Page 49 of Jealous of the Clouds
The pickup took off with a roar.
The news on the radio had already moved on to a national story—the latest stock market crash.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
“Could he really be gone?” Karl asked, as he started the car moving again.
“I don’t think they would have announced his death on the radio if he wasn’t.” I turned my head to peer out the window as we came into my old neighborhood—Rogers Park. I felt an odd mixture of relief and despair. Josh was gone? Yes. I had no sadness about that. But Camille was too, and that was still holding grief in the wings.
I glanced down my street as we passed. I guess now there was no more reason to hide. I could return to my home. But was it still my home? Or had Josh’s scent, his presence, tainted its very walls? Would I need to move?
Josh was dead.
There was nothing to say.
We drove on in silence.
When we got to Karl’s building, two figures huddled outside the front door.
The sight of them was even more shocking than the news that Josh was dead.
Chapter 22
Reggie
2013
I’m buzzing.
Despite the unusual quiet of the night—or should I say morning—I’m alive, wide-awake, and looking.
I was just at the home of my dealer, who usually has a loaded pipe and lots of porn on his big screen. Raw stuff, Treasure Island Media, shit like that.
But tonight, Chip was out of it—out of shards, out of energy. I was out of luck. I sat there with him on his couch, smoking cigarettes, waiting for him to bring out one of his glass pipes. But all Chip wanted to do was loll on the couch, head back, eyes closed, in baggy jeans and a striped T-shirt, full of holes, that looked as though he’d held on to it from the 1980s. I sat there, staring with hope at the empty TV screen, feeling more alone than if Iwasalone.
Chip looked near death, to be honest. Skin and bones, like one of those concentration camp survivors. His scalp, visible because he buzzed his red hair so close, was scaly and flaking. The breath coming out of him was ragged and smelled like rotting lunch meat. He was so pale, he was nearly translucent.
Man, this was depressing.
I shook him. “Chip? Chip! C’mon man, you got company. Let’s party.” I waited for a response, any sign of life. When there was none, I added, “I got money.” I patted the front pocket of my jeans, where a couple hundred dollars was folded. I’d stolen it earlier from another trick when he was in the bathroom and left his wallet lying out. His fault.
This was a lost cause. The clock on his DVD player said it was just past 3 a.m. I knew from past experience that this was the witching hour for tweakers who had been up for hours, partying. I knew I could walk up Halsted and find someone—they were lurking in storefront doorways, peering out of apartment windows above bars or restaurants, or like me, just on the hunt, up and down Halsted between Irving Park on the north and Belmont on the south.
I got up and made sure I had my wallet, my flip phone, my keys. I knew where Chip kept his stash of pipes—the top drawer to the left of the sink in the kitchen—and grabbed one. He’d never miss it. I stole his smokes off the coffee table. Did a cursory search once more for a trace of party favors, knowing there wasn’t any. Not this time.
But hey, hope springs eternal, right?
Outside, the air is still warm, a hug. My eyes are attuned to the night, almost as though I have that greenish night vision I’ve seen in movies likeSilence of the Lambs. I stroll up Halsted toward Addison. I’ll go on up the next few blocks to Irving Park, if I strike out. But I don’t think I will. I’m young, cute, and oh-so-very willing. And at this hour, my potential dream date is almost certain to be holding.
And there he is, just ahead, stopping at the corner of Cornelia to light a cigarette. He eyes me as he exhales a cloud. When our gazes connect, he grins. He’s short, dark hair and eyes, buzzed head, ripped jeans and a Cubs T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.We stare at one another. I smile, and he stops, becomes serious. He turns and heads west, on Cornelia.
I follow.
For a minute, I think this could turn into a group or at least a three-way. There are footsteps behind me.
But when I look back, there’s no one there. I could have sworn…
My dark-eyed man, though, is waiting for me. God, we haven’t spoken one word, yet we’ve said so much in these past few minutes. I wonder if only gay men can understand how easy it is to communicate wordlessly with an object of lust when the stars align.
