Just as he began to realize what Royal was doing to him, Duane lost control of his thoughts and realized that his control center had been captured and that, in essence he was from now on a prisoner.
Consciousness was still up and running. But consciousness determines nothing. It observes, is aware. It is thought which figures things out and tells us who we are and how we feel about ourselves and about others. Royal's will was now the source and end of Duane's thought. And Duane's consciousness would be affected by it too, but that would take time, and what amalgam consciousness would form in its place -- that was nothing you could know. It remained to be seen. But that's also what made this kind of tampering with someone against his will exciting. Strange expression, against his will, when it isn't exactly clear what "his will" actually is and when, after "his will" has been usurped, the will that replaces it is as much "his will," after all, as the usurped will once was.
Duane was under, and he heard...it was Royal speaking, but Duane was not aware of that, of a source for the auditory sensation. What he was aware of was that it was sounding in his head and it was...himself. It was who he was.
He followed Royal's voice. He followed his own thought. It was the same thing. There was no difference.
2
Duane came from aristocracy. His mother -- actually a countess, married off by her impecunious guardian, dead father's younger brother, to the son of an archbishop who ought not to have had any sons (or daughters, either, for that matter -- but he did) -- Duane's mother had, however, several years after nuptials fallen in love with one of the liveried servants, having an irrepressible fancy for gold braid and brass button. The archbishop's son contested Duane's legitimacy, his arrival more or less coinciding with the worthy husband's becoming acquainted with his lack of sole possession of his worthy wife, although the mother mustered convincing if not irrefutable evidence that the boy was, indeed, the fruit of his loins.
Whether it was from a lack of conviction or a vengeful disposition, her husband clung to his denial of paternity.
Mother, child, and butler soon were living in a small village in England in a valley nestled between several mountains and verging on a long, flat lake whose water lapped against a pebbled shore.
The boy grew up rough and ill-mannered and with a broadness of speech that was pretty near inarticulate.
When he was fourteen, the family moved to the United States. They settled in the borough of the Bronx in New York City. There his "father," the butler, who had rather haphazardly assumed responsibility for the boy, but gave not much of himself to the task, while the mother, too, rather neglected him -- there his "father," the butler started a limousine service. In three years' time, he was able to move his family into a Tudor style brick house in Jamaica Estates, across the East River in Queens
By this time, Duane was in his late teens and nothing mattered much to him, but he'd worked out a modus vivendi with his parents: if they didn't have to bother getting him out of trouble when he got into it -- if he dealt with it himself, in other words -- they didn't bother him. So he came and went as he wanted and didn't give them grief. He was charming and he knew how not to be caught, and once he'd become sixteen he didn't have to worry about the truant officer.
3
Royal first saw him at Crazy Benny's. He was with two buddies. They'd probably mistaken Benny's for McSorley's and soon were drunk enough not to be able to tell the difference. They were loud, vulgar, but not violent. He noticed the lanky, sunburned kid with the pudding basin mop of dirty blonde hair. His laugh was fake. He kept drumming his fingers on the table top and tapping the scanty ash at the head of his cigarette over an empty beer glass. When it was at rest, his face was pinched. Royal looked hard, the way he does when he appraises people, beyond the surface and with a lot of imagination, and he was able to see that nature had first made handsome what nurture, then, depraved.
He was a hard catch. But it was interesting. He'd fight like a tiger. But once he was tamed, he would be a beauty, and eating out of Royal's hand.
So he walked over to their table interrupting a burst of their vacuous laughter saying, I presume you know what kind of bar this is, gentlemen.
What kind of bar is it? the kid who would be cute if he weren't pinch-faced asked.
It's a scenes bar for queers.
They tried to be sophisticated, but Duane was fated with an innate curiosity, which won out and he asked, What's that?
Look over there, he said.
Yeah, that's weird, Duane said with a laugh like a horse's whinny.
No, it's not weird, Royal said. Or maybe it is, but that's beside the point. It's not weird; it's deliberate; it's a scene. It's a way people get into each other and get it off together.
As he was delivering this line of patter, Royal had gotten hold of Duane's gaze by passing his hand once in front of Duane's face, as if merely gesturing to emphasize something he was saying. The glint of the ruby in the gold ring on his left middle finger fascinated Duane who momentarily fell into a daydream. At the moment of Duane's distraction, Royal bent over him, putting his brandy glass on the table and whispered, Imagine wearing my ring. It looked like he had kissed him on the cheek.
Duane's momentary dislocation passed. Royal picked his brandy snifter up from the table and said he'd leave them to their pleasures and returned to his own table, gentlemen, not far away.
Duane immediately became more subdued; the three of them were less raucous. Duane involuntarily kept looking over at Royal's ring and was thinking how cool it would be to wear a ring like his -- even though he had not been much into jewelry until now and had even joked about a guy they'd seen outside Crazy Benny's wearing a diamond stud in his ear lobe.
When they were walking up Eighth Avenue to the Port Authority, Duane realized he'd left his jeans jacket on the back of the chair at Crazy Benny's.
Aw shit, man. If we go back there, there ain't gone be another train to White Plains till the morning.
I'm not loosin' that jacket.
I'm not fuckin' being stuck in Manhattan all night.
Go if you want to man. I'm wasting time standing here talking to you. If I don't make the train, hey, I can handle a night in New York.
It was this quite common phenomenon, forgetting something, which brought Duane back into Royal's web.
Royal looked up when he saw Duane enter; he knew he would -- he'd confused him enough with his ring and the whispered suggestion. He knew it would draw the kid back; the kid would just have to devise something to get himself back. So he forgot his jacket.
What happened to your friends?
Duane stopped with an arm outstretched pushing through a sleeve for a second when he realized the guy with the ruby ring was talking to him.
I forgot my jacket, he said, as if in answer.
I can see that, Royal said.
And now I missed my train.
When's the next one?
Tomorrow, Duane said, victimized.
Gets better and better, Royal thought, but out loud he said, Can't do anything about it now. Sit down. I'll buy you a beer.
That ring was fascinating and Duane pulled his arm back out of his sleeve and, tossing the jacket on the third chair, took the seat on Royal's left and had trouble keeping his eyes off Royal's ring.
What are you drinking? Duane asked, almost suspiciously eyeing the small glass, colored amber half way up by the liquid inside it, and bearing the graceful and elegant shape of a brandy snifter.
Brandy? Want to try one?
Sure, the kid said.
It burns, he said when it came and he took a swallow.
In a very mellow way, if you drink it right. You don't chug it like beer. Slowly.
Chastened, Duane did take smaller sips, and after the first burn, he started to experience a glow deep inside.
You like my ring, don't you? Royal said, catching Duane staring.
It came out in a very non-threatening way, and it was easy for Duane to say, I do.
You want to look at it, but I see you keep pulling your eyes away. It's ok. I don't mind if you look at it. Look at it if you want to. It is very absorbing.
Duane's mind was entirely focused on what Royal was saying; his eyes were locked on the ruby, and it was not strange that Royal was telling him that he was feeling tired and sleepy and couldn't prevent himself from slumping onto the table asleep as if he were drunk, because it was true.
Hey, kid, Royal was saying as he was gently shaking him by the shoulder, Benny's closing early tonight.
Where'm I gonna go? Duane said blearily lifting his head.
Haven't you got a home? Royal asked.
I missed the train, Duane explained.
Oh, yes. I remember. Because you had to come back for your jacket
Yeah, said the kid.
Now what?
The kid looked blank.
What'd you plan on doing?
I dunno, but I didn't think I'd be this wiped out. All I wanna do is sleep. Hey, maybe you could put me up for the night?
Sure, Royal said.
[When you write, please enter story name in subject slot. Thanks]