Part 5 (1/2)
”You're the one who hangs out here.”
Through the bushes, beams of light flicker in the dark. He hears rustling; footsteps moving closer. Cops on foot, wielding flashlights, which means nightsticks and guns, too. Robin's blood pounds in his ears, and he s.h.i.+vers from the damp river air, from the effect of the high, from nerves. Their pot smoke is probably still lingering in the air, back by the fence. He starts preparing a story: Officer, we were going for a midnight stroll and got lost. We're tourists trying to find our way back to our hotel. We were looking for a little lost dog, a hound dog that follows its nose everywhere. Officer, we were going for a midnight stroll and got lost. We're tourists trying to find our way back to our hotel. We were looking for a little lost dog, a hound dog that follows its nose everywhere. His mind leaps to police dogs, big growling canines trained to sniff out dope smokers and c.o.c.ksuckers. Is this really happening? Hiding from the cops in the bushes in the middle of the night, stoned? George is supposed to be the sensible half of their friends.h.i.+p, the responsible one. What was he thinking? His mind leaps to police dogs, big growling canines trained to sniff out dope smokers and c.o.c.ksuckers. Is this really happening? Hiding from the cops in the bushes in the middle of the night, stoned? George is supposed to be the sensible half of their friends.h.i.+p, the responsible one. What was he thinking?
One of the flashlight beams swings in their direction, and Robin shrinks deeper into the darkness.
Then a burst of static slices the air. He gasps, then covers his mouth. Another loud burst. It's a walkie-talkie. There's a m.u.f.fled communication, voices trading information, hard to make sense of. Robin picks up the word ”suspects.” Suspects? Suspects? Are they suspects? Did that little b.i.t.c.h Douglas actually call the cops on them? What if they have George's license plate number? If the two of them are arrested, who will they call? Rosellen? His mother? Are they suspects? Did that little b.i.t.c.h Douglas actually call the cops on them? What if they have George's license plate number? If the two of them are arrested, who will they call? Rosellen? His mother?
”Should we surrender?” Robin whispers.
George shushes him, softly but insistently. Then he takes Robin's hand and squeezes and doesn't let go. Robin suddenly realizes how much scarier this must be for George. Philly cops are not going to look kindly at a black kid, growing dreads, with the stink of pot on his clothes.
Out on the tracks there's more static, more talk of suspects, and then a sudden rush of footsteps and crunching gravel. Miraculously, the sounds are traveling away. The flashlight beams disappear. Hand in hand, they continue to wait this out. A silent minute pa.s.ses, maybe two, maybe five, who knows how long, but at last they hear a siren and a screech of tires. Robin breathes deep, in and out. George stays, ”Stay here,” then lets go of his hand, steps out of the brush, and takes a look. The air seems to get colder when George's body pulls away. It's a moment of pure loneliness.
At last George returns and says, ”All clear.”
After all the activity, the park is deadly quiet. They pa.s.s only two men, white guys wearing worn, tight jeans and black leather jackets. The men slow down to stare at them, and one of them lifts his chin and nods suggestively. Robin looks away, unsettled by how gaunt this guy seems. He used to fantasize about older men, who were experienced, who were strong, whose bodies had hair and muscle tone, so different than the pale awkward boys in high school. But older men now seem entirely dangerous. Not dangerous like cops. Dangerous like death. George picks up the pace, and Robin follows.
In the car, they rub their arms to warm up. In astonished, relieved voices they go back over everything that just happened; already, with their fear behind them, it has become a thrilling misadventure.
”Another night in the City of Brotherly Love,” George says.
”Never a dull moment.”
”So, Robin-”
”What?”
”Do you regret that you moved here?”
”No,” Robin says quickly, too quickly, really, because it masks the truth: he doesn't yet know.
”Seems like you're not that into it.”
”I'm getting used to it.”
”Philly can be pretty rough.”
Robin nods. Carefully, he adds, ”Seems like it's changed you.”
”To what?”
”I'm not really sure. One minute you're George Africa. Then you're George the Voyeur.”
”I'm just me. You gotta stop thinking of me as Little Georgie. I haven't been that guy for years.”
”I know that.” And then it occurs to him that he has a similar question for George. ”Do you regret inviting me to live with you?”
”It had to be done.”
”What does that mean?”
George does something surprising then: he sheds his gla.s.ses, folds them, tucks them on the dashboard. He s.h.i.+fts in his seat, drawing closer to Robin.
Blame it on the pot, on the full moon, on the adrenaline rush of their escape from the cops. It's in the air. You might be misreading this, Robin tells himself. But there's only one way to find out. He slides closer, too.
George's mouth is floating toward his. The remaining gap between them closes. There's a pinp.r.i.c.k of static electricity when their lips make contact.
George's mouth is warm and wet, his lips a little rough. He keeps his eyes closed. Robin's eyes stay open, he wants to see this, it's so new and unexpected, unexpected even though he was ready for it. They kiss shyly, a string of individual kisses. Maybe if he doesn't think about the fact that this is George, George, his best friend, practically his brother, George whom he's never kissed before, if he lets this be about the kiss and not the kissee, there will be nothing to worry about. His d.i.c.k is pinched inside his briefs. He tugs at the fabric to free things up. His other hand is braced against the dashboard, as if to keep him from lifting off like a traveler in a hot-air balloon. his best friend, practically his brother, George whom he's never kissed before, if he lets this be about the kiss and not the kissee, there will be nothing to worry about. His d.i.c.k is pinched inside his briefs. He tugs at the fabric to free things up. His other hand is braced against the dashboard, as if to keep him from lifting off like a traveler in a hot-air balloon.
Then George tilts his head just the slightest degree, a tiny but unmistakable surrender that sends a shudder through Robin. At last he closes his eyes, he bears down, he accelerates. Little pecks become one complete kiss, mouths open, tongues moving, and time disappears into their bodies. Their hands are moving, nervous but unstoppable, finally dropping into each other's laps, groping for hard-ons.
Which is when Robin feels himself hit a limit. ”Wait, wait,” he insists. ”Needle off the record.” He takes George by the shoulders and gently lifts him upright.
George blinks. His lids are heavy, drowsy, like it's morning and he's waking from a dream. Robin can see that he's still inside the kiss. ”Greetings,” he says, with a grin.
”I just want to be sure you want to,” Robin says.
”Duh.”
”Because this is out of the blue, right?”
”Not exactly.”
”But, we've never...”
George stares at him. ”I'm pretty sure that I've been dropping hints.”
”Like dancing naked in the apartment?”
”That was just a coincidence. Other things.”
A week ago, back home after a murderous dinner s.h.i.+ft, George gave him a backrub that felt so good, and ranged so far and wide that Robin had to cover up his hard-on. George noticed and made a joke that ”A happy ending costs extra.” Robin was so fl.u.s.tered all he said was, ”You better get yourself a boyfriend, Georgie. Don't let those hands go to waste.”
But this is different. Not a reaction to something; an intention.
There's the sound of an engine starting up. Across the street, a pickup truck pulls out of a spot and rolls alongside them. George stares at it. ”Hey, look! It's the guy who hit on me that time.”
”Are you sure?”
”Yeah, see that, above the turn signal?” Robin looks there, at a diamond of bent metal, s.h.i.+ning in the light. George says, ”I remember that dent.”
Aglow in the pa.s.sing headlights, gla.s.ses off, s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned, mouth raw from contact, his friend is absolutely not, Robin sees, Little Georgie from high school. He tries to recast him: not as his best friend but as a s.e.xy stranger, a hot opportunity arising out of nowhere. When he thinks of it this way, there's no hesitation. No emotion to get in the way. Yeah, he realizes, I'd have s.e.x with this guy.
George leans in for another kiss, which gets Robin stiffer. He hasn't actually softened up since this started. If the kiss is any indication of what actual s.e.x would be like, that just might be reason enough to push this further. He scans ahead to tomorrow. He doesn't work on Sundays. He can't remember if George works brunch or dinner. That could mean the two of them home all day, figuring out how to deal with what happened the night before. And what if Peter calls? Will there be some last-ditch attempt to make things right again? Does what's happening here have anything to do with Peter, or is this completely separate?
Neither of them speaks as they begin the drive back to their apartment. But the silence seems to hum, like the resonance of amplified music after a speaker has cut out. Maybe it's too much for George; he flips on the car radio, tuned to the community radio station he listens to lately. Right now there's a Bob Marley song playing. Robin has never really understood reggae, but right now, with his head still thrumming from the joint they smoked an hour ago, it seems to fit the mood.
George finds a parking s.p.a.ce on their block, and Robin lets out ”Yes!” as they pull to the curb. Parking the car sometimes means walking the worst blocks in the neighborhood, unlit, mostly empty stretches where muggings are a fact of life. The zone where the university bleeds into the neighborhood is the worst of it, because college students are known to carry wallets full of cash, and wear watches and gold chains, and to carelessly shut out the world with headphones attached to a Walkman. Robin's years living in cities have stripped him of all of these, even his wallet (ever since he was pickpocketed on the New York subway, he has used a money clip, kept in his front pocket), but that doesn't make him any less a target. George warned Robin about this before he agreed to move here, and every time he feels his stomach clench, he remembers that he said, ”If you can handle it, Georgie, I can handle it.”