Idle Worship

by Greg Lilly

©2007 Cherokee McGhee

How did I survive? How does anyone survive the streets? I was a ghost, invisible, just a phantom in the glass and steel canyons of the city. I remember people avoiding my eyes as they walked by. They were either scared of me or thought I was just another piece of trash on the street. One day, a businessman told me to get the fuck out of his way - nice language from Charlotte's corporate community. I was only trying to cross the sidewalk in all the lunch crowd hurrying around like they had someplace to be. Yeah, that pudgy suburban husband and father would have given me anything I wanted when midnight came and I worked West Morehead around the abandoned warehouses. Hell, the BMWs and Land Rovers circled all night long looking for something their Myers Park wives couldn't or wouldn't give them. I made good money. Of course, I was younger and prettier and much hornier than I am now. That's what ten years on the street will do, take away all your looks and ambition.

When I first hit the street, I had hitchhiked from Marshville after my parents threw me out. "No son of mine is a faggot." Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. Thanks to the Baptist church and to the school. Thanks Senator Helms. You all handed down your hate and coated it with religion so it's easier for everyone to swallow. Damn, it's still hard to think about. I wonder what my little sister looks like now. Does she still remember me?

When I got to Charlotte, I moved in with a guy I had met in a bar. At first, he was very loving and took care of me, the family I always imagined. I worked in a Hardee's and helped with the bills. Simon was older... about 25 I think. He said I embarrassed him in front of his friends because I was stupid and only good for one thing. He began to hit me when he got mad. I left.

I moved in with a black girl from work. We had a lot of fun, laughing and going to clubs. She found a boyfriend and I was out again.

Since I didn't have a car and the bus didn't go directly by Hardee's, I was always late and lost my job. So, there I was, 17 with no home and no job. That's when I met Ritchie and Idle; they were hanging outside a club on College Street.

Ritchie came from a wealthy family and was just out playing around. He kinda looked like that cartoon character, Ritchie Rich: blond and blue-eyed and always had money hanging out of his pockets. Ritchie would squat with us a few nights a week, apparently just for kicks, then he would disappear back to his other world and show up again in nice clean clothes a few days later. He was always well-fed and had plenty of money.

Idle, on the other hand, never seemed to go anywhere. I could always find him within a three-block radius of the downtown warehouses. He said there was nothing else to do or see in Charlotte outside these center city streets. Idle was very handsome and his attitude made him even more attractive. He would smirk a crooked smile and brush his dark hair out of his eyes while telling the biggest lies I'd ever heard. The face of an angel could convince anyone to do anything; I always had the feeling Idle had talked Ritchie into the street life.

In fact, it was Idle who talked me into jacking a drunk for the first time. Idle got me to try crack for the first time too. In fact, looking back now, Idle got me to do a lot of things I hadn't tried before.

So, there I stood talking to Idle and Ritchie. Their squat was an abandoned warehouse on Clarkson, or was it Cedar Street? I don't remember, and hell, it isn't there anymore, but anyway, they invited me to crash for the night. We walked to the warehouse after Ritchie bought us some malt liquor at a corner market. I remember walking down the railroad tracks where Ericsson Stadium is now and thinking how lonely and dark that part of town was. Flashes of thoughts ran through my mind as we stumbled in the dark summer night: Who are these guys? Why am I here? They could kill me and no one would ever know. The worst part was that I didn't really care. I had hit a point where I felt like I couldn't fall any lower and my life was left up to a casual decision of which way to cross a field. If I died that night, fine. If not, that would be okay too. Obviously, I didn't die, but, damn, I almost wish I had.

We had to crawl through a chained half-hinged door to enter the warehouse. The place reeked of urine and rotting trash. Idle watched my reaction and laughed at the face I made. "Get used to it, Jake." (Jake's not my name, but Idle decided to call me that and it stuck.) "You'll smell worse shit than that in this squat, but it's home, and the people here are harmless." We climbed a partial staircase to the third floor; one side of the floor was a wall of windows -- all painted over, but some of the glass was broken, letting in a little light. I could make out a few shadowy forms lying in the corners. Every once in a while, the strike of a match would cast light on a blank face or the match would be run over the point of a needle to try to sterilize it before passing on to the next vein. Ritchie led us to his and Idle's place, a small office separated from the rest of the open floor. We drank and smoked a Mary then Idle pulled out some crack candy. Ritchie snorted poppers like rose petals, his eyes watering while he laughed at Idle showing me how to suck on the pipe without getting a choker.

Man, my whole body tingled and flushed like I was one big hard-on. The intensity of the moment swelled around me, squeezing my heart, massaging it like a whore trying to get me off.

The great freedom of smoking crack is the moment. Each moment is its own universe to be explored, savored in all the senses. The touch of my sleeve on my wrist enthralled me with how the material slid across my skin; a car horn ricocheted between my ears for eternity creating a one-note symphony; the scent of the burning crystals as they popped in the pipe coated my nasals and singed my brain; the warmth of the pipe bowl in my palm was enchantment. No thoughts of past injustice or future concerns, each second's sensation jams memories and blocks worry. Everything is now. Nothing else matters. That's nice - no worries. No worries about shoulda, woulda, coulda. It's now and that's what matters.

The glint of a streetlight through a shard of the windowpane transfixed me, the wire web holding the thing together zigzagged in and out of the pieces of glass creating this three-dimensional image of Jesus. No shitting, I fucking saw Jesus first time I smoked crack. So, I took another hit, then another. Me and Jesus had a big time. Clarity whacked me across the head, everything made perfect sense in that high. Survival wasn't significant; life would take care of itself. I didn't need to do a damn thing, yet I could do anything and it would be a stroke - a stroke of genius, a stroke of luck, a stroke of pleasure, a stroke of pure fucking paradise.

After that, I knew I could do anything I wanted with the help of "the boys." That's what we called each other: Idle, Ritchie, Jake, and our little buddy crack.

Well, the free hits stopped and I had to earn some money to keep running with the boys. Ritchie initiated me into the stop and suck. Blow jobs for the drive-bys at twenty bucks a pop - bobbing for dollars. We stood around in the shadows of the warehouses as the cars circled. I held out for the nice cars: Lexus, BMW, Mercedes. But, Ritchie would do a city garbage truck if the guy had a twenty - he liked rough trade. He had regulars. Some, he'd go with to a motel on Wilkinson for a quick fuck. Ritchie was always on top, and that was fine with those Johns because they wanted something they couldn't get at home. Idle, to the other extreme, wouldn't let those pervs touch his dick, he'd jerk them, but they couldn't touch him, that was his thing. And he never fucked, except me. Maybe that was my downfall, intimacy and connection in a world of drifting and chemically enhanced emotions.

The developing situation with Idle, that closeness, that fuck-buddy relationship, that infatuation, that vampire seduction absorbed me into his street existence. But, the counter-emotions of it still weighed on my mind: The fear of depending on another person, of opening up to him, of letting go of the tough guy facade echoed back to coming out to my parents, to moving in with Simon. Open a vein, and see who sucks you dry or who tries to save you. Revealing my love to Idle scared the shit out of me. The boys were all the family I had, and pushing it might fuck up the entire arrangement. Maybe, I thought, it's better to keep quiet.

One night, I was bored and found myself outside the Ivey's building on Tryon. The building had been a department store, but now it was condos for the wealthy. Sometimes, I liked to look at the people inside those big windows; watch them watch television. This particular night, something was going on at the performing arts center. I stood in the shadows to view the happy couples leaving. They didn't look like my parents; these people were dressed nice and acted like they enjoyed each other's company. The couples that got my attention the most were the gay couples. These guys acted like nothing was different about them, I mean they didn't hide or act ashamed; in fact, the straight couples didn't even take a second look. My imagination can play tricks on me, but I thought I saw me and Simon walking out the doors, dressed in fancy suits, talking about the play we'd just seen. I blinked, and it was now me and Idle. Damn, he cleaned up nice. I took another hit from the doobie I had, and my focus went back to a couple of guys leaving the play - not me with Simon or me and Idle, just two guys who didn't draw any attention.

Good thing they weren't in Marshville.

About a week later, we were keyed on Meth and the brilliant ideas spewed. Ritchie bought our admission into a club. The music pounded away at us, speeding our heartbeats that already raced to keep up with the crank coursing through our veins. We stationed ourselves in the corner to survey the crowd. Some easy marks presented themselves.

"That bitch in the Britney outfit," Idle nodded at a girl dressed in a cropped, tight shirt and low-rise jeans, her belly giggling more than her tits as she danced. "Watch her to see where she stashes her cash. She's bound to have cash cause no guy's gonna buy that heifer drinks - she's on her own." Idle grinned at me and bumped his shoulder against mine. "Right, Jake?"

"You da man." I reached down the railing, grabbed an abandoned beer, and chugged it. "Let's dance," I grabbed Idle's hand and pulled him into the writhing bodies of Charlotte's young lions. Strobe lights jerked the movements of the dancers and seemed to hack the scene into one-second slices, the thumping staccato music synched with the flashes of blinding lights. The glimpses of Idle twitched from side to side, front to back, his arms shifting in the flicker. I needed more stimulation. "Hey Idle," I grabbed his arm. "I need a shot."

Pushing our way to the bathroom, we found Ritchie huffing poppers with a drag queen we knew named Velvet Fax.

"Miss Fax," Idle yelled and pushed open a stall door, "your hair is celestial."

"The higher the hair, the closer to God," she patted her yellow wig.

I closed the stall door behind me, and Idle propped a boot up on the toilet and fished out a little medicine bottle for hot rolling. We burned Meth to a liquid in an eyedropper then snorted it, producing a prime time buzz, and I bounced in my boks waiting for it. "Be swift, Idle, I'm coming down fast."

"Hold your dick, man; I'm serving."

He let me take the first hit. The veil lifted and my energy surged. Every pore sucked in the florescent light above my head, then flushed it out my fingertips. My mind doubled its activity, igniting a synaptic hurricane. I watched Idle take a hit, then it was my turn again.

Ritchie began to beat on the door, "Boys, don't hold out on me."

"Man, I don't think we can fit one more in here," Idle laughed. "I thought you were huffing with Velvet."

"The bitch smelled cock and followed some big-dicked college kid into a stall for a quickie." Then he yelled so she could hear him, "The BITCH! I hope he can't get it up."

The college kid yelled back, "No problem, she's got her mouth full."

Idle and I almost fell out of the stall roaring, as Ritchie rallied us toward the door. "Man," he hollered, "the joke's on you. That ain't no 'her'."

"Velvet will be after your ass," I warned Ritchie. We hung at the edge of the bar, scouting for loose money or drinks. I snatched a few dollars and moved down the bar until we had enough to buy a round of vodka shots.

"Miss Velvet Fax," Ritchie still harped about her, "knows not to fuck with me. I know how to get even without retaliation, right Idle?"

"Hell yes," Idle mussed Ritchie's blond locks. "He has the ultra-revenge strategy."

The Meth-induced brilliant ideas began to bubble again. A list of people who did me wrong lined up in my jittery mind: my parents, the preacher, Simon. The Marshville gang was too far to bother with, but Simon and his pussy friends lived within two miles of downtown. "What's this ultra-revenge?"

"Whoa," mocked Idle, "my baby has payback on his mind?"

"Maybe, a few people owe me. Spill it, Ritchie."

He gathered us close to share his secret. "First, this was between me and Velvet. She knows her place now."

"Come on," I urged.

"Velvet stole some coke from me then denied it twelve ways from Sunday. The bitch sold it, I know she did, to buy some funky-ass blue sequined dress that made her look more of a freak than she already is."

"Okay," Idle said, "okay, we get the picture: the bitch did you wrong."

"Yeah, she did." Ritchie belched then snatched a drink from a nearby table. "I went to her apartment and started all this girlfriend shit with her. Telling her what a great look she has, and how no one would really know she's a guy. Anyway, I get on her good side, and we start drinking some wine. I slip her a Mickey, just like in the black-and-whites. She passes out. I shave her head - "

"No you didn't," I challenge.

"Yeah he did," said Idle. "But, that's not the best part."

Ritchie continued, "You know how these queens wear wigs all the time, so I thought 'That won't bother her, she'll just slap on a wig and be off.' So, while she lay sleeping like fucking Snow White, I dressed her in that shitty blue sequined dress and wrote "Fuck me, I'm yours!" on the back of her bald head with a Sharpie. Then, you ready for this, I throw her ass in the back of that Honda she drives and dump Sleeping Beauty in a Porta Jon at a downtown construction site. Those Mexicans must have had a shock that morning when a bald-headed, six-foot, drag queen in a blue sequined dress walked out of their shitter. The only thing that would make it better was if I'd written on her head in Spanish."

Idle convulsed with laughter. I didn't think it was so funny, but maybe I needed to know Velvet Fax better. I asked, "How did that stop her from trying to get back at you?"

"Dumb ass," Ritchie threw his arm around my neck and knocked on my head. "I had a razor blade on her while she was out. She knew I'd cut her if I wanted to. That face means everything to her. I just gave her a good-natured warning. The key is the shaving. That's step one. No one wants to go to step two."

My nerves tensed. Even when Idle and I jacked that drunk for money, we didn't hurt him, just scared him. It's all intimidation.

How far Ritchie would go, I didn't know. He had to be blowing smoke, so I put it out of my mind and focused on the moment. I could feel Idle leaning against me, the slight pressure of his shoulder against mine.

"So," he said, "who's on your hit list?"

"The only one worth messing with is that prick, Simon. He knocked me around until I left, then it was just squatting here and there until I joined the boys." I leaned into Idle.

Ritchie jumped in place, full of stimulants, "I say we pay this Simon a visit. What do you say, Jake?"

"Want to visit your old flame?" Idle asked.

"Naw," I backed down. "He's not worth the trouble."

"Come on, Jake. Come on, Jake." Ritchie bounced and chanted, "Come on, Jake."

Idle snuggled in close to me and whispered in my ear, his hot breath stoking the excitement in my body, "I'd like to meet the man that was part of your life before me. Let's go."

"I don't know."

He pushed his hand in my pocket, rubbing me, fishing for the eyedropper. "Let's take a few more hits then pay ole Simon a visit. Maybe, we can get him to party with us." His crooked smile scared me a little, but also won me to his side. We returned to the bathroom for a boost.

With the resurgence of courage and stupidity, we stumbled down Tryon Street toward South End. Ritchie laughed and jumped, slapping light poles as we walked; Idle kept glancing at me and grinning. My mind had left, lost in Idle's smile until the rattle of Ritchie hitting a pole stole my focus then I'd drift back to looking at Idle. By the time we crossed over the freeway, my buzz waned enough for me to concentrate on Ritchie's rants.

"...outside until I call you in. I can get him. Hey, Jake? You back with us?"

"Yeah, man, what?"

"The plan," Ritchie explained. "I'm plotting the plan. Is this Simon guy cute?"

Simon had looked like a movie star to me when we first met. Perfect hair combed in a tawny wave from his forehead. Clean-shaven face, skin as smooth as a girl's, but with a strong jaw line and Roman nose. He did remind me of the Roman soldiers from Sunday School picture books, the ones who drove Jesus to Calvary Hill on Good Friday. I'm sure Simon had a gladiator outfit in his closet; his gym-body was too perfectly groomed not be shown off some Halloween in a skirt and breastplate. How in awe of his body I had been, after all that was the candy I had wanted all my life, that was what started my road to the city, to find this specimen of pure gay lust, a form that the porn magazines promoted as the norm. Simon had achieved it: the flawless male body. My innocence and virginity had been enough to match his physical perfection for a few weeks, but then other pursuits took his interest from me, younger, hotter, smarter... whatever. Like most stars, when brought to eye level, he fizzled out. Simon was cruel in his judgments, short tempered, and fickle in his pleasures.

"So?" Ritchie asked again. "Is he hot?"

"The hottest, if you like jerks," I said.

"I'll get in the door then the rest is easy." Ritchie ran his fingers through his hair. He might be able to get in. Simon had had better-looking guys than Ritchie, but Ritchie could charm when he wanted to. "If he starts to stall, Jake, I'm pulling you in. We'll make it a reunion. He has to let us in."

A short dry laugh came from Idle, "Yeah, old home week." This put me at ease. Idle didn't talk about it much, but he came from a farm family too. A phrase like 'old home week' or knowing what a heifer was revealed his roots, and I took comfort in knowing he was so much like me.

"What are we doing?" I asked, waiting for the traffic to clear so we could run across East Boulevard. "I mean are we shaving his head? His hair is his pride and joy; that would piss him off."

"Been thinking about that, Jake," Ritchie threw his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to him. "I want to have a little fun, maybe try some new things."

I hoped Ritchie kept his head; he tended to take out aggressions when he got wound up like this.

After a couple of blocks, I stopped and looked at Simon's little mill house, his Ford Mustang snuggled under a wispy elm, in for the night. No other cars parked near enough to prove he wasn't alone. "This is it."

Ritchie jumped with excitement, knocking me into Idle. "Yes, boys, we're going to have fun tonight. You two stay out here. I'll go to the door."

We positioned ourselves at the corner of the house next to Simon's car as Ritchie bounded up the steps and rang the doorbell.

"He ain't afraid of shit." I said to Idle as I leaned in to hear what Ritchie would say.

The creak of the storm door announced Simon's presence. I couldn't see him, but voices murmured in the warm autumn night. Ritchie let loose a laugh, and I heard Simon laugh too, then more mumbling. The door slammed and I waited. Peeking around the corner, Ritchie wasn't on the porch anymore.

"Now what?" I whispered to Idle.

"We wait." He plopped down on the grass, and pulled me down next to him.

"What's Ritchie doing?"

"Bonding and having a drink, Ritchie will slip in some GHB. Then it's pretty much our play." Idle fished out his pipe and some crack, lit it, took a hit, then passed it to me. "You think this guy's got some money stashed in the house?"

"Doubt it," I said, knowing that Simon never really had any extra money; he spent it all on clothes.

The world tingled around me: the heat of Idle's hand on my shoulder, his thumb strumming the side of my neck, the cool grass tickling my ankle through a hole in my sock, a dry maple leaf crunching under my fingers. Idle pushed himself up and walked to the backside of the house, "Which window is the bedroom?"

I pointed to the far corner window, and he jumped the chain-link fence motioning for me to follow. Through a low spot where the blinds didn't hang straight, we peered in the window. I could see Ritchie's blond head bobbing in the shadows.

Idle laughed, "That boy could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch."

A whiff of sulfur jealousy mingled with the crack pipe reek, Ritchie had taken my place, that had been me, although I didn't want to be back in that bedroom, I still didn't like seeing Ritchie with Simon. "Maybe, we should just go."

"Oh, that's showing him," Idle chuckled, "Ritchie will blow him then we leave. Yeah, that'll teach him to fuck with you. Come on. Let's join the party." He grabbed my arm and pulled me to the front door. It was unlocked.

Walking into the house, my mind stumbled on the memories of living there, of being happy and scared there, of my life and dreams in the real world of gay men. Living a full life as a gay man wasn't what my mother had cried about or what the preacher had warned about - it wasn't hell. I didn't descend into hell. My life was better than that, or it could be. I knew I could be one of those men leaving the theatre dressed in nice clothes and eating meals in restaurants.

Simon had been the start of it, my downward spiral. He had been the one who dragged me to hell, smacked down my self-esteem, laughed at my aspirations.

Energy pulsed.

Hate grew.

Fury throbbed.

Rage engorged with rushing blood.

I dropped my pants in the hallway. Ritchie saw me and slid off the bed. Simon's drowsy eyes blinked in recognition and a smile teased his lips as if he wanted to greet me, but the GHB kept him from it. He was up on his elbows, so I knocked him over onto his stomach. Right then and there, I paid him back for each slap, each punch, each insult, each sneer. The GHB had robbed Simon of all inhibitions, and his hips bucked as I rode him, slamming into him with each thrust. I grabbed his hair and pulled his face out of the pillow so I could see his pain and pleasure. Idle and Ritchie cheered me on, urging me to drive harder. My body, rigid as my dick, jerked with our rhythm. The hot, raw, flesh of Simon kneaded me, milking me for all I had, but then I couldn't hold back any longer. An orgasmic rush, more potent than any drug, racked my body as I pumped into Simon. Falling back on the bed, exhausted, I tried to regain what little sense I had.

Idle hooked his hands under my arms and dragged me to the floor. I glanced up to see Ritchie taking my place and continuing with Simon. Idle kissed my forehead, "Get your breath back, Jake. Where does this dude keep his valuables? I'm going treasure hunting."

The blood had not yet returned to my brain, so I just pointed in the general direction of the dresser, and Idle began riffling through the drawers. Ritchie's energy banged the bed against the wall so hard I thought he would break the plaster. Pulling out cash and credit cards, Idle tossed Simon's wallet on the floor. He clamped two watches onto his arm, then jerked a pillow out from under Simon's head and skinned the case from it. He filled the pillowcase with shirts, pants, underwear, socks, and shoes - new outfits for all of us.

"Damn," Ritchie rolled off the bed, "he's out." He rolled Simon over on his back. "Well, let's get down to business. Bring me a razor."

I stumbled to the bathroom, reclaiming my pants along the way and brought Ritchie a disposable razor and some shaving cream.

He laughed, "Want to give him a fucking facial too? I don't need shaving cream." He slung the can into the mirror over the dresser, shattering it into a brilliant glittery web. "I do need some water. Help me get pretty boy into the tub."

Ritchie and Idle grabbed Simon's arms and I took his feet and we carried him as far as the bedroom door before Ritchie lost his grip and let his half of Simon slam to the hardwood floor. His head made a thud. "Don't kill him," I yelled.

"Sorry, he's slick."

"Just keep his head from banging into stuff." I backed into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain open with my shoulder and chin. We dumped him into the tub and his eyes flickered open for a second. Ritchie began shearing Simon's head, washing the razor off after each stroke. I stood back and surveyed Simon. He had always shaved his chest, but now I noticed he shaved his legs too. In fact, the only body hair he had allowed to stay was under his arms and his pubic hair, which was trimmed into a fucking spade, like from a deck of cards. He groomed himself like no one else I knew.

Ritchie made quick work of Simon's hair. Bald, Simon wasn't as handsome. Next Ritchie pulled out a lighter and held it to that tidy patch of pubes. He singed a line through the middle of the spade, leaving red bare skin in the wake -- like Sherman's march from Atlanta to the sea.

Rubbing his chin, Ritchie glanced up at us and grinned, "What a beautiful body. Jake, what would you like him to see when he looks in the mirror? I can carve 'Jake' into his stomach with this razor."

I guessed Ritchie was bluffing, but I looked to Idle for confirmation; he just took a hit from his pipe and stared at Simon. "Well, that would be really stupid," I said, "since he doesn't know who Jake is. He knew me as Ronny."

"Okay, I'll carve that in. Wait, maybe 'Simon says' above his dick, no that would be too cool." He reached up and took the pipe from Idle, sucked in the smoke and waited for the dazzling ideas to form.

My palms clammed and my buzz evaporated while I watched Ritchie hit the pipe. Close to completely-out-of-his-mind, he rummaged for the exceptional, something to tell other crack-heads, a story to be repeated and not believed, and Simon laid there naked, shaved, burned and doped like a fucking blank canvas for Ritchie's masterpiece. A clarity in that moment, a lucid liquid of fear washed out the drug haze from my mind. It was like I was seeing Ritchie for the first time. What scared me was Ritchie had lost his ability to see people. Simon wasn't a man to him; someone who had a grandmother or needed a flu shot or cried watching Old Yeller. All Ritchie saw was a symbol of what he hated: a worker bee in a society that held no place for us rebels.

What were we rebelling against? As the black-and-whites said, "What've you got?"

My life: sloped to slide into hell. Was Simon really the start of it? All the predictions from the Marshville gang lived in me, and in my lack of control. What had I done to disprove them? Did I struggle to climb that slope or just take the ride? When had I taken command of my decisions? Following Ritchie and Idle led me to hell, and as a demon, I let Ritchie wave his razor and rage on crack.

He bent down and gathered Simon's balls in his left hand. "How about making ole Simon a eunuch?"

Idle snorted, "A fucking steer."

My high fizzled in a grisly vision of Ritchie butchering Simon in the bathtub, the blood streaming down the drain. All doubts of what Ritchie would do faded in the terror of realizing his true nature. He looked to me and smiled, "You want to do the honors, Jake?"

Idle held the pipe in front of my mouth, but I pushed his hand away. "Man, let's go. I'm over this."

"Come on, Jake," Ritchie urged. "Whack these balls off," he threw the razor on the tile floor and flared a switchblade from his sock. "Come on, Jake, be a fucking man."

"That's enough," I grabbed the blade from Ritchie and shoved it in my pocket. "This is fucking up my high. Boys, let's go."

"Yeah," Idle said. "Too much intensity."

"Pussy Jake, Pussy Idle," Ritchie yelled as I walked toward the door. Idle slung his pillowcase of loot over his shoulder and followed me. As I passed the door, I set the lock.

With me and Idle waiting in the yard, Ritchie leaned in the doorway. "Man, let's go," I said.

Ritchie pulled a sheer drape from the window by the door and held his lighter to it, "Torch it?"

I ran for Ritchie at full speed, tackling him, knocking him back into the house. He tumbled back into a table, dropping the lighter. I scrambled to get it and shoved the lighter in my pocket along with the switchblade; I needed to disarm Ritchie until he got out of destruction mode. Helping him up, I pushed him toward the door and laughed, "Get your ass out of here." I tried to lighten him up. Luckily, he didn't trip on me, freak over the aggression I seldom showed. As soon as we got past the doorway, I pulled it shut, locked. Simon would be safe from Ritchie.

"Man," Ritchie propped his elbow on my shoulder, "what's up with you and this guy?" He rolled his eyes. "You still in love?" he mocked and slapped the back of my head.

"Hell, no." I glanced at Idle to make sure he heard it. "Like Idle said, it was too intense and I lost my buzz." I pulled away from Ritchie's grasp and walked toward downtown.

"Jake," Ritchie called behind me. "Let's go over to the park, see if we can trick up some money for a few hits of Lucy in the Sky."

"Go ahead," I yelled without turning around. "I'm going back into town." I listened for footsteps to see if Idle would follow Ritchie or me.

"What? You fucking mad or something?" Ritchie shouted.

Not wanting to continue with him, I said nothing, but kept walking. No other footsteps followed me. I was alone.

For several days, I avoided the warehouse, not wanting to talk to Ritchie or Idle, not really sure what there was to say or how much they remembered.

Away from the boys, I used drugs less. The drawback to that is all the thinking time available, and the days and nights stretched out forever, so I would search out a little mind numbing for a few hours.

Actually, to fill some of the time, I lurked in the bushes of Simon's house and spotted him going to his car wearing a black knit cap to cover his shiny head. That was the last time I saw him.

The warehouse squat beckoned me back; the loneliness, the wandering, the lack of stimulants were too much to bear. I hoped to find Idle there. The setting sun filtered dusty light into Idle's third floor office; it was empty. I settled in and slept, bummed a few hits from some of the crack-heads hanging out in the building, and waited. Neither Idle nor Ritchie showed, and no one had seen them in days.

The next night, I needed to earn some money, so I went back to the streets to turn a few tricks. The cars crept between the warehouses, circling the block, inspecting the meat. A scrawny black kid called Moonrock stood in the shadows, shooting up heroin between tricks, saw me and waved me over. "Hey, Jake," he said in a jittery stammer. "Sorry to hear about Ritchie, man."

"What? What about Ritchie?"

"Shit, man. Where you been?" He rubbed his vein with his thumb.

"Around. What's up with Ritchie?"

"Got iced." Moonrock sniffed. "Looking for the candy man, he got caught in the cross-fire of a drive-by. Fucking bullet right through the head. Damn doomed fucker, who else would get shot in the background?"

My body felt hollow, I could crumble like a stale chocolate bunny. Ritchie had been crazy, but he was my buddy. "Idle. Was Idle there?"

"Man, I ain't seen that fucker in years. You ain't seen him?"

I shook my head, "No, not since last week." With Ritchie gone, I knew Idle would be floating, looking for someone to take up with. The center city was his kingdom; he'd be back. I went back to the office and waited.

He never showed. I know he survived, just like me.

After Ritchie and Idle, I drifted away from the warehouses. Finding some construction work, I still lived on the streets or in the woods near I-77. But, I spent all my money on drugs, living in the moment, blocking the past. I think about Ritchie and Idle when the loneliness slips in before the hit of crack grabs hold of my mind and squeezes out those thoughts - thoughts of an encounter with hell, or was it a brush with greatness, this communion of brothers?

# # #

www.GregLilly.com

©2007 Cherokee McGhee