With or Without You Page 13

  What strikes me most about this is the “I” and the “me.” Every post–high school discussion we’d ever had was about us. Not us, a couple, but us, trying to find a place in the world. Cheesy, stupid—yes. I hate how fast it’s gone from we to me, us to I.

  But I can’t say anything. I’ve secretly been part of a different us for a year now.

  Two weeks ago, this would have been my out. If we’d had this conversation then, I would have told Erik that, yes, I was ready to move to San Diego. And I could have done it guilt-free. But now I find myself playing both sides to meet the middle. I don’t want Davis making plans that don’t involve me any more than I want to give up on Erik. I still want both of these futures because I don’t know which has the best shot of working out. It’s selfish but it’s all I have.

  Davis reaches over and touches my wrist. When I meet his eyes, I see something I haven’t seen in a long time. Gentle, smiling, a little bit goofy. I see Davis.

  “Hey”—his voice loses the rough texture and he actually sounds like himself—“don’t be a tardmonkey. We can talk about this some more. It’s just that I’ve got some new ideas. And I think you’re gonna like ’em.”

  There’s a bleet from my computer. Only two people send me e-mail. One of them is sitting across from me. I hop up to shrink the window and hide what I assume is a note from Erik.

  But it’s not.

  “It’s from Sable,” I report. “It just says ‘Meet us in front of the Darkroom tonight at nine thirty.’” The Darkroom’s a gay bar on the southwest side of town. “We’ll never get in there. They card everyone. And what does he mean by ‘us’?”

  Davis checks his watch. “Shit, I gotta go. Just do what it says. Meet us—”

  “Hang on. You’re ‘us’?”

  “Us. The Chasers. Everybody. Meet in front of the Darkroom and whatever you do, don’t be late.”

  A second later, he’s out the door.

  At nine thirty, I pace back and forth in front of the ramshackle bar with the tinted windows. The music’s so loud I can feel the sidewalk vibrate under my sandals. Couples go in and out; each one eyes me suspiciously. The streetlights hum and I check my watch. The Darkroom isn’t exactly in a bad part of town, but it does attract an element I’m not too wild about.

  I’m about to call Davis on my cell when I hear shouts and joyful chants from down the block. The Chasers, sans Ross, turn the corner, fists in the air. Sable stands in the middle as though they’re his disciples. Their pace is brisk and they descend upon me, clapping me on the back and smiling. Sable winks at me.

  “Thanks for coming, guy!”

  And they all thank me. There’s something warm in the greeting. People—other than Davis and Erik—glad to see me. I belong. It seems genuine and I can’t help but smile. With everything that’s happened lately, I need to feel wanted somewhere.

  Davis steps from the back of the crowd, holding a baseball bat that glitters as though embedded with diamonds.

  “Evan, it was awesome!” Davis roars, showcasing a couple powerful swings of the bat off to the side.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, looking from Davis to Sable for answers.

  But it’s Mark, with his backward Brewers cap, who says, “We trashed their cars. Smash!” Soon, everyone is mimicking the sound of shattering glass.

  “I don’t get it—”

  I can’t finish my sentence because Pete rounds the same corner where the Chasers just came from. Shoulders back, fists clenched: He’s in fight mode. When he spots us, he calls out and in an instant, Kenny and the other trogs are at Pete’s side. Kenny, the only trog bigger than Pete both in height and muscle, is cracking his knuckles. They charge, shouting obscenities.

  Micah, the smallest Chaser, makes to dart inside the bar, but Sable orders him to stay put.

  “Wait for it …,” he whispers as the army of hate closes in. And then, just as they’re within a few yards, Sable mutters, “Go!”

  As one, we turn and pile into the bar. The blast of the music almost sends me backward, but I know what’s behind me and I’d rather face the lethal bass beat and whatever’s inside. I grab on to Davis as my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Davis, what the fuck—”

  A burly bearded guy on a stool just inside the door stands in our way. “C’mon, kids, get out. You know you’re too young—”

  “You gotta help us.” Will, looking as pathetic as he can muster, pleads with the bouncer. “These guys. They’re gonna beat the crap out of us.” It sounds rehearsed.

  We charge deeper into the bar, which is packed with shirtless dancers and guys downing beer by the pitcher as Pete and the trogs burst through the door. The bouncer moves to intercept but he’s actually smaller than Kenny, who pushes him aside. We back farther into the bar. The trogs follow.

  “You faggots totaled our cars!” Pete screams.

  The F-bomb stirs the bar’s occupants. All eyes converge on us.

  Then, strangely, Sable steps forward calmly, hands raised as though surrendering. “You must be mistaken—”

  There’s a crack as Pete’s right hook catches Sable on the chin, sending our fearless leader facedown onto the nearby bar.

  And there’s a stampede of people.

  Bent at the waist, Mark charges, driving his shoulder into Kenny and sending them both into the nearby wall. Micah and Del jump in swinging, double-teaming Neil Perkins, one of the smaller trogs. Danny throws an elbow at Leo Austin, who handily grabs Danny, forces him into a full nelson, and allows Brent McGrath to work over Danny’s stomach. A second later, Sable’s back in the game, raining a hailstorm of punches down on Pete, who gives as good as he gets.

  Then, the entire bar joins in. As the trogs continue to scream “Faggots!” they are suddenly on the receiving end of a lot of violence. Danny is tossed aside as a small gang of buff bar patrons begins to pummel Brent and Leo. I see that Kenny has wrestled Mark to the floor and has him in a sleeper hold. Knowing I can’t turn back at this point, I lash out and kick Kenny in the kidney twice. Each time my foot connects, Kenny lets out a grunt. And something inside me tingles.

  I’ve played my part; Mark is able to snake out of the hold. The bouncer is on Kenny, trying to twist Kenny’s arm behind his back.

  I catch sight of Davis, swinging his baseball bat furiously, attacking the knees and ribs of whatever trog he can get near. When he sees Pete and Sable going at it, Davis suddenly turns and swings the bat upward. It catches Pete full on the temple and sends the wrestler to the ground with a sickening thump that I can somehow hear over the chaos. There’s blood. Davis stands over Pete’s inert form—fire behind his pupils—and raises the bat over his head. I jump forward, putting myself between him and Pete, catching the bat before he can bring it down.

  Our eyes meet and I’m sure that for just a moment, Davis thinks of me as the enemy. All of the anger he’s pent up for years is now directed at me. It has to go somewhere. It can’t stay inside anymore.

  But I’ll never know what would have happened next.

  “Go! Go! Go!” It’s Sable and in the midst of the battle, the Chasers start dodging and ducking and bolting for the door. Davis hovers over Pete for just a moment before following Sable. A nanosecond later, I’m out the door too.

  The Chasers, led by Davis with his fist in the air, shouting war whoops, barrel down the street. I fight to catch up. Behind us, someone from the bar yells, “Hey!” and we change course, darting down an alley. As I get closer to the head of the pack, I see Davis clutching dog tags in his hand.

  And we run. My feet pound, my thighs ache as I charge to keep up. Side streets, alleys, driveways—the surrounding neighborhood becomes a mosaic, shattered tiles of shadow and light with no connection to anything I understand. Sirens grow louder, then distant, and I refuse to look over my shoulder. We tear through the blackness perforated by sickly orange streetlights, not knowing if we’ll ever see safety again.

  liberation

  Like a jump cut in a dream: We’re runni
ng, lungs heaving. I don’t remember when we stop. I only remember wishing we didn’t have to. The farther from the Darkroom, the less real it becomes and that’s fine with me.

  And then, we’re on the cool grass outside Washburn Observatory, atop the hill on the UW campus. The moon peeks out from behind a cloud. It’s late enough that there’s no one else around. Davis and Mark are lying on their backs a few yards away, passing a joint back and forth. A light breeze carries the secondhand smoke to me, and I blame my giddiness on it. Sable lies to my left, hands behind his head, grinning up at the stars. I have no idea where Will, Danny, Del, and Micah are.

  We lie there for a long time. At some point, Davis crawls over to me on all fours, grinning madly. He holds up his dog-tag trophy and shakes it. Then he removes one of the tags from the broken chain and hands it to me. “The perfect present. Happy graddy-ation!” He laughs and then scurries back to Mark, taking another hit on the joint. I slip the dog tag into my pocket and rest my head on the dewy lawn.

  “So,” Sable says, “do you get it now?”

  Davis and Mark giggle uncontrollably at each other. He’s talking to me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we were there in the thick of the fight … what did you feel?”

  I swallow and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Scared shitless.” It’s true, but not as true as what I want to say.

  Sable guffaws, his eyes fixed on the shiny decimal points that dot the night sky. “What else?”

  I know what he’s getting at, but admitting it makes me someone I don’t want to be.

  “Think about it,” he goads. “Think about Pete when he and his jerk-ass friends came charging around the corner. Coming at you like a Category-5 prickstorm. Think about ducking into the bar. Think about the looks on those asswipes’ faces when they saw what they were up against. What did you feel?”

  I remember my terror; it’s a visceral reaction to Pete. When Sable mentions it, I remember Pete’s hazel eyes. Scattershot glances in every direction and that unmistakable drop of the jaw that said, I’m in over my head.

  And I remember how it felt to pull back my leg and kick Kenny Dugan. Two kicks to his back. I wish I could have done more damage. I wanted to kick through him. Inside, I’m losing the battle to hide what I felt; the word wants out.

  “Powerful.”

  Sable slaps me on the shoulder, hard and firm. “Damn straight. And don’t tell me that didn’t feel good.”

  “It felt great.” I don’t want the words to be mine. I don’t say stuff like this. I don’t kick people. I don’t enjoy it.

  Guess I do now.

  “You’re all right, guy.” The compliment bleeds slowly from his gray teeth. “You’re all right. I’ll be honest. I didn’t think you had it in you. I had you pegged as a wuss. But Little Dude, he vouched for you. Said you’d come through. And you did.”

  “Little Dude” and Mark are quieter. I think they’ve fallen asleep until a shooting star gets Davis all excited and makes Mark giggle all over again.

  “Now you know how they felt during Stonewall,” Sable says, propping himself up on his elbows. I follow suit. “You know what it feels like to say, ‘Fuck this shit. I’m sick of it!’ You know what it feels like to totally stick it to the people who’ve been sticking it to you forever. And it feels great!”

  He shouts the last word and it echoes off the concrete courtyard in front of the observatory. It did feel great. So how can I feel great and still feel like shit? Doesn’t this make me the same as the guys who beat the crap out of Cory Tanner in Reid Park? That’s the reason Erik’s making his Angels sculpture: to speak out against violence.

  Erik. As I think about kicking Kenny and relive the surge, I can’t help but think that Erik’s right in a way he doesn’t even understand. He said I’m hiding who I am from him. But even I didn’t know this was me.

  I didn’t know I could be in a bar fight. I didn’t know I could kick Kenny. And enjoy it. So, what else am I capable of? Maybe, in a way, I owe it to Erik to dig a bit further. Owe it to myself. Oxana said I need to infuse my paintings with my life, my perceptions. Don’t I need to know what I’ve been hiding from myself before I can share that with Erik? Fly off to California? If that’s even what I want anymore.

  Or what he wants.

  “So, does that mean I’m finally part of the inner sanctum?” I know Sable will respect the snide tone in my voice so I toss a sneer his way too. “No more of this keeping-me-out-of-the-loop bullshit. I proved myself tonight, right?”

  Sable considers, tossing his head back and forth in an internal argument. Finally, he says, “Done.”

  Someone retches and I turn to find Mark puking his guts on the lawn. Davis is passed out, I think; he doesn’t react to the barf shooting from the guy right next to him. Sable laughs long and hard and I join in. Mark grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and gets to his feet.

  “I’m outta here, guys,” he mumbles, staggering first toward us, then down the hill.

  “Later.” Sable nods and we watch Mark disappear onto the dark street.

  “So, what’s up next?” I ask.

  Sable tics off the next three words with a raised finger for each. “Revolution. Liberation. Identification. You can sum up everything you need to know about gay history in three time periods. The Sixties, Seventies, and Eighties. Tonight, you found out what it meant to be part of the Sixties—Stonewall. The revolution that started it all. Next up: the Seventies. Liberation.”

  Liberation. Perfect way to release all the other Evans inside I didn’t know were there. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

  I think the secondhand pot is getting to me.

  Sable nods at the inert Davis. “You and Little Dude … ever do it?”

  I grimace. “No!”

  Sable holds up a hand. “Relax, guy. No harm meant. Just asking.” He waits three, maybe four seconds. “So why not?”

  “We’re friends. That’s it.”

  He rolls over on his stomach and lays sphinxlike, arms stretched out. “Where do you see yourself in ten years? No, let me guess: House. Yard. Wearing some stud’s ‘commitment ring.’ Going out for cocktails with your coupled gay friends, talking about how great it is to be monogamous and happy and shit.”

  I laugh but his gaze tells me he’s serious.

  “Okay.” I recline on the dewy grass. “Sure. I could do that. What’s wrong with it?”

  “What’s wrong with it,” Sable seethes, leaning in close so that I can feel his hot, beer-soaked breath on my cheek, “is that you have been bullshitted by society into thinking that’s what you should want. You see Mommy and Daddy all happy—”

  He doesn’t know my parents.

  “—with their house and their kids and they’re a loving couple and you think, ‘Yeah, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. So that’s what I want too.’”

  And then I feel it. His hand on my crotch—a subtle squeeze … then he rubs, slowly. And, God help me, I do what any guy would do: I get hard. I move to brush his hand away but he’s firmly in place, massaging me gently. In spite of myself, I let out a staggered breath.

  “Don’t do that,” I whisper but it sounds like a whimper.

  “Are you attracted to me?” Our noses touch, our eyes are locked, and nothing Pete or the trogs has ever done to me has made me as terrified as I am in this moment. I don’t know what I’ll do if he tries to kiss me.

  “Are you attracted to me?” he repeats, a threat in his tone.

  “No!” I grunt and manage to pry his hand off me. I sit up quickly, nearly knocking our heads together. Fast as when he took down Danny, Sable swings his legs around and crouches next to me on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce.

  “If you’re not attracted to me, why did you get a boner?”

  I glance at Davis, still unconscious. Sable grabs my chin and forces me to look back at him.

  “I don’t know!” I spit, teeth gritted. “It was a knee-jerk reaction
. You touch a guy like that and he’ll … Same thing would happen to you. Are you attracted to me?”

  He doesn’t answer the question but he’s got that scarecrow of a grin back. “A knee-jerk reaction? Try a natural reaction. Your woody was your brain responding to a stimulus. Chemicals fusing with chemicals, starting a chain reaction from your brain to your junk. All it takes is the right kind of touch to set it off.

  “That’s all that ‘love’ is, guy.” Sable is still crouched, pantherlike, and I’m still afraid to be near him. “All the straight people, they want you to think it’s some bullshit about a man and a woman pledging fidelity and living out their lives together. Look at the papers. The divorce rate is out of control. Why? Because one half of the ‘happy couple’ can’t keep what’s in their pants to themselves.

  “We’re animals. We can build skyscrapers and program computers but when you fucking boil it all down, we’re governed by the laws of nature. We have natural reactions. Monogamy is not natural. Hell, you just proved that. Got it up for a guy you probably think’s a raving nutball.”

  To prove his point, he goes for my crotch again. I’m fast this time and shove his hand away before he makes contact. His eyes narrow. “It’s all about control. The straights want to control us. They point to their Bibles and tell us that what we feel is unnatural. They’re the ones who are unnatural. They’re the ones denying what they really want. They want to be able to do it with anyone. They were raised since birth to think that monogamy is the way things should be. Paint a picture of wedded bliss and then they spend their lives suppressing their true nature. Everything they see reinforces it. But everything they do—cheating on each other, jerking off—should be telling them that they’ve got it all wrong. All wrong.”

  Sable rocks back and sits, hugging his knees to his chest. I look over at Davis. I imagine Sable has already given him this line. I can’t think straight. I don’t know if it makes sense or not. Sable can do that: make you doubt what you think you know. But everything else he said was right. At least about how I reacted to the fight at the Darkroom. I wish I could say I’m doing this to become a better artist, to figure out who I am so I don’t have to lie to Erik anymore.