That night I went for a walk. I walked down a path I had never walked before, a path along the river. This path was composed of wood chips, buttressed on one side by the water and on the other by jutting rocks and stands of saplings. Kayakers paddled past. Ducks waddled along the shore. It was dusk. I examined the ground, the pattern the sun made as it shone through the trees, and thought this must be what was meant by "dappled."
The riverfront seemed to me a strange oasis. I nearly forgot I was still in the city. A curious smell wafted off the river, a smell reminiscent of a wet towel left too long in a backpack after a visit to the beach. This smell was not, as one might expect, entirely unpleasant. Rather, it transported me to another place. I imagined myself in another, poorer country, the sort of country where so polluted a river would provide a vital lifeline for hordes of indigents. Most of the people I passed along the path were Mexicans from the neighborhood to the West or Arabs from the neighborhood to the North, and so it was easy to imagine myself somewhere far away.
I thought about another man, a man who is my physical opposite, a man named Gerry, a friend of a friend. Gerry is broad, stocky and brown where I am lanky and pale. His wide arms are wrapped by artful tattoos. I remembered how decisive his palm felt pressed against my lower back. I thought about everything I'd let him do to me were I ever to see him again.
I rounded a corner, and the path opened onto a wide pool beneath a concrete dam. The water pushed and frothed, producing white foam. Blue jeans hugged the rounded buttocks of Mexican boys with fishing poles.
I imagined how thrilling it would be if, as I traveled back down the path toward home, I found Gerry waiting for me around a corner, behind a tree, having followed me. I would press my back against a rock, point my heels heavenward, pull him into me and hum his real name-- "Gerardo, Gerardo, Gerardo…"
The night before, I had gone to a bar. This was the sort of bar where everyone reminds you of somebody else you already know. I spotted my former English teacher on the dance floor, tarted up in black lace and crimson lipstick, the broad arc of her once-dowdy bangs having transformed into something vulgar. My hairdresser, a Yugoslavian immigrant from the chop shop down the block, occupied a table near the door. I had once suspected him of flirting, when, as he pulled my hair through his fingers, he said, "You been to Albania? I think I see you there once." At the time, it reminded me of an article I'd read as a graduate student, about gay cruising zones in some former Yugoslavian city, where ethnic Albanians upend social hierarchies by claiming insertive positions.
Leaning into the bar, I felt a pair of hands settle on my shoulders and turned to see an unfamiliar woman. She wore a sequined tube top, fishnet stockings and that 1920's hairstyle that has recently been all the rage.
"Would you like to play a game?" she said, placing her mouth against my ear and whispering.
"What kind of a game?" I said.
"This game is called two truths and a lie. You will tell me three things. One of them will be a lie. I will guess which."
I thought for a moment. I said, "I have never kissed a woman. I have never been afraid of sex. I was twelve years old when I lost my virginity."
The woman pulled her body around and placed herself between me and the bar. She planted her lips against mine and pushed her tongue into my mouth. She pulled away.
"Now you have either told two lies and a truth," she said. "Or nothing has changed."
"That is most certainly true," I said.
As I walked back home along the path beside the river, I was thrown to the ground by a powerful shove. I lost my balance and struck a rock. I wheezed, shot through with pain. A heavy body settled atop mine and pushed the air from my lungs. I felt hot breath against my neck and heard a zipper unzip. Hands grabbed my pants and yanked them downward, burning my thighs. I felt someone push inside me. He did not take his time. I could not breathe to relax my muscles. They remained rigid and resistant. Each thrust felt like fire. It is likely I bled.
I never saw my assailant. I do not know his color, or the size of his shoes. And after he left me, as I lay upon the rock in a fetal curl, I had no way of knowing whether all I remembered had actually come to pass.
strong, good read, thnx
This has the whole world inside it, Tim.
Wow, Tim. This one takes your breath away. Amazing, heart-wrenching story.
Well written piece. I'm especially drawn to the opening section. Great story.
Amazing.
The line that has always stayed with me about this story is "I do not know his color, or the size of his shoes." That is one of the coolest, creepiest, weirdest lines I've read.
The game for me represents all that is happening in this character's life on a regular basis.
Or maybe it's like that for all of us...
Nice work.
This powerful stuff. You create a sense of danger in the first 2/3 of the story, but before I finished reading, I didn't know it was a sense of danger. It was an unidentified unease. Then you paid it off brilliantly with the assault. I realized at that point this whole story is about trying to navigate through a perilous world. Love that.
I'm always fascinated to see how different people experience this. Especially because I find this character to be a bit cool, intellectual, detached, I'm really interested in the emotion people find in the narrative.
Although it wasn't consciously in my mind while writing, I've always interpreted this piece as questioning the authority of a certain type of mobile 1st world urban gay male subject. I read him as a contemporary flaneur (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fl%C3%A2neur) who watches life in the city rather than participating. ...For me, it's also about the circuitous and unreliable paths our desires take.
Hmm, this doesn't quite work for me. The middle section is very strong, but I feel like you're being coy in parts 1 and 3. FWIW, the emotional also seems to appear for me in part 2, and maybe that's what I'm reacting to. I'd rather see this tackled more directly, especially since I feel like directness is your strong suit. still, sharp writing, strong sensory images. Just not working as a story for me.
Strong, uncompromising story; I usually get bored reading "scenery" beginnings but you kept me planted in this because of the shadowy foreboding. The scenes unravelled one into the next quite effortlessly, his musings were terrific, and a dynamite ending.
I like each part separate as a story on its own,as Rachel said, the middle part is good too but doesnt work with the rest of it really. Otherwise this is good storytelling. And as Susan said, I usually get bored with "scenery" but you did it so well it kept me reading.