Crown Vic to a Parallel World

12

FEAR and Some Advice I Didn’t Get

I tried to talk to Shawn on the way to the car.  I hoped when we were alone in the elevator, he’d have to say something.  “Shawn, would you tell me what’s wrong?”

He shook his head, his eyes deliberately downcast.

I tried again.  “I can’t stop doing whatever it is that’s bothering you if you won’t tell me what it is.”

No reaction.

His fear went on unabated.  If anything, it deepened now that we were alone.  I assumed he was afraid of my magic.  There was nothing else it could be.  I didn’t know what to do about that.  I couldn’t help having the power.  It’s not like I wanted it.  Ars at least recognized it as an asset.  I wasn’t sure what I thought about it.  I was still struggling to believe it was mine.

Shawn was treating me like I was a can of nitro-glycerin in a hardware store paint shaker.  I tried a different tactic.  “It’s still me.  I’m still the same person.  You wanted to be near me this morning.  Now it feels like you wish we were on opposite sides of the Earth…er…Solum.”

No reaction.

My anger spiked in spite of my best efforts to control it.  Being judged for something I couldn’t help was too familiar.  I’d spent my life hating myself for being gay and all the prejudice that went with it.  I didn’t express the anger, but Shawn obviously felt the rage I was bottling up.  He shrank small and tight into a corner of the elevator.  When the doors opened, he fled into the parking garage like he was running from a rabid animal.  He hurried toward the car, then changed course and hurried away from it.

I assumed that he realized the car would be my destination and that made him run away from where I was headed.  I didn’t pursue him.  I’d learned a few lessons from being as big as I was for as long as I was.  One of those lessons was ‘don’t chase when you have the option to wait.’  I figured Shawn would eventually have to come to the car if he wanted to get to the hotel.  Therefore, if I positioned myself near the car, eventually, he’d have to come to me.  I went to lean against the car to wait him out.  As I settled in to wait, a flaw in my plan made itself known.

I hadn’t realized how long we’d been at The HALL.  The fact that I no longer smoked every hour made it hard for me to mark time.  The position of the sun and the physical manifestations of the lack of alcohol in my system told me it was approaching seven o’clock.  The cravings that I hadn’t noticed before, came on with a roar.

I held my hands out in front of me.  They were usually a pretty good indicator of how bad things were.  My hands told me things were bad.  They were starting to shake, not so much that I couldn’t use them, but I knew that I didn’t have much time before they got to that point.  Normally, I would have lit a cigarette to try to calm the need.  On the rare occasion that I was caught without access to alcohol, I could get by for a short time by flooding my system with nicotine.  Now that I didn’t smoke, I didn’t know what to do.

I recognized that I needed Shawn.  I needed him to drive me to the hotel.  I considered wedging myself in the driver’s seat of the egg car and ‘going for it,’ but that seemed unwise.  There was a chance that I might not be able to find my way, or that I’d have an accident while trying to drive an unfamiliar vehicle over unfamiliar roads, or…anything else that could happen.  I decided that, with the little bit of time I had left between remaining functional and full-on DTs, I needed a sure thing.  Shawn at the wheel was a sure thing.

I took several deep breaths to beat my anger down and looked to Shawn for help.  He was loitering thirty or so feet away and looking everywhere but at me.  I addressed him in a deliberately calm, low tone.  I hoped it sounded soothing.  “Shawn, I need you to drive me to the hotel.  I need to get there quickly.  I’m overdue for a drink and I need one.”

I held my shaking hands up for him to see.  “This gets worse…much worse.  Please.  I know you’re afraid, though I really don’t know why, but that’s not the point.  I’m asking you for your help.  I need you more now than I did when I was covered in blood.”

Shawn’s eyes flicked at me, then away from me, back to me, to the car, then back to me.  It took several minutes, but I felt the change I was hoping for.  Pity forced itself into Shawn’s fear.  He edged toward the car like I was a hungry lion, and he was a lion tamer who misplaced his chair and whip.  I waited for him to get in and started to get in next to him.  The jacket that Ars had lent me squeezed my middle.  I unbuttoned the bottom to let my bloated gut peek from the seam, and climbed in.  I shut my eyes, gripped my knees to give my hands something to do besides shake, and begged Shawn to hurry.

The drive took forever, or at least it felt like it did.  I was sweating by the time we arrived.  The sweats were the next step in the beginning of my withdrawal symptoms.  Tremors came first, then the sweats, then shakes of greater and greater violence, until I would eventually suffer the ‘crawls,’ and hallucinations.  The crawls were when I felt like bugs were swarming over or inside of my skin.  It’s not a pleasant feeling.  I’d only experienced them once, and that once was enough to convince me that I never wanted to feel them again.

I was relieved when Shawn drove the car into the parking lot at the hotel.  He was relieved as well because the fact that we’d reached our destination meant that he could get away from me.  He parked the car and fled before I could struggle out of the passenger seat.

I watched him run away from me as I fought my way out of the confines of the egg car.  It upset me to know that I was what he was running away from.  If I’m honest, it broke my heart, but I didn’t have time to be heartbroken.  I had other things to worry about.  I swallowed my pride and my feelings about Shawn’s fear, rebuttoned my jacket and tried to run into the hotel lobby without appearing to run.

I waved off every solicitous valet and attendant on the way to the lobby desk, then demanded directions to the hotel restaurant.  A non-descript man pointed to a golden arrow on the white wall that showed the way.  I sprinted in the direction of the arrow and found the restaurant.  I lurched up to the bar, slapped my hand on the counter for service and remained standing while I waited impatiently.

The establishment was on the back side of the building and was doing very little business.  I hoped that meant someone would be available to take my order.  In the hopes of accelerating the process, I stuck my hand in the air to call attention to myself.  My immense size would probably have been enough to get me noticed without the raised hand, but I was taking no chances.

Soon, but not soon enough to suit me, a moon-faced bartender dressed in a yellow cutaway suit approached me and placed a white linen cocktail napkin on the bar.  He adjusted it to be exactly parallel with the edges and turned a warm expression toward me without a word.  He was a short man, five foot one or two, heavy set with soft, deeply lined features, very long white hair gathered into a ponytail, hazel eyes, and the appearance of great age and experience.  He looked to be in his late sixties.  I wondered how old that truly made him.

“Do you serve whiskey?”  I asked with a voice that shook almost as hard as my hands did.

“Yes, sir.” The barman replied in a low, husky, deferential tone. “Any kind you could want, in any way you could want it.  How would you like yours?”

“Bourbon, straight, neat, double…please.”

The barman went away.  I was glad he didn’t waste time with the normal food-service chatter.  Any time I drank anywhere that wasn’t Big Nick’s, I always had to put up with the nonsense.  ‘Would you like a menu, sir?  An appetizer?’  I found it excruciating.  No one lurches up to a bar and orders a straight double unless they’re on a mission.

I waited while I nervously fooled with my watchband in a vain attempt at keeping my hands from shaking too obviously.  The drink appeared in front of me faster than I expected.  The bartender set it down, placed both his hands, palms down, on his side of the bar, and leaned close to me like he was doing a standing push-up.  “Would a straw help with the first one?” His low voice asked with obvious sympathy. “You seem to be struggling.”

I lowered my eyes from the man’s round face in embarrassment.  “I can get it down, just don’t be too long with the next one, please.”

“Yes, sir.” He agreed and moved silently away.  I forced both of my hands around the glass, brought it carefully to my lips, and swallowed the double in a lump.  I closed my eyes and waited for the relief I needed.

It came quickly once the amber had burned its path to my stomach.  The familiar warmth spread from my middle to all my extremities, calming the tremors as it went.  Almost as soon as I set the empty glass down, the barman returned with another double and a glass of ice water.  I accepted the second drink with my now-steady hands.

The moon-faced man greeted me again like nothing had happened, like I had no reason to be embarrassed.  “Yes sir, welcome to The Capital Hotel Restaurant and Bar.  Will you be eating this evening?”

I lowered myself onto a stool.  The too-tight lab coat squeezed my middle again.  I unbuttoned the bottom of it so I could breathe and hoped the bar would hide the exposed flesh from view.  I sipped the second drink like I wanted to ascertain its quality and held the glass in my right hand like an infant would a security blanket.  With my addiction temporarily sated, I had the mental availability for other conversation.  I asked about the food options. “Sure, I’ll eat.  What do you have?”

“Most anything.”  The barman straightened his white tie in his reflection on the bar.  “You look like a meat eater, if I may say so.  A steak perhaps?  Our porterhouse with bacon and onions, a baked potato, and green beans is popular among our more carnivorous customers.  We also have an excellent chili if you would like that to start.  A hearty, sustaining meal.  How does that sound?”

I didn’t know if the barman was very perceptive in his ability to pick the exact right meal for me, or if he would have offered the same to any overweight drunk he met.  I decided that it didn’t matter.  I wanted what he offered.  “Sounds perfect, sir, like you read my mind.  I’ll have it, the steak cooked medium, extra butter and no sour cream on the potato please.”

The barman touched the knot of his tie with fingers that seemed to move without his knowledge.  “Yes, sir.  Excellent choice.  And sir, there is no need for formality when you address me.  My name is Benignitas, everyone calls me Beni.  It’s my pleasure to serve you.”

“Church Philips.”  I offered my hand over the bar. 

Beni accepted my hand and shook it firmly.  The man was strong despite his years.  “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  I’ll put this right in for you.”  He walked away.

I realized too late I hadn’t used my alias, but when I reflected on the conversation, I realized that my Earth name hadn’t seemed to bother Beni at all.  ‘Works at a hotel,’ I reasoned, ‘he must hear all kinds of names.’  I nursed my second drink and took the pause in conversation as an opportunity to survey my surroundings in the barback mirror.

The entire exterior wall behind me was a clear glass view of the same park that I’d seen from the suite balcony.  The wall was clear on the inside.  I assumed it was black on the outside like the exterior walls at The HALL.  The restaurant space was very long but shallow, like a bar in a fish tank.  Against the outside wall was a row of high tables, with round, glossy-red, solid-surface tops, and four high-backed stools each.

The bar that I sat at was along the inside wall, was made of black glass, and supported a long row of glossy-white bar stools.  The uncluttered and mirrored barback reflected the room and outdoor view.  It was dim in the bar.  The light-panel ceiling I’d come to expect was customized to look like bright stars on a black background.  ‘Pretty, but not very functional.’ I thought.

As I looked around, my gaze reached into the far corner of the room.  Against the transparent outside wall, gathered around one of the last tables at the end of the establishment, were four young people.  Two men stood together on one side of the table while a man and a woman kept company on the other.  Each person had a tall glass of something pink.

The first thing I noticed was the way the guys acted.  They laughed and talked freely, without the constraint of the show-offy male bravado that I was used to.  ‘Strange.’ I thought and let my attention wander away from the group.  It wandered around the room again but didn’t find anything more interesting than the youthful group.

The second time I looked at them, I grasped a dynamic I hadn’t noticed the first time.  Of the two men standing together, one of the guys was hanging on the other like a jealous head cheerleader would hang on the captain of the football team.

The guy closest to the clear wall stood tall and still while the other leaned into him, touched him to emphasize points or to express humor, and paid strict attention whenever he spoke.  The difference between the guy near the wall and the average football captain, was this guy obviously enjoyed the attention.  He didn’t bother to fake annoyance at it.

As I watched, the captain slid his arm around the cheerleader, and his hand found its way into the far pocket of the other’s pants.  The two men were young, seemingly in love, and had no ‘manly’ concern about showing it to any or all.  I was happy for them.  I also burned with jealousy.  The two young guys and their obvious affection made me think of Shawn.  Thinking of him blackened my mood.  I turned away from the young people to brood.

In spite of the several floors of building between he and I, I still felt Shawn up in his room.  He was unsettled, pensive.  I assumed he was thinking.  Several negative emotions, including fear, apprehension, worry, and small bursts of anger rotated through his psyche while I dealt with my own simmering anger and frustration.  ‘Bring me to a foreign land, parallel world…whatever, give me a glimpse of acceptance, then smash it all up…fuck this place.’ I thought as I sulked.

Beni appeared in front of me when I was mid-sulk.  He’d brought my chili with some crusty bread and a cup of softened butter.  The chili was ripe-red and chunky with meat and roughly cut vegetables.  It had a garnish of diced raw red onions and jalapeno slices on top.  I ate greedily.

The chili was delicious, and like all good things, gone far too quickly.  Just as I laid my spoon aside, Beni whisked the cup and saucer away, refreshed the ice water I hadn’t touched, and was gone without a word.  The man was a true professional.  A little time later, not too long, just enough to anticipate, my meal came.

Beni served it with pride and waited for my reaction to what he’d brought me.  On one side of an oversized oval plate was a thick, doormat-sized steak covered with chopped crisp bacon and long, caramelized hoops of fried onions.  On the other side was an oversized oven-baked potato, the top split open and swimming in golden butter, along with a pile of long, fresh green beans glistening from the same butter as the potato.

Keeping the big plate company were three oblong dinner rolls that steamed in a white bowl along with another cup of softened butter.  I quite literally salivated while I carved a large bite from the steak, heaped it with bacon and onions, and shoveled it into my face.  I chewed slowly to savor the delicious flavor and perfect texture.

“A masterpiece, Beni.”  I grinned at the yellow-clad man.  I downed the last sip of my second double and offered him the empty glass.  “How about a whiskey and ginger-ale?  A single this time with some ice.  Don’t drown the whiskey.”

Beni nodded a crisp, deferential nod to accept my order. “I would never drown the whiskey, sir.  Yes, a whiskey and ginger-ale, coming up.” He moved off with a self-satisfied air.

I ate slowly to savor every morsel while I drank the smooth highballs Beni delivered at infrequent, but regular intervals.  A big meal and two more drinks later, he cleared the plates and returned to receive his accolades.  “Was the meal up to your standards, sir?” He asked, though he appeared to know full-well that it was.

I felt magnanimous after the filling meal and several drinks.  I praised Beni enthusiastically and maybe a little too generously. “If that was my last meal, I would face death smiling.  Thank you, Beni.”

Beni allowed himself a smug grin as he responded to my praise. “Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  May I interest you in dessert?”

“What could you possibly follow that meal with?”  I asked.

“Perhaps a single scoop of vanilla ice cream.  We have a wonderful vanilla bean hand-dipped treat.  I find a single scoop cleanses the pallet and completes the experience.”

I agreed to Beni’s suggestion. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”

“Coffee, sir?”

“Dark roast?”  I asked.

“Yes, sir.  Quite dark without being burnt.”

I waved my hand in the air like Beni’s suggestion was the most wonderful thing I’d heard all day. “Ice cream and coffee as you suggest, Beni.  Let’s have the coffee black with one shot of brandy in it.”

“Certainly, sir.”  Beni beamed and moved away like my dessert was his purpose in life.

He was back a moment later with a letter-sized white envelope and a neatly folded purple shirt.  “This was sent down by your associate, sir.  He was concerned for your comfort.”

I accepted the shirt and the envelope.  The envelope contained a room key…mine.  I pocketed the key and took the shirt to the restroom to change.  I appreciated that Shawn thought enough about me to know the green jacket his uncle had lent me was too small and to provide something to change into.  The fact that he still hadn’t spoken to me and seemed mortally terrified of being near me made his gesture with the shirt feel hollow.

I changed my shirt, balled the green jacket under my arm, and went back to my spot at the bar.  My ice cream and coffee were waiting for me when I regained my seat.  I tossed the green jacket on the floor at my feet and settled in to enjoy the rest of my meal.  I ate the ice cream and drank my loaded coffee with relish.  It was the perfect end to the meal.

Beni returned with impeccable timing to remove the plates and run a damp cloth over my place at the bar.  He disappeared again but was back in a moment with a straight double that I hadn’t ordered, but very much wanted.  He set it down and waited.  I sipped my drink and gave the barman the attention he seemed to want.  “Do you wish to discuss it, sir?” He asked.

I opened my mouth to ask Beni what he was talking about, but I paused when some motion in the barback mirror caught my eye.  The four young people from the corner table were passing behind me on their way to the lobby.  The stoic captain still had his hand in the pants pocket of the animated head cheerleader.  Their walk synchronized so they could stay pressed to each other.  Envy reared up inside me like a startled horse.  I gritted my teeth.  “What?”  I unintentionally growled through my clenched teeth.

“Your trouble, do you wish to discuss it?”

“How do you know I have trouble?”  I asked without bothering to deny it.

Beni touched his tie, like he wanted to make certain it hadn’t run away, but he didn’t adjust it.  “I’ve been around a long time, held my current position for well over a century.  I know a troubled man when I see one.  Do you wish to discuss it, or shall I hold my tongue so you can finish drowning it?  I can’t help you.  The rules of this establishment forbid my providing advice, but I am a good listener and confidence keeper.  That is the most important part of my job.  A machine could mix the drinks and take the meal orders.  Bartenders are still people because customers with troubles come to bars.”

I knocked off half my drink at a gulp and scrutinized the tie touching barman.  The ‘well over a century’ comment caught my attention, and I had to deliberately ignore it.  “Do you have the time?”

Beni’s hand floated into the air to gesture vaguely about the bar.  “We are not busy.  My assistant can handle the little traffic there is.  I have time.”

The man’s weathered face was disarming.  Each line and wrinkle in the man’s expression seemed like a physical representation of experience.  It was a face people tell secrets to.  ‘Fuck it,’ I thought. ‘It’ll be a change of pace to talk to someone.’  I leaned toward Beni and opened the discussion with a question.  “Have you ever arrived at a point in your life where it doesn’t matter?  Life and death are as even as six in one hand or a half dozen in the other?”

Beni’s mouth drew down into a grave frown.  He replied grimly.  “Once, just one time long ago, over a woman.  That brand of indifference was the loneliest experience of my life.”

I pulled down the rest of my drink and set the rocks glass aside, trading it with the as-yet-untouched ice water.  The hash marks in my head told me I was ten or eleven drinks deep in a little over two hours.  For me, that wasn’t recklessly drunk, or slurring drunk, but honestly and philosophically drunk.  “You’d understand then,” I agreed with Beni the Barman, as I named him in my head, “I would like to talk about it.”

Beni shifted his weight slightly.  The action made it seem like he’d adjusted himself to a position where he could stand until whatever needed saying was said.  I forced my brain to order my thoughts despite the alcohol fog and brought the current problem to the surface.  “Have you ever had someone accept you completely, then pull away?  That’s what happened to me today.  I met a man two days ago.” I surprised myself when I realized it had only been two days and said as much. “I can’t believe that’s all it was.  Anyway, I thought we built a mutual respect.”

I lowered my voice and leaned as close to Beni as I could get.  “I had sex today for the first time in well-over ten years.  This man, this attractive, young man, wanted me just as I am.”  I tapped the bar to emphasize the point.  “He…wanted…me.”

I leaned away and continued in my normal tone.  “That was this morning.  Now, because of something he saw me do this afternoon, he’s afraid of me.  I don’t expect to be loved, but I can’t stand being feared.  I just want to spend time with him, but I don’t think he’ll ever come near me again.”

Beni looked at himself in the bar top and touched his tie.  “Why, if it is not prying, is the young man afraid of you?  The nature of his fear may be important to finding the solution to it.”

I turned my ice water on the bar.  It made a little circle of condensation on the glossy black surface.  I hesitated, but not for long.  “My magic was tested for the first time today.  Apparently, I’m very powerful.  Powerful enough to be afraid of.”

Beni held his right hand toward me, palm up.  “May I?”

I didn’t know what he wanted. “May you what?”

“I am a fourth-class empath with a C rating.  I get impressions.  I’d like to get an impression of you.”

I didn’t think there’d be any harm in letting Beni get an impression of me…whatever the hell that meant.  I took his hand.  He gripped mine tightly and shut his eyes.  His arm jerked and his eyes flew open.  He released my hand and took a long step back.  He smacked his palms together like he was dusting them off and looked at me over them with wide, surprised eyes.

‘SHIT!’ I thought and worried about his reaction.

Beni’s expression grew thoughtful as he looked at the hand that had held mine.  He put the hand in his pocket and stepped forward until his chest met the bar on his side.  He spoke right in my face.  “You are a bonfire of magic power.  I understand why your young man is afraid.  If I were a young man, I would be afraid.  But, like fire, that can be threatening and dangerous, it can also be warm and comforting.  You are a powerful man, but not a dangerous one.  I think with time and space, he’ll understand that.  He’ll remember how nice it was to warm himself on you and his fear of being burned will fade.”

Beni stepped back and cleared his throat.  “And that is what I might say if I was permitted by this establishment to provide advice.  But I’m not, so you will have to come to your own conclusions.”

I grinned, and Beni grinned back.  “It’s a shame you can’t offer advice.” I said through my grin.  “You would probably be great at it.”

Beni moved close again and glanced around before he spoke, like he was afraid someone was listening.  “Remember, sir, the young do not see things like people of our experience.  I know a weapon is not a weapon unless it is used in anger.  He may not know that yet.  He’ll come to know it though.  Take heart, he was perceptive enough to see and desire the ‘you’ that you hide from the world.  Wasn’t he?”

I turned my glass on the bar a little more and thought about what the barman had said.  “Thank you, Beni.” I said as an answer to his question.

“For what, sir?”

“For the advice you didn’t give me that I’ll follow to the letter.”  I tapped a drumroll on the bar and felt better than I had in hours.  “Now, how about one more double?  That should be enough to debilitate me beyond the risk of making an ass of myself when I pass his room in a few minutes.  One more double, one for yourself if you are permitted by the rules of this establishment to indulge, and the invoice for me to sign and charge to the room.”

Beni filled the order, poured a glass of ice water for himself, and brought a black glass tablet with a stylus and the image of a bill on it.  I signed it, wrote in what I hoped was a generous tip, and clinked glasses with Beni.  “Rules of the establishment?”  I asked and pointed the stylus at his ice water.

“I don’t drink, not anymore.”  He explained distantly and held his glass up to catch the low light.

I sensed an old sadness in his words and wondered about it.  “Would you tell me sometime?”  I asked and immediately regretted the question, especially after I’d denied Shawn my story.

Beni didn’t take offence.  He shook his round head.  “Probably not, it was so very long ago.  So much time…yet it’s still as raw inside me as if it was yesterday.  Time heals all wounds is a vicious lie.”  Bitterness filled his voice on the last sentence, a deep frown narrowed his wide face.  He shook his head back and forth in a short, violent motion.  His expression softened, he raised his eyes to mine, and concern clouded his features.  “Excuse me, sir, my manners.  My deepest and sincerest apologies.”

I waved away his worry.  “Please, no apology.  You should never be sorry for being right.  My wound is ten years old, and I feel it like a hot knife in my guts.”

“Yes, that’s what it feels like.  I’m sorry for you.  Good luck, sir.”

“You too, Beni.  Thank you for everything.”  I shook his hand over the bar again and he moved away.  I knocked my drink back in a gulp and aimed myself toward the elevators.