Lighthouse Nights

6

nobody came to rescue john.

nobody came, nobody heard, nobody saw. nobody smelled the sepsis or barged through the bedroom door to discover the fleshy sack of blood and bones. nobody wailed at the pendulous loss of life.

the light drained from john’s apartment as japan’s setting sun became michigan’s morning. gabe watched the shadows rise in that pixel-white room. the body was a shadow too, clinging first to the inside of gabe’s computer screen, then to his imagination. his date-night blazer was pressed and hung on the open bathroom door, but with the lights out, it became john; so still and quiet in the dark that gabe swore he heard the taut creak of yellow rope. at eight a.m. he slept—finally—and john was there too.

when gabe awoke, the video feed was gone. maybe someone discovered the body and turned off the camera. maybe the computer shut down automatically. maybe john was at the morgue. or maybe he was still hanging alone in the shadows.

gabe sketched the tragedy from memory. charcoal outline, then thick strokes with a black marker. it wasn’t his usual style; a pen and pencil might capture detailed reality, but the marker captured a MINDSET.

seven o’clock; two hours until his date. gabe dropped his boxers and pulled off his aerosmith nightshirt. 

his naked form wasn’t far from john’s. where john was brown, gabe was white. where john was black, gabe was brown. he flexed in the mirror but his muscles barely twitched with the effort. if rose still liked him after tonight, he would vow to start a workout routine.

gabe usually wore whatever wrinkled tee appeared next on the stack, but not tonight. tonight he donned the dark-blue blazer purchased by his mom for his grandfather’s funeral. gabe rolled his shoulders in the loose fabric and felt like he was playing dress-up with daddy’s clothes. he brushed his teeth for the second time, then unwrapped a bottle of men’s body spray, crossed himself like a catholic, and coughed in the potent mist.

“how do i look?” he asked edgar.

no reply.

“thanks, buddy. wish me luck.”

*  *  *

five minutes to nine. 

the dune grass grill smelled like steak and cayenne pepper. an acoustic duet sat on stools and plucked the melody of fire and rain, but gabe could barely hear the words over the chatter of the vacationing patrons. the smell, music, low light and comfy window booth made for a romantic yet casual atmosphere and gabe was satisfied with his venue choice.

a single red rose; too much for a first date? would rose’s artistic sensibilities scoff at the cliché?

gabe laid his knife across the rim of his coke glass. he balanced the salt shaker on the knife.

should he tell her about john? other than this date, that tipping chair was the only thing on his mind. it was imperative to begin a relationship with full disclosure, but how could he explain the suicide chat room without sounding tragically emo or revealing his failed attempt at a winning college portfolio?

rose wore summer dresses to class. the visible stitches and crooked seams were clues that she sewed the clothes herself, but her ambition was adorable. despite the promise ring on her left hand and the aura of pony-tail innocence, her photos were the best in the class. gabe could teach her a few things about lens selection, appropriate shutter speeds and basic composition, but her subject matter dug a layer deeper than the hospital-waiting-room crap offered by the other students.

if rose enjoyed their time together, maybe he’d have a date for his birthday on thursday.

gabe stuck a toothpick in the middle hole of the balanced saltshaker, then fashioned a flag from his napkin, licked the edge, and stuck it to the toothpick pole. the waiter noticed his dwindling coke and brought another.

*  *  *

two refills later, gabe thought she was late. 

after five empty glasses, he knew she wasn’t coming.

his cell was in pieces on his bedroom floor, but rose didn’t have his number anyway. maybe there was a real problem and she couldn’t call.

maybe.

the waiter danced around the embarrassment and asked gabe if he wanted to “go ahead and order.”

“no. but i’d like a bottle of your chateau grand traverse, late harvest riesling.”

“great choice,” the waiter said. “the riesling has a unique citrus flavor and a sweet finish that i’m sure you’ll enjoy. i just need to see some ID.”

gabe pulled a five from his wallet, placed it by the flower, and left.