The Jade Butterfly. Jeffrey Round
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Donny remarked, his attention revived now that the on-stage display was over and the music had returned to the normal tinselly state of a strip club-cum-brothel.
“His temper,” Dan said.
Donny gave him a quizzical look. “Not yours? Shocking.”
“Not mine. We’d made plans to get together on a Saturday and, as usual, he revised things at the last minute. He called half an hour before and said he was too busy to meet at four, as planned. He suggested a six o’clock rendezvous instead. I said I might be free then, but I would let him know if I was.”
“And?”
“Turned out I wasn’t. At five minutes past six, he called to ask where I was in a rather unpleasant tone. I said I was busy. He flew off the handle and called me irresponsible. I reminded him we’d agreed to meet at four and when he changed the time I said I would confirm if I was free. I wasn’t. Ergo my no-show and no call. He seemed to think I’d kept him waiting on purpose.”
“And did you?”
“No, but I purposely didn’t rearrange my schedule for him because I was annoyed how he always had to have the last word. I wasn’t going to give it to him. The next day I let him know I didn’t like how he rescheduled all our get-togethers to suit him. He blew up. I told him to think about why he was really angry and hung up. I waited for an apology, but all I got was an email demanding that I return his shitty flowers.”
Donny quaffed his beer and turned his attention to watch Point of No Return, who had just arrived onstage for a solo performance.
“He came in second in the Mr. Slam contest last month. Wait till you see his talent.”
The boy’s only attempt at dancing constituted something like jiggling back and forth from one foot to the other for a few seconds. After removing his last few pieces of clothing, he simply bent forward and tickled the head of his penis with his tongue.
“His real name is Sam,” Donny offered, in case Dan wondered or cared.
“Good to know, I guess.” Dan watched in fascination. “Is that possible?”
“Legally or physically?”
“Either. Both.”
“It shouldn’t be, but he’s doing it, regardless.”
“I’d be fascinated to know what talent the first place winner had.”
“He rode in on a unicycle.”
Dan looked over at the minuscule stage, trying to imagine it.
Donny turned to Dan. “Anyway, my summation of your latest affair is that Project Management Kelvin was trying to dominate you with all his revisions and criticisms. When he discovered he couldn’t, it pissed him off. You’re a nice guy. You’re co-operative and generous. And you are never, ever irresponsible. That’s obvious to anyone who knows you. He wanted your subservience. You didn’t give it to him — and good for you — so it was over. He was rude and he owed you an apology. You didn’t get one, you waited a reasonable time for it, and then made for the exit. I would have done the same, only sooner.”
The music died and Point of No Return stood basking in the applause, lights glittering off all his piercings. Donny downed the dregs of his beer, looked over at the Ten Cents a Dance stage.
“And that is why both of us are alone today,” he concluded with a nod at Dan’s drink. “Another?”
Dan looked down at his glass, still half full.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Donny patted him on the shoulder. “I know. That’s your problem. You need to be bad again. Just now and then, for old times’ sakes.”
“Can’t. You know the rules. I’m a reformed man.”
Donny gave him a serious look.
“You know, they did this experiment with fruit flies. They put a bowl of alcohol in two different containers: one was filled with fruit flies that had just had sex and the other with fruit flies that hadn’t had sex for a long time. Guess which ones drank the most.”
Dan shrugged. “No idea.”
“The sex-starved fruit flies. You should be lapping it up, if your current state of datelessness is to be believed.”
“Are you saying I have the sex life of a fruit fly?”
“Something like that. If you don’t want sex then at least have another drink. For old times’ sake.”
Just then Sam drifted by, smiling at Donny and four other men simultaneously.
“Speaking of old times’ sake … I’ll be back.”
Dan watched as Donny followed Sam to the private booths at the back of the bar. He knew they’d be gone for at least three songs’ worth, which meant he was going to be a) very bored for the next fifteen minutes, and b) hit on by hungry street hustlers-gone-legit with their modicum of stagecraft, such as it was. Fortunately, he knew how to hold his own here.
He looked around the bar at the faces of the perpetually frumpy clientele, saw the unsated hunger as they gazed at the dancers, at odds in a community where youth and beauty were crowns worn by princes and Cinderfellas. All others were ugly stepsisters at best.
Three songs unfurled in raunchy hypnotic beats. Dan managed to persuade two lap dancers that their affections were wasted on him. No joy in paying for something he could touch but not call his own or bring home for consolation later. He was thinking of leaving before Donny returned. Too old for this sort of thing, he’d say by way of apology the next time they spoke. He might have to endure a minor harangue for penance, but it would be worth it to escape this dismal palace of broken dreams.
Then he turned and felt a shiver go down his spine. Something about looking Fate in the eye without blinking. In this case, Fate stood alone in a dark corner, far from the light. Dan noticed him because of his stillness, his body rigid and upright, while everyone around him moved and gestured and shimmied with the beat. This man contained his own centre of gravity, holding himself apart from the rest of the room in a way that suggested superiority without making an issue of it.
Face like a statue. Sculpted cheekbones and deeply recessed eyes. An elegant brow, courtly nose, and slightly dissatisfied mouth. Not white, but exotic in any language, Dan thought. Here was exquisite beauty, the kind made for adoration, obsessive love, and suicidal urges contemplated in the aftermath of a touch. It was the legend carved in the foothills of desert towns and retold thousands of years hence. He’d seen a face like that once, a photograph of a young Serbian prince with just a hint of the gangster about him. The story went that both men and women had gone mad for him, throwing themselves off parapets and ramparts for his love.
Someone bumped his arm, spilling his beer. Dan turned as a short, pudgy boy reached a hand out in drunken apology, smiled sadly, then passed by on his search for some sort of oblivion. Dan’s attention was distracted for only a split second. He looked back hurriedly, as though afraid the vision might vanish. The other was still there. Green laser sliced the air between them, hanging like phosphorous. Neither made a move as the dancers and bartenders and patrons slowly disappeared around them. All Dan saw was the face of the man staring back at him.
If Franz Mesmer himself had been in the audience, the attraction between the two men could not have been greater. Mesmer’s postulation that an energy transfer occurred between animate and inanimate nature might have explained the rising and falling of so many priapic objects in the club’s nether regions, where the magnetic property of money somehow magically transferred its powers to the various body parts moving in accordance with some mysterious principle. On the other hand, it would have had a harder time explaining the irresistible attraction between two men finding themselves alone in a crowded room, though it could have been defined as chemistry. In fact, it was a simple equation: two men who were hot for each other had just found their immutable object. Lust could be a beautiful thing.
Donny