Thirteen Crucifixions,46

There was an e-mail from Matthew: he left his mailing address, indicating that he was only interested in corresponding by post.  “Typical of you, Bitch!” Michael keyed in, pressed “send”, then proceeded to search for the latest compilation of the malapropisms of President Bush.  It was a post office box in Victoria, suggesting that Matthew might be anywhere on Vancouver Island.  He wanted news of him.  Hard news, and as usual he would have to work for it.  Leaving the library he sidestepped the café just in case either of the two waiters, who might well be off duty by now, might think that he’s stalking them.  An American chain bookstore, huge with three levels, had opened across from the art gallery, creating yet further havoc for the local booksellers of Vancouver.  Michael, like so many others had permitted the comfy chairs, the reading room atmosphere, as well as the Starbucks on both levels to seduce him.  And it was a seduction.  He had up till this point boycotted Starbucks as another greedy multi-national edging local business into a messy extinction.  There was always the library, but Michael was wanting again to buy books, new books, or at least browse and peruse with the option of buying, or refusing to buy.

            In the photography section he sought out the particular volume of homoerotic male nudes.  A book he refused to simply buy, take home and jerk-off to.  He much preferred being seen by others reading this sort of thing, making not the slightest effort of being furtive or coy about it.  Quite unlike the pretty youth in the departure lounge at the airport a couple of years ago, whom Michael caught leafing through Playgirl, Michael was nonchalantly selecting Interview, cast the youth a sly smile, who quickly returned Playgirl to the rack and walked away.  His book wasn’t there.  Horrors.  Had someone bought it?  It was the only one there of its kind.  In a single armchair in a corner nearby, sat a dark-haired youth with a familiar looking tome on his knee.  Michael walked over and there was the waiter, studying intently that book full of randy male nudes.  He seemed oblivious to Michael leaning over his shoulder.

            “I rather like that one on the left”, he said.  The young man looked up, startled, stared at Michael wide-eyed, got up and walked away, leaving the book on the armrest.

            “Hey, you forgot your picture book,” Michael shouted after him, then tried to suppress his laughter as he eased himself into the chair.  He came back.

            “You know that wasn’t funny”, he said, trying to control his voice.

            Michael started laughing.

            “Will you stop!”

            They looked at each other.

            “What are you doing in my chair?”

            “I didn’t see your name on it.  I thought you’d left.”

            “I only went to the washroom.”

            “I’m not going to ask what it was you were doing in there.”

            “Will you please get out of my chair?”

            “Say pretty please.”

            “I could get you barred from the café.”

            “There are plenty of better coffee shops in town.”

            “I’ll get the manager.”

            “Sure you want him to see what kind of book we’re fighting over?”

            “I had it first!”

            “You sound just like my little sister when we were kids.  We can look at it together.”

            “Where am I going to sit?”

            “Sit on my knee.  We’ll discuss the first thing that comes up.”  He stared down at Michael, tight-lipped.  He could almost see it coming.  The youth began to weep, loudly and openly.

            “Hey, I didn’t mean to.  I’m sorry, man.  Hey I’m sorry, I was being a shit.  I’m”— Before he knew it he was standing up, holding the youth in his arms, who leaned into Michael in a convulsion of weeping.  People were beginning to notice.

            “There’s a quiet corner table over there”, he said.  “Let me get you a coffee?”

            The young man nodded and made an effort to compose himself.  With his hand on his back Michael gently led him to the table.

            Michael brought them each a coffee.  “So now I’m giving you table service.  My name’s Michael.”

            “Lazarus”.  They quickly shook hands.

            “Sounds biblical.”

            “It is.  My father’s a minister.  They thought I was still born at first.  They say my old man laid his hands on me and started to pray.  And then the breath of life came into me.  So he named me Lazarus.  That’s the guy that Jesus raised from the dead.”

            “Hey Lazarus—please, please accept my apology about what just happened.  I didn’t mean at all to upset you.  And I wouldn’t have.  Please forgive me.  I actually like you.”

            “I serve you coffee.  How can you possibly know whether to like me or not.”

            “I just do.  You’re an easy person to like.  You’re kind, you’re nice—considerate.”

            “It’s my job.”

            “Hey I’m sorry.  I guess I should have left you alone.”

            “But you didn’t.  It’s okay.  Don’t worry about it.”

            “Can we be friends?’

            “I guess.  I don’t see why not.  I don’t really have that many.”

            “Neither do I.  Well, do you want to?’

            “Do I want to what?”

            “Be friends with me?”

            He paused.  “Yeah, okay.”

            “I didn’t say boyfriends.  Okay?”

            “I don’t think I’m ready for a boyfriend.  Or a girlfriend.”

            “I’m on the rebound.  Neither am I.  But honestly Lazarus I’m not after you for anything.  I mean, you’re very attractive and everything but I don’t want to sleep with you.  It’s something that’s just not there for me these days, with anyone.  But I do want to be your friend.  Please Lazarus.  Can I be your friend?

            “You are my friend.”

            “Thank you.”

            “I think I have to go now.”

            “So soon?”

            “You can come if you want.  I’m just going home.”

            “Where do you live?”

            “Near Trout Lake.”

            “I’m right by Commercial on William Street.  I’ll go with you as far as my stop?”

            “Sure.”

            It was on Michael’s insistence that they go by cab, and on Lazarus’ insistence that he be permitted to pay his half of the fare.  The cab pulled up in front of a smallish character house with a well-tended garden.  “I live in the basement”, he said before he got out.  “I want you to visit me sometime.”

            “Give me your number”, Michael said.

            He wrote it down on a sales receipt.  Michael reciprocated.

            “I’ll be at work tomorrow”, he said.  “I get off at five.  Be there.”

            “I will.”  They shook hands then Lazarus got out of the cab.  As he retreated in his dark pullover and black jeans, Michael couldn’t help thinking that the poetic grace of someone like Lazarus would have looked fashionable, au courant, at nearly any decade of the past hundred years. 

           


Sheila was sitting in the kitchen staring at a newspaper spread out on the table.  “There’s shepherd’s pie in the oven if you’re hungry”, she said, not looking up.

            “I think I will.  Where’s Glen?”

            “He’s gone till tomorrow.”

            “Why?” Michael felt a sinking of emotion as the panic rose in him.

            “He has to work.  This is the night he spends with that kid with cerebral palsy.”

            “Oh?”

            “He said he especially wanted me to tell you this, and that he’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

            “Oh.  Okay.”  He sat at the table with a plate laden with food.  Suddenly he was famished.

            “How was your day?”

            “Alright, I guess. Sat in a café procrastinating, then checked my e-mail for word from Matthew.”

            “And?”

            “He wants me to write him a letter.  So I have an address anyway.”

            “Where is he?”

            “On the Island, I guess.  He gave me a postal box in Victoria.  Hey, this is good.”

            “Thanks.”

            “How was your day?”

            “I think it’s almost time for me to retire.”

            “I’ve been trying to tell you that for the past year.”

            “I’m pretty tired.  That little girl with the short green hair came in again.  You know the one.  With the skin-head boyfriend.  Oh, and speaking of which, Glen caught him sleeping in the back yard this morning.”

            “Is he homeless?”

            “On drugs I expect.  So, they came in together, had some sort of lover’s quarrel.  She burst into tears and he walked out.  Such a nice little girl too, too nice for that little creep.  So I closed a bit early then came home and made supper, worked a bit in the garden.”  She yawned.  “Oh Christ, I’m tired.  I’m going up to bed.  Michael, you don’t mind cleaning up?”

            “You know you needn’t ask.”

            “I’m taking the next couple of days off to paint.  Mac’s going to be minding the café for me.”

            “Good night.”

            “Dear Matthew:

            It’s about time you made contact.  Where the hell are you?  I’ve been worried sick about you.  Is this any way to treat people who love you?  What’s got into you anyway?  Why didn’t you at least give me an idea where you were going?  This is so unlike you.  I just hope you’re happy, wherever you are, whatever’s happened to you.  I miss you, you asshole.  Haven’t you clued in yet?  I LOVE YOU!  Okay, true, that doesn’t mean that I own you.  And clearly you have to do what you have to do.  But you have me in a torment of angst and curiosity.  What happened to you?  Have you run away to a monastery?  Or an ashram?  Tell me everything.  I want to know.  I have to know.

            “I’ve turned out okay.  I’m at Mom’s.  There’s another guy staying here.  An artist named Glen.  Seems very interesting.  Don’t really know what to do with him yet.  But I’ll figure something out.  You know I always do.  No, I’m not going to try to bed this one.  I do have some scruples after all. And this would be like assaulting a child.  Actually, he's in his forties, very young looking, extremely beautiful.  But he seems like such a fucking innocent.  I wouldn’t dream of trying to touch him sexually.  Not that I wouldn’t mind, since he is kind of cute.  Forbidden fruit and all.  But this would be like trying to have sex with an angel and I’m not about to go there.  Fire and brimstone is bad for my complexion.

            “I just met this boy named Lazarus.  Gorgeous, about twenty or so with dark hair.  No, I haven’t taken a sudden interest in young guys.  I’m not really interested in sleeping with him at all.  But we’ve decided we want to be friends.  I actually don’t want to have sex with anyone right now,  Can’t believe it, can you?  You must be praying for me, you sanctimonious old bugger.

            “Write me a letter.  Now.  I want you to tell me everything.  And to apologize for buggering off so suddenly.  Spiritual enlightenment does not exclude good manners.

Love, Michael.

Ps: It’s just occurring to me that I’ve used and exploited you terribly over the years.  I want you to forgive me.  Please!  And thanks for the money. I was not expecting it. 

M.”

            He read the letter over.  There was more that he could have said.  But for now the essentials.  He stared at it now, two sheets of paper on the gray arborite, like a precious document.  He had been thinking, even fantasizing lately, about Officer Crawley.  Always the same image—Officer Crawley in full uniform giving Michael a blow-job.  He did love a man in uniform.  He felt restless, but also tired.  It had stopped raining and the sun was beginning to set.  Through the window he observed the golden light washing the garden.  He stepped out,onto the back steps, and already the robins had begun their evening ritual of bird song.  He could smell the fragrance of the apple blossoms in the rain-washed air.  This tree always bloomed a week or two ahead of other apple trees.  This tree certainly was a mystery, but he couldn’t be bothered with trying to figure it out. Simply he didn’t want to know.  Some kinds of knowledge were just too terrible.  He felt a bit worried about his mother, who did seem tired lately.  She really ought to move to one of the bedrooms downstairs, since climbing all those stairs to the attic must be getting to be a bit much for her.  She never mentioned it.  The gray hair suited her, making her more like the archetypal crone.  He certainly hoped that she was done, once and for all, with being courted by younger men.