Best Gay Romance 2015 Page 5

  They don’t know, he thought. Kevin wished he could warn everybody. He’d save a whole generation of gay men; save their accomplishments, their heart, their music, their art. He could change the face of gay culture but as he felt his heart lifting at the prospect, he knew how impossible that would be. No one would listen. It sounds so improbable, he thought. A gay plague will come and devastate us—sounds like something Anita Bryant would say.

  He saw Mark coming down the block, tapping the pack of cigarettes on his wrist the way he always did, a huge grin spreading across his face as he ran triumphantly toward Kevin. This is all there is right now, he thought. Him and me. Just as Mark was closing the distance between them, Kevin smelled something like rotten eggs behind him and turned to see a familiar scaly face.

  His blond hair was still shag-cut and his horns were still nubby, but he seemed to have more gold chains around his neck. He grinned, revealing uneven rows of stained and broken teeth, and there was no mistaking the gleam in his piss-yellow eyes. He spoke not a word, but held up his wrist and pointed to his Mickey Mouse watch.

  And that’s when Kevin fainted.

  “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right?” Mark said, half a cup of coffee in his hand. “You were up most of the night. I can always call in if you feel bad—I mean, that’s what they give me time off for. And I wouldn’t mind taking care of you.”

  “I’m fine,” Kevin replied. “I was fine last night. I just ate too much. We should have gone in. I still feel bad about ruining our celebration.”

  Mark shrugged. “We have the rest of our lives to celebrate.”

  “Would you go to work already?” Kevin said. “I’ll call you later, okay?” He took Mark’s coffee cup away and kissed him.

  “You better.”

  Kevin looked into his eyes, feeling as if it was the last time he’d ever see him. He held him close and kissed him again, longer and more passionately than he’d ever kissed anyone before. He longed to run away with Mark, to go somewhere where they’d never be found. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Wow,” Mark said. “What was that for?”

  “Because I love you. Now get outta here.”

  “Okay. Love you too.” He grabbed his jacket out of the closet and went to work, leaving a scent of soap and musk behind for Kevin to smell. He inhaled it even as it melded with the sulfur smell once again.

  “Touching,” the demon said, standing in the middle of the oval rug. “I could almost cry.”

  “What are you doing here? I didn’t call you.”

  “I can appear residually from your last call.”

  “What about the circle?”

  The demon sighed. “I can’t move off this frickin’ rug. But I don’t need to. Anyway, we’re almost finished here. All I have to do is send you back.”

  “Now? What the fuck? I like it here, I have friends, I’m in love and you want to fucking send me back? No way.”

  “Too bad, sunshine—you don’t have much choice. Demon here, remember?”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  The demon twisted his neck, looking around. “Sorry. I was trying to find someone who cares.”

  “Can’t we make some kind of deal?”

  “Deals. Everybody wants to make a deal. ‘I’ll give you gold, I’ll give you my firstborn, I’ll give you my undying loyalty’—yada, yada, yada. I got gold comin’ out my ass, undying loyalty’s a transient commodity at best and I need another kid like I need a second tail. No deals. You got nothin’ I want.”

  Kevin rubbed his crotch. “Not even…”

  “Please, junior. Got more than my share of butt-boys too—and I like ’em with a little more meat on their bones.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to be insulting about it.”

  “Oooo—touchy. Just blink and it’ll all be over with. You’ll be back in your snug little place with all your toys.”

  “I don’t want to go.” Kevin resisted the urge to blink, then suddenly the landscape around him melted, running down in puddles as it revealed his old apartment. His laptop hummed, his ice-making refrigerator clunked as a few blocks fell into the tray and his smartphone vibrated on the counter.

  “And here you are,” the demon announced.

  “This sucks,” Kevin said, tears springing to his eyes. He wiped them away with the hem of his T-shirt. “Can you tell me what happened to him? Where he is?”

  “Who?”

  “Mark, you fuckhead. My boyfriend.”

  The demon pursed his lips and fingered one of the ankhs around his neck. “No clue. Couldn’t tell you anyway. It’s against the rules.”

  Technological instinct taking over, Kevin ran to his laptop, intent on Googling Mark, but as he approached the dark screen, he didn’t recognize his own reflection. His hairline had receded and his jowls were thicker, the skin of his throat slack and hanging. He ran to the bathroom mirror and screamed. “You son of a bitch! I’m an old man.”

  “No shit, gramps. Almost forty years have passed.”

  He ran across the room to rush the demon but smashed against an invisible barrier around the circle of protection. “I’ll rip your fuckin’ head off!” he bellowed, pounding against it.

  “Time’s kinda tricky that way,” the demon said, grinning as he buffed his nails. “I can circumvent the aging process going into the past, but not on the way back to the future. Odd, isn’t it? I let you keep the mood ring and the clothes, though.”

  Kevin whimpered and slid to the floor, his back against a wall he couldn’t see. He started sobbing. “How much time has passed?”

  “In 2012? Oh, about three or four minutes.”

  “You mean…oh Jesus, what will my sister say? My folks? I think I’m older than my dad.”

  “Not my problem, buckwheat. Look, I hate to devastate and run, but I’ve got other clients. So, just to finish up the formalities, have you been entertained?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “That was your original Command. You wanted to be entertained, and the friendly folks at Demon Central want to make sure you’re a satisfied customer. So, once again I have to ask, have you been entertained?”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then I get to stay here and think of even more interesting ways to entertain you. And I can be very creative.”

  “Yes,” Kevin mumbled.

  “Yes, what?” the demon said. “It has to be in the form of a statement.”

  “Yes. I’ve. Been. Fucking. Entertained.”

  The demon smiled, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent. Well, the next time you need anything, don’t hesitate to call us up. We’re here twenty-four seven for your demonic pleasure. Catch you at the next AARP meeting, fucktard.”

  Discodemius vanished.

  And Kevin wept.

  His mood ring was black, and he kept twisting it on his finger, taking it off and putting it back on, buffing the stone like some magical genie’s lamp that might grant him enough wishes to get back to Mark. He lounged on his sofa, watching the news when he wasn’t considering how his newly acquired paunch stretched out his A&F T-shirt. He couldn’t fit into his skinny jeans anymore and had to settle for a pair of sweats he borrowed from Mrs. Mancuso. He had to tell her he was Kevin’s uncle, in for an unexpected visit. She looked at him like she didn’t believe him, but she gave him the sweatpants anyway.

  He figured he’d be getting a lot of those looks.

  The hair on his arms was gray, the skin thinner and less elastic, and he got winded going upstairs. Getting old sucks balls, he thought. At least it does when it happens all at once. Maybe it’s better if it happens gradually. Or not. He got a twinge in his knee as he swung his legs over the arm of the sofa to lie back and watch TV, staring at his stomach instead. It looks bigger from this angle, if that’s humanly possible.

  He switched his view to the flat-screen, taking in a crowd shot of the Occupy Wall Street protesters in Zuccotti Park. If he turned the sound off and opened the window, he coul
d hear the fracas live, but he preferred the NBC version. Kevin hadn’t paid much attention to the whole issue before. It was just an inconvenience for anyone going uptown.

  Now, however, he wondered what the hell they were so upset about. He read a few of the signs, but they weren’t too issuespecific. But then he saw one that gave him a start. He sat bolt upright, his heart in his mouth. “GO BACK!!” he screamed at the screen. And, as if it had been listening, the camera settled on the protester who held it—but Kevin wasn’t listening to what he was saying. He was staring at the sign.

  The O in Occupy was long and thin, like matched parentheses. And the rest of it was cursive, not scrawled like everyone else’s. It’s one of Mark’s signs, Kevin thought. It has to be. He’s there. He wouldn’t be anywhere else. And as the camera went back to a long shot, Kevin noticed more signs that resembled Mark’s. He looked down at his mood ring, which seemed to be glowing a bit bluer.

  And then he was off.

  He didn’t grab his keys or lock his door—just ran down the stairs, hit the door and flew down the sidewalk for about a quarter of a block. Breathing heavily by that time, he had to stop and lean against a building as his heart hammered in his chest. His mouth dry and his thoughts racing, he forced himself down to a fast walk that became a trot when his aching legs would allow, and he soon reached the throng of protesters and police.

  He stood on the corner of Liberty and Trinity, deciding to go around to the rear of the crowd, but he was sidetracked by a short blonde woman in a yellow sundress holding one of Mark’s signs. “Where did you get that sign?” he asked, not even noticing what it said.

  “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” she cooed. “It really stands out, doesn’t it? I got it from some old guy.”

  “Some old guy? Where is he?”

  “A long block down that way,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction. “He’s making them in the middle of the crowd at a big table—you can’t miss it.” Kevin didn’t even thank her before he started running again, but his progress was slowed by protesters and an advancing line of police with riot gear and shields. He plowed straight into the action, watching for more of Mark’s work.

  The crowd thickened as Kevin’s legs began to throb, but he threaded his way through the mob. Mark would be at the center of this shit, he thought. Kevin’s claustrophobia was beginning to grip him, but he kept his focus on finding Mark despite his shortness of breath and the feeling of panic rooting itself in his brain. He wanted to flail his way above the body of people and get some air, but they compressed him from all sides.

  Just as he felt he would faint, he nearly bisected himself on the edge of a long table. Paint cans littered its top, some overturned and some upright, with oozy brushes stuck here and there. And at the opposite end stood a stooped guy about Kevin’s new age, wearing faded Levi’s and a white T-shirt with his long gray hair tied back, furiously painting a sign as he barked orders.

  “Jen, this is the last one. Gather up all the paint you can find and meet me a couple of blocks from Liberty in about an hour. Bob, try to get the table folded up and go with her—if things get hairy and you have to sacrifice it, don’t worry. The cops are too close, and there’s always tomorrow.”

  “MARK!!” Kevin screamed.

  Mark looked up, his violet eyes searching for whoever shouted his name, then they landed on Kevin. He frowned, leaning forward a bit and squinting. He raised a hand to shade his eyes against the glare, then his face widened with recognition. “Omigod!” he shouted. “Oh fuck. Kevin? Kevin!” He tried to go around, but people were jammed against the table, so he climbed on top, kicking cans and brushes out of the way and extending his hand.

  Kevin grasped it, grinning at Mark’s touch as he climbed up on top of the table with him and they embraced, Mark crying and unintelligibly screaming into Kevin’s shoulder. Kevin couldn’t hear him or understand him, but he got the gist of it anyway. He grabbed Mark’s face and kissed him. “I have to explain some things,” he said.

  “Not now. I just want you here with me. I didn’t ask you any questions when you walked into my life the first time, and I won’t now. Just tell me one thing—are you free? Are you still mine?”

  “Yes. And yes.”

  Tears streamed down Mark’s cheeks. “Then we can move mountains—c’mon, let’s show these kids how fuckin’ radicals used to do it. Grab my waist and follow my lead.”

  Kevin grabbed Mark and jumped off the table into the crowd, Mark fighting his way to the front of the line as the police advanced. Kevin could see their shields and helmets mere feet away. “Link arms!” Mark screamed to everyone around. “Link arms!”

  They linked with each other and then to the people on either side, and the linking spread until there was a solid line of men and women.

  “THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!!” Kevin shouted, repeating it as the linked men and women picked up the chant. “THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!! THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!!” As they chanted, the line moved toward the police, but Mark wasn’t finished with his instructions.

  “Go down on your knees!!” he screamed, his voice breaking. “Crawl toward the fuckers!! Submission is strength!!” He sank down to the sidewalk, forcing Kevin and the rest of the linked line to do the same, still advancing on the police. The crowd behind the line saw what was happening and also went down on their knees, inching their way slowly toward the riot-equipped police force. “THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!! THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!!”

  Kevin looked over at Mark, his face a reflection of radical ecstasy. He felt no panic, no claustrophobia, no anxiety—just pure and simple love. And they crawled together on the sidewalk, mouths open with unrepentant joy, their hearts beating as one as they received the pepper-spray sacrament.

  Five stories above, Discodemius perched on a building ledge between two pigeon-shit coated gargoyles who bore not a little family resemblance. He held a cell phone to one pointed ear, his wings twitching nervously.

  “How the fuck was I supposed to know they’d find each other…what am I, psychic or something? Oh…I am? Why isn’t that in the manual? Oh…it is? Look, I took his youth away from him—that’s gotta count for something, right? Okay, so he’s happy. It’s not my fault, man. I’m a victim of circumstance… another five hundred years? Just for this? No way—that’s bullshit. I’ll file a fuckin’ grievance, just you wait!”

  He snapped the cell phone shut and slipped it in the pocket of his hot-pink leisure suit jacket. “I hate this goddamn job,” he said. Glaring at nothing, he spat on the crowd below and pushed off, flapping his leathery wings as he glided into the clouds.

  JURY DUTY

  Tom Baker

  Tim had never been called up for jury duty before, but there it was, the official yellow envelope from the New York State Court System, on the gateleg table in the entryway of his brownstone building on West Tenth Street, along with the Con-Ed bill. They know where I live, he thought. Tim opened the envelope even before climbing the three flights of stairs to his apartment. His instructions were to report to the county clerk’s office at 100 Centre Street at 8:00 a.m. on February 14, 1975.

  What? On Valentine’s Day? The notice warned that failure to report would result in a warrant for his arrest.

  “Fuck!” Tim said. “Just what I need when I’m trying to get a job.” But then, it did pay five dollars a day. “Great. What does that buy at Balducci’s? A basket of raspberries.”

  Tim showed up at 100 Centre Street on Valentine’s Day as ordered. The elevator to the fifth floor, filled with prospective jurors, was as big as his apartment. The doors opened, and the crowd poured out to get in line to fulfill their civic duty.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Halladay,” a bored clerk instructed without looking up at him. “We’ll call you.” Resigned to going along with the system, Tim sat in the jury assembly room with about a hundred people who didn’t want to be there either. He had brought The New York Times, which he began to read, section after section, even Sports and Let
ters to the Editor. After an hour, the doors opened, and the clerk started calling out names.

  “Tim Halladay,” the clerk called. “In here.” Tim followed a line of people down the hall to the jurors’ holding room. Another long waiting period ensued in an antiseptic room with fluorescent lighting and hard plastic chairs. After sitting around for another hour, Tim was instructed to go into the courtroom. He had been selected as juror number two, subject to confirmation by the prosecuting and defense attorneys. Well, Tim thought. It’s better than sitting in the holding room with nothing to do.

  The jurors took their places in the courtroom jury box. The judge entered the chamber draped in her black robe.

  “Is that the judge?” Tim joked with the young woman next to him. She was not amused, obviously taking the whole process very seriously. “Sorry,” he said, burying his head in his newspaper.

  The judge read off a litany of rules and regulations, saying the attorneys could question any juror to determine if there was reason that any prospective juror should be excused. First step: answer simple questions—place of residence, occupation, any former jury duty. That process over, the prosecuting attorney read an opening statement of the case. The defendant told the police that he had killed his mother-in-law when he mistook her for a raccoon. Hours later his wife had testified that she’d committed the crime. She had confessed to killing her mother in the garage, and that her husband had lied to protect her. She testified that her husband had gone to the garage with her mother to look for a raccoon. An argument took place in the garage resulting in an injury to the older woman. The husband returned to the house screaming that his mother-in-law was hurt and needed help. The wife rushed to the garage and saw her mother lying in a pool of blood on the cement floor. The wife testified that she then picked up a hatchet and repeatedly struck her mother.