It was an unusual phrasing, as if the man had to qualify any connection between them, through her. But the boy didn’t understand the difference at the time, only trembled in fear and terror and felt his bowels loosen with an uncomfortable cramping sensation.
“Arden Evans,” the boy said with some formality. They were not on a first-name basis. Might never be.
“I’m Jimmy Evans,” the man said as if to prove their family connection. “But you can call me Captain.”
He stuck out one leathered hand, brown as beef jerky and speckled from skin damage. The hand he’d offered was at least as twice as big as the boy’s own.
“Why would I call you Captain?” the boy said, revealing the stubborn, smart-aleck streak that the captain always attributed to the boy’s mother and never himself.
“Because I’m the captain of the ship, and you’re my new first mate. Time to get your sea legs, Kid. You’re with me now.”
What was this man talking about? He sounded insane. “Are you homeless?” the boy asked, fearing the worst.
The man chuckled, and it sounded like air wheezing through coal-blackened pipes. “Nope. I live on a boat. Her name is Tondaleo, and it’s high time you meet her.”
Tondaleo,the boy marveled. He’d never heard such a beautiful, exotic name in all of his life.
Later, when his aunt was trying to convince him not to go, to stay in the house where he could still smell his mother, where he could crawl into her bed every night and cry himself to sleep, where all of her clothing and jewelry and lotions still sat in her bedroom, untouched and gathering dust, he realized that he could say goodbye to her a thousand times and die slowly, or he could escape with this strange, weather-beaten man and say goodbye to her all at once.
Like ripping off a Band-aid fast and hard, he left.
7
the john
Arden dressed me in my father’s clothing—jeans, t-shirt, and a flannel. Wearing his clothes, I looked a lot like him, which was a little disconcerting. Arden gave me a ball cap so I wouldn’t be recognized. I told him I wasn’t that famous.
“What about you?” I asked. He wore tight jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his sculpted arms and shoulders. He threw a light jacket on top of that, only because I insisted.
“I won’t use my real name.”
We ended up at a pool hall, dark on the inside except for the bar and the oily pools of light cast by the bulbs above the tables. The air smelled like stale beer and men’s sweat topped with a layer of fry grease. After only a few minutes, my skin had a sticky residue on it. Arden surveyed the place and decided it was sufficiently seedy for his purposes. I dreaded what might come next.
It was a slow night—tourist season was still a few weeks away—so there were a few empty tables. Arden ordered me a draft beer and an iced tea for himself. I asked if drinking in front of him might compromise his sobriety, but he only waved off my concern.
Arden racked the balls. Right off the bat, he wasn’t acting like himself. Since we’d stepped inside the pool hall, he’d become… slinkier. Like he was drunk, only I knew he wasn’t. He stood closer than necessary as I lined up the cue ball and hung on me performatively while I read the break. He laughed loud enough to get others’ attention and shot a few long, lingering looks at the bar’s patrons. He was working the room, and even though he’d given me the game plan already, I didn’t really think he’d see it through.
But what could I do? He wasn’t my boyfriend—he’d made that clear. We weren’t even fucking. Not really. We were friends and we were keeping it simple. No demands and no expectations.
So, when a big, sturdy man in his late thirties approached us, I didn’t snarl and send him packing, I leaned against the pool table, chalked my cue, and watched this exchange play out.
“I noticed you looking at me,” the man said.
“What if I was?” Arden said haughtily. He moistened his lips with his tongue, which caught the man’s attention and mine too. They were the same height, but Arden was slouching with his ass against the pool table, letting the man think he was bigger.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
Arden gave a fake one, and the man gave his own. I determined right then that I’d only ever consider him “the john.”
The john nodded at me and addressed Arden, “That your boyfriend?”
Arden shot me a calculating look. “No, he’s my pimp.”
I almost gave myself away. I’d never in my life fantasized about being in such a role.
“You looking for work then?” The man tucked his thumbs in his waistband and licked his chops hungrily.
“Forty for a suck, eighty for a fuck.”
