The Icy Breath of Too Late

Submitted into Contest #219 in response to: Set your story in a type of prison cell.... view prompt

2 comments

Fiction Gay Sad

There is this place called Too Late where nobody seems to know you but where everyone talks about you, whispering behind hands in the grocery aisle and church pew, turning slightly with sideways glance, tsk-tsk that’s him. The judge hit his gavel and Fate smiled, told you so: you have just become the other guy.

Janis said that “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose” and man was she right, I’d come so far, might be going to hell in a bucket babe, but at least I’m enjoying the ride. Impervious to cold, immune to morés, ignorant of both time and space I had wandered lonely as a cloud, free to come and go as I pleased, not hurting anyone now but me, nobody’s fault but mine.

               Goodbye kids, it’s been real. Daddy’s got another lover.

               I had ridden my Schwinn Continental to the restaurant with flickering lanterns by the door. It was snowing with careless ease; the parking lot was papered in white. The boutiques and high-end fashion stores had long since closed. The restaurant echoed a muffled cacophony of laughter and togetherness. zeD had been fingered in the steam on the windows that contused the tree lights into brilliant Christmas smear. The snow was falling  and couples waltzed to the tinny strip-mall-Sinatra, the tongue-pleasing flakes dandruffing her Moncler fashion beanie and his Burberry single-breasted cashmere coat. My knuckles were red and probably chafed and my palms were possibly blistered raw from the steel, wrap-less handlebars and the steam from my undoubtedly metastasized belly indicated a chill that my depleted receptors were not recognizing.

               zeD. Had to be him, and this surely had to be a sign: a beacon of promise, a summoning from the void where I’d been existing as a creature in the night, a recluse during the interminable days of pacing the stripped hallways of condemned houses, collapsing upon the corroded metal springs that once supported plush cushions. Showering at gyms when the attendant wasn’t looking, or in homes that did not use the deadbolt. Eating carrots, because they keep the teeth strong; olives and pepperoncini from the salad bar; grapes, organic strawberries; the rotisserie chicken, when the attendants weren’t looking.

               I’d met Zed at Pristine over the summer. The evening heaved a heavy sigh from a day of scorch though still the patios were abustle with the camaraderie of Friday cheer. My bicycle had a flat and I was alternating between carrying the 70s steel frame and walking it, shuffling down the pavement like the derelict I’d become, unable to keep a straight gait, when I heard him. Hey, cutie.

               He was with three other men. They were all wearing silk  Hawaiian shirts, unbuttoned to the sternum; his chest was hairless, and he wore a straw Fedora. He was nipping at a fruity sunset from a tall glass with a paper umbrella. Hey cutie, wanna drink?

               Ten minutes later, my bike in the back of his truck, I was one with the gaiety of Pristine, the fag bar the boys and I would rag each other about during frat keggers with flirty girls, a tumbler with four fingers of Glenfiddich easing me into the acceptance of where this night with Zed  would lead, the happy hour ziti absorbing the last twenty-four hours of barely potable lifeblood.  

               He kept me close that evening, closer when we got back to his townhouse. He told me to shower. The bathroom smelled like lavender. He greeted me at the door with a bottle of brown. Taking my hand, he led me to the bedroom.

               You’re that guy in the papers, aren’t you? he whispered into my ear.

               I took a deep swallow, and gave myself to Zed.

               Ridiculously, I chained my bike to the bikeless stand outside the restaurant, a white-linened establishment with five stars on Yelp, one I’d never been to but happened upon on this wintry evening of meandering. I took off my backpack to retrieve what remained of the Old Crow traveler’s fifth; I squeezed the bottle right there, in the foyer by the dancing candlelights, a strong uvula cleanse with the remnants of bad bourbon. I tossed the empty back into the pack. The bicycler’s flashing strobe light I’d affixed to the zippered pocket still pulsed red, though I paid it no mind as I entered the warm glow of fine Italian cuisine to reacquaint with Zed.

               The bar was slick mahogany with polished brass rails and the floor was not at all sticky. The bottles were arranged on mirrored shelves like a museum sea glass exhibit. It seemed like a place where everyone knew your name, where acquaintances gathered after $500-plate charity events to nightcap their perceived celebrity statuses. When I entered, the record didn’t screech to a halt; the conviviality did not stop, heads did not turn in stunned silence to witness the arrival of the downtrodden they’d just generously donated to. Probably assuming I was part of the after-hours help, if they noticed me at all, they just kept up their intimate conversations, arms looped around arms and heads bowed to mouths to nod in feigned interest over Sinatra crooning about a winter wonderland.

               I shuffled past gaggles towards the steamed windows, excited now to see Zed as I was beginning to shiver, not from the firelight warmth caressing what others would perceive as my obvious chill, but from the creeping need for the next drink. I knew that Zed, once he saw me, would take me into the same embrace he’d introduced me to at Pristine. I knew he would give me his coat, welcome me to sit down; he would offer me a plate of antipasti and a four-fingered tumbler of top-shelf brown. He would talk with me in understanding; he would hold my hand, caress my chafe with his thumb, offer me warmth on what the television chyron said was a twenty-degree evening. I would succumb to Zed, again, on this calm wintry evening as an escape from my cell of frigid alcoholic cocoon.

               There was a group of ladies by the steamed windows. They were all wearing tall boots and all of their necks were covered. They spoke with exotic tongues. I stood before them, my bicyclist’s red strobe reflecting off the shiny brass and smearing the distressed-pastel walls. The one with the cat eyes looked up at me. Can we help you, sweetie? Kitchen’s in the back.

               Zed? I stammered, hoping for a spark of recognition.

               Dez, lambchop. Why don’t you move along now; you’re obviously in the wrong place.

               I mumbled an apology, then shuffled past gaggles, back into the twenty-degree evening, back into the icy breath of Too Late, where nobody really knows your name.

October 13, 2023 15:42

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2 comments

Michał Przywara
21:01 Oct 19, 2023

Great take on the prompt, and I love the idea of Too Late as a place. It's more than that, of course, as the narrator carries it with him everywhere he goes. His misery is palpable, and although the ending is sad, it's also very fitting for the story. "It was snowing with careless ease" - I like that. "It seemed like a place where everyone knew your name… if they noticed me at all" - this is an interesting inversion of the opening. "zeD" was notable, precisely due to the strange capitalization. It's a clue of course, but deep in misery...

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Jeremy Stevens
13:01 Oct 20, 2023

I really appreciate your feedback and your insight. Thanks for taking the time to respond, Michal.

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