Floridian nights, p.33
Floridian Nights, page 33
“You wanna go to the hospital, Gary?” Ken asked, diverting his attention.
Amazingly, the first thought that came to his mind was his reluctance to file another insurance claim with his ex-employer. For the first time since he’d been hit, he spoke, slowly and with difficulty: “You really think…I need to?”
“I’m no doctor. But I think they’re sending one from the house down the street. Why don’t you have him check you first? You might not have to.”
“Okay.”
“You just lie and rest. He’ll be here any minute.” As Ken pulled away from him, despite his semi-stupor, Gary could see Ken give Rick a look that could kill. Rick looked down and then moved over next to Gary, kneeling alongside the loveseat and taking his hand. With his free hand Rick began to lightly stroke Gary’s hair, on the side of his head away from the wound.
Talking hurt, but something had floated to the surface of Gary’s consciousness. “You hurt?” he whispered. Rick shook his head no and tried to smile. Gary tried to smile back.
The next face Gary remembered was that of a young man he’d never seen, who was saying in a low, calm voice, “Hello, Gary. Feeling better?” Gary started to reply, but the man continued, “Actually, you shouldn’t try to talk for a little while. I know it hurts like hell, but basically you’ve just had a very bad bump. I see no sign that it’s a concussion, but I did think you might need a couple of stitches–”
“So do it.”
“Ssh!” said the young man, an angelic-looking blond with considerable sex appeal. “I already did. I’m a nurse, but I’m studying to be a doctor. I know what I’m doing, I promise. You’ll probably be fine by tomorrow, but you’ll probably have a pretty bad headache the rest of the night. Try to rest. I’ll check on you later.”
When he awoke it was dark, his head was pounding, and Rick was gently holding him. He felt the kid stir, heard him ask “Gary?” and, when Gary squeezed his hand in reply, watched him switch on a dim light. They were in their room, in their bed.
They held each other for a while without speaking, then Gary asked, in a soft, disjointed voice that reverberated incredibly loud in his head, “What…time?”
Rick looked over at a watch on the bedside table. “About eleven.”
“You…eat?”
“No. You hungry?” he asked eagerly.
“Naw,” Gary whispered, barely shaking his head. “But…go eat.”
“I’m not gonna leave you.”
“ ’sokay.”
“I’m gonna stay right here with you and take care of you. Like Becker would.”
Gary concentrated and framed his first complete sentence in several hours. “Becker wouldn’t…have taken me…to that bar.”
Rick’s return look was surprisingly blank. He just said, “Right.”
There was another pause, then Gary said, “Need…money?”
“I–”
“Take some. Eat. There’s…a place…piano…you’d like.” Gary told Rick the name. “Ask Ken…address.”
“Ken hates me,” Rick said in simple declaration.
“Then ask Allie.”
“I don’t wanna leave you, Gare.”
“Leave.”
“You sure?” Gary nodded, ever so slightly. “Okay. If you say so.” Rick leaned over and kissed Gary’s forehead, close to the wound but not so close as to cause pain. “I love you.” In reply, Gary, now exhausted from their short conversation, lifted his right hand and ran it lightly along Rick’s cheek.
When he next awoke it was still dark out, but the dim light, which he knew Rick had doused when he left the room, was again on. Ken was standing by his bed. “How you doing, champ?” he asked.
Gary thought about that; the pounding was still there, but it had lessened. He attempted a smile, and gave a so-so motion with his hand. That prompted Ken to pull up a chair and sit by the bed. “Listen, Gary, it’s – uh – I realize it’s one-thirty in the morning, but I’ve got the police downstairs. They finally traced you to here. They wanna talk to you about what happened. Luckily we live in a place where the police take fag-bashing very seriously.”
At the sound of the familiar term “fag-bashing” it came home to Gary that it had actually happened to him. Ken was continuing, “Word is already getting around, and the community is furious – even though I don’t understand what you were doing in that place. Rick’s idea, I’ll bet. Anyway, if you’d just take a few minutes and–”
Gary solemnly lifted his hands and waved them at Ken to indicate “not interested.”
“Oh, c’mon, Gary,” Ken pressed. “I know you’re still in pain, but this is important. You know that. They wanna catch these guys. They could hurt somebody else.”
Gary just closed his eyes, opened them, looked at Ken, then slowly pointed to the damaged area of his head. “Okay,” Ken said, “Maybe you’re in too much pain right now. But we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Ken stood. “At least, if Rick had had the decency to be here, they could have talked to him.”
Gary meant to tell him, “I sent him to dinner,” but his head was buzzing now, and it was too much effort. He turned on his side, away from Ken, and waited until the latter cut the light and left. Then he quickly slipped back into sleep.
22.
Bright sun illuminated the room. It took him a few moments to realize that the cute nurse’s prediction had come true; his headache, so massive last night, was gone. He felt a warm presence to his right, and then caught a strong odor of cigarette smoke. He shifted slightly and saw that Rick was snuggled up next to him, sleeping soundly, still wearing the same t-shirt and (as Gary discovered when he slid his hand under the covers, causing Rick to sigh luxuriously) briefs he had presumably worn when he went out. His hair especially reeked of smoke.
Gary felt a sudden and overpowering urge to use the bathroom, so he gingerly got out of bed. To his surprise, the dizziness was gone as well. He went over to open the wooden shutters that blinkered their side window. The direct sunlight that then hit their chamber caused another sound to emanate from Rick, though he remained asleep.
It was another gorgeous Florida day. Gary cracked the window a bit. A bougainvillea bloomed right outside, and the air that rushed in was intoxicating – fresh, clean, fragrant. Abruptly he recalled his most pressing business, the reason he’d gotten out of bed. Once that was taken care of, he turned, with trepidation, to check himself in the bathroom mirror.
The results were disappointing. The bandage covered a far smaller area than he’d anticipated. The rest of his face looked a tad haggard, but otherwise perfectly normal. With great tenderness he removed the dressing; at least, he thought, there must be a huge gash underneath.
Further disappointment awaited. The nurse-cum-doctor had done a precise bit of sewing. A teeny bit of black thread showed; two, three stitches at the most. Around it was an area of rapidly fading red. This was all he had to show for his trauma, for the last – what, eighteen or more hours?
He felt up to taking a shower, so he did. As he let the water pour over him, carefully keeping his forehead dry, his mind wandered first to Georgia Peach and the many times they’d made love as they showered together. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he was swept with anger at Rick for putting him at such risk yesterday. So the nurse was probably right; so he had incurred a “mere flesh wound.” All the same, it had been a harrowing experience, and totally unnecessary.
His anger still simmered as he dried himself, threw on a light robe, and heard a knock on the door. He assumed it was Ken, and sharing his opinion for the moment of the now-stirring Rick, he strode eagerly over to let him in.
He had to take a moment before he remembered and recognized the odd couple at the door. His hesitation was surely noticeable, but Keiko and Tony were thoroughly unfazed. “Our hero!” she cried as they swept past him into the room, where a startled Rick modestly pulled the covers up to his armpits.
Tony was affecting a peculiar walk, and he ambled over to Rick and said in a voice much unlike his usual, “We heard the little girl got a nasty bump on her head. Thought we’d come by and see how she was doin’.” Rick looked dazed, but Gary caught the reference and laughed with delight.
“Thanks, Professor Marvel,” he told Tony.
“Look what we got you, Gary,” Keiko said gleefully, waving something dully metallic in front of him.
“What is that?”
“A Distinguished Flying Cross.”
“Get outta here.”
“No, really. It was the best we could find on short notice.”
He took it from her and examined it. It looked genuine, and it was surely worth a lot. “I can’t accept this.”
“You earned it,” Tony insisted.
“Valor in facing the enemy,” Keiko added. “We tried to find a Purple Heart, but this had to do. Anyway, we heard you went flying when you got hit, so it fits.”
Gary laughed a full-throated laugh, which helped obscure Rick’s muttered, “He did not go flying.”
“Thanks,” Gary said to Keiko, kissing her. “I love it.”
“What about me?” Tony mock-wailed. Gary walked over and kissed him too.
“Did we wake you up?” Keiko asked.
“Yes,” said Rick.
“No,” Gary said. “I just took a shower.”
“You don’t look too bad,” Keiko observed, eyeing his forehead. “How do you feel?”
“I’m okay today.”
“We were gonna ask if you wanted to do brunch–” Tony began.
“–but maybe it’s not the best time,” Keiko completed, glancing meaningfully in Rick’s direction.
“But I’d love to.”
“Why don’t you go ahead, Gare?” Rick piped up in a glum voice.
“No,” Keiko demurred. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Definitely tomorrow,” Gary emphasized.
They gave him their room number, he thanked them again, and they left. As soon as they were gone, Rick said to him, “Lemme see that.”
Completely annoyed, Gary tossed the medal at Rick. The younger man looked it over quite closely, then pronounced in an odd voice, “Christ! This is the real thing.”
“How would you know?”
“I had an uncle who was into this stuff. He had a couple of medals of his own, but nothing this major.”
“Well, I’m not surprised it’s the real thing, coming from them.”
To Gary’s shock, Rick angrily flung the medal on the floor. “God, I hate people like that! Do you know what this means? Somebody risked their life to win this thing, and they were probably so bad off they had to pawn it. Then a couple of rich assholes come along and buy it for a trinket, because a friend of theirs was in a barroom brawl. Meanwhile the vet is probably starving somewhere–”
“God, you can be a pill.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You might be. Might be right, too. And if you are, so what? Life isn’t fair. You’d better learn that.”
“Shit!” Rick swore as he jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom, his briefs-clad rear momentarily distracting Gary.
Recovering, he yelled after the kid, through the bathroom door, “I like them. They’re not assholes. You have no sense of humor. BB would have thought they were a stitch.”
“The only stitches around here are the ones you’ve got in your forehead.”
“Yeah, thanks to you. And I guess you’re saying I didn’t do anything brave enough to earn the medal. I was trying to protect you.”
He heard the water for the shower start, then heard Rick swear again as he got hit with a spray either too hot or too cold. Finally the kid’s voice shouted over the noise, “I was trying to protect you, too.”
Gary deliberately cracked open the door and said, “Obviously you failed.”
Rick’s wet head stuck out from the shower. “Get outta here. I need some privacy.”
“I don’t know. I’m getting turned on.” Which was true.
“You pervert.”
“Did you have a good time last night?”
“Yeah. I liked that place.”
“You sing?”
“We sang a little.”
“We?”
“Yeah, me and David.”
“David?”
“The guy from the Conch Train.”
Gary had to act nonchalant. “How conve-e-e-nient.”
“Can we go back there tonight, Gare?”
Usually Gary loved it when Rick called him that, but not this time. He wasn’t turned on anymore, either. “I’m getting dressed,” he said sourly. “Meet you downstairs.” He slammed the door, glad to give Rick his requested privacy.
Allie was staffing the desk when he came down to the lobby. He let the older man fuss over him and his injury, then settled into a chair across from the loveseat where he’d lain bleeding last night, which prompted a thought. “Do I owe you for all those bloody washrags, Allie?”
Allie drew himself up with mock seriousness. “Our guest houses do not put out washrags. We use only washcloths. And no, it comes with the territory.” Gary laughed but said nothing, and Allie ventured on. “Terry was by this morning, but he didn’t want to bother you while you were sleeping. Wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Who’s Terry?”
Allie pointed to his own forehead. “Your seamstress? Florence Nightingale?”
“Oh. He came by? That’s really nice. He’s a man of his word.”
“Cute, too, don’t you think?”
“Very.”
“I think he’s single, too,” Allie said significantly.
“No kidding. Probably doesn’t drag people into dangerous bars, either.”
“Oh, I think Ken’s too hard on Rick,” said Allie, who had always had a knack for being on all sides of a question.
“Well, if Terry comes by again and I’m out, tell him I feel fine, he did a great job, and I’d like to pay him.”
Allie pursed his lips. “I’m sure he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Then tell him I’d like to buy him a drink, at least.”
Allie raised his eyebrows and did a humorous little swivel of the head. “So will you?” Gary pressed.
“Service with a smile,” Allie deadpanned. “We aim to please.”
Gary buried himself in a magazine article about Bush and Dukakis’ first televised debate, which he’d managed to miss. A few minutes later he heard an exceedingly heavy tread on the stairs and Allie’s voice pleasantly saying, “Good afternoon, nightbird. How are you?”
“Fine, Allie,” came the less than cheery reply.
It was already the heart of the brunch hour, and consequently every place Gary and Rick checked was crowded. They meandered down Duval Street toward the southern end of the island, in the opposite direction from the most heavily touristed area and the scene of yesterday’s fiasco. Rick’s good humor returned as he talked about his night on the town, and Gary was torn between sharing the kid’s sense of discovery and resenting the too-frequent mention of David. He noticed, too, that Rick had seemingly brushed off the barbs he had aimed at him about being responsible for yesterday’s scene; and again, Gary couldn’t decide if he was glad that the kid was growing less hypersensitive, or miffed that he didn’t seem to be accepting responsibility for his complicity in Gary’s injury.
They finally found a beautiful but absurdly overpriced place where one could brunch around the pool. The restaurant was connected with a tony gay guesthouse, so they enjoyed enormous margarita slushes while watching assorted male bathing beauties take their afternoon dips.
At length, Rick did bring up the previous day’s crisis, albeit obliquely. “Was Becker as cautious as you, Gare?”
“He wasn’t as reckless as you.”
“But if you both kept away from any scene that–”
“I didn’t say that. We took risks.”
“Like?–”
“For starters, being together and making it last all those years. That was the biggest risk of all.”
“Yeah, but what did you do all that time together? Just stick to the safe and narrow?”
“No!”
“So give me a for-instance.”
Gary thought about mentioning the rafting accident in Colorado, but the ambience brought something else to mind: “First time we came here, we took a seaplane out to the Dry Tortugas, these little islands further out in the Gulf. We went snorkeling and the water was really shallow. Before we knew it we were fifty, a hundred yards from shore, with no lifeguards.”
“That’s it?”
“No. The flight over was real low, and the water was real clear. We’d seen lots of sharks and manta rays. Suddenly we’re way out there and I notice, about fifty feet past Becker’s shoulder, this fin–”
Rick, getting into the story, started making noises like the theme from Jaws.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, but I whispered to BB, like I thought if we didn’t talk loud it wouldn’t notice us, that we’d better start moving to shore, quiet-like. But when I pointed it out, he said, ‘Let’s go see what it is.’ ”
“A shark! Was he crazy?”
“That’s what I said, but he grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward it. The closer we got to the fin, the more I struggled with him. I asked him why we were doing this, and he said he was sure it was a dolphin, and he’d always wanted to play with a dolphin out in the open ocean. I was still sure it was a shark.”
“Who was right?”
“We got within about fifteen feet and we must have scared it, because it swam away. But it was some kind of fish – not a shark, and not a dolphin either. Georgia Peach claimed it was an ocean sunfish. I don’t know if he was talking off the top of his head or not.”
“So that was it?”
“No, not quite. We were way offshore by then. I’m watching that fin swim away, still convinced it was a shark, when suddenly I feel something grab me from behind. I almost jumped clear out of the water.”
“I’ll bet.”
