{"id":8401,"date":"2014-11-14T09:00:40","date_gmt":"2014-11-14T14:00:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=8401"},"modified":"2014-11-20T13:22:39","modified_gmt":"2014-11-20T18:22:39","slug":"infestation-pt-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/infestation-pt-1\/","title":{"rendered":"Infestation Pt. 1"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"infestation\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Four months, no shame in that. Barton hadn\u2019t intended to fall once more into its vicious and familiar embrace. When he clutched the tiny bag, however, no sacrifice seemed too great and no punishment too severe. He was on the tricky side of forty, his liver near collapse, his mother and teenage son distant as a star. Every line of crushed crystals barreling through the clipped straw brought him closer to the life otherwise only possible after death. Four months\u2014no shame, no shame at all. Goof and Sister Pussy, eyes sparkling like coins at the bottom of a well, sat across the coffee table from Barton. Goof\u2019s fingers massaged the shaved wonder between her thighs.<\/p>\n

\u201cVince told me what people were saying,\u201d Goof said. \u201cAbout you and me. Little faggot flashbacks, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

Barton laughed so forcefully the dope fled his nose in a gooey mass.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t waste the shit,\u201d Goof said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know not to mention that name,\u201d Barton replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy brother is a bit of a Dope Nazi,\u201d Sister Pussy said, affecting the faux Southern twang of doomed Tennessee Williams heroines. She held Barton\u2019s gaze, smiling like she knew secrets she planned to tell. The girl had been a surprise. Earlier that evening, Goof threw open the door and bounded into the motel room, wrapped Barton in his bony arms. It wasn\u2019t until Barton freed himself from Goof that he noticed the unannounced guest. He recognized her from a photo glimpsed on Goof\u2019s bedside during their stint at rehab. Plain, pudgy, eager, a tongue both skilled and lacking in prudence. Moments before, as she sucked his cock while Goof watched naked from the bed, Barton realized he had no qualms throwing down with siblings. They belong in a sideshow, Vince might say. Sister Pussy and Goof\u2014a girl and a boy. No, a girl and a man. Vince was nowhere near the obscure motel between Dallas and Fort Worth. If he were, Barton had no doubt he would wink and chuckle, finally vindicated.<\/p>\n

Barton felt his groin stir despite ejaculating in Sister Pussy\u2019s mouth moments ago. Whether his desire had surfaced for her or Goof remained a question too forbidding for Barton to articulate.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho the fuck is Vince?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

Goof groaned, took the short straw from Barton. \u201cShould you or should I?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

Barton grimaced, his head sinking. \u201cThat freak\u2019s taken up enough airtime.\u201d Despite the sneer in his tone, he smiled and shook his head like a father teaching an infant to speak. During rehab, Vince liked to call Barton his big brother; now Vince didn\u2019t call him at all.<\/p>\n

\u201cBarton, oh Barton,\u201d Goof declared as if Barton gazed down from a tower. \u201cMake me feel like a real<\/em> man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was some funny shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Goof snorted a line. His teeth were beige, crumbling like a sand castle at high tide. Barton paused in amazement; he\u2019d let Goof kiss him more than once, more than twice.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat skinny bastard was so fucking smitten,\u201d Goof said.<\/p>\n

Sister Pussy gasped, clapped her hands over her mouth. \u201cNo fucking way!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe thought I was a fag like him,\u201d Barton said, drumming his fingernails upon the table, eyeing Goof\u2019s last line, not caring if Goof noticed, knowing Goof wouldn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey oughta put all those cocksuckers in a cage and toss the key,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Barton managed a half-smile, glanced away from his guests. He wasn\u2019t sure which one to approach next. The dope had sparked his desire, as it always did. The decision between Goof and Sister Pussy might reveal something to them; it might reveal something to him.<\/p>\n

Sister Pussy started her share, snorts echoing down her throat as if she were slurping soup. Barton\u2019s gaze drifted toward Goof only to spy his charged look, the corners of his mouth creeping upward. At rehab, Barton often teased Goof about letting him fuck Barton up the ass. Of course, it was all in jest. They weren\u2019t like Vince, a train wreck of bent wrists and wet consonant sounds. It was all in jest until Goof arrived. It was all in jest until Goof suggested they tweak, knowing just a couple of lines compelled Barton to squat down on any erection.<\/p>\n

Four months\u2014no shame in that.<\/em><\/p>\n

Barton lied to the men\u2014the women, too\u2014about what kept him bent over strange tables in strange rooms, straw or dollar bill jammed up his nostril. It wasn\u2019t the sex, the absurd duration or indescribable euphoria before climax. What lured Barton into the synthetic degradation was how it allowed him to revisit without pain the moments in his past that haunted and shamed him. It was the comfort a mother offers after a father\u2019s beating, but it was the only comfort he knew.<\/p>\n

If Goof or Sister Pussy heard the knock outside, they gave no sign. Barton wanted to whisper a warning, but he saw the siblings grinning like two vultures deciding to share a corpse. Another knock. Sister Pussy drew Goof into a kiss, the two consuming one another, snatches of teeth and tongue flitting into view. Barton\u2019s head fell back, his eyes closed, his body following. The knocks grew louder, closer together. So much was possible\u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, big brother, you about to crash?\u201d<\/p>\n

Barton came to, sitting in front of the apartment he shared with Goof at Serenity Hills, the rehab that promised salvation but often produced stale resentment. It was another roiling summer in Houston, the air fetid and moist like horse feces. The courtyard teemed with patients too anxious to stay indoors, too exhausted to move once outside. Barton had killed many hours on his bench, smoking, bullshitting, imagining the crystal meth awaiting him, hating those fantasies and himself for having them.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid I come at a bad time?\u201d<\/p>\n

Christ, it was that<\/em> night. The last days of July, a week before Vince\u2019s birthday. He\u2019d coyly hinted to Barton, never within earshot of anyone, that he\u2019d ask for his birthday present when Barton least expected it. Barton blamed himself for the awkward familiarity Vince expected each conversation. He couldn\u2019t be cruel, not to an enemy\u2019s face. He slapped the raised hand, roared at the terrible joke, smirked and nodded when an absent friend was ridiculed\u2014Barton was a politician without a platform.<\/p>\n

Barton smiled and slid across the bench. The slats dug into his thighs. Vince ignored the plentiful room Barton had allowed him, sat close enough to graze Barton\u2019s thigh. The crickets serenaded them, two men with more in common than one dared hope and the other dared admit.<\/p>\n

\u201cFive more days,\u201d Vince said.<\/p>\n

\u201cTill what?\u201d<\/p>\n

Vince slapped Barton\u2019s shoulder. \u201cMy birthday, you monumental shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Not wanting to, Barton rubbed the spot Vince had pegged. \u201cI told you to remind me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s why I\u2019m here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen you gonna tell me what the fuck you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d Vince said. \u201cIt won\u2019t cost you any food stamps.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve already bought you a case of Hamburger Helper.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vince cackled, head snapped back and jaw dropped wide like the villainess from a Disney feature. Barton observed him, curious how such disparate elements coexisted: the lanky, compact frame; the thick dark hair spiked atop his head, giving him the appearance of deranged shrubbery; the jeans hacked at the shin, a bizarre riff on Capri pants. Vince\u2019s blatantly feminine gestures and affectations, however, silenced whatever desire Barton might have felt for him, how these traits comprised an exotic sort of allure. The animation drained from Vince\u2019s face. \u201cI\u2019ve grown weary of Hamburger Helper.\u201d<\/p>\n

Barton\u2019s breath escalated. \u201cSo what do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s something I should tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n

His throat went dry. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m such a fucking fool.\u201d Vince pitched forward, as if to vomit.<\/p>\n

\u201cDude, you\u2019re not\u2014what is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m surprised you haven\u2019t guessed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSit the fuck up. I can\u2019t understand you.\u201d<\/p>\n

He rose to face Barton, eyes bright with mania. \u201cI\u2019m falling for you, Barton.\u201d<\/p>\n

No, no, no. Anything but this.<\/em><\/p>\n

Barton was popular among the addicts, the nutjobs, the incompetent therapists. With a laugh and a handshake, he\u2019d disarmed the whole roster of patients and staff. Alas, his admirers believed him largely heterosexual, if not exclusively so. Only Vince knew to what extent Barton deviated from traditional carnal behavior. Deviant\u2014surely Vince knew the word. Barton felt drained of power, anticipating Vince\u2019s words of devotion. He looked away, spied a large cockroach scuttling toward the ledge. He cringed, heart fluttering. Too bad Goof wasn\u2019t nearby with a flat-soled slipper or rolled newspaper.<\/p>\n

\u201cVince, I\u2019m not sure what to say.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m just grateful you\u2019re not laughing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou must think I\u2019m an asshole.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you have secrets.\u201d Lips parted and breath shallow, Vince gazed at him.<\/p>\n

Barton recalled a random moment from his last visit to the Dallas bathhouse. Not the one with shaven, muscled Caucasians drifting through dim hallways, grimly appraising one another, but the one two blocks south where gay men of color congregated\u2014and cornered any white boy who dared enter. In a room tucked at the far end of a hall, the Latino moaning after his orgasm ordered Barton to lick his semen from the concrete floor. He did as instructed. He was grateful, a beaten dog whose master disappears indoors. Not even his primary therapist at Serenity Hills knew about that night, only a smattering of would-be tricks in cyberspace, their names and faces unmissed as the semen sliding down Barton\u2019s throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe all have secrets,\u201d Barton said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou told me a few\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd no one else knows?\u2019<\/p>\n

Vince shook his head, flashed the three-finger Boy Scout pledge of integrity.<\/p>\n

\u201cI trust you, kid.\u201d Barton wrinkled his nose, a telltale sign he was lying. He discovered, however, the words felt true once spoken. \u201cI want you to trust me now,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Vince nodded. The cockroach Barton last glimpsed at the ledge zipped to the window sill. Barton wished to return indoors before more pests arrived.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know I\u2019m sick, Vince. We all are.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut do you understand<\/em> what it means?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe both like to tweak. We\u2019ve talked about it when you first\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBuddy, I haven\u2019t fucked anyone sober since 1990. I wasn\u2019t old enough to buy cigarettes. You don\u2019t want me sleeping next to you when morning comes. Believe me.\u2019<\/p>\n

Vince grabbed Barton\u2019s shoulders. \u201cWe can help each other.\u201d Soon after meeting him, Barton realized Vince\u2019s \u201cplayful\u201d combat masked an urge for actual violence. Vince\u2019s eyes shone with fervor.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe a year or so from now\u2026\u201d Barton didn\u2019t know where to look.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHopefully, we\u2019ll be different people. Maybe then\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want me to forget you.\u201d Vince brought his hands to his lap, legs crossed at the ankle. Like a girl, Barton thought. Like a goddamn girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d never forget you, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Thomas Kearnes holds an MA in Screenwriting from the University of Texas at Austin. His two collections are “Pretend I’m Not Here” (Musa Publishing) and “Promiscuous” (JMS Publishing). His fiction has appeared in Litro, The Adroit Journal, The Ampersand Review, PANK, Word Riot, Eclectica, SmokeLong Quarterly, Johnny America, Five Quarterly, wigleaf, Storyglossia, Sundog Lit, A cappella Zoo, Spork, The Pedestal, Digital Americana Magazine and elsewhere. His work has also appeared in several LGBT venues. He is studying to become a drug dependency counselor. He lives near Houston.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Four months, no shame in that. Barton hadn\u2019t intended to fall once more into its vicious and familiar embrace. When he clutched the tiny bag, however, no sacrifice seemed too great and no punishment too severe. He was on the tricky side of forty, his liver near collapse, his mother and teenage son distant as a star. Every line of crushed crystals barreling through the clipped straw brought him closer to the life otherwise only possible after death. Four months\u2014no shame, no shame at all. Goof and Sister Pussy, eyes sparkling like coins at the bottom of a well, sat across the coffee table from Barton. Goof\u2019s fingers massaged the shaved wonder between her thighs.<\/p>\n

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