Men and Other Disappearances

by Charlie Rogers

Mom’s got a new boyfriend. Again. I don’t mind this one—his name’s Guy, which suits him—but it’s weird that he’s the same age as my brother would have been.

That’s not right. Mom tapped her cigarette against an overfull ashtray when I pointed this out to her. No, Guy is older.

By like a week. I grabbed her beer can and pretended to drink from it.

Mom didn’t laugh as she snatched the can away from me, splashing some of it on the kitchen table. Now look what you did. Spilled beer trickled through the split in the table, dribbling to the linoleum. She thought for a minute. Seven weeks.

Now I’m sitting in a rickety plastic chair outside our trailer, smoking a cigarette, watching Guy parade shirtless around the RV park with a half dozen dogs on a single multi-headed leash.

I didn’t know that was an actual job, walking other people’s dogs, but I guess it is.

“Hey, Trick!” Guy spots me, offering a too-friendly wave, and corrals his herd in my direction. When he settles into the chair facing mine, the tiniest member of his crew demands I pick her up.

“Pica don’t know she’s a chihuahua.” He pronounces it chee-wow-wa.

I lift Pica to my lap, and she licks my neck. “She’s awful… friendly.”

Guy laughs, his sweaty abdominals vibrating in the sun. I try not to stare, focusing on keeping Pica’s tongue off my lips. Guy doesn’t resemble my brother at all, with dull gray eyes in place of brown and sandy hair buzzed to his scalp, not black and wiry, but I wonder if they’d have been friends.

I don’t know. I don’t think so.

“So you can speak.” Guy flashes his crooked grin again. “I thought you might be… uh… what’s the word?”

“Mute?” I doubt that’s the word he’s thinking of.

“Yeah. My pa told me they used to call fellas who didn’t speak dumb. Don’t seem very nice.” Guy reaches forward to calm two bigger pups squabbling over a stick. “Anyway, you know…”

“Sorry.” I stub my cigarette in the dirt, then kick it away from the dogs. “I’m shy.”

Guy’s smile tells me he knows I’m lying. “Andrea, uh, your mom… she had lots of boyfriends, huh?”

I could enlighten him about the exes who sent her to the hospital, or the pervert who climbed into my bed. Others, I’ve forgotten.

Guy shakes his head. “Dumb question. Course she has, but listen, no worries about me.”

The tattooed word KILLER encircles one of his bulging biceps. There’s also Tweety Bird on his ankle, so I’m chalking it all up to poor taste. He’s dating my mother, after all.

I nod, forcing a smile, and set Pica on the ground as Guy stands.

“See you later, maybe.” He saunters off, hitching up his sweat shorts.

*

I’m about to clamber into bed when I hear my mother fumbling with the doorknob.

She should have finished work five hours ago, but I won’t ask her where she’s been.

Mom falls inside when I pull the door open, pretending as though she was grasping to hug me. I don’t fight it. She smells like a barroom, cheap wine and musty cigarettes. A spiky black wig covers her auburn hair and green eye shadow streaks her eyelids.

Oh. It’s Halloween.

She releases me. “I was thinking…”

I stifle a grimace. Every bad idea my mother has ever had began with these three words.

Shaking my head, I turn towards my bedroom.

“Listen.” She follows me. “I want you to come to the seminar tomorrow.”

She and Guy are leaving tomorrow morning to see some self-help huckster my mother’s fixated on.

I continue walking, only stopping once I reach my bed, where I flop onto my back. “I’m seventeen, Mom. You can leave me alone for, what, a day? Two?”

“It’s not that.” She stands in my doorway, an unlit cigarette dangling from her bright red lips. “But listen, Ricky. Marlena’s tapes changed my whole life, you know. That’s how I met Guy.”

I know I can’t say no. When she calls me Ricky, like I’m a little kid, it means next she’ll say some shit like this is what your dad would have wanted. Her cajoling won’t ease up, so I might as well agree.

“Fine.” I kick my sneakers onto the floor. “What about your boyfriend?”

My mother tries to drag off her still-unlit cigarette. “Guy? He’ll understand. It’ll be fun. A little drive into the desert, a stay overnight. We can play the slots!”

My father had a gambling problem, so this sounds like a terrible idea, but I manage a smile anyway.

*

I stand by a line of slot machines on the casino floor, intoxicated by the repetitive whirring, the clacking sound as overexcited geriatrics yank their colorful handles.

My mother, done arguing with the hotel clerk, saunters over to me while Guy carries our bags upstairs. He hasn’t uttered a word all morning.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” My mother lights a cigarette.

I’m dying for one, but I maintain the pretense that I don’t smoke. She must know the truth.

“It’s wild.” I’d still rather be home.

“I’ll give you some money for the slots.” She gestures to the row beside me. “But the intro session starts in forty-five minutes, so we gotta rock’n’roll.”

I follow. “Is Guy… okay?”

She spots a bank of elevators and hustles towards them, ignoring my question.

Our room is unremarkable. A powerful air-freshener almost overcomes the stale mustiness while a dull yellow light leaks from underneath the bathroom door. I hear the squeak of shower knobs turning.

My last visit to a hotel room was a dozen years back, a disastrous attempt at a vacation when my father spent the entire weekend passed out in the bathtub and my brother kept trying to run away.

“Cute room.” My mother’s voice reveals her disappointment as she flips open the tattered suitcase that Guy set on the bed, retrieving a polo shirt and khaki shorts. “You’ll look nice cleaned up.”

I don’t recognize either item—I assume Guy contributed them, though he only wears baggy sweats and ratty tees—and I’m offended. I own a few nice things, clothes I’ve bought with my hard-earned money.

You gotta pick your battles, my dad once told me. It was less a nugget of advice and more a confession, but it’s stayed with me.

My mother lifts her own outfit from the luggage, a blue dress that’s indistinguishable from lingerie to me. The bathroom door swings open and Guy lumbers out, a comically small towel around his waist. He doesn’t acknowledge either of us.

“My turn!” My mother jumps up, attempting to kiss Guy as she passes him.

The moment I hear her shower running, I’m fumbling in my backpack for my smokes.

Guy hovers between the two full-size beds, a sullen expression weighing on his normally jovial face.

“Who’s dumb now?” I light my cigarette and inhale with a deep satisfaction, then pull open the flimsy nightstand drawer, searching for an ashtray. Only a lonely bible sits inside.

“Huh?” Guy’s face is so lost that he resembles a child. “Sorry. It’s just—”

“I get it. You don’t want me here.” I flick my ashes into the open drawer.

“No… I mean… I was expecting, uh… You know what, though? I’m glad you’re here.” Guy’s lopsided grin returns. “This Marlena kook Andrea loves so much? Total scammer. We can laugh about it.”

He whips his towel over his head to dry his hair while his nubby penis wobbles in front of me. He smells like cheap soap and I breathe it in. I’ve seen all my mother’s boyfriends naked at some point, but this feels different. An ache swells inside me.

Guy turns, fishing tighty-whities from the luggage, and I allow myself to stare as he tugs them over his muscular ass. When he glances in my direction, I pretend I’m studying the ceiling. He settles across from me with a sigh, his towel draped over his broad shoulders like a boxer. “You’re gay, right? Is that the word?”

He’s not the first to ask me this. “Nah.”

“Oh, it’s just… I had a kid brother, you remind me of him. He… uh… I never got to ask him nothing… I just wanna be a better ally.” Red rims his wide eyes.

I should warn Guy to climb into his dusty truck and bolt. He’s too good for us.

“I get that a lot. My dad’s voice was soft like mine.”

“Your voice? No… I seen… just now…” His eyes run all over me. “You sure?”

“Positive.” I’ve told this lie a million times, but it still burns my lips.

“Okay, okay.” A smirk flickers. “But, uh, stay away from the poker tables.”

*

The moment we enter the seminar room, I know my patience won’t survive long.

A tall, thin man with a jet black dyed goatee arranges cylindrical tubs of vitamins at the front of the room, stacking them into a clumsy pyramid. He’s the only other male aside from Guy and me.

Flanking him are two easels. One displays a black-and-white photo of Marlena, flashing her expansive gums. I know her creepy face from the DVD my mother watched dozens of times before an ex stole her player.

On the other easel is a yellowed scroll, pinned to a poster-board. At the top it says Rules for Reality and below that the first list item is visible: 1. Be Actual. Black rectangles block out the balance of the list, to heighten the suspense, I suppose.

My mother abandons us to chat with a gaggle of older ladies.

“This sucks.” Guy pouts.

Goatee claps his hands together. “Marlena thanks you all for your commitment to Reality. She’ll join us in a minute.”

Be Actual. I wonder what other nonsense that scroll contains, but not enough to linger here. I turn to Guy. “I can’t.”

His eyes widen. “Don’t leave me here?”

He’s not my friend. He’s fucking my mother. But I toss him a crumb. “Bail with me.”

Guy shakes his head, slow and sad. For a moment I’m reminded of my brother: a fleeting, familiar expression.

Then, without even glancing to see if my mother notices, I duck out.

*

I stroll up to the bartender as if I’ve done this a thousand times, deepening my voice, “Seven and Seven, please.”

My father’s favorite drink. By the end he was guzzling cheap wine and I even caught him sniffing rubbing alcohol like he was considering it. But if we were in public, pretending to be functional, he’d order a Seven and Seven.

The bartender cocks her eyebrow. “ID?”

It was worth a shot. I tap my pockets, feigning confusion. “Must’ve left it upstairs.”

I glance across the restaurant: sets of older couples eating quiet lunches. At the far end of the bar, a handsome man about my mother’s age observes me with some interest.

The bartender remains statue-still, glaring at me.

I turn back towards the main casino entrance before my cheeks flush. Once I’ve escaped, I lean against an unused one-armed bandit, feeling foolish.

Someone taps my elbow. I turn.

The good-looking man from the bar. He seems older up close, mid-forties, with creases etching his brow and cropped, thinning hair. And shorter. But he also has crystal-blue eyes and a soft, disarming smile. “You left your ID upstairs?”

“Yeah.” I follow the graying stubble on his chin down his tanned neck.

He knows I’m lying, but smiles wider. “Happens to the best of us. Grab a booth, I’ll get you… a Seven and Seven?”

I do as he instructs, darting my eyes towards the conference rooms.

A minute later, he slides in across from me, empty-handed. “No dice. That barkeep is smarter than she looks. We could try somewhere else, where they haven’t already seen us.”

Us. The word sounds strange.

“That’s okay. Thanks anyway.” I shift my weight to inch off the narrow bench.

He leans forward, nodding, but offers me his hand. “I’m Richard, by the way.”

His fingers are stubby, and my longer, thinner digits look feminine in his grip, but I give his hand a firm, assertive shake. My father taught me that.

“Me too, I guess. But everyone calls me Trick.”

I like the feel of his smooth palm against my own. When he releases me, I feel the coolness of its absence.

“Why Trick?”

I shrug. “I was Ricky when I was a kid. My dad was Rich. After he died, I tried Rick. My mother started calling me Trick, and it stuck.”

“I’m sorry.” Richard rests his warm fingers on my wrist.

The unexpected touch triggers memory:

I found my mother curled up against the wall in the kitchen of our old house. She bawled at the sight of me, so I crawled onto the floor to hold her. I kept asking her, what is it?

Hours later, the truth emerged. My father picked my brother up at the high school. Two miles past Ray’s school my father drifted into oncoming traffic.

“Now you look like you could use a drink.”

I train my gaze on the buttons on Richard’s shirt, afraid that if I make eye contact, I’ll burst into tears. The first three buttons hang open, while the fourth strains to hold its place. “Maybe.”

“Come on, let’s try somewhere else.” Richard grasps the edge of the table and propels himself to his feet. “Or, I’ve got another idea.”

I gulp at the complimentary water. “Yeah?”

Richard strolls away without answering, and I jog to catch up with him.

“I’ve got a minibar in my room.” He continues walking.

Don’t, my brain shouts, but my mouth isn’t listening. “Sure.”

*

Bet Richard’s ripped under those clothes. I’m studying him as he finishes preparing two cocktails. Not bad for an old guy.

His room is bigger than mine and smells less depressing.

Richard laughs as he hands me a plastic cup. “It’s not quite what you ordered, but I tried.”

Our fingers brush as the cup passes from his grasp to mine.

“So what brings you… here?” I sample the drink, stifling a grimace. It tastes like gasoline but a warmth buzzes up my throat, humming at the base of my neck.

Richard settles into the chair across from the bed. “Eh…” He pauses. “A breakup. I wanted a weekend somewhere no one knows me.”

“Sorry.” I gulp the bitter cocktail.

“That’s life.” He leans forward and I notice the fourth button that looked ready to pop earlier is now freed of its responsibility, as is the fifth. “I’ve got two questions.”

I pray I’m not forced to admit I’m here with my mother. So embarrassing. “I’m eighteen.”

Richard laughs. “Good guess. Know the other?”

I don’t love guessing games, but the half a cup of liquor I’ve ingested has my mouth moving ahead of my brain again. “You wanna know if I’m like you? Yeah, I guess.”

I’ve never admitted this.

“Like me?” Richard grins. The softness is absent, replaced by something else. Hunger. “Funny. So I can kiss you?”

He closes the space between us, first pushing his lips to mine, then forcing his tongue past my teeth, deep into the recesses of my mouth. I fall back onto the bed and he follows but then he bounds back to his feet with surprising agility. “There’s mouthwash in the bathroom.”

A deep embarrassment at whatever he must have tasted—cigarettes?—spreads through me and I long to run off. I hang my head and shuffle to the bathroom.

Avoiding my reflection, I locate a tiny bottle of Listerine and swig some, careful not to let the bottle touch my lips.

What are you doing? I ask myself, but don’t stop to allow an answer.

My return finds Richard stripped to his white briefs. The hunger has migrated from his mouth to his eyes. Although I’ve been guessing at it since we met, his physique is stunning, intimidating.

My limbs lock in place as panic churns inside me.

Richard grins, pleased with himself. “My turn.”

I step aside, my eyes trained on him as he approaches, passes me, and steps into the tiny, darkened bathroom. I feel hypnotized, unable to tear my gaze away, but once he lets the door creak closed, the spell shatters.

I think of my mother, wondering where I am. Other images follow. My father, singing to himself as he shaved. I used to love watching him. The last words my brother Ray ever spoke to me—after smacking me in the head—were to call me a stupid faggot.

I command my legs to move, and they obey.

A moment later, I hear Richard’s voice behind me. “Hey, where are you going?”

I glance back. He isn’t angry. Confused, I think. Hurt.

I’m sorry, I want to say, but I let the door slip closed behind me.

*

I find my mother alone in our room. She tackles me into a desperate hug, suffocating me with her vise-grip around my lungs, her overpowering lilac perfume invading my sinuses.

“Where’s Guy?” I squeeze her tighter.

Her small body quivers, like she’s crying, but no sound emerges.

“He’s gone.” She buries her nose into my collar.

I liked Guy, but… it was only going to end one way. “Oh… How are we getting home?”

My mother turns away, stepping deeper into the room, offering only a shrug. I suspect she’s about to interrogate me about my absence, maybe to berate me or blame me for whatever happened with Guy.

Instead, she turns towards me, and when she does, she sees.

And I see it reflected in her unblinking gaze, like she knows what I almost just did, what I’ve become, all the lies I’ve told.

“Men disappear.” She sinks back to the mattress, reaching for her cigarettes. She pulls out two and offers me one. “You get used to it, eventually.”