Gabriel and Shantel Have a Drink Together

Shantel was hard to figure out. Her breasts looked real, and she had no hint of a five o’clock shadow, but her deep voice gave her away. Sometimes, no amount of estrogen can give you a higher voice.

“Hello,” the tall, dark-haired bartender said. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Well hello, you handsome thing you,” Shantel said. Gabriel blushed. “I’ll have a Citron on ice, please.”

“Okay. And you?”

“A Glen Levitt, no ice,” Gabriel said. He usually drank beer, but the dreary days in Amsterdam were starting to get to him. He needed something stronger.

Shantel took Marky Mark out of the leopard dog bag and plopped him in her lap.

“Is he friendly?” Gabriel asked.

“He seems to be,” she said, staring after the bartender; he looked up and caught her staring, then winked.

“I meant your dog.”

“Oh!” Shantel laughed. “Mister Marky Mark here?” The little dog wagged his tail and licked his lips; a tiny pink tongue against tan fur. “He’s a bay-bee doll,”she said, drawing out the word. “You want to hold him, Darling?”

“Sure.”

She sat the chihuahua gently in Gabriel’s long-legged lap, and he immediately began to pet him. Marky Mark started licking his hand incessantly.

“Marky, easy now,” Shantel said. “He gets a little over-excited around handsome men.”

Gabriel laughed and felt himself blush again. The bartender placed the drinks in front of them.

“Do you want to run a tab?”

Before Gabriel could say no, Shantel said, “Please,” and she lifted her glass to a toast. “What shall we toast to?”

“How about sunshine?” It was still pouring.

“Here’s to love,” Shantel said. “L’amour. And sunshine. And flowers! Have you noticed? Amsterdam is covered in flowers.”

“I haven’t noticed.”

“Well, look,” Shantel said, putting her drink down. “There’s no use making small talk. You’re obviously moping around. Why are you here? If you detest it so much, why don’t you leave?”

“I’m here to find someone.”

“You said that already.”

“Someone who’s—uh—in trouble. I think.”

“In trouble? You think? Lord have mercy, it’s a mystery. What is this? Some Agatha Christie novel? What on earth are you talking about? Spit it out!” she ordered. And then she softened, adding, “Please.”

It was the first time he had spoken to Shantel this long. In San Francisco they had chatted briefly at her friend’s reading. Back then he figured she was just affected, putting it on. Now he heard an English accent, and somewhere deep behind it, an African dialect. Something elegant.

“I have a good friend, ” he began. “My closest friend. From San Francisco. He’s here. He’s—I think he’s gotten himself into trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Trouble.”

Shantel sighed impatiently. “Gabriel—that’s your name, yes?” He nodded. “Come out with it! What kind of trouble?”

“Drugs.”

“Oh.”

“And sex.”

“Sex?” she said a little too loudly, so the bartender looked up from the dishwasher he was loading, and Marky Mark’s ears stood up. The dog shivered a little.

“How does sex get you into trouble?” Shantel asked. “Is he hooking?” Gabe shook his head. “Doing Tina?”

“I think so.”

“Oh, God.” Shantel took a sip of her vodka. “Crystal can fuck you up, that’s for sure. I should know.”

“I think he’s answered a master/slave ad,” Gabriel continued. “And I think he’s over his head.”

“Well, Darling,” Shantel said, “it’s really no one’s business but his own. Maybe he’s doing exactly what he wants to do, no matter how high he is. What makes you think he’s in trouble?”

Gabriel paused. Marky Mark whined a little and Gabriel started petting him again.

“I dreamt it,” he said. “I dreamt it. I dream things sometimes. Things that really happen.”

“I see,” Shantel said, nearly whistling the words. She made eye contact with the bartender, tapping her glass for another drink. “That’s interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

Vincent Prays

Vincent prayed, something he hadn’t done since childhood when his father’s drinking was at its peak. As a child, he prayed to end the yelling, his mother’s fear, his father’s fists. And then one day his father was gone, and he prayed for him to return.

He prayed for escape. To find a way out of this mess, this trap. The clarity that came from the drug exiting his system, the clarity that came from prayer, brought with it a ferocious desire to live. To get back to life again. To eating breakfast with Gabe in open-air cafes, to working again. Maybe he would use his inheritance to buy a house, or start a clothing line.

But then, Master would clomp down the stairs in those heavy boots, unlock the door, place the stainless steel bowl on the concrete floor, and kick it with his foot through the small gap. And then the door would shut again. Lock. And Vincent would be alone.

He had started to make small marks on the wall in the corner where he often sat, next to the beam. He sat there on a black vinyl cushion and waited for these dog bowl meals. He had found a little chip of concrete and used it like chalk, scratching the days out in little lines of five: four straight lines up and down, one slashing across.

He had lost the first days, high on Tina and turned on by the fantasy of their sex in the dungeon. He estimated he had lost at least four days, maybe five, but he had eleven marks on the wall now. That was nearly two weeks, and he was losing faith.

Today, when Master came with the food, he brought it in by hand, came to the corner where Vincent was sitting, and squatted down next to him. The bowl looked tiny in his huge, white hand, and Master’s long thighs and knees pointed outward in a deep squat. Vincent tried to make his face passive, open, without a trace of the anger he felt. Master’s other large hand reached out to rest on Vincent’s shoulder, and he made a deliberate effort not to winch under that touch.

“You have been a very good boy these last few days,” Master said, looking deep into Vincent’s eyes. Master’s eyes were ice blue; the irises were clear and light. He had short, blue-black lashes. “Since you have been so good, I’m leaving the door open slightly to show you that if you continue to be a good boy, you will be rewarded.” Vincent faked a little smile. “And soon,” Master said, leaning in, “you will be the best slave boy ever.”

Behind Master, Vincent heard a jingling sound, and saw motion. When  Master turned to see what it was, Vincent was surprised to see a rather portly beagle standing in the doorway, wagging its tail.

“Ahhh!” Master hollered, rising in slow motion and bolting toward the little dog. “I told you NO!”

The beagle bolted up the stairs and Master ran after him, but only halfway, coming back down to lock the door again.

Then Vincent did something he hadn’t done in a very long time: he laughed.