Front Man

by Greg Abraham

Sun

Ron picked up Thump’s shirt and examined it front and back. A Pendleton, a wistful plaid of white and azure that Ron had bought before the brisk weather had set in. Each wool fiber caught the October sun like a prism, and the tiny explosions of color almost reminded him of… what? Memory balked. Something caught in his throat. Expectation?

Tonight he’d meet one of the Noiesni at Chad’s party. Full of anticipation, Ron let the memory escape, whatever it had been. Maybe the past wasn’t as important when there was hope.

The Noiesni had come without fanfare, conferring first with PR agencies. Publicists had helped mankind meet an ancient and peaceable race, so advanced that they moved space as easily as they moved through it. Tonight Ron would get to know one of the Noiesni, shake his hand, maybe talk about the beautiful weather.

Ron dropped the Pendleton back onto the heap. Changeable weather had melded with Thump’s sweat so that all his clothes had an earthy scent. Thump had a dozen moods, but one scent. Ron settled onto the bed and eased his arms into the shopping bag, slipped out a worsted pullover, green as a cedar forest. Thump’s new gray slacks hung from a hanger hitched over the closet doorknob.

Ron loved Thump, but gifts never closed the distance between them. He looked out the window. For all its brilliance, the afternoon sun hadn’t warmed the house. He’d looked forward to the party ever since Chad had called last week. Chad was the Director of R&D for Zenoquint. The Noiesni had taken an interest in Zeno’s GaAs chips. Hardened for war, Zeno’s production would be useful in an assisted space program. A real space program, not spendthrift shuttles and malfunctioning probes.

The Noiesni would help. With the Noiesni, hope and wonder had reentered the world.

That memory seized Ron again. When he’d been a little boy, the world had sometimes looked as bright as it did today. Sidewalks, trees, and strangers’ houses had all seemed lit from within. But the bright past faded, replaced by worry. Thump had never been to Chad’s house before, and tonight’s party was important.

Thump had come into Ron’s life without social skills. Full of rhythm, Thump asked for nothing, accepted anything… from others, from himself. Maybe that was part of his problem. What did he need under all that acceptance? Ron still didn’t know.

But the need was real: witness the slacks. Twenty-five years old, and Thump didn’t have a pair of good wool slacks. Not until today.

Ron went downstairs and wandered into the kitchen, rested his hands on the tile next to the sink. Over there were Thump’s shit-encrusted boots, the ones he wore to a ranch on Sauvie Island where he played petting zoo with somebody’s cows. Ron watched the aspens shimmer in the backyard. Was it foolish to expect so much from a party? It was like a high school dance all over again, with roles to be played and exciting secrets to be discovered.

A memory… decades old… a little boy getting out of a truck and the flash of light on the window of a store, and there had been so much wonder. How did you measure the most wonderful day of a life? A child’s trip to the store? A cocktail party?

Tonight Ron would meet a Noiesni dignitary. The extraterrestrials were going to save mankind with gentle nudges, demure gestures of technological largesse… without messianic splendor or wrath. They inquisitively toured Sony and Kodak and CERN. And they offered public talks at MIT and the Sorbonne. The embarrassing tours of Johannesburg and Cairo were followed by tasteful salons at the United Nations. Visits to Chile and Israel resulted in terse tête-à-têtes. The Noiesni were true aristocrats. Their easy lives made them pleasantly casual in all circumstances, and prepared them to ease the lives of others. The Noiesni had mastered the fabric of space itself, tailored it to suit their wills.

The front door opened. Devil of rhythm, angel of pulse—Thump—Ron counted the beats before the words…

“Hey, Ron, you home?”

“Kitchen.” No need to say it. Like a hungry kid, Thump always came to the kitchen first. Could the Noiesni bend time the way they bent space? Ron imagined himself eighteen again, with a full head of blond hair, young and almost frightened, but Thump remained just as he was now. In the fantasy a powerful hand held Ron’s neck while the other took his jaw. The rasp of stubble tore a bullish bawl from his throat, a cry that got swallowed by Thump’s lips, sharp from a beer with lunch.

Or just a beer for lunch.

Thump pulled open the refrigerator door and draped from it, his hand a magnet that attracted plastic bags.

The clock in the living room chimed five. “We need to get ready.” Ron heard it in his voice, the way that life could be so automatic, as if he were part of the clock.

“You said the party wasn’t till seven.” Thump slammed into the cutting block so hard that it rolled. He’d wind up springing the little brakes on the wheels. He smooched Ron on the cheek and started to eat cheesecake with his fingers. Maybe that was the only way Thump could kiss, like an embarrassed child. But how did a child really kiss? An odd memory from a lifetime ago… Ron lost it.

Grunting, Thump licked his lips, tongue slurried with cheesecake. He ate the rest of it, furrowed his brow, took the bags back to the fridge, and pulled out a carton of grapefruit juice.

“There’ll be hors d’oeuvres at the party.” Saying it, Ron looked away. Life around Thump had made him sensitive to the way that some words sounded so rich. Or gay. Or rich and gay. Sometimes Thump’s eyes spoke of that terrible barrier between being forty and gay, and being twenty and queer. Maybe the worst part of the barrier was the way that gays hated being outside society and the way that queers angrily loved it. Anger could be such a loving thing.

All Ron could say was, “I left work early and picked up your clothes.”

“Hey!” Thump put the juice away. Trapping each of his Converses under the opposite heel, Thump stepped out of them and trotted upstairs. Black Levi’s, white socks, and Ron couldn’t understand. Was he too old? White socks? He hunched over and picked up the shoes. They reeked of sweat and talc. Aroused by the smell, floral and bitter, Ron climbed the stairs.

Maybe he should turn on the TV in the bedroom. The Noiesni would be on CNN tonight—more often than not they were. And after the news he’d go to a party where one of them—tall and lanky—might wrap a craggy, oaken hand about his shoulders and recite the beautiful truths of the world to come, a millennial Earth without want or injustice, without greed or shame. But as he reached the upstairs hallway, Ron worried some more about Thump.

A gay party should make everything easier. Whenever Noiesni met adults of the opposite gender, a long recitation of kinship structure was mandatory. It was something they couldn’t waive for humanity’s sake. However it worked, it had spared the Noiesni a history of war and crime. Here was a people dispersed serenely among the stars because they took fifteen minutes to introduce themselves whenever they met somebody’s spouse or whatever the Noiesni had. Of course, it smacked of heterosexual supremacy. It was the only reason Ron could have for disliking the Noiesni.

It had sounded so gossipy when Chad had told him that the dignitary didn’t mind a gay party in the least. He’d merely wondered if soldiers would be present. Word had it that the military made the Noiesni uneasy.

No… Thump would probably manage the evening fine.

Ron entered their bedroom—Thump’s was across the hall—and saw Thump standing naked, silk shorts in each hand, plum in the left, teal in the right. Without moving his feet, he danced with his hips and back while he hummed, bmp, th’buh’bmp, and played an air guitar.

He acted so straight. For decades they’d been the seraphim among lovers, those straight-acting guys… and now there was a whole generation of boys who were more manly than the media statesmen who’d taken the world over from Cold War Republicans. The young queer men fought. And the perversity of Ron’s heart was perfect. Now that younger men had gotten tough, there was something delicious about the pee-cee softness of the new leaders and movie stars. Ron caught himself craving an edition of Thump with fewer rough edges, with a chiseled jaw cleanly shaven, a mouth blessed by orthodontia and the good sense never to say “fuck” in public.

Thump looked up and smiled, caught, transfixed, his dark eyes like stained glass at dusk, his teeth already stained with life.

“Shower first? Shave?” Ron asked. That stubble… memory again, but no, there was the party to worry about.

“Did this morning.” Thump dropped the teal and stepped into the plum. Ron went over and held him, anthem of pale skin and dark hair. He tasted clean enough, but by the end of the evening his new clothes would harbor that buck scent. It was a smell that Ron sometimes craved, but not at Chad’s party. Most of the guests had never met Thump. No, he didn’t have much to do with Ron’s friends. Whose choice was that?

As Thump slipped away and found a T-shirt in a heap next to their bed, Ron told him, “You need to wear that under a dress shirt, white or eggshell yellow.”

Thump yawned and nodded, meandered out the door toward his room. As he returned, he tucked oxford cloth, starched and luminously white, into his shorts.

Ron looked away, then found himself wrapped in warmth. He turned and buried his face in Thump’s shaggy hair. Holding me, Ron told himself, saying thank you with a quiet intensity nobody else has ever shown me. Ron eased Thump away, ran his finger down a nose a little too long, stared into gothic eyes.

“What kind of snacks do Noiesni like?” Thump asked. He bounced onto the bed and scooted over for the sweater.

The last of day plated the room with gold. Ron yearned for eternity, ready never to leave this place or Thump, drawn of darkness and appetite.

Ron didn’t answer. He said little after that. The night dressed them both.

Party

The Mercedes, a 380 SL that shone like a jewel, waited in the driveway. Overhead, the stars ignited an electric warmth beneath Ron’s skin.

They drove downtown, then climbed back into the hills. The Mercedes took curves as sure of itself as a merry-go-round horse. A red light made it impatient. An instant before the signal blinked to green, the car jumped forward with a will of its own.

How do the Noiesni travel? wondered Ron. The Economist said they used a part of their “souls.” Tonight, light pressed against space, expanded it, turned one place into another… maybe that was what a soul was really supposed to do. And maybe Thump’s quiet gravity bent space just as the Noiesni did. But maybe it was an outward bending, making the world too big, increasing the loneliness that the Noiesni might ease. Maybe Thump created the same loneliness that he sometimes filled.

Full… empty… ideas that meant something else to the Noiesni. They saw the universe as an ensemble of waves, Chad said. Deriving energy from the vacuum—from nothing—they recognized how energy, and space itself, need be nothing more than mathematical sleight of hand. They had clever ways of using nothing to get anywhere. Chad had explained—and he did it so well, could make it sound so gossipy—how the Noiesni turned space into something akin to Fourier transforms (just as CD players did, Chad had pointed out), then used a kind of dimensional down-step conversion to turn the waves back into any region of space they cared to.

Ron hadn’t minded listening to all of this. Brokers spent a lot of time listening to their clients. Homegrown psychiatrists, that’s what brokers were. He had learned it was their job to handle the people and let computers handle the stocks.

The memory returned again… a ride to the store with his father… maybe it had been Saturday morning, full of chores. Saturday morning was when Ron got to be with his dad, really be with him. The store had even had a lunch counter.

“Think Chad’ll bust out the hard liquor?” Thump picked at one of his cuticles.

“If you don’t see it out, please don’t ask.”

“Hey, I know how to act at parties. I go to parties all the time. Just not your friends’.”

The tone, an outsider’s, made the words ugly enough that Ron didn’t know whether to argue or apologize. Thump’s hurt ended the conversation. Just as he wore everything else like a man, so he wore this wound. He slouched back in his seat and grinned up at the stars flickering among the firs. Then he lolled over and watched the city flicker instead as the Mercedes climbed.

They rounded a corner and parked on cobblestone. A big house, it spoke of success as it covetously hid its view of the city. Thump vaulted over the door. It struck Ron as affected and probably wasn’t good for the car.

Chad welcomed them almost as soon as they rang. Thump rapped him playfully on the shoulder and said, “Hey, bud, how yah been?” He bolted toward the right.

“Just fine.” Without taking his eyes from Ron’s, Chad chuckled.

Sometimes Thump was a mess.

Chad hugged Ron, slipped his jacket away from him and hung it up. Thump migrated toward the dining room, which was loaded with platters of everything. Tall, pear-shaped on long legs, Chad was blocking part of the view. He was older than many of the men at his party. So am I, thought Ron. One of the boys—maybe twenty and put-me-away gorgeous—was posing in black Levi’s and boots. It really wasn’t the right look, not tonight. Ron could hear Thump now, “Shit, all they did was pose. They could have taken up one of those rugs and danced or somethin’!” No, Thump wouldn’t say that. The only time he danced with men was at mob dances, where there were women and even children and probably marimbas.

Thump danced with his bass. Or by himself, as he had when he’d dressed for the party. Maybe he only danced with his guitar. Sometimes it was just invisible.

Chad had Ron by the shoulder and was guiding him toward the dining room. “You’re finally going to let the rest of the world meet him. You know it’s been almost? two years? You should make him come more often.”

Was that a joke? Chad was one of his best friends, and he’d been over for dinner a half-dozen times since Thump had moved in. “That’s not how it is. You don’t think I really…”

Somebody Ron had never met came out of the bathroom, a man about thirty, dressing twenty and shouldn’t try, but a nice haircut. He looked Ron in the eye as they were introduced, then said, “You’re here with Thump? Was that Thump I just saw?”

Ron nodded.

“I thought so. He’s great. I… I didn’t even know he was part of the family, but I figured he must be when I saw him with Young Fagabonds. I caught them everywhere before they broke up. Chad says he’s with some het group now, Solid White Tuna?”

Ron nodded.

“So why’d the Fagabonds break up?”

“I don’t know.” But he did. Thump had left the group because they were too campy. Campy was a barrier, Thump said, a barrier that let people hate each other and themselves while they laughed, a barrier that helped scientists who looked for genes get crooked, lousy grants.

Thump was naive. He didn’t realize that barriers let you be inside, too, and that sometimes you had to be inside to survive.

The guy shook his nice haircut as he slipped away.

It hurt. He’d been hiding Thump. From these people who mattered? From himself?

Ron stood at the end of the long dining room. It had two small chandeliers, hardwood floors and paneled walls, a phalanx of French doors that opened onto the city sparkling below.

He stared. The Noiesni dignitary appeared to be conversing with Thump and a young Asian woman. In one hand Thump held a large glass of milk; in the other, a napkin heaped with crackers and salami. Of course he hadn’t asked for scotch—he’d been warned—but he’d gone ahead and asked for milk. He stood there gawking at the Noiesni and sipping on milk while he juggled salami, so that he didn’t even have a free hand to wipe his mouth with.

Breathe deep, Ron warned himself as he edged toward the trio. Then it struck him that maybe nobody even noticed Thump. Maybe they all were looking at the Noiesni. He wasn’t really that tall, six-four at most. It was the gauntness that must make them look taller on CNN. Not gawky, but graceful, and there was the craggy face, almost hideous, yet eyes so young; Ron could imagine the Noiesni in shorts instead of his suit, playing basketball with college freshmen, though the color was ghastly, like somebody with hepatitis and a fever.

The Asian was saying, “My mother and father arrived in Hong Kong in ’72. They did well enough to leave in ’91. They and my grandparents live in Vancouver now, but my older brother was already in Sydney. Have you ever been to Sydney, Mr. Sh’tka’heh?” She said it perfectly, like a nanosecond’s worth of sand flowing through an hourglass.

“Not Sydney, no.” Sh’tka’heh glanced at Thump and smiled. “This is Sarah Dinh. Her mother’s name is Ruth. Shall I begin the introduction?”

His eyes were as dark as Thump’s, those alien sclera white as snow, like porcelain so thin it became blue. There were light-years of gentleness in those eyes, and they warmed as the boy that Ron loved stuffed salami in his mouth before he said, “My name’s Thump. Nice to meet you, Sarah.” So proud of what he took for quintessential polish, he nodded since his hands were full.

Chad hastened around the table. If Thump and Ms. Dinh let themselves get engaged in Noiesni formalities, the dignitary would be tied up for half the evening.

Ms. Dinh read the cue perfectly, as if already looking for an excuse to get away. “Sarah,” Chad almost sang, “I don’t know which wine to cork first. Could you help?” She must work for Zenoquint. The exchange was as sterile as anything in a board room, as safe and urbane. Sarah Dinh escaped with Chad while the Noiesni stretched his mouth in a long, pained frown.

Ron saw dismay in the alien eyes. Thump’s back was to everybody except the Noiesni, who regained his composure and began to listen eagerly while Thump rambled, “My dad had his own garbage truck, but he got killed when I was three, not on the job or anything, so there wasn’t any insurance money, it was a motocross accident, y’know, like that, and I never met my grandma, not on that side, because she lived in Iowa, but Ryan, he’s my older brother…”

Ron backed away, turned, looked at the guests in the living room, and beyond that, in the library. These people were his friends, but you didn’t get invited just because you were a friend. You had to be in or you wound up alone, and you had to respect what you had to do to be in. Look at Harry—God, put me away, Harry was such a doll, and he knew how to act—they’re all, staring at me, and I’ve got to get to the kitchen. People let down in the kitchen…

“Are you okay, Ron?”

Chad had his arm around him, knowingly ushered him toward the kitchen, countertops aglow, boy in the boots slouching in the doorway, black cutout against blinding white.

“I’m sorry, Chad.”

“What for?” Chad offered him half a beer with a gesture stiff as the words.

“Thump, the way he’s crowding the Noiesni. I guess he’s… he’s such a mess. I know it.” It came out in polite, dying tones. Maybe Chad could forgive them.

“Sh’tka’heh kind of crowded him. He heard there was going to be a musician and was looking forward to it.”

Ron hoped there was a reprieve in those words. “Thump’s not a musician. He just plays in those bands.”

Chad munched a corn chip. The nice food was in the dining room. Here were the chips, lots of beer, diet soda. “I bet as many people came to meet Thump as Sh’tka’heh. The Noiesni aren’t news anymore.” Chad grinned—for an instant it was a mouth uglier than the Noiesni s—and opened another beer for himself. “You two aren’t breaking up, are you? I mean, Thump’s so Guess?!” Chad’s face lit up with one of those flattering, leering grins that wasn’t a joke, not at all. Did Chad want a boy? Or did he just want to get even?

Hank lounged next to the sink. He was leaner than Ron, skinnier than everybody, even if he really was negative. He hung on every word. Such a cunt, and a mean one, too, why had he and Chad been friends forever? “We’re not breaking up! Of course not.” Ron wanted everybody to hear that. But we should be, because if we aren’t, I’m not going to be invited back… right, Hank? Ron felt like he was staggering. Maybe he should go back into the dining room. That door over there, if he walked through it he’d be back, and he wouldn’t have to go down the hallway. That door could bend space as the Noiesni could, spare him light-years of humiliation.

“Tell Thump I’m sorry about the milk.” Hank sounded so earnest.

Ron turned halfway. “He has milk. He could’ve had beer. Six days out of seven he’s drinking by noon anyway.”

Hank loved that. “It’s a party, Ron.” He glanced down and closed his eyes in an I’m-worried-about-you-both way. “He asked for chocolate milk, but Chad doesn’t have any. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron stumbled as he reentered the dining room. Sh’tka’heh leaned against one of the French doors and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you all right? I’ve barely gotten used to the gravity myself.”

Was that a stupid Noiesni joke followed by a stupid Noiesni smile? Sh’tka’heh extended his hand, as if Ron needed it. The hideously long brownish fingers looked like twigs or sick, ropey turds, and with extra joints. Thumb in the wrong place, on the inside of the hand instead of the outside.

Ron smiled as if the Noiesni had a million dollar account. “Maybe Chad should turn down the gravity. I bet you could show him how.”

The Noiesni’s teeth were as white as his sclera, ten times whiter than Thump’s. Sh’tka’heh turned back toward Thump and resumed:

“In the Seventeenth Epoch, when my foremother had resettled in one of the Great Colonies, she met my forefather, who wouldn’t summon life until the Epochs changed, so he was actually the first of the Sh’tka’heh Lineage in the Eighteenth; their firstborn was of course required to migrate between Empires, but before he left—something of a prodigy—he’d taken awards as a wavemaster. He composed and navigated splendidly, outstripping almost everyone in both crafts. It was his discovery of normalization through triadic singularities that allowed some of the earliest extra-galactic exploration. Of course, it wasn’t until the Twenty-seventh Epoch that settlement began outside our own galaxy here. We admit that the family’s real achievement in the Eighteenth wasn’t in our Empire. But the History is part of our Lineage. Lineage really does count more than Empire, don’t you think?” The Noiesni grinned in reply to his own question, so Thump grinned, too. Chatter about Epochs and Lineages rattled on.

Ron edged away so that the table was between him and the extraterrestrial.

“Thank God I didn’t have to listen to all that.”

He looked to his left. Ms. Dinh smeared Camembert on a cracker. “The Noiesni are currently in their Forty-second Epoch. Are you with the man there? I hope he’s wearing comfortable shoes, because Sh’tka’heh has twenty-four Epochs to go.” Ron saw that she wouldn’t mind being the first to leave tonight. Glancing down at the crackers again, she whispered, “I’ve never seen the Noiesni go overboard like that even for somebody of the opposite sex. You’d better watch out. I thought he was just an alien, but maybe he’s gay.” She bit her lower lip and started to leave the room. Pausing, she looked over her shoulder. “Actually, it can’t go on forever. Sh’tka’heh has a breakfast meeting with the Pope. At the Vatican. He’ll be out of here by midnight.” She left the room.

A woman, probably straight—and human—she was outside and she hurt. Who to blame? The Noiesni?

Or Thump?

“Well, yeah,” Thump was saying, “I got my first bass when I was eleven. You gotta be at least five feet tall to reach.” His left arm stretched off to the side, salami flopping in the air. “And in grade school, that was before we left The Dalles, we had a band, and I had a dogshit amp until I was fourteen… I mean, it wasn’t even a bass amp, so it rolled off real bad!” He grabbed another handful of salami, offered Sh’tka’heh a piece. “Did I hear you’re looking at Zenoquint’s chips so you guys can help us build a better rocket? That’s great, but do you get any, like, royalties or anything? Royalties are kind of important, y’know.”

Sh’tka’heh took a slice of salami between his second and third fingers—or third and fourth, who could tell? His thumb was on backward. “We’ve made no design commitments at all. But the bass you play, this interests me more.”

The room had grown too quiet. There was a conspicuous absence of people at the table, though several lingered in the doorways. As Chad glided up, Ron wanted to die.

“Sh’tka’heh gets this way out at Zeno… especially in the fab. The way we do things fascinates him. I hope he’s not making Thump uncomfortable.”

Ms. Dinh might be right. Maybe Sh’tka’heh was trying to impress Thump. The alien continued, “Fundamental pitch can be equated to a monochord strung between the inflationary moment and the ultimate event horizon. From this the harmonic divisions of strings in ten-space can be derived. So, mankind isn’t barking totally up the wrong tree. But you need more ‘music’ and fewer numbers. Once the modalities of energy-matter condensation are determined, supra-luminal travel can be equated to polyphony, the harmonies equating to dimensions. But no one can show you the equations. Implosion at key navigational points has to happen in accord with your neurophysiology and nobody else’s.”

“The stars are frets, but you gotta know the tune to get there?” Thump said with a nod.

“More or less.” Sh’tka’heh visibly relaxed, and those grotesque fingers interlaced. He was at ease now. Someone understood. The two of them were inside, and only the two of them.

Thump, nodding… no, it was more than that. It was another little dance shimmying up his butt and his back. Ron saw it, thuh-banh-bmp, thuh-b’b’banh-bp!Thump’s thumb twitched.

An alien, Ron wanted to yell, an alien’s ruining a party given in his honor, and Thump understands him. After ten minutes, he understands this freak like he’s never understood me. No, I’m just a fag, and nobody needs to understand me. I can’t build spaceships, I can’t end hunger and injustice, but I don’t waste my life playing a guitar, either.

The anger made it easier to hear the Noiesni blather softly on, “like a song… like a poem… and in a moment, between Canopus and Vega, you dream the summits of a thousand dreams; from Rigel to Altair you swing by an invisible cord, and the chords you hear heal the demon-dark emptiness, fill it with nebulae and light more subtle…”

And Thump, smiling, interrupted him, “and your foot on a fuzz box that makes your room scream like an empty parkin’ garage, you fall and fall and fall until your life’s hangin’ from one note…”

From his pocket Sh’tka’heh cautiously pulled what looked like a debit card, but as crystalline as the chandelier. He toyed with it for a few moments. “It looks like a suitable waveform is only thirty or forty light-years away; I’m sure we dubbed it on the way in… a bass, yes, is this a good one?”

Another chandelier’s worth of light appeared and floated between Thump and the French doors. It coalesced; the gleam transmuted into solid curves, black and lustrous; sparks spun away into a blond neck; light became a surf of chrome.

Ron watched as Thump moaned audibly and ran his hand over the sapphire-blue pickguard. “Fender Jazz, ’62… fff-uh-ck, it’s not a reissue? Where’d you get this? Is it yours?” Thump lifted the instrument out of the air and offered it to Sh’tka’heh, but only after he’d cradled it close to himself, wood and metal in the image of child or true love.

“The instrument is a song in and of itself. It still exists as light, light-years away from here.” Sh’tka’heh took the instrument. His thumb wrapped around the neck closer to the guitar body than the rest of his fingers. “Care to step outside?”

Thump’s hand weighed against a latch. As he swung the French door open he asked, “What are we gonna plug into?”

Sh’tka’heh grinned. “We’ll rig up something.”

The glint in his eyes frightened Ron. He’d seen it before, in Thump’s face, and until now he’d assumed it was just the rapture of the weak, of people who could afford to commit slow suicide in crummy apartments and bad jobs.

They closed the door. The house was silent except for soft and vapid music. Ron turned around to face the catastrophe.

Chad sat on the arm of a couch and wouldn’t raise his head. Ms. Dinh was gone. The crowd was too thin. This wasn’t pique or boredom—a lot of fear in these men. In a beautiful home on a wonderful night, they were suddenly outside. It was fear like being a boy in a locker room, quiet while everybody else talked about girls. Girls were music, and Ron had never understood. Tonight Thump and the Noiesni had the music.

Chad still wouldn’t look at him. The party was a horror show. With that sly wanting-a-glass-of-milk rudeness, Thump had burned everybody.

An eerie glow shone through the windows.

“Thump!” Ron cried aloud. He lunged through the dining room, grabbed the door latch and rattled glass, fought to get outside.

City below, stars above, and between them blazed a huge opal where the swimming pool had been. Maybe it was one of the knots into which the Noiesni could tie space. It seemed as private as a first kiss. They were in there, conspirators, both of them aliens.

Betrayed and angry, Ron stepped in, too.

Too fine for words. The stars shone, while city and river glistened far below. Twinkling, the pool had become an immense amplifier, sonorous with wonder as Sh’tka’heh played the Fender, strap slung elegantly over his gawky shoulder, thumb reaching around and touching the E-string deftly far up the neck.

As slinky as blues, as stately as Bach, the music traveled far away, accompanied by the slow-breathing woods, by the snare-stars that whispered like silver sand poured on the drum of the night sky.

Thump shuffled back and forth, danced for himself, rapt, his fingers twitching, his jaw sometimes working as if he meant to sing the song that the Noiesni played.

The tune went someplace that Ron could never go. Once he could have headed in that direction… two years ago when Thump had come home too late, so unfairly late, tugging Ron from sleep, urging him to rest his head on a chest warm from a night’s music. Ron had always chosen to sleep instead, curled around his pillow, but yearning angrily for Thump s chest, his wide grip, yearning even though it was all right there. He d been angry because a man couldn’t be in two places at once, and Thump chose to come home too late, always had to be elsewhere just to be Thump.

Tonight a man could be in two places at one time, or a thousand, romping the summit of every dream between here and the Pole Star, playing bass chords on the Pleiades, hammering harmonics out of Arcturus, falling into Spica’s lap, drunk because a man didn’t need to fear dying or fear losing Thump… maybe because he was already lost.

Th’b’b’banh! Thump danced.

Sh’tka’heh paused, the stars keeping time, slipped the guitar strap off his shoulder and draped it over Thump’s head. Ron had never seen Thump so suddenly still and full of love. It showed in the downward tilt of his chin, the way he braced the Fender against his hip, stance hesitant for an instant before he received the weight and took command.

There was respect in the way that Thump grinned at Sh’tka’heh as he started to pluck a sassy backbeat and threw the starry snares into syncopation. He nabbed a little riff out of the air and juggled it between octaves.

It had none of the majesty of Sh’tka’heh’s song.

But it was happy, sure, complete. Thump danced the only way he really could, not in his feet or legs, just in his hips and shoulders. His music disappeared amid the stars and nebulae, hid behind Seyfert galaxies with their laughter, became a pulse that played hilariously, then caressed like a hand in the darkness, and plunged back to this world as the Earth began to sing.

Ron closed his eyes and tried to retreat from the glow. It was such a sad song underneath the humor, full of loss that got buried when people died, full of hurt that the the world hid inside herself so that the future could still hope. And Thump made it unbearably beautiful as he jostled Earth with his rhythm.

Ron had felt that rhythm inside him and never understood. Now he recoiled back into the certainty of a French door, yanked it open, blinked beneath the chandeliers.

Chad sat alone at the long table. He diverted his eyes from Ron, looked fearfully at the glow instead, then grabbed a carrot stick and speared it into dip. When he finally swallowed he said, “I guess they get this way, the Noiesni.”

“I’m sorry.” How did you get forgiven for wrecking a party where miracles were implied, if not quite real? He could throw away his pride… could throw almost anything away to make his host accept this apology. There were lovers, even startlingly rare ones, but then there were your friends.

Chad ate another carrot, no dip this time. “I think Thump made Sh’tka’heh homesick. How?”

“Sorry,” Ron whispered again. He headed for the hallway so he could grab his jacket and leave.

Chad called out, “What about Thump?”

Ron got the coat. Going to the door, he muttered, “Call you tomorrow?”

“If Thump gets out of there, he has a place to stay… tonight.”

Ron pulled the door shut and stood on the porch, desolate. Sure, Thump was still good for one thing… tonight. Ron checked his watch. It was almost eleven. Where had the time gone?

He drove home, reckless, heater on high, October air as sharp as the city against the dark. Sometimes the wind carried a scent, earthy like Thump and his clothes. The smell became tainted decades, sex, and love that would destroy your soul if not your body. He pulled into the driveway and triggered the garage door.

Cold, he hurried in, slammed against the cutting block as he rushed across the kitchen to switch on the light, turn up the heat. He smelled Thump, as if his feet had stunk up the entire house. Almost choking, he tumbled into the hallway and onto the stairs. Huddled, he gasped, wondered if he’d have to burn everything to get rid of that stench.

Bright kitchen light bounced from copper pans, wrapped sedately about the banisters; be quiet, Ron heard the light say, there’ll be other boys, other smells. And it came to him, the rich odor of the leather couch in the living room, the furniture polish in the dining room, the stirring of old summer dust as the heater kicked on… the familiar smells of aloneness.

As long as you loved nobody, it was easy to be brave when you were alone.

Sound

The clock standing at the end of the living room chimed midnight. He’d sat on the steps all that time, knees in his chest, arms on his knees, face buried between his arms.

How much life could one memory shape? And such a small memory… Ron’s dad had bought some groceries. Afterward they’d stopped at the lunch counter for a milk shake. Sun gleamed on the cars, on the window behind the waitress. The milk shakes, plain vanilla, were worth more than every treasure in the world.

Almost finished, Ron was playing around and spilled the last of his. But Dad reached over and ran a hand through Ron’s hair while the waitress wiped up the little spill.

“Don’t worry,” his dad told him.

And Ron began to cry. His dad lifted him up and hugged him. Stubble burned his cheek and he cried even harder. Dad understood, hugged him more gently this time, kissed his temple…

“Hey, Ron?” Thump whispered.

He looked up, blinked in the shadowy hallway. “I didn’t hear the door.” The words rasped out.

“I didn’t come in through the door. Sh’tka’heh gave me a lift.” He grinned. “You should’ve waited, then you could’ve come, too. The car could have sat till tomorrow. Nobody’ll fuck with it in that neighborhood.”

“Why do you talk like that?” The face he had loved a couple of hours ago disgusted him.

“Why not?” Thump sat down next to him on the steps. “Hey, I was so proud of you when you came in to hear me and Sh’tka’heh jam. Kind of scary, right?” Thump put his arm around him.

Ron pushed Thump away, got up, turned at the foot of the stairs. “Why can’t you act normal? Why can’t you just act normal?”

Thump rose slowly. “Hey… sorry. I only stopped by to change. This sweater’s great, but it’s hard to play in, especially with the shirt. Sorta too hot, y’know? Anyway, I gotta go.” He started up the stairs.

“Where? It’s after midnight.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even look back.

Ron waited. He circled through the house, turned on every light in the living room, hallway, dining room, then stationed himself back at the foot of the stairs.

When Thump came down, he wore rust-colored Levi’s and a T-shirt. He gripped his suede jacket hard as he edged by. The back of the tee said “Einstürzende Neubauten.” Somebody had given it to him when he and the Prague-Matics had gone to Amsterdam. Probably some trick.

Without moving, Ron listened to footsteps on the basement stairs. A minute later Thump came back into the hallway, his guitar case in one hand and the jacket in the other. The shitty boots were on his feet untied. He stood in front of the door, hip-slung and shoulders concave. His cowlicks stuck out the way they did when he’d been playing hard, impossibly cute and a little forlorn, the way that bad haircuts always were.

“Sorry about tonight… I guess. I mean, if I fucked up, I’m sorry. I got to go, Ron.”

“Where?”

“I… love you, Ron.” Thump looked up. His eyes burned with love, but not for anybody or anything human.

“Where?”

“Out to the island. I gotta see the cows.”

“Oh, come on! With your guitar?”

“Me and Sh’tka’heh. It’s the only place I could think of with lots of room. We’re gonna need it.” Thump suddenly beamed like he had at the party. “Hey, maybe the cows’ll like it!” The smile faded. “You… you can come, too, if you want.”

“Sh’tka’heh’s meeting with the Pope.”

“He cancelled. C’mon?” Thump grinned, raised his brows. As they settled, he winked. “C’mon.”

“You’re not going anyplace.” Ron folded his arms. Why am I doing that? he asked himself. I never do that… but my father did. Did every man, even a gay one, have to become his father? Arms unfolded. “You’re coming to bed.”

“See you later.” Thump stepped backward toward the door, accidentally drove his case into it.

“Watch it! Watch it!”

“Sh’tka’heh wants to listen to me some more.” Thump swung the case upright and leaned against it. “He says that he heard something tonight that makes him think there’s hope for us after all.”

“What hope? Who needs hope? They’re fixing things. Now come to bed.”

“You’re wrong.”

Ron saw it, and almost burst with a winner’s glee. A tremor in Thump, like fatigue or fear. “No, you’re wrong. If you leave, you don’t need to come back. Not tomorrow. Not ever.” Oh, yes, that did it. Thump missed a beat, two, three. A bass player, and he’d lost count!

He slumped against the case and stared at the floor. “The Noiesni aren’t fixing anything. They’re just looking around trying to figure out when we’re finally going to snuff ourselves. They’ve never seen it before, people as destructive as us. Greed and judgment and hate everywhere. But they love us.” Thump looked up and found half a grin. “Maybe they can’t help us, but they love us, so they’re not going to run away sooner than they need to. But I’m gonna prove to ’em tonight that maybe them and us can find a way for them to help.” He finally drew a deep, easy breath, let it out through his nose.

He smiled as if he’d just remembered something he’d been grasping at for a lifetime, then he spoke again, more softly than before, “Sh’tka’heh says we’re losers, that the whole fuckin’ world has started to lose, and now it wants to keep on losing because it’s easier that way. When we lose, he says, we’ve only got to lose once, then we know we’ve lost and we can quit. But when we’re winning, every day’s a risk, because we’ve got to keep winning all over again, every day. They—the Noiesni—have been around longer than us, and that means they’ve been risking it a lot longer, too. We ought to listen, like they do.”

Thump’s eyes had that loving, respectful look again. “Movement, they hear it all. When the sun comes up, they hear it. The world’s rotation, its revolution, the precision… no, the precession… Sh’tka’heh showed me how to hear a little bit more, and I’m gonna play the dawn and show him we’re not losers.”

Something loud filled Ron’s head. It wasn’t music. It was like fire crackling so that he didn’t have to hear anymore. “You think you’re going to be front man for the world?” Ron brought his hands together as if he meant to applaud. “The only reason you’re even in a band is so you can stand around and make other guys look good.”

Thump’s eyes lost their gleam. He’d taken the blow. “No, Ron. I play bass. The sun’s in front… the morning and the sun. I’m just gonna make them more beautiful than they are. It’s time.” He pulled keys out of his pocket. “I’d better go.”

“Isn’t your alien going to pick you up? And shouldn’t you tie your shoes?”

It hit. Thump’s upper lip tightened as he narrowed his eyes. “Lay off, Ron. I wanted to say good night, okay? He’ll find me easy enough, but I gotta go.”

“Not in one of my cars.”

“I’ll take the Pontiac, okay?”

Ron reached for the keys and Thump jerked them away. The two of them stood no more than a foot apart. “Give me the keys. And the keys to the house. If you’re not going to stay here tonight, then you’re not going to stay, period. Get your shit out of here.” He grabbed for the keys again, got blocked by Thump’s shoulder.

“I’ll take a cab. I’m sorry, Ron.”

“Where are going to call one? You’re not using my phone. You’re out of here.”

“There’s a phone down the street on Westover. See you in the morning.” Thump reached for the doorknob.

Ron grabbed him, felt the biceps flex beneath his hand. His hatred swelled like that muscle. “Get your shit out of my house.”

“This is where I live.” Soft words, but they pled nothing except the truth.

“Get your shit out of here or I’ll throw it out.”

“There’s laws, Ron.” His smile said: Stop now and I’ll forgive you.

How had he stained his teeth so badly by the time he was only twenty-five? Except they’d looked every bit as bad two years ago. They were just crummy teeth. “Laws? Show me a rent receipt. You were a guest. Now you’re out of here. Do you understand? Get out of here.”

He kicked the guitar case. It skidded across the hall. Thump fell as he lunged after it. He hit the floor and sent a shockwave through the house. He moaned and sat up to pull on the jacket, worked his splayed legs back underneath him.

Ron stood over him. God, there was so much power in making a man cry, but then you had to watch it, tears devastating in their subtlety. Ron had never seen Thump cry before. It was harsh in its stillness. The hurt came and went in a blink, a swallowed sob. An eye shimmered like the dark body of Sh’tka’heh’s guitar, and that light got ground away with a fist.

And Ron rode his own tumbling heart downward. A man’s tears were the death of an innocence, and he wanted to feed on this instant, a part of Thump dead. The only soul worth owning was the one that hadn’t been destroyed yet, but nobody could own that kind of soul, so Ron had to destroy it after all.

With his left arm Thump drew the guitar case near; he still tried to get up.

Ron bent over him.

Thump drove an elbow into his stomach.

He staggered back. Can’t breathe, his ribs shrieked, but I smell your jacket… Thump’s shoulder hammered him against the doorjamb, pinned him there with chin raked back so he still couldn’t breathe. His pulse sizzled; there could have been other boys here tonight, why this one?

Thump’s low voice pounded thick in his ear, like a slurred serenade, “Don’t ever kick my guitar again. Don’t ever.” The words spelled the death of an old universe. “Why? You’re making it harder… why d’you want to make it harder?” Thump backed off.

Ron lurched into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. He poked at the 9.

Thump stood in the doorway.

Ron tapped 1, punched it again. “Police. I need to report an assault and an auto theft.”

Thump turned and left.

The police would act as if it were a joke. He hung up, because the police wouldn’t treat him like a person, wouldn’t treat him like a man.

“Thump!” Ron yelled.

The front door closed. He rushed toward it, stomach and chest aching. He still couldn’t breathe, almost hit himself in the face when he yanked open the door.

The porch light was off.

The clarity of the night could eat a soul alive. A breeze told the aspens obscene stories about the death of wonderful things. Thump disappeared down the hill. I’m sorry, Ron wanted to scream, I don’t know what’s wrong, God, I’m so stupid. Thump, I’m sorry… but his lips couldn’t open, his larynx was sutured shut by those threads of starlight. And no loud arguments in the middle of the night, please, not in this neighborhood. No, the autumn or childhood or morning or the sun can’t make me yell that I’m sorry.

Because I’m not.

Because you’re a loser, Thump. You are outside. It’s my world, Thump.

And the world is a dead place… as dead as the flesh you left here when you wouldn’t scrape it away with your stubble, dark as the night, sharp as the stars.

Sh’tka’heh, play him into the ground, bury him with your twisted, backward hands. Please. Please let the world stay a dead place.

Content

Front Man
by Greg Abraham

Sun

Party

Sound