Dignity - a novel - 13. Chapter 13: Rooftop Stars

Chapter 13: Rooftop Stars

Dau comes into our room, and he's anxious.

"Daddy wants to see you, in his office."

"Something important?" I hesitate to ask.

"I don’t know. But you better go."

It's still afternoon, and the mid-October light falls across Dau's blinds to spill out onto his floor, and my bed. I swallow hard, stand and ask him, "Hey man, tell me ok? I've been here two weeks, do you think I fit in, and have pulled my weight?"

"Sean, you're great. Don’t worry, Daddy loves you."

˚˚˚˚˚

Me and Lincoln stand in front of Daddy's desk.

He tells us with no particular emotion, "You two are going on a special date, downtown. Put on white shirts, dress slacks, and sport coats."

He focuses on his phone.

"But," I stammer. "I don’t have any dress clothes."

Still looking at his phone, he tells me, "Kid, look in Dau's closet. His stuff will fit you."

Lincoln sort of half sneers, half chuckles: "Yeah, Kid…"

"I've sent the address, room number, and perts to your e-mail, Linc. Be there by six on the dot. Got it?"

"Yes, Daddy," Lincoln says, and ushers us out of the office.

˚˚˚˚˚

The subway car headed downtown is almost empty. I guess it would be this time of day, with everyone heading for the hills, home, and the 'burbs.

Linc and me sit side-by-side. He's listening to tunes on his phone. As some of it leaks out his earbuds, I am surprised to hear strings. I guess I thought he'd be into head-banger music, LOL, or some droning goth shit.

We're dressed pretty slick, or at least Mr. Oliver is! He has on a jacket that is cut on the causal side of loose, but it is super chic; it's a dark-dark blue with just the tiniest little metal-color pinstripes. The upper part is open, and his chest is clothed in starched white crispness.

I look ok in Dau's slacks and jacket, but I know I look like I've borrowed them, cuz they are a little tight. Linc, on the other hand, looks like he belongs in those clothes, cuz he wears them, and they don’t wear him. You know what I mean. :-)

I nudge his elbow. "What are you listening to?"

"Walden."

"Phew! – that's cool. I have all their stuff back home."

He takes out his earbuds, and sneers in disbelief: "No way."

"Yeah," I feel my eyebrows making my point for me. "I do. Come on you know all their stuff is in German, so I have Blatter Fallen, Before I Wake; I have all of it – I love them all."

"How did you get into them? I mean, it's pretty particular."

"I guess I got into neo-folk about a few years ago. I was sick – nausea and in pain, and crap – and it helped me pull through. I'd just tune into the music and feel its connectedness with Nature and shit, and I could let the pain go."

Lincoln Oliver's professionally stoic eyes probe my face. He's looking for signs of bullshit; I know, I do that too, especially with other hustlers. His mouth relaxes a little. The full curve of his lower lips loosens and turns a warm cherry color, and the upper part of his mouth almost forms a smile.

"I've never met," he lets out real slow. "Any guys into my music. That's cool."

I grin like a moron, and feel a bit of heat rise from my collarbone. "Yeah, way cool. And, I never knew guys like you could be into neo-folk."

His left eyebrow rises in mock ire, but his violet eyes twinkle. "Guys, like me?"

"Yeah – jocks; cool guys."

He pauses in a way that makes me think he is caught between wanting to blush, and beat my ass.

Instead of doing either, Lincoln Oliver, blinks, lowers his gaze, and then turns his palms flat over the top of his slacks. These hands stop and hold a grip on his lower thighs, right above the knees.

There is something really beautiful about Linc, it's like what Daddy said about The Well of Loneliness, but when I stare into his lapis-jade depths, there is stillness there. Like, I'm looking through the rooftop opening of a cavern, and below me moves deep, calm, and reflecting waters from an ancient source.

"You think I'm cool?" he suddenly asks, not sounding like himself.

I know what I want to do, so fuk, I guess I'm gonna do it.

"Hella kool," I tell him, and place my hand on top of his.

After a long moment, where he just seems to look at my hand there, and do nothing else, his fingers slowly rotate and form a set of spider legs as they turn into my palm. Then his hand opens, and our fingers lace together for a moment before he pulls them away.

He glances up at me. "You're not too bad either." Then he laughs, "Now that you got rid of that awful tourist jacket."

"You ever been to Universal Studios?"

"Sure, but you won't see me as a walking billboard for them!"

˚˚˚˚˚

It is still light as we get out of the station, although the color in the sky is tinged with a shadow of some orange stuff.

We go to a five-star hotel, and Linc has a discreet word with the concierge.

Next thing I know, we are in the private elevator that only goes one place – the penthouse, 30 stories up.

As we watch the floors lights flicker over the door, Lincoln adjusts his jacket by holding onto his shirt cuffs, and shaking his torso.

"Listen – "

"Sean."

"Yeah, I know dummy. Just, when we get up there, never take a drink mixed by the client. Only ever accept an unopened bottle or can, or if you can see him open it in front of you – Sean – and where you can watch what he does with it. Get it?"

"Um, but…"

"Roofies," he says with urgency. "E, or whatever – even ketamine – you never know what some of these sick fucks have in mind, especially when they see a sweet-faced innocent like you before them."

I laugh a bit. "Yeah, Special K. The breakfast of losers."

"Got that right."

"But otherwise, that's a good tip, man. Thanks."

He grins wide open. "It's Linc."

I smirk darkly at him. "Yeah, I know dummy."

He drives his shoulder into my chest in a playful way.

˚˚˚˚˚

The elevator door opens into a kind of glass birdcage. The main room of the penthouse is floor-to-ceiling windows, and a broad circle of them stretches from one side to the other. 'This whole floor must be round,' I think.

There is a dark-complexioned man wearing only a white bathrobe sitting on the sofa.

We walk towards him.

He is leaning down with his head bent over the glass-top coffee table. He inhales, pinching one nostril closed, then repeats with the other side.

He leans back, wiping his nose, and spreading his arms and legs open. Now I notice several glasses and a champagne bucket on the table too. The neck of a bottle wrapped in a linen napkin sticks out.

"Are you the Elite boys?"

Lincoln speaks up, "Yes, sir." Then he laughs: "You start partying without us?" The jock shoots me a wary glance.

The man rises with a pissed-off glow. He strides right up to Lincoln's face. "Who do you think you are, hmm, asshole!"

I could hear what I perceived to be an Arabic accent.

Lincoln, in full professional mode, laughs low and soft. "Hey man, we're all good. It's time to relax. Right?"

The man glances at me. "And you? What do you think? I forgot that this is a democracy, and even the queer-boi whores can speak what they like." He's sweating hard from his forehead, and his eyes look black and crazed.

"Phew…I, I…" I stumble over my own thoughts.

Lincoln steps up. "Sir, you need to know that we are here to entertain you." He leans in and feels below the man's robe.

This placates the man, cuz his eyes roll back in his head, and he sighs loudly.

"But," Linc adds. "Cash first." He takes his hand away.

The client steps back, and a new swagger informs his walk. He goes to the sofa, where his clothes are laid out, and fishes out a great choking wad of cash. It is round, like the old-fashioned haystacks you can see off to the side of country roads. This bundle is as thick as man's palm, bound with a blue and fat produce rubber band that cuts Franklin's portrait right over his eyes – like his identity is blocked for his own protection.

The sweaty dude in the robe plops the roll of cash on the corner of the coffee table and stands back.

Lincoln smiles and goes for the wad. The man frowns severely and latches onto Linc's wrist.

"You are hurting me, sir."

"Elite, eh? Maybe I was expecting more – maybe that amount of 'donation' is too generous for the meager performance you and your cocksucker girlfriend are going to give me tonight."

"Rules, sir. Cash up front, before we show you why we are the best." Lincoln Oliver forcibly wrests his hand free.

"No," the man sneers. "Service first. You!" He glares at me. "Come here."

I step over to him. The man's face is pocked, and the oily sheen I took for sweat, may just be a skin condition.

He licks his lips, and tousles my hair. "Punk, eh? You like blue hair?"

"I like what pleases my gentlemen, sir."

"Smart answer."

Suddenly the hand in my hair latches on with searing force, then his other hand goes up and grabs on too.

"Ough!" I cry out, my eyes narrowing, "That hurts!" He pushes on my head, pinching on my hair harder and harder. I fall to my knees.

"Please, sir – Stop!" I plead with my eyes upturned to his. Through their half-closed slits, I see a dark shadow appear above and behind the man's maniacal leer. A dull thump follows, and the man's grip instantly releases. The dude slumps to the floor unconscious, and as his body falls, I can see Lincoln standing behind him with an unopened champagne bottle in his hand.

"You all right, kid?" he asks.

I swallow and rub my head. "Yeah."

"Then, let's bounce."

He lets the bottle slip to the carpeted floor, step over the oily man, and pulls me up by the scruff of Dau's jacket. He lightly shoves me towards the elevator door, and lunges for the fat wad of cash.

˚˚˚˚˚

Out of the elevator, we start running down the sidewalk.

"Who the fuk was that!?" I shout up ahead.

"Some Gulf State, Emirates, prince, sultan's son, shithole – that's who!"

All of a sudden, Lincoln ducks into an open door. I follow. This is the service corridor of one of the older, ornate buildings. Up ahead of us is a staircase, and Lincoln bounds up it.

"Come on!" he calls after me as I hesitate.

˚˚˚˚˚

Winded and aching severely in my joints, I get to the roof, and Lincoln is waiting for me. As I clear the door, he grabs it and uses a small block of wood to keep it from locking us out.

I stumble into the open area up here, sorta propelled by the energy and momentum that carried me up the steps.

I stop, and look around, or maybe what really happened is I was stopped, for the view is incredible. The sky is fiery orange with the sun already apparently sizzling the waters farther to the west. All around this older building, taller and more modern high-rises afford us a canyon view of glinting glass and sparkle from metal frames.

"Shit," I admire breathlessly. "Look at this place!"

"Yup."

Lincoln Oliver does not seem too impressed. As I bend to stand with open palms on my knees, my head tracks to see him strolling past me and taking off his jacket. He walks casually over to a skylight that is like a mini greenhouse, and sits with his back against it. He drapes his jacket over his lap and leans back on the glass. He puts his hands behind his head. I am pretty shocked by his calmness. Where's his adrenaline, where's his fight-or-flight freneticism?

Linc coolly reaches into his pants pockets and pulls out his phone and stringy earbuds.

I pace before him, then feel hot and struggle to take off Dau's tight sports jacket.

Lincoln says, as he plays with his phone, "Relax. These things happen, and Daddy has contingencies in place. See, he wants us to take care of each other as priority one; he wants to keep us safe. He's good at smoothing things over. I've already texted him…Sean!"

"What!"

"Stop pacing. Did you hear me say relax?"

"Um…" As I think that over, and toss around the jacket in my hands, I realize I've split it open at the back seams.

"Shit!" I stand there and force Linc to look at the damage. "See that! That fuker made me ruin Dau's coat. My roommate is gonna kill me."

"No, he won't. He'll understand, and he'll laugh at the situation. Look at it this way, Sean – we're lucky we still had our pants on!" He laughs and turns his sparkling peepers on me. They are kinda tender, but still chuckling at me.

"Come here," he says. "And sit. You're making me antsy. Sit, boy!"

I inhale a deep breath and slide down right next to him.

"How old are you?" he asks me.

"Real or fake age?"

"Both."

"Eighteen, fake. Seventeen, real. You?"

"Twenty, fake. Eighteen, real." He gathers his thoughts. "Where are you from?" Lincoln already thinks he knows: "Somewhere in the Midwest, I'd guess."

"Ohio."

He purses his lips. "Yup. Can I tell 'em, or what!"

"And you?"

"Bay Area."

"Oh, cool. I hear it's nice."

"If you're rich, and buy into the whole 'California Dreamin' crap, then yes, it's 'nice.'"

I tease him: "L.A. more your speed?"

"Hell yeah. And you? You like it here?"

"It's cool. Lots to do and the people are real chill. I like that. Too many closeted and uptight assholes in Ohio."

He laughs loud. "You mean that, literally?"

I blush. "No…I mean, I don’t know."

That answer only makes him laugh harder, and gives me a chance to see that sparkle in his blue-green eyes effortlessly match the beauty of the sunset blooming all around us.

"So you didn't trick back in the Buckeye State?"

"Un-uh."

Lincoln grows kinda quiet. "I remember my fist date was a real disaster – I mean nothing violent, but still – he couldn't keep it up, and I was so nervous, I barely got it up. In the end we watched some straight porn, jackin,' and he later slipped me a twenty as a 'donation.'"

"That was in SF?"

"Near it."

"Long time ago?"

"Um, well – a few years back. And you, I bet your first date was a lot more recent."

"Don’t tell the other boys?"

"I won't."

"Well, after I first came to L.A., I stayed a couple nights with these UCLA students – two guys and two girls – who are total e-tards. One of the girlfriends wanted to make it with me, but when I told her I only like guys, and guys only, she – I don’t know what happened – she told her cute Latino BF that I tried to rape her in the shower, or some such bullshit, and at three in the morning, he starts wanting to beat my ass."

"So, what'd ya do?"

"I grab my stuff, and there I am around Plummer Park at 3:30 AM, and this white Bentley pulls up. Some old guy offers me sixty bucks to let him go down on me – so – easy money, and I had enough to get me through for a few days. And, well, you know, so on and so forth. Now I'm an 'Elite ho,' just like you!"

He doesn't like my goody-two-shoes smirk, cuz he punches my shoulder with a slow motion smack. "And that was…how long ago?"

"Four months."

"Well, you're lucky Daddy found you before some nickel-and-dime pimp got you wasted on meth, or crack, and then had you trapped. That happens everyday out here, every day, don’t you doubt it. So, Sean – do you feel lucky?"

I nod, and I bet color comes to my face too. "Pretty lucky. And everybody at the house is nice, except your bud Damien. What's wrong with him anyway?"

Linc's mood darkens. "Hey," he warns. "Rule of being in a house is, you do not talk about one of us behind his back. You have something to say to Damien, say it to him."

"I didn’t mean…"

"I know. But you have to think of it this way – we all have shit in our background that makes us act the way we do now. Just…" he pauses. "Just, don’t judge. It's not fair."

Oh fuk, this Lincoln Oliver is as fair on the inside as he is to look at on the exterior. I wait a moment for him to know I am serious when I ask, "So, is that the kind of shit that made you leave the Bay Area?"

Linc draws his knees up to his chest and holds on; it looks kinda defensive, but he pivots his face to mine, rests his cheek on his kneecaps and tells me, "There are too many haters in the Bay Area."

"But, I thought San Francisco, is like a Mecca…"

"That's the city, and that's if you are independent and have your own money. I'm talking about growing up there, in the suburbs. I mean, why have family, if they're just gonna judge?"

"Ah, man. I'm sorry your family life is like that."

Lincoln leans back, and takes a deep breath. "It's just too much. I feel I need to think about me and my feelings, instead of worrying about 'them,' and their expectations for me. All I did was give and give in, and hurt both myself and them by making them think I wanted any of the same shit they did. I had to start thinking about me first, you know. Stop thinking about others first, cuz the truth is, they never gave a damn – just wanted more and more. So, I ran away."

Dau said Lincoln was the strong, silent type. Now I know he didn’t mean that Linc would not talk, or could not share, but that his silence lay in the details. He is guarded, even after he has decided to open up. He is contained well within himself, and maybe the level of hurt that makes him who he is, is too private to pry open, even by his own hand.

"Man, Linc. You can't understand how closely I relate."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. But, what sort of pressure are you talking about?"

"My dad was always on me about sports. It wasn’t enough for him that I made Berkeley High's varsity team when I was a sophomore. No. For him it's always 'go out there and crush em!' He had my whole NFL career planned out for me when I was 15, and that was crazy. My grades were also expected to stay in the highest percentile in the whole fucking county. Whatever."

"Ah, man. I never had that kinda of pressure. I'm sorry for you. My mom never really said squawk about my lousy grades. Maybe I should've – " I suddenly can't go on. I feel like such a loser to my mom, although she never criticized me for not trying, she must have felt let down all the time.

I can feel Lincoln's inspection of my mood from the sidelines. He asks kinda quiet, "And you? What are your peeps like?"

"Pressures and expectations aside, I guess my mom is pretty cool." I have to chuckle: "I guess I f-ed her up pretty good by coming out at age 12, but – WTF – it was no mystery to me, and apparently not to her either!"

"And your dad?"

"Gone."

"Left you?"

"He died."

"That sucks."

I draw out a low-toned: "Yep."

I feel Lincoln's eyes searching my face again. I wonder what he sees, so I turn to him. His eyes act like they notice me looking, but they are still, and calm, and seem like they don’t care; I don’t know how to put it, but he just keeps eying me without any kind of mask on.

I ask him, "Do you ever feel like you don’t have any control, or any say in your own life?"

Lincoln considers this a moment, then shakes his head. "Nope. I don’t buy into the 'helpless me' bullshit."

"You're always in control?"

"I didn't say that."

"So, what are you saying?"

"That sometimes a person holds on too tight, and changes the natural course life wants them to take. I'd rather lay in the grass, look up at the clouds, or the stars, and just shut up."

I feel amazed and stilled. "Cool." The night has come on all of a sudden. The darkness has overtaken the light, but it seems fine with me.

Linc continues, "New directions come at us all the time, if we are open to trying them. Nothing is written in stone, and yet, if I have some kind of faith, maybe it's in a belief that whatever 'it' is, it's written somewhere, and we find it when and only when we are ready to accept it."

The coldness of the roof suddenly travels up my spine from my backside. I involuntarily shiver. The buildings around us are glowing rectangles of quilted glass. It is beautiful.

"Are you cold?" Lincoln asks.

"A bit."

He takes his jacket, opens it and makes me lean forward while he drapes it on my shoulders.

"Better?" he asks, as he leans me back again.

I shrug.

"Come here." He opens his left arm and I snuggle close to him. He picks up his phone with his free hand and holds it up so we both can see the screen. He asks tenderly, "You like Woodkid?"

"Never heard of it; him?"

"It's a group. Neo-folk. Here, we’ll listen." He scrolls through songs.

"Linc, do you go to school? – To college?"

"I take courses here and there, when I have the time and dosh."

"Phew…so, you think about the future?"

"You're a funny one, kid. Who doesn't think about a future? Here! This one."

He stops scrolling on a song called I Love You, then he puts one earbud in his ear and reaches in front of me to put the other in my far ear.

He pauses, just looking at the screen. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says real low. Then he hits 'play.'

A man sitting at a piano shows up on the screen, as this is a video as well as an audio track. Another man – who is young, has a dark and full beard, and is totally handsome – circles a round stage with string players in the background. He then strides up to the microphone, and in a moment, a supernaturally rich baritone voice intones a melancholy longing for love to wash over the one he treasures.

The lyrics say:

"We are glowing in the sunlight,

we are sailing in the azure, and I gaze upon you,

where boy, your look reveals

what glows within."

The music overwhelms me; so much overwhelms me.

Linc turns his head, and his lips almost brush my ear as he tells me softly, "His name is Yoann Lemoine, he's French…and…he's…totally…out."

"Is there any way

That you could love me too,

For I really love you…"

I have to close my eyes a moment – it is all so intense – but…then…Lincoln does it, what I want him to do. He kisses my ear. He makes me sigh and crane my neck for his attention.

As Yoann continues to woo the man he loves with strings burning in passion and beauty, and then his almost preternaturally sacred voice comes back, Lincoln's fingers find my chin, and turn my lips into his.

"Is there any way

That you could love me too,

For I really love you…"

We rise and kneel facing each other. Our kisses explore our mouths in ever increasing passion, and our hands remove clothing and dislodge earbuds. But, I can still hear Woodkid in my heart.

Lincoln drives his kisses into me deeper and deeper, while his arms pull me into him, and I can barley catch my breath.

Eventually, Linc puts his arm behind my back, and asks me wordlessly if it's ok.

I latch onto his neck, and he lays me back on his jacket.

As we make love, my seeing falters. The stars are out now, and when I open my eyes and force a focus on them, my perception of sight reveals Lincoln's beautiful and determined face hovering above me. I hold that beauty in stillness – keep it locked and motionless in the center of my vision – thereby forcing all the stars behind him to dance in the rhythm that we make.

Funny thing is, as I latch on tighter and draw his lips back to mine, even with my eyes closed, those stars are still there, and they're becoming all that I can see.