Rabbit
2009-08-22 23:43:09 UTC
Eagle Nest, New Mexico
Come a breezy sunset after a long day’s work in the office cubicles, suits materialize wandering downtown in search for cold drinks and overhead fans. After operating heavy machinery, workers swarmed the few saloons in Eagle Nest and around; like worker bees putting their feet up after the bee hive hectic was over.
The bars were chock-full every night. That emptied out the streets somewhat, and marauders were free to stir on the cracked pavements.
Two gangly young men crossed the street in a hurry, heads down and following the streetlights into another quiet neighborhood, avoiding the shadows like sinners confession booths.
The one who knew his hometown, the tall college boy wearing shorts and a sweater, crumpled the directions note into a ball the moment he saw the house. His boyfriend followed mutely, shyly.
“This is the place, right? Check the mailbox.” said College Boy, gazing at the black and blue flickering of a TV through the window with one hand shielding his eyes from the blinding street lights above. The boyfriend read the golden print on the brass mailbox, his index finger following the letters; in case he missed any. “Berkiss.”
As instructed, the two ignored the main entrance and proceeded through the thick shrubs and into the yard. Following the thin strip of concrete against the house’s yellow façade, they went behind it. A dusty garage doors appeared like a mirage. The burglar lights instantly came to life, illuminating their ankles like stage lights. College Boy, namely Dewey, pulled his partner by the hand and onto the dirty rag where they were inclined to wipe their feet. Dewey rang the bell, and waited. Something shuffled inside.
Clyde Berkiss appeared before them, thick smoke surrounding the forgettable features of his teenage face. He slid the door aside, one arm resting on the frame and tapped the dip under his nose pensively, remembering their names. “Dewey, Dominic.” He said, his voice lackluster and hoarse as if he had been recovering from a fever.
They shook hands, and Clyde let them through. The two men took a fleeting look at the interior, mildly disappointed with the monotonous atmosphere. They were standing on a licked out dark carpet, surrounded by book shelves, a writing desk and single bed. The walls were naked except for a The Who poster with torn edges, more book shelves lacking real literature and self-made stickers on the door now that Clyde closed them.
Not knowing where to stand or how to spark the conversation, the two men stood by and observed Clyde’s frame. He wasn’t taller than the newcomers, but skinner and more drenched-looking. He truly owned one of the plainest faces they had ever seen, though tonight he had dark circles under his eyes. Clyde was a gaunt teenager, always dressed in second-hand wardrobe with dark windswept hair, sucking on an unlit cigarette between classes.
He took a seat behind the writing desk facing the wall, turned to the two and smiled amiably. He seemed to have already begun with the twelve pack of beer, finishing off his first and helping himself to a second one. A pack of Marlboro Reds lay next to a massive computer on standby, the smoke from his lit cigarette trickling towards the ceiling. Marijuana debris and a bag of tobacco lay before his reach.
“No trouble finding the place?”
“No, your instructions were pretty clear.” Dewey replied.
“You can sit on the bed.”
As the two sunk onto the plastered mattress, Clyde ran his hands down the front of his washed-out jeans, drying the dampness from holding cooled beer cans, and ambled into the built-in closet. He took out a tripod with three black iron legs and mounted it expertly between the bed and his seat behind the desk.
Dewey slipped the sweater over his head and doubled it over on his lap. “How much is this gonna cost? A friend of mine said it ain’t gonna hurt my wallet.”
“Fifty bucks upfront, twenty tomorrow for a thirty minute video. You get complementary condoms, an AIDS brochure and beer.” Clyde said; a well rehearsed sentence.
“How about a couple of joints?”
“Mary Jane ain’t a cheap lady.’”
“How much?” Dominic said abruptly, reaching into his back pocket.
They eased into ecstasy. Clyde scratched the eczema on his elbow, while the two lovers threw their heads back and onto the springy mattress, smiling softly. Clyde waved a hand before his face, clearing the air.
“I don’t do POVs. I can zoom in, zoom out, and walk around a bit to give you that nice panoramic view, do something with the lights.” He began. “I play any genre of background music you like. Just don’t ask me to crank t