Floridian Nights Read online

  Floridian Nights

  Lance Ringel

  Published by Distant Mirror Press, New York, at Smashwords

  distantmirrorpress.com

  Copyright © 2021 Lance Ringel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

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  This book is a work of fiction. All names, incidents, and characterizations are imagined creations of the author. Any resemblance to current events or living persons is entirely coincidental.

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  Cover Design: Minnie Cho, FUSELOFT, fuseloft.com

  Book Design: Mark Pence

  For Chuck,

  of course

  New York – August, 1988

  1.

  The storm was a dandy. From his office, so many stories up in the World Trade Center, Gary Gaines had watched the hot summer sky transform itself from an incandescent blue to a deep, deep gray. Now the wind had picked up, and sheets of rain were blowing above, below, and around him. Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and looking straight out gave him the once-curious, now all-too-familiar sensation of being totally adrift.

  And the Trade Center, this seemingly stalwart landmark, wasn’t helping any. Though it was scarcely fifteen years old, the building creaked like a haunted house, and the sense of sway, especially if you stood close to the glass, was pronounced. Looking to his left, Gary could see the vertical line of his window move ever so slightly against the silhouette of the more northern of the twin towers – which, no doubt, was itself swaying – and then move ever so slightly back again.

  He was beginning to get seasick, which reminded him of the way Becker used to say, “There are two kinds of people in the world, Loverboy: those who get seasick – like you – and those who don’t.” He never finished the statement with “like me,” just let the obvious speak for itself. It was only one of many little ways that he would remind Gary which of them was the hardier, had the greater physical strength. But now it was Gary who was alive, if woozy, a thousand feet above the earth; and Becker who was not, who lay beneath the earth, somewhere in Georgia.

  The electronic warble of his office phone brought Gary back to land, and to the present. “It’s Julia Stern?” came Anita’s voice, in its half-stating, half-asking tone.

  “Okay,” was all he said, and then Julia was on the line:

  “All right, caught you. Looking out the window at the storm, weren’t you?”

  He had to laugh at that. Julia, his best friend, worked in the Empire State Building, and her office faced south. It was a running joke between them that they could see what was going on in each other’s offices, some fifty blocks apart. And with surprising frequency, she, at least, guessed right. “Yeah,” he admitted.

  “And what were you thinking?”

  “How glad I am the heat wave’s over.”

  “For now.”

  “For now,” he agreed, “and how foul it’s going to be out tonight.”

  “You wouldn’t let a little hurricane cancel a meeting of the Merry Widows’ Club, would you?”

  The Merry Widows’ Club was a joke-that-wasn’t-a-joke between them. Julia tended to use the phrase more often than Gary. Her husband Ira had been killed in a sidewalk mugging on a beautiful night this past spring. Ira had looked like a stereotypical accountant – he was, in fact, involved in banking, as Becker had been – and maybe that’s why the kids had taken him for an easy mark. They hadn’t expected him to fight back, and he hadn’t expected them to have knives. So Ira had died on a side street in NoHo, just a few blocks from where Becker had died; had died alone, without Julia, just as Becker had died without Gary.

  “Hello? Earth to Gaines?” Julia snapped him back to attention, and he chided himself for his self-absorption. Her wound was far fresher than his; after three years, his widowhood, never as honored as hers to begin with, was old hat.

  “Yeah. Sorry. No. No, of course not. Where were we going?”

  “Beats me. If the rain stops, everyone will be out on the streets, enjoying the blessed relief.”

  Time was when, on a night like this, the four of them would have automatically met in the Village. Now he hesitated to suggest it. Becker’s life had ended at Sixth Avenue and Third Street, Ira’s between the Bowery and Lafayette.

  “How about the East Village?” she prompted.

  “After the Tompkins Square mess?”

  “That was two weeks ago. I’m not afraid. Are you?”

  “No, if that’s what you really want–”

  “Or if you’ve got a better idea, I’m game.”

  He didn’t. “Do you think maybe we’re too old for the East Village?”

  “Maybe you are.” Another joke; he was four years her junior.

  “All right.”

  She proceeded to give him the name of some restaurant right off Tompkins Square which, she assured him, was “deliciously tacky.”

  •

  He took the E train – the always-get-a-seat, always-air-conditioned E train – from the Trade Center to the stop called West 4th Street, where, to the befuddlement of visitors, you could exit at either West 8th or West 3rd Street. Although he was in the back of the train, having just managed to catch it, when he emerged he slowly strode the steamy length of the underground platform, rather than have to walk past the playground where Becker had fallen.

  When he hit the street, he almost regretted his avoidance tactic. The rain had stopped and, after some six weeks of living in the Amazon jungle (the New York Times had as much as said so, with a front-page chart proving the similarity in conditions), the blast of cool natural air felt like a sort of private miracle.

  What the coolness also did, as he sauntered down West 8th Street, was stimulate his long-dormant libido. His late lover would have enjoyed the late heat wave; Becker was used to hot, sticky Southern nights, and had no compunction about making love in high heat and humidity, bodies slapping and sliding against one another. Gary had always found this more gross than sexy. Living alone now, he had scarcely been troubled by so much as a passing fantasy this wretched summer. But tonight, his eyes were racing. They took in the tough-looking, tall, t-shirted Italian guy with the short, sleek girlfriend clinging to one of his oversized biceps; the black guy with the serene, beautiful smile beneath the wild dreadlocks, who actually paused across the street to give Gary a very obvious second look; the trim Latinish guy walking home in gray business suit and briefcase, looking so thoroughly yuppified that he seemed more WASPy than Gary himself.

  He let this last one rush ahead of him, then, having been rewarded by the sight of the guy’s ass moving, moving, moving beneath clinging fabric, Gary stepped up to keep pace, so he could enjoy the show. One, two, one, two, he watched the right, then the left cheek rise and fall as the two men headed ever eastward; then, as they hit Broadway, the guy in front suddenly took a sharp turn to the right, and what’s more, seemed to notice in the process that Gary had been staring at his anatomy.

  In Gary’s hometown of New Swiss, Ohio (where he wouldn’t have dared follow anyone so boldly in the first place), one of two denouements would have occurred: a shy, secretive smile, or, far more likely, a “whaddayalookinat, faggot?” perhaps followed by a fist in the face. Here in New York, there was a greater variety to the possible reactions. This guy simply gave Gary a terse smirk that seemed to say, yeah, I know I’m hot, but in my book you’re not, so tough luck. Such an attitude could emanate from someone gay or straight; the important thing was to almost imperceptibly acknowledge the cruise, then establish your superiority and move on. Largely because the evening felt so good, Gary sloughed off the putdown, preferring instead to bask in the afterglow of the cat-and-mouse game he’d just played. These sports never came to anything anyway – well, almost never – but they lifted his spirits, and made him feel back among the living.

  St. Mark’s Place was jammed with people, many of them defiantly odd to his eye; but when he crossed Second and then First Avenue, the dropoff in foot traffic was considerable, and the neighborhood quickly began to look more genuinely than self-consciously ratty. He cut over to the wrong side of the street for where he was heading, in order to avoid a couple of sprawled homeless people who, combined, had the walk on his side completely blocked. The walls on this other side of the street were covered with an army of small but surprisingly slick flyers and posters demanding all manner of retribution for the police behavior at Tompkins Square. Gary smiled as he scanned them; he was just old enough to feel some nostalgia for a time when almost everybody he knew – being supremely ignorant of the real world – had called all police “pigs” and really meant it.

  His first thought as he turned the corner onto Tompkins Square itself was that it looked more like a quiet London park than the recent scene of one of the bigger riots of the decade. It was an area he and Becker, for instance, would never have ventured to; but in the past few years it had changed radic
ally, and that in turn had sparked the equally radical reaction that had resulted in the riots. No place left to be genuinely funky.

  The address Julia had given him appeared to be, by process of elimination (since the posting of actual street numbers had evidently been declared un-chic), a thoroughly nondescript, black brick storefront. Entering the space, he noticed a continuation of this determinedly minimalist look: the room seemed to consist of haphazardly exposed brick walls and plain white Formica tables and chairs, broken only by what appeared to be clear plastic shower curtains delineating the waiting area. What a weird place. He could see that it would appeal to Julia’s finely honed sense of the absurd.

  He expected to be greeted by some sepulchral East Village denizen clad in the requisite head-to-toe black, but instead, incongruously, he was met by a just-as-prevalent species, although one not common to this environment – your basic clean-cut, overly eager waiter. In fact, this fresh-faced (baby-faced, even) child, decked out in a highly traditional white shirt with black bowtie and pants, seemed totally out of place but for the modified punk, ’50s-style cut to his reddish-brown hair. When he asked “Can I help you?” he made it sound like the most eagerly anticipated, pressing question of the day.

  “Yeah,” Gary thought to himself, “Can I take you out back?” – for on second perusal he had noticed that the waiter, though runty (he was half a head shorter than Gary, who wasn’t exactly tall himself), was really rather cute. He had the sweet perkiness of a straight boy who’d just arrived in town from the Midwest. But give him a year and he’d be foul-mouthed, into drugs and sleazy girlfriends.

  Gary explained that he was meeting someone, and he followed the kid to a table, all the while appraising his ass. But even as he did, his attraction soured into resentment; he really didn’t care for young airheads like this.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. No sooner was he seated than Julia breezed into the room. She wasn’t easily overlooked in any case; though she was always staving off plumpness, her cinnamon hair (natural) and deep black eyes caught your attention, plus the woman really knew how to dress – tonight, in a deep red-orange. Subtract about ten pounds and she’d be one of the most sought-after widows in New York; as it was, she and the nebbishy-looking Ira, totally devoted to each other, had always startled onlookers as a most unlikely pair.

  But if Julia looked pert as ever, Gary, at least, could see how fragile she was feeling underneath it all. As the waiter led her to their table with the same irritating cheeriness he had used on Gary (keep off her, you little brat, he thought petulantly), Gary rose to greet her, and to hold her. It wasn’t something they always did, but he sensed she needed it tonight, and the firm, warm embrace he got in return told him he was right.

  “Bad day, huh?” he said sympathetically as she sat down.

  She smiled, looked radiant, and gave a reply that no onlooker would have guessed: “Death in life.”

  He reached over to touch her hand, but before he could say anything, she added, “I know, ‘Mama said there’d be days like this.’ ”

  “That’s the first time anybody’s ever called me ‘Mama.’ ”

  “Ah well, GG, we’re none of us young as we used to be.” Julia had always been one of those who had called Gary and Becker “GG” and “BB.” Gaines and Barnes – they’d sounded like a law firm.

  “Good evening, folks,” came the bubbly voice of the waiter, the same one who’d escorted each of them to their table. “My name’s Rick and I’ll be your waiter for this evening.” Gary hated this kind of rap. “If you like, I’ll tell you a little bit about the specials we have tonight–”

  “Actually, we’d like a few minutes to ourselves,” Gary cut in, with a tone so nasty that all three of them stopped, as if in suspended animation, until Julia sweetly interjected,

  “But I could use a drink.”

  “Uhh,” stumbled the waiter, still nonplussed. “I’m sorry. We don’t have a liquor license here. But if you want to bring something in, we’ve got mixes for tropical drinks.”

  “That sounds good,” Julia said to Gary, then, to the waiter, “Is there a liquor store nearby?”

  “Right around the corner, ma’am.”

  “I’ll go get it,” Gary said, rising from his chair as the waiter beat a hasty retreat. “What do you want, rum?”

  With a strange look on her face, Julia said, “No, let me. You look tired, too. Like you’ve had a long day.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gary snapped at her, but she was altogether adept at snapping back:

  “Don’t be a male chauvinist pig. Sit down.”

  Cowed – for he thought being a politically conscious gay man naturally should include an appreciation of feminism – Gary sat back down.

  “Light rum or dark rum?” Julia asked as she simultaneously got up and rummaged through her purse. She was evidently annoyed at him.

  “What’s wrong?” he hissed at his friend, although whispering was hardly necessary; no one else was around.

  “That was a mean thing to do,” she hissed back, “I thought I’d leave you alone with our friend there and give you a chance to apologize.”

  “Take your time,” Gary said acidly. “If that’s what you want, you can take ’til the cows come home.”

  “Gary,” she said even more sotto voce, with a change of emphasis, “He likes you.”

  “What? Are you crazy? He’s straight.”

  “I don’t think so, GG.”

  “Please. I think it’s pretty obvious which one of us is the expert on that score. Anyway, what are you, playing yenta now?”

  “It’s about time I did,” she said, arching an eyebrow, with the hint of a smile. The ice that had so swiftly begun to form between them began to melt just as fast.

  “You know what?” he said as she turned her back to leave.

  “What?” she echoed, half-turning around.

  “I love you.”

  She laughed, a silvery laugh, said, “Fuck you. And see you shortly. With some light rum, okay?”

  •

  Now he was alone in the empty restaurant, except, he guessed, for the waiter with whom he’d been so brusque. Actually, the kid was nowhere in sight; maybe he was the chef, too, in this weird joint. Gary drummed his fingers, and he would have looked out the window had there been one. Then he noticed that the waiter had reappeared, a couple of aisles away (aisles being a generous term in this place), studiously resetting tables that scarcely needed it. Equally studiously, he avoided Gary’s gaze.

  God, I can be an asshole, Gary thought. Here I am, thirty-five years old and already I’m an old crank. He cleared his throat and said in a slightly raised voice, “Excuse me?”

  The waiter, dubious, turned where he stood. “Sir?”

  No pouting, no snottiness, but none of the open friendliness of a few moments ago either, just a crisp efficiency. The young sure learned quickly. Gary felt like shit, wanted to say he was sorry, but he didn’t want to yell that across two aisles, even in an otherwise-empty restaurant. And how could he ask the kid to come closer without seeming to come on to him? “Is this the smoking or the non-smoking section?” he finally said, lamely.

  “This restaurant doesn’t quite seat fifty, sir. We’re not required to have separate sections.” The waiter stood stock-still, looking wary. But he added, “If you tell me which you prefer, I’ll try to make sure I seat only non-smokers, or only smokers, in your area.”

  What I prefer is you, Gary suddenly thought. You’re a nice kid, and nice kids are rare. But you’re also straight, I think, and you’re turning me into a dirty old man. “Look,” Gary blurted, “I’m sorry about before.”

  Now the waiter moved half a step toward him. “It was entirely my fault, sir. I’m still kinda new at this. I shouldn’t’ve interrupted you and your wife.”

  Just then Julia swept back in, with a huge bottle of light rum in tow.