St. Nacho's (4 page)

“I borrowed this,” he said. “’Cause I want to understand when you talk.” He held up his own telephone. He took the one he’d given me back and scrolled around until he found the contact setup menu, then keyed in some numbers. “You want to talk to me? Text.” He showed me where he’d added “Shawn” to the contact menu.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to use a cell phone. I just didn’t own one. It’s not like I had a place to send the bill. Or anyone I wanted to talk to. Remembering Oscar’s comments not moments before, I bit back a sarcastic reply and took the phone from him.

I tried the phone experimentally. How come you talk so well? I typed, then sent.

Talk? Shawn replied using his phone. I saw possibilities with this. It would make it easier to avoid talking louder and miming everything I would say.

With your voice, I typed. No one else does that.

“I wasn’t born deaf,” he said. “I had bacterial meningitis when I was four years old.

There was a complication and I had an almost fatal reaction to the antibiotic they used. I can remember talking, and it was something I could work on with teachers.” I see, I typed. Do you remember music?

He nodded. “What did you play last night?”

I bent my head to the phone’s screen and texted, It was called La Habanera, from Carmen, by Bizet.

“Then tonight. ‘La Habanera,’” he said, and tried to show me how to do tonight with my fingers. “You have a musician’s hands. You should learn to sign.” I smiled but I doubt he thought I meant it. I didn’t really. I am lucky people understand when I talk, I texted, thinking it was a good thing the phone had a computer-style keyboard.

Our conversations were going to last hours at this rate.

“You do fine.” He looked at me from under his lashes. “I understand you.” I realized that in silence lay safety, so I said nothing. My hands were still. It was when we talked that I felt uncomfortable. He relaxed his shoulders, and I could tell that, like me, he was allowing the sun to warm him.

“I find you attractive,” he said, without using his hands. “I think you know that.” He looked at me, and I couldn’t say anything.

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He smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wanted you to know anyway.” He held a hand up when I started to text something. “I’m older than I look and I’m out and proud.” He jumped down from the wall. “Just thought you should know.” Shawn left to go back in. It wasn’t long after that when Kevin picked him up in a car, presumably to take him to class. I was still sitting on the wall when they drove out of sight.

I knew what to think then, and I thought it. Thought it and thought it and held it in my mind, but still, when night fell, I was there, my violin ready, to play for Shawn. After I was done with my chores, my hands smelled like garlic and onion and lemon. I washed with dishwashing soap to get the oils off. The scent was next to impossible to remove. I went upstairs and changed from the clothes I was wearing since I definitely didn’t need the remains of my day job on my violin. At least, that’s what I told myself. That I checked my look in the tiny mirror in my studio bathroom wasn’t unintentional, and I even found myself staring back a little, wondering whether I should shave.

I started in the cantina itself, entertaining the couples there, doing a birthday song or two, playing some moody sentimental songs and mariachi favorites. Shawn wasn’t in the house, and I relaxed into that thought, partly because I was glad, and partly because I was disappointed. I closed my eyes and played “Cielito Lindo” from somewhere deep in my memory, on autopilot, and thought about Shawn. It wasn’t his day to work; he hadn’t been there all afternoon. It was unlikely that he’d want to spend his day off at the very restaurant where he bused tables. It also didn’t seem likely that Kevin, who had some sort of prior relationship with him, would want to spend the evening here either.

As if my thoughts conjured him, Shawn entered the bar with his friends. They took the same table on the patio they’d taken the evening before, and this time Kevin went off and got drinks. Shawn waved at me. I waved back with the neck of my violin. One of the men at the table where I was playing gave me a buck and asked me to play “Happy Birthday” for his boyfriend. I ended up playing both “Happy Birthday” and “Las Mañanitas” and moved on.

Someone wanted to hear something more modern, and I searched my brain until I came up with “Sex and Candy,” a Marcy Playground song I’d been rather fond of at one time. I played it as I walked around the tables, smiling and nodding at the customers. I knew how to do this.

After my song was over, I turned, and right behind me, as if he were waiting for me, was Shawn. I held my violin to my side.

“You said you would play ‘La Habanera’ for me,” he said. “I’m waiting; it’s tonight.” He made the little gesture that said tonight with his hands.

I put my violin under my chin and played. I didn’t have to place his hand on it this time; tentatively at first, but then with more certainty, he pressed his fingers to the underside of the instrument while I played. At first I found myself trying to look everywhere but at him, but it was hopeless. I couldn’t help it; I wanted those eyes. I wanted to see what he was thinking. And I could. He was that transparent. He smiled a half smile as his body 18 Z. A. Maxfield

began to rock to the rhythm of the music, which, of course, was a dance. Time passed and we found ourselves swaying back and forth to the earthy melody until I was done. He clapped like a delighted child.

“I could feel it. Felt the rhythm,” he said, thumping his chest in a rhythm as though he were listening to it. “I feel sound.”

“I see,” I said.

“We are all performers.” He gestured to his group. “We sing.” Something on my face must have shown my disbelief, because he made a gesture at me and said, “Ear snob,” and his friends signed in agreement.

“Do you know the song ‘You Raise Me Up’?” asked Shawn.

I nodded. If I hadn’t played that in about three-dozen weddings and at least as many graduations, I hadn’t played it at all. I’d played it for my own sister’s college graduation party.

Shawn motioned to Kevin, who went to the equipment that the DJ would be using later that night and started pressing buttons. I looked to Jim to see if he knew the kid was fooling with his sound system. When I got his attention, he flicked a glance at Kevin and then shrugged as if to say, “No sweat.” I guessed this might not be the first time they’d done this.

Shawn nodded to his friends and stood talking to them for a few minutes. They arranged themselves in a semicircle, and I didn’t know what to expect. Some of the other patrons gathered round. Shawn nodded to Kevin, who started the music and turned it up loud. The song had been made famous by Josh Groban, but I had originally found it in music school and liked it because it was a kissing cousin of “Londonderry Air.” Shawn and his friends began to interpret the lyrics in American Sign Language, but more, they danced the words. It’s a pretty but bland song, the lyrics the kind to guarantee shimmering eyes at a gooey, emotional wedding. Great song for the dance with Dad, I had always thought a little cynically.

Yet watching Shawn and his friends sing it, their lovely hands moving in both rhythm and harmony was so beautiful no words could really describe it. It was visually musical in a way I could never have expressed. I found watching them “sing” transcended my preconceived notions of what music was and wasn’t. For a man who had lived all his life by his ears, I found myself rethinking my world. Mostly I watched Shawn, who seemed incandescent and radiated warmth to me, even though like the sun, he might as well have been ninety-three million miles away.

I guess I should have expected Shawn to follow me to my room afterward, except I thought Kevin wouldn’t allow it. I was getting out of the shower when I heard the knock at my door. I really was surprised to find Shawn standing there.

“Hey,” he said, taking in the fact that I only had a towel around my waist.

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“Hey,” I said, not opening the door to him. I kept my body in the way, blocking both the entrance and the view into the spartan little room.

“I came to say thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” At least I would make this difficult.

“I want to come in.” His hand came up to smooth my wet hair behind an ear. “I like your tattoo.” He pointed at the fetish tattoo I’d gotten years before, a heart with a whip sort of strangling it.

“Look,” I said, trying to make my words visible, “you seem like a nice guy…” He pushed my chest, and suddenly, he was in the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“Do I?” he asked, and it was as if he were two different people. “Do I seem like a nice guy to you?” He continued to touch me, and now he was running his thumb over the piercing in my eyebrow.

I think my eyebrows took off somewhere over my head. Warm brown eyes watched me, waiting for me to say something. He was sort of grinning, as though he were laughing at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Nice guy.” Whatever he was doing to unbalance me was just that. I knew he was nice. The way my mother used nice when I was a kid: Don’t touch that, it’s not nice; be nice; play nice; he’s a nice boy, the opposite of which was always the implied nasty.

Shawn was not a nasty boy. But I was.

I fell to my knees and began unbuckling his belt. He jumped back a little, clearly primed and ready but not for the speed at which things were progressing between us. My towel fell off and puddled on the floor. I yanked hard on the button at the top of his jeans.

“Oh, hey!” He gave a little yelp. I rubbed at his cock behind his zipper. I was careful in case he wore no underwear, but found he did. I unzipped him and pulled his shorts down to get a good look. He was hard and huge, his cock thudding into my hands, leaving a wet trail behind. He’d obviously been looking forward to something happening between us, and I really couldn’t say I blamed him. I was too. I gave the underside of his dick an experimental lick and held my hand out for a condom.

“Latex?” I asked, looking up. He seemed shocked. His hands trembled as he reached for his wallet. “Condom?” I asked, trying to mouth the word clearly.

“I have one,” he said.

“Only one?” I held up one finger as a question. I had some, but being a son of a bitch didn’t require that I mention that.

“Yes,” he said, stroking my hair tentatively. He was looking at me, but I had the advantage -- I didn’t have to watch him to hear him and I took it.

20 Z. A. Maxfield

“Okay then.” I got up and walked over to the bed, got on all fours, and looked back at him. I don’t know what my plan was. I’m not sure I had one. “Come here.” I crooked my finger.

Shawn said nothing and the silence kind of drew out between us as I continued to look at him over my shoulder. I could read his open face. Then the coin dropped for him on what I wanted and how I wanted it. I could see the exact moment when he made up his mind to give it to me. He dropped his trousers and kicked them off, and lurched up behind me on the spongy bed. He slapped me so hard on the ass that it stung, then leaned over and spit --

which I had to give him credit for -- into my hole like a porn star and started working me.

Moments later, he put on his condom and entered me. He caught my forehead in his hand and pulled me back on him so he could grab my cock with his free hand and still keep his balance. He pounded me and worked my cock and then bit me and came.

So did I.

If someone asked me for the definition of hoist with my own petard, right then I would have given him an autographed picture. Shawn pulled me to him hard and licked where he’d bitten before we collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed.

Without thinking, I said, “You’ve done this before.” He tightened the arm over my waist.

“Save it,” he said. “Unless I can see your lips, you’re an inflatable doll.” He removed the condom and tied it before making the shot right into the wastebasket across the small room for three points. I could feel his muscles relax even though mine remained frozen.

Eventually, although I had no idea how long it took, he drifted off to sleep. I could feel his deep, even breathing, and heard a subtle snore.

Carefully, I turned around to look at him. Crap, he was gorgeous. He had high cheekbones and eyebrows that sort of feathered over large, deep-set eyes. His mouth was a wet dream, thick and luscious, kissable and bitable, slightly open and relaxed. I didn’t dare touch him.

I slid cautiously off the bed and made my way to the shower, where I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it and let it wash over me. I tried not to feel as though I’d cheated myself, and Shawn, because there wasn’t anything more I could really give him. I couldn’t decide whether or not I wanted him to be there when I got back to bed, but he was. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if he’d still be there in the morning, but he wasn’t. And for the first time in years, maybe I got exactly what I’d asked for, but not at all what I wanted.

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Chapter Four

Apparently on Saturdays Shawn joined the rest of the staff for breakfast. I was distracted by Oscar’s pointed looks in my direction and Shawn’s rather disturbing determination to ignore me. For once, it wasn’t me avoiding eye contact. It was pointless to worry about it; it was Saturday and I was certain I would be moving on by Sunday afternoon.

I already had seventy-five dollars in tips, and if I slept outside I could go a long time on that.

I bused my dishes and went to the convenience store for cigs. I saw Kevin when I was on my way back, driving Shawn someplace, probably not to school on a Saturday. As usual, they were in animated conversation, a term I hadn’t given much thought to before I met them. It was a wonder they managed to keep enough hands on the wheel to steer the car, and a miracle that it didn’t go skidding off the road. Shawn saw me but kept his eyes straight ahead. I felt like a shit, but I knew it was for the best.

When I got back to the bar, I thought I ought to tell Jim it was time for me to be moving on. Jim was getting ready to open and was checking his stock.