Ch. 7: Jack's Dilemma
August 11 | Late Noon
In the narrow galley kitchen of the studio apartment, Mom clutched a blue mixing bowl under her arm and whipped her frustrations into a milky corn batter. Fluffy grey-streaked curls bounced with her intensity. My gaze fell upon the grocery store receipt. A thin square of paper with a bold three digit total. I surveyed the meager plastic bags of groceries scattered across the countertop. The cost of living was murderous.
A dusty beige AM/FM radio atop the fridge blared the Sunday morning Baptist service of some local megachurch. The wavering voice of an octogenarian preacher swore time was running out. "Time," he yelled magnificently, "is not on your side! Come on, get right with Gawd." Suddenly, the jingle of an auto commercial broke the altar call, and Mom turned the volume down.
"Hey, Mama." I stared at the cheap vinyl floor.
Lois grunted. She was cooking one of my favorite meals again. The kitchen smelled like Eden with a touch of purgatory. Pot roast, garlic potatoes, cabbage. Mom had been fattening me up ever since I got out of prison.
Dad braced against the door out. His brown trousers and crisp white shirt contrasted with my rumpled suit. As he crossed his arms, his bushy eyebrows furrowed so low, his eyes disappeared in the creases. I waited for probing questions. Where I'd been. What I'd done. I couldn't answer.
A forlorn glance at the living room reminded me I had no space to retreat. Unfortunately, neither did my parents. We were stuck in this mess I'd made of things.
I had awakened in a foreign house with my phone near-dead, and overreacted by calling Dad. Once the truth came to light–that I'd had too much to drink, and Mal Ashivant had graciously let me sleep it off at her place–I felt silly. An annoying detail still itched at my brain. Given today was Sunday, I had somehow lost a day.
But it was done. The whole lot of it.
Nondisclosure agreements were involved. There was no telling my parents about the billionaire's miracle offer to turn our lives around. Either they wouldn't believe me, or they'd say it wasn't worth the hazard.
I surreptitiously patted down my chest. Breathing, heart rate–normal. My limbs felt fine. Hell, I felt better than I had in months with the stress of figuring out my future put to rest.
The nebulous side effects hinted at by Mr. Cyprian hadn't shown up. I half-remembered my gorgeous lawyer reassuring me a medical team would do monthly physicals to monitor my health. Most importantly, my parents were slated to get enough money to climb from the financial pit my conviction had thrown them into. So, I wasn't too worried about the risks.
There was an egg-timer by the kitchen sink. When it dinged, Mom whumped the bowl of cornbread mix on the counter and reached into the oven for a pot with her bare hands.
"Ma–" I yelped. She shoved burned fingers into her mouth and snatched the oven mitt from its hook. I shouldered past her to help, but she elbowed me away and yanked the roast from its rack. Her frail spine quaked as she heaved it to the stovetop.
She pivoted and cocked her hip. Her fist dug into her paunchy waist and the other hand braced on the island. I froze under her glare. The megachurch mass choir picked up in the background. "Amazing Grace" wailed predictably.
"Millie Fergusson tells me there's openings at the chemical plant," Mom's anger unleashed. I shook my head with a tired laugh, trying to skirt past her. "You need to get on the phone with Ray Fergusson and convince him to give you a job."
"I got a job, Mom."
"Where? Doing what?" Dad barked.
"I have a job," I repeated. "That's why Mr. Cyprian wanted me at the party last night."
"You mean Friday night," he smirked.
"Okay, I know it's been rough taking care of me," I said, "but I'll be independent soon. You'll get back every dime you've–"
Mom yanked the mit from her hand and threw it aside. "You think this is about money?" She jerked the strings of her floral print apron and whipped it off, tossing it in a kitchen drawer before marching into the living room area. "Jack, I never in my life imagined you'd give up so easily on yourself."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm not telling you to get a job to pay the bills. I'm telling you its time to reclaim your life!" she exclaimed as she paced before the floral couch. "We never doubted your innocence when those charges were levied against you, but that experience should've taught you something, son. You don't have to be doing wrong. You just have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is what's really at stake with all this free time on your hands"
"And what business do you have with Darcy Cyprian?" Dad interjected.
"What do you–? He's the philanthropist behind my release, Dad. You know that," I griped.
"What else is he into? Billionaire tough guy. Ha! No way his hands are clean. You need normalcy, structure. It's okay to start at bottom. I did." Dad puffed out his chest.
"You didn't start this far down!" I yelled, but I dropped my head and emitted a bitter laugh. "Know what? I don't want to argue. I get it, alright? I'll give Ray a call about that job when I get the chance."
My parents shared a look. Dad turned to a notepad tacked to the wall and scribbled a phone number from memory. He tore the sheet and smacked it next to me. I wanted to tell them they didn't have to worry about my stability or our finances anymore. Instead, I gritted my teeth as I shoved the scrap of paper in my pocket. I headed to the bathroom, keen for a shower. Behind me, they continued their conversation.
"I don't want him to do something he'll regret," Mom whispered.
"He gets it. Don't worry." Pans clanked as Dad pulled one from the cabinet for the cornbread mix. Mom fell in step beside him, finishing the meal. When she caught me lingering, she peered at me inquisitively.
"Dinner will be ready in fifteen," she said.
"I'm not hungry." I slammed the bathroom door.
She didn't want me to do something I'd regret? I had more regrets than my parents could imagine. Tony "Black-N-White" Ngyuen, a closeted gay regular at the car wash, had driven me wild. I would never forget the last time I saw his face. It was the night he was killed; however, Tony had been alive and well when I left him. His death had broken my heart.
My eyes smarted, recalling the circus of a trial. I powered on the showerhead and a gust of steam accompanied the rush of water. In court, not only had Tony's sexuality been dissected, my then girlfriend had been shocked by the revelation I wasn't entirely straight. Down the drain went plans for the big house in the country with three kids and a dog.
The story hadn't stayed local, either. With Tony's burgeoning music career and Zyr Ravani's rising popularity, the case had made national news. To viewers, I was a killer and a self-hating homosexual. I climbed into the shower and scrubbed my skin until the dusky hue glowed pink. The prevailing theory had been that I had murdered Tony in a jealous rage when he announced his pending nuptials.
From beyond the bathroom, I heard the front door shut. I finished washing up and dragged the rucksack where I kept my few articles of clothing from the bathroom closet. Pulling on clean shorts and socks, I peeked my head out to find the apartment empty. The radio was off. A pot simmered on the backburner.
I stepped into the kitchen where Mom had written on the back of the grocery receipt that they were going to dinner since I wasn't hungry. She left terse instructions for me to put away the food she had cooked. I stretched into a ribbed tank and did as told.
I hadn't been angry with Tony about getting married. Granted, he had never once mentioned a fiance, but, to his credit, I hadn't mentioned my long-time girlfriend to him. I convinced myself I hadn't cheated on her, but it had been an emotional affair. In a different life, Tony and I might have had something amazing.
What I had learned–since my mother wanted to review life lessons–was that I couldn't hide behind appearances and hurt people with half-truths. I was bisexual...and lonely.
I plopped on the couch with phone in hand, patting around for my charger. As the device came on, I impulsively flicked to an adult entertainment site and scrolled. There were hot local singles in my area, it promised. For a nominal fee, I could begin watching now.
A smirk curled my lips, but I came to a video profile of a chic non-binary cam queer. "Mys," I tried out the name. I hit the link to view their page, and my eyes bugged. Forget a nominal fee. The charges for a session with the raven-haired professional started high and kept climbing.
My head lolled, and I made a sound that was part-laughter, part-growl of frustration. "Seriously, Jack, you've fallen so low, you're ready to pay for fantasy sex now?"
My thoughts returned to Tony, to Ravani, to Mr. Cyprian and the crazy genetic experiment we were undertaking. I regretted that the real culprit behind Tony's death had gotten away. Thanks to Detective Ravani, justice might never be served. But revenge was a dish best served cold, and he would never see it coming.
I closed the x-rated website. It wasn't arousal making me restless. Zeroing in on my body, I realized the surges of adrenaline had been building and abating, building and abating. Side effects? I curled my fingers and studied my pulse beating heavily at my wrist. My heart raced. Perplexity stitched my brow. I wondered how long the surges had been flying under the radar. At least since the conversation with my parents.
It'll pass, I reasoned. Just need to burn off the energy.
In the backyard, I kept a set of weights and an old weight bench. The leather was cracked from the elements, held together with duct tape and sheer stubbornness. Sticking my feet in slides, I left the air conditioned apartment for the humid outdoors. It was a reprieve from isolation.
I noticed a hooded teenager scurrying from behind the complex dumpster and wondered how the kid survived in the heat. Across the way, Sunny was up to his usual. Three or four kids stood back observing his balletic transition through Taekwondo moves. The moment I stepped out, Denise made an appearance, too. I waved.
"You're starting classes with Sunny next week, right?" she called. Her disapproval was written on her face. It dawned on me the teen in the hoodie was the same kid who had shut down the parents seeking free babysitting. An impish urge to annoy the Karens came over me.
"Yes, actually, and if you'll excuse me, I think I see one of our future students over there," I announced.
Sunny registered surprise at my impromptu agreement to teach with him, but Denise scowled in the direction in which I pointed. Priceless. As I left the weights to flag down the teenager, I overheard her trying to deter Sunny from trusting me, but he shut her down politely. "I'm sure a woman of your class, caliber, and grace understands the value of second chances," he murmured.
The kid picked up speed at the sound of me coming up behind. I had to jog to catch up. Suddenly, the hapless teen spun around gripping a pocket knife. "Leave me alone, freak!"
"Hey!" I threw my hands up defensively. "I didn't mean to scare you. I wanted to talk to you about the Taekwondo classes."
I got a good look at the kid and realized why they had taken off. The red hoodie had a tear in the elbow and a stain smudging the hem. The baggy pants were a size too big. The sneakers were mud-caked and taped together as staunchly as my weight bench.
"You're homeless," I blurted.
"Unhoused, asshole. Keep up with the politically correct buzzwords." Shouldering a clunky backpack, they strode away.
Another untimely surge of adrenaline spiked through me, but I tamped it down. "No, you're a kid, and you're homeless. What's your name? Where are your parents?" My long legs kept apace with their rapid gait.
The hoodie flopped free to reveal a head full of curly brown hair and a racially ambiguous skin tone. Even the face was a puzzle, not overtly feminine or masculine. There was a tiny zodiac symbol for Gemini tattooed under their left eye. The hand-me-down clothes intentionally hid their frame, but they were a head shorter than me and skinny as a rail.
The pocketknife disappeared as they stopped again to confront me. "Listen, I'll stay away from your apartment, alright? Sometimes when people move out, they leave good shit behind. It goes straight to the trash. Can you believe that? And next time don't alert that stuck-up harpy that I'm around."
"Who? Denise?"
"Yeah, she likes to call the cops on me. Fucking city council passed a new ordinance," the kid muttered, walking faster. "They want to pick up people for being outside. It's outside! It's free! Housing is a scam. Social services is a scam. You're a scam." They jabbed a finger at me.
I fell back a step and watched the kid cut across the parking lot to a busted sidewalk. "I'm not a scam," I called after them. "Yo, if you decide you want real self-protection, instead of that toy knife you're packing, sign up for our class. It starts next week. All we need is your parents' permission."
"Don't got 'em, don't need 'em." They flipped the bird without a backward glance.
Shaking my head, I gave up and returned to my original plan. Burning off energy. Denise and Sunny were gone by the time I resettled on the weight bench. The weird, ramped-up feeling I had experienced most of the morning hadn't faded. So, I loaded the bar–beginning with a quarter of my body weight–and laid back.
As I worked out, I endeavored to make my mind a blank slate. The weekend had been overwhelming. I still didn't quite understand how Mr. Cyprian intended to get what he needed out of me, and my parents' reaction to my disappearance had annoyed me. The teen's reaction to my offer of inclusion had annoyed me. Everything was annoying me, or maybe it was the side effects.
I bench pressed as many reps as I could, as quickly as I could.
Sweat poured. I kept going. My arms and chest flooded with fiery pain. Was I pushing too hard? My core clenched. I huffed and kept going. It wasn't long before Sunny reappeared in his backyard. Somehow, I knew he was watching.
Did he like what he saw? The interplay of dappled sunlight across my skin from the shadows of the ornamental myrtle tree above me. The bulge of muscle, the heart racing hard enough beneath my ribcage to make my torso a rolling mountain, the stars obscuring my vision, the sweat, the breathless rush, the encroaching blackness...