Authors: Pender Mackie
Val faced him, chest heaving. “Sure you are. Just like you’re going to come out.” Jesse staggered as if he’d taken a physical blow. His eyes stung. “Fuck you.” Val’s shoulders sagged. His body seemed to collapse in on itself. He stepped
forward, hands outstretched. “Jesse, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“Don’t say another word. You can’t keep saying whatever the hell you like and
then make it all better by saying you didn’t mean it.”
Jesse found his shirt and tugged it on as Val stood silent, biting his lip. He’d tucked his hands under his armpits as if to prevent himself from reaching out.
“Jesse, please…”
In the hall Jesse stopped to grab his jacket and put on his shoes. He’d left his socks in the bedroom. Too damn bad. He swiped angrily at his eyes and let himself out of the apartment.
Jesse started to walk, letting his anger dictate his speed. If he’d been subconsciously hoping for some kind of dramatic reconciliation, for Val to drive after him, tires screeching, or call to apologize and beg him to come back, it didn’t happen. The street remained empty, and his cell phone stayed stubbornly silent.
After a couple of blocks Jesse slowed. He’d told Val not to try to apologize, so what did he expect? He’d gone way too far. They both had. Should he go back and try to talk it out? Explain about Ben and high school?
Reluctantly he decided they both needed some time to cool off. If he went back now, they could start fighting again, and then their relationship might be over for good. He was smart enough to know his anger was fueled by embarrassment and hurt. Val didn’t trust him, and that stung, but then he’d kept a lot of things from Val.
Jesse chewed furiously on his thumbnail. He could fix this. Show Val he was serious. He’d go home, work on his résumé, and tomorrow he’d give his notice. If he had to, he could live on his savings for a while, though it shouldn’t take long to find another job. He’d come clean about high school and Ben. Sure, it was awkward and humiliating to talk about. He’d acted like a chicken back then, but he’d been a kid. Val would cut him some slack. Especially if Jesse showed how much he’d changed by coming out to his coworkers. He didn’t care about being hassled or ostracized anymore. Not if the alternative was losing Val.
Jesse straightened his shoulders. It had taken him a few years, but he wasn’t that dumb, scared high school kid now. He was finally ready to fight for the things he believed in.
The next morning Jesse woke early. Chris had come home late and was in still in bed when he left. Chris might have been a good person to talk things over with, but Jesse had made his decision, and he was too restless to stay in the apartment.
He’d called and left a message for Mike when he got home the night before, but Mike hadn’t called him back yet. Maybe he hadn’t gotten in till late. It didn’t matter. Jesse would catch him tonight at the show.
He headed down to the strip and roamed around, killing time until the admin office opened. It was relatively early for Vegas. Even though it was sunny and the temperature was in the midseventies, there weren’t too many people about. The strip looked like the site of an outdoor party after everyone had gone home.
He wandered down the sidewalk, shuffling through last night’s discarded business cards and flyers advertising hot girls and sexy good times. That was another thing unique to Vegas. Ordinary-looking men and women stood on the sidewalk every night. Known locally as porn slappers, they tried to attract tourists’ attention by rapidly slapping the business cards together, making a clicking sound like cards being shuffled. If you were dumb enough to take the offered card, you’d see a photo of a nearly naked woman, a phone number, and a promise to deliver the girl to your hotel room in less than twenty minutes. It was a weird setup. Though the state of Nevada did have legal brothels, prostitution was illegal in Vegas and the surrounding county.
Jesse wasn’t sure if the women were illegal prostitutes or if it was just another way to con tourists. He’d heard stories of escorts and strippers coming to a tourist’s hotel room and demanding crazy fees for nothing more than a striptease, but he suspected the right amount of money could buy much more.
He treated himself to a coffee and a Danish, and when he reached the Bellagio Hotel, he sat on a bench. The famous fountain show didn’t start until midafternoon, so he had the view of the stately old-world-style hotel and its massive man-made lake to himself. He sipped his coffee and bit into the Danish.
That first time he and Val had planned to watch the fountains, he’d run into Ben Mitchum and couldn’t appreciate the show. But Ben hadn’t spoiled it for him permanently. He’d seen the spectacular display with Val a few times since then, and every time he’d enjoyed the sight. Toward the end of one show they’d slipped away from the crowd and checked out the hotel.
Jesse had stared up at the hundreds of handblown glass flowers covering the lobby’s ceiling. Something about them—maybe their fluted edges or the way the light shone through them from above—reminded him of sea anemones and jellyfish. He stared until he got a crick in his neck. Val had teased him, but he’d promised if he ever became a famous writer, they’d stay at the Bellagio.
A lump of sticky pastry lodged in his throat. Jesse washed it down with the last of his coffee and threw the rest of the Danish in a nearby trash can. He glanced at his watch and touched the resignation letter in his jacket pocket. Time to do the right thing.
The show was over, and it was time for the meet and greet, but Jesse had other plans. He found Mike heading down the hallway, his motorcycle jacket on, helmet tucked under his arm.
Mike frowned. “What’s wrong, Jesse?
Jesse hesitated. He didn’t want to talk about his resignation while there was a possibility Chaz or any of the other dancers could overhear them. He’d given his notice in writing as soon as the office opened, but he hadn’t told Chaz or anyone else yet. He needed to, before Chaz found out through someone in the office, but he was working up to it. He could only handle one life-altering action per day.
Mike’s frown deepened. “Is something going on with you and Val?” “Nothing’s going on with me and Val,” Jesse said. It was technically true. They hadn’t communicated since he’d stormed out of Val’s apartment. He wanted to get things rolling, show he was serious about making changes before he tried to patch it up with Val. After some of the things he’d said, he wasn’t sure Val would still want to be with him. He bit at the corner of his thumbnail, realized what he was doing, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying not to look miserable.
They rode to Mike’s house, a small stucco rancher on a quiet street. The peachcolored gravel in place of grass had surprised Jesse the first time he’d seen the postagestamp-sized front yard, but in this climate it made sense.
Jesse swung his leg off the bike. He’d ridden with Mike a few times before, though this was the first time he hadn’t had a helmet. It probably wasn’t smart to ride without one, though not against the law. Mike had offered to head to a bar on the strip since he hadn’t brought his spare helmet to work. It wasn’t all that comfortable riding pillion, but Jesse loved Mike’s Norton Commando, though nowhere near as much as Mike did.
He listened patiently every time Mike explained how the British bikes had been built until the seventies. How his bike was a “true” Commando that had been remanufactured in Oregon in the nineties with newly manufactured parts and a boredout twin.
Jesse didn’t know what that meant, not really. He’d never been interested in cars or motorcycles, but he liked the way the bike looked and sounded. The chance to ride and feel the wind in his hair, just once, was too good to pass up. Besides, here they could talk without any chance of being overheard.
Jesse flopped onto Mike’s couch. He hadn’t been over in a while, but nothing had changed, except the fig tree had finally died. The last of its leaves lay around the base of its pot, curled and shriveled like desiccated insect carcasses. Unopened junk mail was still piled up in a wicker basket at one end of the coffee table. A few envelopes had spilled over onto the table’s surface.
Mike scooped up an empty coffee cup and a newspaper opened to a halfcompleted crossword. “I’ll get us some beers.”
“Thanks.”
Mike headed to the kitchen, and Jesse sat, trying to decide where to begin. “Here we go.” Mike dropped onto the cushion beside him and pushed a six-pack onto the coffee table. He handed Jesse a can and took a long drink from his own. “Damn, that hits the spot.” He turned to Jesse. “Okay, kiddo, what’s the deal?”
Jesse fiddled with his beer can.
“Is the stripping getting to you?”
Jesse stared at him, surprised. “What makes you say that?”
Mike shrugged. “You’re good, but I can tell it’s not really your thing.”
Mike’s words tugged at Jesse’s conscience. He wondered who else could tell. Chaz? The audience? He didn’t want to think he was doing a bad job. He took a deep breath. “I handed in my notice today. I only have two weeks left.”
He tilted his beer and drank as he waited for Mike’s response. He didn’t give a damn if he inconvenienced Chaz, but he didn’t like feeling that he was letting down the other dancers or being disloyal to Mike.
Mike sighed. “I knew this would happen eventually. I’ll miss seeing you every day.”
“We can still hang out,” Jesse told him, relieved he wasn’t annoyed.
“Yeah, sure. We can meet for beers or grab something to eat.”
The condensation from the beer can made his hand wet. Jesse dried his palm on his jeans. “Chaz doesn’t know yet.”
“I gathered that. You’ve still got all your limbs,” Mike said drily.
“I’m joking,” Mike said. “He’ll be pissed, and it won’t be pretty, but he’s not gonna hurt you.”
“No,” Jesse agreed.
“He might out you,” Mike warned. “Not because he’s a vindictive asshole—at least I don’t think he’s vindictive, though he’s definitely an asshole—but when he’s mad, Chaz isn’t too worried about someone else’s privacy.”
Jesse swallowed. “I can handle it. It’s only two weeks, and anyway, I’m done with the closet.”
Mike’s gaze sharpened. “Are you coming out for Val?”
“It takes courage, Jesse, but if it’s your own decision, it’s not as hard. You can’t always choose who knows you’re gay, but remember, you don’t have to tell everyone either. Sometimes it makes sense to stay out of the limelight.”
“Do it as soon as you see him tomorrow. Before rehearsal starts. Don’t try to make excuses or sugarcoat it. Just tell him straight-out that you’re leaving in two weeks. If you can, tell him in private. He’ll be less likely to scream at you.”
“If no one’s there to see, he doesn’t have to make an example of you or try to save face.” Mike helped himself to another beer and handed Jesse his second. “He’ll still be mad, but he won’t be playing to an audience.”
Mike gave Jesse an apologetic look. “Sometimes I feel kind of bad that I got you into this.”
“Nah.” Jesse shook his head. “It was fun for the first few months, and the pay was amazing.”
“No?” Mike put down his beer and gave Jesse his full attention. “What, then?” “I worked in my parents’ diner until I moved here. Remember?” At Mike’s nod he continued. This was why he’d skipped the meet and greet, to pick Mike’s brain. “I’m thinking I’ll get a job as a waiter or even in a kitchen. If you know of anyone who’s looking for staff, or if there’s places I should steer clear of…”
“I know guys at a couple of places. I’ll ask around for you.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
Mike turned away and straightened the pile of junk mail. “You gonna be okay for
money?” he asked gruffly.
Jesse was touched by Mike’s generosity. “Yeah. I had savings before I came to
Vegas, and I’ve still got most of my wages.”
He blushed. He’d never told anyone this part before. “I’ve always had this crazy
idea of running my own bar. Not a dance club. A bar. Maybe serve food. Nothing fancy,
just sandwiches or pizza.”
Mike’s surprise was almost comical. “In Vegas?”
“No. Not here. Somewhere less fake.” Jesse hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Less transient.” A place where the customers were regulars.
“Starting a business takes a lot of money.”
“Maybe you should look for work in a bar. Get some experience for your own business.”
“Yeah,” Jesse said slowly. “That’s not a bad idea.”
Mike rubbed his chin. “Either way, you’ll need to get the right work cards to serve food or alcohol.”
“I’ve got my Sheriff’s card.” He’d had his fingerprints taken and the standard background check when he’d been hired to dance. “That lets me work in Vegas. Isn’t that enough?”
Mike shook his head. “No, but that’s the hardest one to get. The other two are easy. To serve food you need a health card. You’ll get a hepatitis A shot when you get that one, and even for a bar porter or bar back job you’ll still need your alcohol awareness card. You need to pass a course, but I think you can take the class online. Val would know.”
Mike bumped his shoulder. “You’re not scared of needles, are you?” “No.”
“Good.” He dropped his empty beer can on the coffee table. “Ready for another?”