Italian sausage,” Crispen insists.
“Make it half and half,” Breffni says. “Tomato, onion, and zucchini for me.”
“Your pizza’s getting nastier every time we order, Breff,” Crispen says, wrinkling his nose. “Next week it’ll be corn, squash, and rice. I don’t know how you live on plants and still have any meat on your bones.” Breffni is shorter and thinner than the others, but cut like a diamond.
“Protein’s in the beans!” Breffni sluices the last of the goop from the bowl into his mouth.
Augustus, holding one end of the receiver, asks, “Do we want free pesto?”
“Throw a shirt on, Breff,” Crispen says.
“I can’t dress until I hear some tunes,” Breffni says. “Let’s hear some tunes.” He turns to me. I notice one of his nipples is pierced. “C.J.’s a kick-ass DJ. He used to DJ in the States.”
“Back in North Carolina,” Crispen says. “I got everything from Method Man to Mozart, man.”
The house bops to some old Cameo while we dress. I root through my suitcase for my dancing gear, chip a nail on my camera at the bottom. An old Canon, not the best, but good enough to win last year’s Nepean Public Library Photo Competition, Amateurs Under Forty. I pull it out. “Will this be safe in this apartment?”
“Safer than if you left it out in the hall, but that’s about it,” Crispen says.
I stuff it back into the bottom of my suitcase. The little gold travel lock’s just enough to delay a would-be thief by the length of a chuckle.
Breffni’s still primping long after the three of us are done. We finish off another joint and the pizza while we wait. Both taste like tapestry. For some reason it doesn’t seem the least bit strange to be sharing stories and spliffs in a strange city with three strange guys. I suppose I haven’t lived long enough for anything to be truly surprising. I wonder if one can go into shock from the experience of moving. If the phrase comfortably numb wasn’t sung about decades earlier, now would be a good time to dream it up.
“Hurry up, Breff!” Crispen shouts. “When he’s doing a show, he can change from a sweater to a tux in less than twenty seconds. But when we want to jet, it takes him an hour. Go figure.”
Breffni yells from the bathroom, “Big difference between modelling and real life, right?”
“Just hurry the hell up.”
The men’s washroom at the Garage is surprisingly similar to the rest of the club. Cold concrete underfoot, hot neon overhead, and tools as far as the eye can see. My stepfather, were he alive, would be prying pliers and spanners off the wall. Even in here there’s no refuge from the black light. Constellations of lint glow on my black turtleneck. On the sleeves, long electric filaments from cats long dead. I’m afraid it may appear to be dandruff. Right now I’d trade my shoes for a lint brush.
The taps are operated by unmarked wrenches. I’d like to splash some cold water on my face, but I can’t figure out the taps. I puke in the sink instead. Pieces of salami sluice down the drain. I’m tempted to blame the pesto, but I know better. My eyes are infernally red. Then I squawk with dry heaves. I feel as if my soul is passing out of my mouth. There’s a young, smartly dressed man standing politely next to me. I try to ask him what pesto is, but it comes out more like “Why I’m pissed.” He offers me a towel. I’m not sure if it’s pity or his job that motivates him. I compromise by accepting it and giving him a quarter. His expression says that was clearly the wrong move, though whether it’s because I gave him money or because I gave him so little, I can’t tell.
I check myself into a stall for a half-time pep talk. My game plan is clearly not working. Focus is the key. A comeback, not entirely impossible. Crispen and Breffni are hunting a school of young models. On the dance floor they circle closer and closer like reef sharks. Breffni’s after a tall brunette with a fake tan and mechanical breasts. She seems familiar, but they always do. I’ve had plenty of girls like her, all forgotten. Crispen, tonight’s designated pilot fish, will be happy with the leftovers.
I’m still looking for Rianne. I think I saw her by the pool tables. It’s possible I bought her a passing rose and told her I’d like to put my finger in her pie. She may have slapped me.
Augustus leads a line dance. “Bring it back!” he shouts, twirling like a Four Top as eager secretaries and fresh divorcées shyly try to follow his Cabbage Patch, his Electric Slide, unsure of themselves, but having a ball, just happy to be retroactively learning the latest steps, thrilled to be tutored by a certified Master Negro. Augustus ignores the glares from the other dancers around them, from those too young to remember when Michael Jackson was still black. He’s in a zone. He doesn’t care as long as he’s spinning and winning on the baseline. Scoring, for one. “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...”
And, giggling, one by one, his understudies join in, only mouthing the words at first, then, Long Islands and Blue Lagoons later, screaming out, “Burn, motherfucker, buuuuuurn!”
We’re huddled on the couch for warmth like baby rats. The stereo’s still on—“Single Life” stuck on repeat. “Single guys, clap your hands!” over and over. We’re too tired to turn it off.
I prod Crispen, who’s on my thigh, but he seems to have passed out. Breffni’s still talking about the brunette and the fight her boyfriend picked with him outside the bar, quickly unpicked when Augustus walked their way. No one’s listening.
“So where do I sleep?” I ask.
Augustus points to a thin mattress leaning against the wall. I notice he’s wearing gardening gloves.
“Why the mitts?”
“Keeps ’em steamin’ fresh,” Crispen says, stirring at last. His chuckle turns to heaves. He grabs Breffni’s bowl. Its new contents are indistinguishable from the old.
“Don’t laugh, Pappa,” Augustus says. He peels off a grey glove, exposes a ring. It looks as if it cost more than I do.
“Half an hour of turning faucets and flushing toilets. No stylists, no makeup. Fast and dirty. Easy money.”
“You wear makeup?”
“On my hands?”
“On your face.”
“Powder. Don’t you?”
“No.” I’ve never touched a spore of makeup in my life. I didn’t even know powder came in brown. All of a sudden I’m nervous about tomorrow’s go-see. I’m playing in the majors now. Can’t afford a strikeout at my first at-bat. “What’ll we have to do for that woman tomorrow?”
“Eva?” Augustus says. “The usual. She’ll peek at your portfolio, make you do a couple of laps, then tell you there’s not a big market for your type in Greece.”
“Don’t worry,” Crispen slurs. “You’ll be fine. You know how to walk, right?”
Suddenly
