There's this black guy standing on the sidewalk....wait, not yet, give it two paragraphs (here's his picture already):
Godehart evoked this spy rule that secrets are best hidden in public view; perhaps he’s a spy himself and the Wagner thing is just a hoax, how could he otherwise have Isolde painted in, what, “cerulean blue,” I've never seen this on any vehicle, let alone on an SUV, which, through its premium size, multiplies the hue's effect to obscene proportions.
We've backed out of Godehart's driveway, and Isolde has already shown her autonomous mettle by coasting down Atlanta Avenue's rows of antebellum miniatures and Victorian ladies. This is so beautiful, folks, the care-free proportions, the windows talking to you like the eyes of a trustful dog. Fluted columns, ornamental pediments, occasional gingerbread, muted colors, daring colors that speak to the neighbors, manicured lawns (green), comely hedges planted at the base of creaky porches decked with patient rocking chairs, the dwellings lined up along the street like invitees at a banquet. This is America at its best.
We've coasted down Atlanta Street, and then turned left on Second without a hitch, and then turned right on Georgia Avenue where we meet the rush-hour back-up around the downtown traffic circle. Isolde takes note and eases neatly into the file of slowly-crawling afternoon vehicles. This could take some time, the jam may continue all the way up to the junction of Church and Route One. We're passing Lupo di Mare, the smarter Italian restaurant, and there's this black guy standing on the sidewalk, facing the traffic, raising his right arm with an extended hand, the thumb pointing forward. What’s this guy doing? Hailing a taxi? No, you would do that differently, you wouldn't use your thumb. We haven't seen this since I was born, he is hitch-hiking. He must be hitchhiking, he's holding a chain saw. No, he’s not holding a chainsaw, he's unencumbered, but he wants a ride.
Isolde is crawling, so we have time to study him. He's slender, but in the solid way of someone with perfect proportions. Long legs, long arms, he is long, but not too long, just ectomorphic. And his butt, folks. I learned this expression from my racist French mother, cul de nègre. It's as round as the half-moon, his butt under the snug jeans that he wears despite the tropical heat. Fortunately, his light shirt is wide open, and we get a glimpse of the perfect torso, including the washboard tummy and other definitions. The short sleeves can't hide his biceps—it’s not the gym, nothing in the way of prison meat, but something else. His features are very symmetric; the nose is from Michelangelo, the eyes, too. And the lips! You need serious painters to do those lips justice. They are jababa, of course, with a touch of Angelina Jolie thrown in, and they would leave perfect hickeys on your neck, but they hide nothing of his perfect teeth. He's smiling shyly, he's not at ease, it's a criminal offense not to own a car, many people are in prison.
Isolde is still crawling, some progress has been made moving forward, ten yards are left between us and the African looker. Is Google gay? Isolde exits the file of backed-up cars and finds a space right in front of our man. The passenger window lowers itself, I have to bend across a few miles of SUV space to make eye contact.
"Where're you headed?" I ask.
"Ocean View," he says.
That's to the south of Georgia Beach. You have to turn left on Route One, cross the canal bridge next to my condo, and continue for a few miles through the Georgia Seashore State Park. It's in my direction, but only for a mile or so, he would have to catch another ride pretty soon.
You know, I have my moments. So I explain to him where I live, where my place is located with respect to the canal bridge, where I would have to drop him off, and so on. He's not from the neighborhood, he says. It's freakin’ hot, tiny, shiny beads of sweat are conspiring on his perfect forehead, he mounts Isolde and is seated on the passenger throne next to me. He must be thinking I'm rich.
Let's talk probabilities. You know, we are discussing this all the time. How many gays, what's the percentage, isn't it unfair. Ten percent, or less? Let's be optimistic. Ten percent. Provided that he is gay, what would be the probability that he is interested in my latest Prolog program? Or my frozen blog, or my father, who fell asleep on the couch. Your father, I think.
Does he want to have a look at my father? “Father,” is that another euphemism? My God, I have an erection already. The pendulous organ, it must be the most euphemized object on the planet, and only in part because it has to do with sex. The thing is so funny all by itself, its erratic behavior, its willfulness, it’s like an unruly pet always ready to get its owner into trouble. It’s getting me into trouble now.
"My name is John," I tell him, "What's yours."
"John," he replies. Good move, perfect. We have a subject of conversation now, name-sharing. A touch of intimacy. In China, you can't have sex with a person who shares your last name, at least you can't marry. It would be an interesting research question, perhaps I could get a grant from the sociology department and investigate whether sex-having is biased name-wise, in the sense that your probability of having sex with a person of the same name is higher than … (will somebody please interrupt me).
Let’s sort this out. Assume he's gay and has an hour to spare. What's the probability that he'll follow me upstairs for a ride? High, very high. What else can he do, he has an empty hour to fill, he's young, hormones flow, glands fire. It's eighty percent at least, ninety percent perhaps that we'll end up in a quick embrace, let's leave the remaining percentage to idiosyncrasies, perhaps he doesn't like gray eyes. Duh, duh, duh. Ooh point one times ooh point eight, it's eight percent we'll end up in my bed pronto, provided we can overcome the father-hurdle. My father is in the way. Or he is at the beach, where he usually stays until six o'clock. We have one hour, almost two, even. Perhaps John is in a hurry and has no time for sex. Yet if you are in a hurry, you don't hitchhike. OK, we’ve narrowed this down, we own eight percent of his probability space already, how about the remaining 92 percent? Does it matter? He wasn't promised to you the way Alex was, no offense taken, you drop him off at the bridge, or he accepts a glass of fresh orange juice at your place because that's a good idea, and he's thirsty, and then he's off, and if he's world-wise he has you down already, but he's a modern metrosexual man, he drinks your juice like David Beckham poses for gay magazines. He might even give you his number, or his email address, because you've discovered a common interest in orange juice, and chess, and people.
Traffic is still backed up, all the way to the junction on the Coastal Highway, that gives us time to think. We can offer him Prolog, but that's not drinkable, so we have to hit Luke's store for the second time today, for the perfect orange juice. So we have to explain the excursion to the convenience store. And if he's not interested in juice? In fact, I don't have to ask him about the juice, I'll just tell him whether he minds the detour via the convenience store. No hitchhiker in the world would mind.
We will detour, I will shop, and then return with this juicy, fresh orange juice, and a bottle of wine. Like in most states, convenience stores cannot sell real booze in Georgia, which is a pity, because it's more effective. You never know, perhaps he's alcoholic, he really needs a drink, so when I return from the shop, he's waiting in the Google-SUV, I turn the bottle this way and that way when I mount Isolde, he's game, even if he's not gay, he’ll follow his addiction up into my place where I feed him the whiskey that I can't buy until he loses all inhibitions. His sexual preference joins the other sexual preference, they melt, they unite, like natural forces at very high energy states, they discovered the god-particle yesterday, remember, which will also get in on the act. He's drunk, but not too smashed, three quarter of a bottle say. He no longer cares, and I suck cock, or he's still up to it, completely loose now, and I show him some porn, and perhaps pictures of prison cells and muscles, and he wants to fuck now, fuck, and there's no pussy, save mine. John doesn't look alcoholic, though. Perhaps that's even better, even wine may do the trick. Trick a non-trick into a trick—duh, duh, duh.
Relax, we'll cross the bridge when we get there. You explain the detour to him. Sure.
Shall we have him wait in the SUV? Maybe I should drag him along, he's never seen a convenience store before, not one with a toy sex department annex vampire section. So I will mention our common interest in vampires that we'll discover as we speak, and take him into the store, because it's another opportunity for interaction, five more minutes to change his sexual orientation. He's shy, and sweet, and intelligent, if I spring the sex department on him he wouldn't say no. Would he be embarrassed? No, he's too young, he's seen too much internet porn, regardless, even if he's the religious type. Context rules, the more we talk about sex the more we want to have it, porn provides an instantaneous stimulus for everybody, the dildos will give him more ideas, he's suddenly feeling horny, and he's thirsty, and he's a metrosexual, as usual, and I ask him whether he's metrosexual, and he says yes, and then I put the gun to his head and ask whether he means it. Everybody does it, including David Beckham, I explain, and I will have a terrible erection at that moment, even worse than now…
We've reached the junction now, one minute to Luke's store, no traffic jam on Route One. I'll spring the sex toys on him when we arrive at the parking lot. He laughs obligingly. Cool, man.
We enter the store. Should I go first, or, in a display of Southern etiquette, open the door for him—it would also be a reverence from a white guy for a black guy. I'm always polite when it doesn't matter, so I usher him through the swinging glass doors into Luke’s ice room. Luke is behind the counter and sees us coming. I think he's a bit jealous now. Anyhow, there is only one thing I can do. I put a bright smile on my face. And there's only one thing that Luke can do, put a bright smile on his own. He's seen it all, and he's happy to see me again.
Another twist comes to mind, I will introduce them to each other. So, I say: "This is Luke, he's the vampire." Luke is always happy when somebody brings up his immortality, and he would be welcome to hand his moonlight vampire agency card to John (birthdays, church functions, funerals). However, I won't tell Luke that this is John. We have some sort of vacuum now that nature abhors. Luke chooses the easy way out and asks him: "You're from here?" No, John is not. He doesn't explain, however, which is perhaps a good thing because Luke, in the absence of further information, must conclude that John is a trick, the first one he’s seen me with, which will induce some suggestive familiarity in his behavior which may help things along. John is politely interested in vampires, tells about a party at his sister's, vampire-themed, it was hilarious. Luke hands his card, finally, "What's your name?" John. So, we know each other really well now, a reunion of the Iliad clan, will somebody please tell John our family name. "Got any new toys?" I ask Luke suggestively, who is hands-on when it comes to sex shop terminology, Ben Wa balls, Butt plugs, docking sleeves, and so on, words which might loosen our John further, if he understands what they mean. I try to move the conversation into comprehensive territory. “How about the Siamese dildo's,” I ask, “anything new.” Luke flashes his vampire smile and takes us to the sex department. Explanations of the graphical kind flow, John is politely impressed and asks a funny question about “frictional coefficients.” Luke asks whether he should wrap it up, for us, the last frictional dildo on the shelf. I decline gently. We don't need it today, (we, today), another time perhaps (another time), I say it lightly, John has a sense of humor, today we need orange juice, because we (we) are thirsty. And a bottle of chardonnay, because we are frictional. Make that three bottles.
What's the chance John is alcoholic, one percent? Zero, I guess. You like chardonnay, I ask him as we leave the store. He may never have heard of the grape of white Burgundy wine, an excellent opportunity to explain, to taste, to imbibe, in particular if he doesn't drink, three, four glasses, and he is the mood. And if he does (drink), I will point out that Luke's chardonnay is real good, which is almost true, I'm drinking too much of the stuff myself.
So, now, we're back in the Google cruiser. You must be thirsty, I tell him, how about a glass of orange juice? I'm not talking about drinks. These are shifting sands, folks, until we sink into the ground and make love. "Orange juice," I say again, "a drink, you know my place isn't far" (a drink, my place). The wording, the ambivalence. We reach the next decision node now. It would be for me to push the brakes and drop him off, just before we arrive at the ramp to my apartment down next to the canal. What if I don't stop, what can he do? And it's not me, it's the autonomous cruiser that knows what to do, because Isolde is gay, although he doesn't know because it's a secret, I pretend I'm driving myself. He can't be aware of the spot, the decision point, he doesn't know the place, he'll find out when he drinks my orange juice, so Isolde dives down the ramp to the parking lot. We're parked already, I grab the bag with the wine and the juice. Come on, you must be thirsty. What he doesn't see, fortunately, Isolde has already turned around and is on her autonomous way back to the Wagners.
It's hot as we climb the stairs. Now what? It's unlikely, but not impossible that my father is around, that he fell asleep, too lazy to drive to the beach, or he came back early and has somehow managed to get inside without key. Only the sturdiest trick, some real hard-core rainbow supremacist would be able to handle my father. We march through the kitchen den into the bedroom and close the door (slam it). The mattress squeaks alarmingly, more noises (“uurghh,” “ooohh,”), less noise, the door swings open, I march my man back to the exit, a last sturdy kiss, then he's off, father is upset, that's modern life at the end of the rainbow. Let’s face it, even if John is a straight gay with nothing to hide, my father's presence would mean the end of our lust. He would drink a glass of juice and flee the scene at his earliest convenience. I should have killed my father long ago. I should kill him now. Do we hear anything snoring, sounds crossing the door? Perhaps a squeaking mattress, somebody getting off? No, the place is as quiet as father is when he sits at the kitchen table lost in admiration of the water tower. I unlock the door, and the place is…
(That's a cliffhanger, right?)
Are you still there? Then you'll possibly like the GREEN EYES. Need to know what happens next? Chapter 26 will tell. The book is out now as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:
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