Husk (14 page)

He snorted and wiped the corner of his shirt under his nose. “Anyway, that's what your voice reminds me of. Every time. When you talk like that, I hate you. The others too. I can't help it.” He smiled weakly. “But that's acting, right? That's what you're supposed to do, picture dead relatives, get your emotions to the surface, right?”

“Duane, I . . . I had no idea.” A huge lie, but what else could I say? I was suddenly aware of how much closer he was to me on the couch. His skin might as well have been cellophane; all I could see was engorged blood vessels awaiting my inspection and a healthy, veal-tender musculature. He kept talking, but all I could hear was the thick red molasses parading through his body, the
ba-bump ba-bump
of his accelerating heart rate, and the grinding of my teeth.

His eyes crinkled with worry. “Hey, I didn't upset you, did I? It's not like your voice always does that. Only when you're acting. Usually. Otherwise you're fine. I mean, not
fine
, but . . . you know.

“Wait, are you dying, Gary?” he whispered. He looked about the room, as if paparazzi were lingering on the periphery, behind the credenza or perched in the fronds of a fern. “I mean, like, it's cool if you don't want to tell me, I understand. Suffer in silence. I just thought you seemed kind of lonely on set. I can keep a secret.” All I could smell was meat. “Is this why you're lonely? Afraid? I've seen you looking. You look like you want to take a bite out of me. But you're holding it in. You're afraid, and alone. I'm lonely too, right? Maybe we can be lonely together for a while. Make each other feel better.”

My hands tightened into the cushions of the sofa and I willed myself to ignore the hunger screams. The drifterbaloney I had snacked on beforehand had obviously reached its expiration date, and I could feel my stomach muscles contract, physically pushing my stomach closer to Duane in preparation.

I forced myself to stand up. I'd completely misread the evening. “I think it's time I go,” I said. “I need to go. I have to. Feed my cat.”

“Oh, hey, I'm sorry.” Duane bounded to his feet and stepped in front of me. I tensed instinctively at his nearness. “Did I come on too strong?” He looked genuinely hurt. “I do that, I'm sorry, please don't leave. I got a little excited, and fuck!” He started slapping himself across the cheeks. “Stupid, stupid. Damn, I'm so high right now I could visit the space station.”

He halted his self-flagellation and placed a sweaty hand on my arm. The heat from his palm burned through my shirtsleeve and seared its imprint into my skin. My head swam with excitement and the world faded to red. My tongue took a run and shoved mightily against the back of its enamel prison, trying to pry open the teeth. It didn't matter that Duane was a high-profile celebrity whose disappearance would be definitely noticed. His vanishing would be the front item on
Entertainment Tonight
for weeks, but fuck it, I was going to binge on B-lister and screw my career, screw my mother, screw this whole goddamned excuse for an afterlife, all that mattered was giving in to the immediacy of this moment. There was no future to consider, there was only the splatter of blood between my jaws and the slowing pulse of his heart as it lay in my palms.

My stomach let loose a thunderous peal of ravenousness.

Duane's eyes swelled and he started to snicker. “Holy jeez, wow! That was vast! That's so epic!” He began to laugh as the clamor from my belly continued. “Man, when was the last time you ate? Holy shit!” I was on the verge of removing his Adam's apple as an appetizer, but his laughter cut the mist. I felt my appetite calmed by his high spirits. It was also contagious, and soon I was laughing along, albeit as silently as I could.

“I'm sorry about that,” I said finally, after Duane's guffaws had subsided. “I guess I'm a little hungry.”

Duane wiped at his eyes. “Look, please don't leave. I just thought . . . I was getting a vibe from you. You've got this whole mysterious older father figure thing going. I thought—”

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “No harm done.”

“Was I wrong? About the signals?”

“Sort of,” I said. “It's not that you're. It's not that I don't. Find you attractive.” But only as lunch. “It's . . . complicated.”

“You're bi?”

“Christ. Not
that
complicated.”

“What, you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“Yes.” I grabbed at the excuse like a plane crash victim flailing for a floatation device. “He, well. We're maybe getting serious. I don't think I should betray him. It's not that I . . .” Why was I continuing this?
Go home!
I screamed at myself. “D.J., I find you very attractive. But the timing is bad.”

Duane sidled closer. “If you're worried I'll tell about your condition—”

“No, I'm sure you wouldn't.”
You wouldn't survive the night.
My bowels spasmed with wrath. I imagined his tongue in my mouth, wrapping around mine before I bit down, feeling its wriggling as its severed nerve endings reacted to my saliva. “How about a raincheck? A maybe, after the shoot?”

Duane broke out the famous smile that adorned the covers of every cheap tabloid and teen magazine of note. “Raincheck, sure. Hey, tell you what, I'll lay off the snow for the evening, all right? I'll go put on some pants, we'll order some food in, calm that—” he patted my belly, and I nibbled on my lip to keep from nibbling on his “—fire in your oven there. I'll even send someone to feed your cat, okay?”

That made me smile. “No, she'll be fine. But thank you.”

“So, we cool?” I nodded. Duane sighed in relief. “I'm gonna go put something on, okay? You promise not to leave?”

“I'll stay. Right here.”

“Great, that's great.” Duane walked out to the bedroom, chortling as my abdomen let loose another bellow of anger. I made for the door, hoping that he would forgive my silent escape, or that he'd get so high that he'd imagine he dreamed the whole conversation.

“So,” he called from the bedroom. “I guess you figured out I'm gay, right?”

I stopped my exit. Son of a bitch, I didn't want to leave. “Hadn't noticed,” I called back, getting a loud
Haw!
in reply. I could hear him open the doors of his closet as I quickly walked over to the aquarium, my guts chanting
food food fooood
. The tank's inhabitants darted about as I inspected them, each individual fish glowing like a heat-lamped McNugget.

“So, you like Italian?” he yelled out. “To eat?”

“Uh, I guess that'd be okay,” I called back. I think one of the hitchhikers had been Italian. He tasted a little richer, anyway. I rolled up my sleeve, picked out a tantalizing medium-sized parrotfish and thrust my arm into the tank. “Or Chinese, if you prefer.” Hadn't eaten an Asian yet.

“Yeah, I could go for kung pao,” he said over the jangle of metal clothes hangers.

“Really, anything's fine,” I yelled out as I felt slippery scales slide around and then between my grasping fingers. “Sushi would be great right now!”

“Ugh, raw fish, no thanks.”

I snatched the fish from the water and crammed the whole thing into my mouth, groaning with pleasure as its life essence swam down my gullet. I reached in and snared a clownfish, sucking Nemo down with gusto, following that with a few quick snails that had been busy cleaning the glass. The urge to feed abated somewhat. I could hear the shuffle of pants being drawn up over thighs and arms needling themselves through sleeves as I went after an angelfish for a quick dessert, not even bothering to chew this time. Spasms of gratification spiraled through me as it frantically flailed its way down my throat. I walked away from the tank and pretended to admire the depressed artist artwork adorning the wall above the fireplace while I hastily rolled my sleeve back down and patted the dampness of my hand off on a nearby curtain.

“So what's her name?” Duane asked as he re-entered the room. I kept my attention on the artwork, my hand in my pocket to sponge off the last remnants of moisture. “Your cat?”

“Oh. Sofa.”

“Cute.”

“Yes, she is. I like this” I waved vaguely at the painting, a Thomas Kinkade ode to idyllic plains of wheat, perfect for a hotel room in its enthusiastic embrace of banality “thing,” I finished.

“Oh yeah?”

“No, not really.” I turned to face him. He had changed into a stylish sweater and tattered blue jeans, leaving his feet bare. “No, it's shit. Just making conversation. I'm just. Nervous, I guess.”

He smiled. “Didn't have you pegged as a cat person, Gary. Got more of a reptile vibe from you. Seems more your style somehow. No offense.” I shrugged a
de nada
.

We sat back down on the couch, Duane keeping a more respectful distance between us. He flipped open his cell and called down to the concierge, getting a suggestion for good Chinese takeout and leaving the entire contents of the order up to the attendant's discretion. “Just surprise me, 'kay? But make it for two, right? And I want chopsticks included, and there had better be a few fortune cookies in there.”

Aside from the unremitting snarls from my stomach — occurrences I blamed on my condition — the rest of the dinner went by smoothly. While Duane remained true to his word and refrained from his nose candy, I made sure that he felt free to have beer, ensuring he was just buzzed enough not to notice that he was doing all the eating on his own. I snacked on fresh fish during his occasional trips to the bathroom, and by the end of the evening the tank was a far more sparsely attended affair.

As the evening wore on, I let myself relax. I hadn't realized how starved I was for emotional contact with someone, anyone. Sofa could only do so much for my self-esteem. After Dad left the two of us with a small insurance policy to fill the large hole now in our relationship, Mom's demands on my time pretty much ate up any chances I had at a high school romance. Because of my fear I had never formed any lasting friendships as a teen, my sexual desires stowed away in a footlocker beneath my bed, and a calendar of constant auditions and temporary employments furnished me with a social life made up exclusively of professional acquaintances and, if not exactly random, a less-than-predictable sexual schedule. It was easier, I told myself, to function as an actor if I had the freedom to up and leave on a moment's notice, using Mom's slide into incoherence as a crutch to justify my lack of stardom. I kept people at arm's length, even the occasional delectation such as Fisher. As with Mom's constant nattering on how disappointing I had turned out to be, I had acclimatized myself to a life of loneliness without realizing it.

Maybe that's what made me a good candidate for zombiehood — far easier to see humanity as a selection of edible foodstuffs when you lack any emotional attachment to what's on your dinner plate. I wonder how farmers do it. Can you truly enjoy a steak when you've first been its nursemaid and protector? Does the milk taste foul on the tongue?

Were all farmers psychotic? Was I?

As Duane and I talked and laughed — Duane actually had a nicely twisted sense of humor, at odds with his Ashton Kutcher–lite persona; he acted out a few
Goon Show
sketches, and I could not help but admit my admiration for his knowledge of British comedy — I moved past my preconceived notions of his intentions and began to see him as he really was: a handsome, endearing, slightly goofy boy, unseasoned, easily manipulated through flattery, still feeling his way through himself. He was leaning toward self-destructiveness, egged on by a modicum of success and a delegation of flunkies all too willing to leech off him until his money was spent and his prospects dried up. He probably had father issues, which went some way to explaining his desire to hang out with me. But there was a spark in him, an animation that could survive if he somehow withstood the perils of extravagant affluence.

“This was fun,” said Duane at the door. I had begged off his offer for a late movie; there weren't enough fish left to keep Duane safe, so I made an excuse —
it's late, my condition, I need my sleep
.

“Do you think we could do this again?” he asked. He nudged me with his shoulder while he looked at the floor. “I could stay in town for a little while longer after the shoot's over. We could maybe hang out? If you want?”

“That'd be nice, Duane.”

“Call me D.J.”

“I prefer Duane. I had fun tonight. The first time in ages. Thank you.”

“I'll call down to the limo. You just tell the driver where you want to go, he'll take you.”

“Thanks.”

“You'll call me?”

“I'll call.”

Without warning, he raised his arms and hugged me to him. I gritted my teeth and sealed my lips. Duane squeezed me between his biceps, tightly, humming pleasure. Saliva filled my mouth; the warmth of his circulatory system, so near, so easy. I held him close, my sandwich board of a ribcage pressing in. My mouth opened a crack and my teeth brushed against his neck. I let the tiniest hint of air escape my lungs and play with the hairs on his nape. He shivered, and my jaw cracked open.

“You kind of smell, you know,” he said and giggled. “You smell old. I hope it's okay I said that.”

I thought a curse, and let my maw swing open.

“I'm glad I met you,” he said.

I closed my teeth and curled my lips down over them. My grip relaxed at my orders. We loosened ourselves and regarded each other.

“See you tomorrow,” I said. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. There was a pressure in my heart, odd not least because of its being on the fritz. I turned back; Duane still stood in the doorway. “And thank you for this,” I said. “It. It has been a while for me. To talk to someone.”

He gave me a puzzled smile. I waved a hand goodbye, and walked away to the elevators.