beer and was preparing to leave at 6.55 when Brontë burst through the doors. He grabbed his date from behind and hugged him tight. "Dude, I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting for so long." It looked like he'd been running.

Mitch tried to look angry, hurt and disappointed, but the smile on his face gave it all away. "I thought for a second you might not be coming."

"My train got stuck underground," Brontë explained.

"I sent you a text."

"I didn't get it." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed Mitch the screen -- the message he'd sent had only landed on Brontë's phone five minutes ago. "I must've been out of reach or something. I would've replied."

Mitch grinned. "Sit down next to me?"

Brontë took a stool. "I love your socks."

"Tights."

"Huh?" asked Brontë.

"They're tights," explained Mitch, "not socks. I'm glad you like them, I bought them especially for you. They go all the way up to my ass."

Brontë popped a serious boner, but he tried to get their conversation onto a more normal footing. "What are you drinking?"

"The Harlem River ale." Mitch drained his glass and pointed to the bar. "It's on tap. It's a local microbrew, I think." He held up his empty vessel.

Brontë attracted the attention of the nearest waitress. "Two pints of the Harlem River, please," he ordered.

Their beers arrived and they clinked glasses. "I hope it wasn't brewed from the actual Harlem River," said Brontë. "I'm sure the river would've been a beautiful waterway four hundred years ago, but these days, its liquid trash."

"I know," agreed Mitch. "It's fucking gross. The beer is good, though." He took a hearty gulp. "Oh, fuck, wait, maybe we should make a toast first."

Brontë had lifted his beer to his lips and was about to take his first sip, but he stopped in his tracks. "A toast? Wow, so formal! OK, but what are we toasting to?"

"Thank god it's Friday!" exclaimed Mitch. "I regularly need to work on weekends, but I've got this whole weekend free."

"To Friday!" enjoined Brontë. He was glad Mitch had the weekend free. He hoped to get to know him a little better. They drank heartily.

The modern, high-ceilinged bar was lively and energetic, exactly as anyone would expect on a Friday evening after a busy week in a big city. Beer, wine and spirits flowed freely. Suit jackets were slung over shoulders and backs of chairs, and dresses were cut low. Nobody in the room was even remotely dressed like Mitch.

Everyone was having a good time, doing their best to unwind after a punishing week. Mitch couldn't help noticing that Brontë had surreptitiously moved his stool incrementally closer.

The sun began to sink. Eventually, they checked out the menu and ordered dinner. They each ordered mains, but Brontë insisted on ordering the crispy brussels sprouts as an appetiser to share. Mitch was more than concerned about this decision, in fact, he was outright skeptical, but the sprouts were far better than he remembered from growing up. These ones were almost edible. "If you were trying to convince me that brussels sprouts qualify as actual food," Mitch opined, "you almost got there, but not quite."

"You liked the chilli?" asked Brontë. "It really gave the sprouts a kick."

"Sprouts need a kick," Mitch volleyed, "to hide the fact they're basically miniature cabbages."

Brontë grinned. "Fair enough, but hey, you gotta try new things, right? Otherwise, life would be boring, wouldn't you say?"

Mitch pondered Brontë's statement. "You gotta try new things," Mitch echoed, nodding. He raised his beer to his lips. He'd always tried to do that, but it had caused no end of trouble in his suffocating marriage. He was glad he'd found someone who might encourage the creative, experimental side of him. "Yeah. I like the sound of that. It ought to be a motto, but mottoes always sound better in Latin." He had an idea. "Fuck, wait a second." He picked up his phone and used Google to translate. He read off the screen: "'Experiri nova'." He shrugged. "Fuck, OK, whatever. I got no idea whether that's an accurate translation or not, but on second thoughts, the English version is fine by me."

Brontë leaned forward a little. "Speaking of new things, I liked the sprouts. Did you?"

"Yeah, they were OK, but I really wanna suck your cock," Mitch blurted, and Brontë choked on his beer. Bubbles escaped through his nose. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," Mitch said, grabbing Brontë a few napkins. A waitress came over to assist, but Brontë politely waved her away.

Brontë recovered his breath. "Why the fuck did you say that?"

"Like, there's a bathroom just over there," persisted Mitch, pointing towards the corner of the room. "We've done it before. Come on."

"Yeah, and it was fucking hot, Mitch, but ..."

"I said it because I really like you," Mitch whispered, lifting his beer glass to his lips, "and because I want you to like me. And also, because it's true." He bit his bottom lip submissively. "I wanna suck your cock so fucking bad right now. I can't help it."

Brontë tried hard to ignore the tent in his pants. "Dude, chill. I already like you," he replied, making an effort to keep his voice down, "and whether you suck my dick or whether you don't doesn't change the way I feel about you. You're a cool, sexy motherfucker, Mitch, and I'm totally into you. I know you've got a thing for black dudes with big dicks, and I've got a thing for cute whitebois, so shit works out well, wouldn't you say?"

Brontë leaned across to touch the headphones that remained slung around Mitch's neck. He wanted to jam his tongue way deep in Mitch's mouth, force his hand down his sexy tights and play with his dicklet, but they were at a crowded bar.

Mitch remained silent for a moment, feeling like everything in his life was finally beginning to fall into place. "I'm so sorry for nearly drowning you in cum last night," he apologised, pouting a little. He looked at Brontë with delicate, submissive eyes. "I didn't mean it."

Again, Brontë nearly choked on his beer. He adjusted his pants -- his boner was going absolutely nowhere. Again, the waitress noticed and was about to walk over to assist. She wasn't sure what the hell was going on between these two guys in the corner of the room, but the whiteboi with the headphones around his neck clearly had some kind of psychosexual grip on the black dude sitting next to him.

"I don't know what came over me just now," Mitch continued. "I guess I'm just horny. And the bathroom offer is still on the table," he smirked. "It's just over there."