This story is a work of fiction involving two young men as they meet and form a relationship. This is part 2 of the second story I have posted on Nifty. I'm planning for the complete story to comprise 10 parts of around equal length.
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In one second, Miguel's eyes bore into me like those of a shark, and in the next, they flit around at passersby, whom I cannot see, but only feel when they move close behind me. He is analyzing them, taking notes, and this behavior is constant for him. He knows them all by name, I am sure, and most of them, I am also sure, consider him as their personal friend. No one would be capable of truly returning this sentiment to so many, but he is very good at faking it. Because of this, I had always believed on some level that he would be okay, but even so, it was impossible during that first year not to cry at night from worry. Back before all of that, when he was just twenty years old, Miguel rented a small sunlight-flooded apartment several blocks from the warehouse. Marco had arranged everything, had even allowed him to keep a cat named Bagel, whose owner never came to claim him, even after Miguel had repeatedly called and made arrangements. Miguel insists that after everything, after wading neck-deep through all of that disgusting muck and mire, he liked where he had landed. Four nights per week in the warehouse, an occasional team meeting out in the desert? It wasn't an unpleasant life, nor was it particularly lonely. Sometimes Miguel grows bored with me. I would never waste time flattering myself that this isn't the case. Yes, he'll say, yes, of course that's how it was. Obviously. Or he'll tell me that I shouldn't be asking, for example, about the weather that day. Embellish that shit. Make it rain, make it sunny and hot as hell--whatever tells the fucking story, right? I always insist that he please try to remember, and he just grins and rolls his eyes. Today, I round the last corner, trailing my fingers along the thick white rubbery paint masking a cinderblock wall. He is already seated at the table. He lights up when he sees that I have arrived. I sit down and say, "I heard you are speaking with your mother again. That's great news." "My mother is speaking with me again," says Miguel. "I have always left that door open." I fold my hands on the table between us. "I'm sorry, that's what I meant to say. Are you happy about it?" "There's a lot of shit left to work through. Some of it we might never resolve. But yes, I am happy about it." --- Eddie's promotion to general camp leader had been premature, a bizarre fluke, and was hardly celebrated by anyone due to the circumstances--least of all by Eddie. Indeed, it was likely that each worker involved with the desert encampment had been quietly affected, each in his own way. As for Miguel, he had cried unexpectedly one night after receiving a delivery, couched alone in his tiny office at the back of the warehouse, behind the stacks, one week after the fact. The death of Marco (big boss) brought about many changes, not insignificant among them being that Eddie (boss man) no longer had time to do the runs himself. Whatever was thought of Whitey and Sid and the others, none had been deemed appropriate as a replacement driver, so it was around that time that the kid started coming around, accompanying Eddie as a rookie-in-training. Though it would be a long time before their walls came down, Miguel remembered Gabe's entrance as a curiously bright spot in a dark time. His face was friendly and comforting, and he was even younger than Miguel himself, which had been a surprise. There had been something extra, though, something specifically familiar about his presence. At the time, Miguel could not have imagined what it was. As for that first night, though: What day had it been--a Thursday? Three weeks ago, then. Why did that specific night, more than a year after they met, feel like the "first" of all nights? Miguel had broken his silence, which had all along proven basically pointless (amusing as it had been to say so little for so long). Miguel liked to think it made him seem mysterious, but this guy, Gabe, hadn't responded with any noticeable intrigue, so it had been on that night that the veil was dropped completely. What he remembered most vividly from it was his discovery of Gabe's innocence. It left him stunned. He could admit that. He wasn't sure which was more incredible: that over an entire year on the job, the kid's curiosity never got the better of him (after all, not every package was sealed), or that he had not otherwise found out by accident. It was crazy, because at first, Miguel had thought maybe Gabe was being clever in his remarks, sneaking around in conversation, trying to figure it out--what the fuck he was moving. But this kid was the real thing. He actually didn't want to know, if you could fucking believe it. On the second night, Miguel had once again fished Gabe from the car; on the third, Gabe had gotten out on his own, mumbling something about needing to stretch his legs. His face was attractive--there had been no question of that, and he had a lanky athleticism about him. But he was also very slim, with a small build, which did not normally appeal to Miguel. (Not that it mattered anyway, as it was unlikely Gabe was the sort who would return his interest.) Gabe struck him as one of the most serious people he had ever encountered. The kid had reacted to basic conversation, even to small-talk as if it were risky behavior. What the fuck was he so worried about? This wasn't exactly complicated work. There was room for errors here and there. Maybe Gabe's duties could have been viewed as more hazardous than Miguel's, but that was up for debate. Neither of them dealt with any of the risks met by their superiors, and it was likely they never would--at least Miguel was content (and probably bound) to stay where he was. Did this kid have some grand ladder-climbing scheme? It wasn't like Eddie was going anywhere, not for a long time. Also on that third night, he saw Gabe smile for the first time. There had been a couple of forced expressions before that point, but they weren't the same: This had been a beautiful, broad kind of thing that vanished immediately and would not return for some time. Gabe, Miguel could tell, carried real anguish with him, as formidable as it was forthright. He was not sulky. It did not appear to be a deliberate attitude, nor a front. Miguel tried as hard as he could to remember what he had done or said to make Gabe smile on that third night, but he couldn't do it. Then, on the fourth night, after performing hundreds of runs without fail, Gabe was gone. It had instead been Eddie and his recently-acquired, hulking black Navigator rolling up through the darkness. Eddie, who had not made a delivery in over a year. In fact, Miguel had become so accustomed to Gabe's appearances in the dusty, squat red sedan with the pop-up headlights that, at first, an anxious pang had leapt through him. But then he had recognized it. Of course it was Eddie--who the fuck else would it be? Eddie had waited, looking solemn behind the wheel, as Miguel raised the garage door a little higher than usual. Once he had backed in and Miguel had finished securing the place, Eddie got out and they met behind the car. Eddie's presence was an overriding one in a number of ways, and Miguel remembered standing back, feeling odd and on edge as his duties were executed for him. The tailgate rose with a quick hiss of the support struts. "Bad news. It's all heroin," Eddie had muttered. "Do you want help?" Miguel had assumed Eddie would explain the situation as a matter of course, but clearly he had been wrong. "Where's Gabe?" "Gabe's mom died, so I am making the delivery in his place." He was always keen on keeping things vague, so the spare nature of his response had come as no surprise to Miguel, who's mind suddenly buzzed with a million follow-up questions. "That's terrible. I'm sorry to hear that." He paused and then confirmed, "No, I don't need help." Eddie, looking strange and distraught, had seemed content to wait beside the car. Heroin was miserably heavy, but Miguel had hardly noticed as he lifted the packages one by one and organized them on fresh pallets. He had wondered how long it would be before Gabe returned to his runs. Would he ever come back? Maybe his mom had been sick with something. Maybe it had not been an unexpected passing. Miguel wanted answers, but he didn't feel comfortable asking Eddie. "You have some exposed product on the back wall. I can see a little bit under the tarp. Do your best to keep it all covered." Miguel had looked up and realized, alarmed, that Eddie was crying. His cheeks were wet and glistening in the fluorescent lights. His massive frame had slumped entirely against the side of the car. "Okay," Miguel had said, quickly looking away. "I'll take care of it." It hadn't been until he was nearly finished emptying the cargo from the SUV, sweating, rushing around, that he had worked up nerve to ask. "Eddie, is everything okay?" Eddie no longer wept, but he paused so long before answering that Miguel had decided he wasn't going to. Finally he said, in his low, flat voice, "Yes, everything is fine." The next night, Eddie had recovered somewhat. He also brought some good news with him. "Gabe will be back in two weeks." It had shocked Miguel that Gabe would return to work so quickly, but he had no intention of questioning the decision. Would Gabe require comforting? Was Miguel capable of offering anything truly helpful in this regard? Circumstances like this, attached to no exact protocol or etiquette, made Miguel feel anxious, but also very eager. Surely he could offer a shoulder to Gabe, this quiet boy who, it seemed likely, had few other people to turn to. He could be that kind of person. He felt certain of this. --- Miguel's thirteenth birthday approached on the chilly wind of that summer season in San Justo. His undeniable charm had crystalized already by that point, but then, had it not existed from the day of his birth? An upright and attractive boy, though admittedly of a farmer's complexion, like his father, Miguel grew noticeably taller by the month, his voiced reluctantly adhering to a new gravely depth, still cracking on the hour. He was intensely likable, not just as the bishop's youngest offspring and only son, but through an undetectable ability to mirror and flatter others in conversation. Miguel himself would not become aware of this skill, nor his daily practice of it, until years later. And so the people of his small, molecularly-bonded ward within the city of San Justo, itself just a belt loop through which Greater Buenos Aires wound, were faced with a dilemma as they donned their Fila jackets in June of 1991. Just a few weeks earlier, during the bishop's annual barbecue, Miguel had committed a sudden and violent deviation. Though it was unthinkable during the havoc of the years that followed, Miguel would one day smile at the memory of those few wily minutes, and shed a happy tear or two: A rusting, three-bladed ceiling fan wobbled above the twin bed in his attic bedroom, where a sky-blue ceiling dove in accordance with the roofline to meet stunted bookshelves built into the walls. His model planes (fifteen in total) hung from wool string at various altitudes all around the room, endlessly twirling, un-twirling. Sebastian, the son of his father's favorite counselor and second-in-command, stood facing him, near the door to the stairs, which was firmly shut. Sebastian was a year older and was caught by chance at exactly the same awkward, in-between height. They had been close for most of their lives, and in their adolescence, closer still--enough to conduct experimental, mutually pleasurable activities which they kept secret. "When a friend leaves forever, like you are, is it supposed to hurt like this?" "We are more than friends," Miguel had told him. "Sometimes I think...if I were a girl," he paused to keep himself from stammering, "you could kiss me--you know, at a time like this--and that would make things a little easier." "But I don't want you to be a girl. I want to kiss you as a boy." Miguel's insides rang out both in excitement and confusion as Sebastian stepped forward and did so. He allowed it, but after a few seconds, a strange fear bubbled inside him and he stepped back. "Sorry," he told Sebastian. "I'm ready. Let's go again." "Yes," agreed Sebastian, "but this time on the windowsill, where we sit at night when we're too hot to sleep." "Are you insane?" Miguel hissed. "Everyone's in the yard. They'll see us. Even my mother has left the kitchen to bring the dishes out. I can hear her voice." "It's just a funny thing to do. They'll laugh at us. Then it will be over, and will have meant something only to us. In case we never see each other again, we can at least have this one crazy memory." It was crazy--that was certain--but maybe the tension from all that people-pleasing, to which Miguel was so subconsciously predisposed, had released itself at once. Sebastian's typically cockeyed, shortsighted ruse (not unlike the ruses of many fourteen-year-olds) was immediately one of the best Miguel had ever heard. In fact it was Sebastian who was towed to the window, Sebastian who was urged to hurry and climb halfway out onto it. "Hey, up here!" Was it Sebastian or Miguel who shouted this down to the innocent families on the lawn? By that point, it didn't matter. They embraced there in one another's gangly limbs, sweaty from the hot bedroom, lips parting to make way for tongues. The reaction was quick and audible. When a local rollercoaster called Aconcagua first ka-thunked into motion, its centipede of anxious riders would gasp and murmur in the same manner as the guests below. For one full second, Miguel's mouth smiled against Sebastian's at the thrill of it all. Then the shouts, guttural, and mostly from the men in attendance, began shrieking up like angry warplanes from the yard. The two boys fell away from each other, backs against opposing frames of the window. Something was wrong. The sounds of shoed feet (never allowed in the house) came thundering up from the first floor stairwell, then the second. It was his father, and the counselor close behind him, the soles of their boots threatening to punch through each wooden step as they rose through the house. This was the part Miguel could not recall very well. Perhaps the door had been locked, he reasoned, because the two men--their fathers--had busted clear through its stop in a dramatic bid to reach them. It was all very dramatic. The men were aggressive, the counselor shoving his son with such force toward the doorway that the boy tripped over a piece of splintered wood and nearly tumbled into the stairwell. The bishop pressed his own son, massive hands acting as vices against Miguel's small chest, into the back wall. A model plane fell to the floor. Did the two boys' eyes meet in a final, mournful flash before they were parted? No. Miguel remembered nothing of Sebastian's face in that moment, but heard a handful of young, exasperated pleas descend toward the main floor. This event marked an absolute end to the boys' interaction. Perhaps, even taking into account the severity of the act, it was too harsh a punishment for lifetime friends. But never mind that; the bishop's plans to relocate to a ward in that massive American city had been solidified long before this. How much more time would the boys have had together, anyway? Six weeks was all. And now, less than a month. It was something they all should have seen coming--few were too proud to admit that. Sure, Miguel was a good clean boy (no surprise there, with the excellent bishop as his father and chief male influence). But the counselor's third son had been flagged once or twice already from his first year of seminary, particularly during discussion of marriage, the precious sacrament, the unification of man and woman. How shamelessly, incessantly Sebastian had wondered aloud to the whole class: What if the person a man wants to marry is also a man? ...But what if it did happen? Okay, but why would it matter? Yes, but why? Why? Eventually, the truth had been brought to the boy's knowledge (or so it had been thought), but it had required unusually deliberate effort. And as for the other children in the class, the poor things, mercilessly exposed to such adult-natured discussion? Don't dare believe it went over their heads; on the contrary, it was because of them that news of such an affront had spread, as they reported directly to their parents later that night over dinner. After the parents had effectively shut their kids up, they whispered about it to more parents, who had not yet heard. All one could do at this point was find a silver lining around the disturbing manifestation. For one, the warning signs could now be more easily recognized. More exhaustive measures would be taken to bring truth to the mind of a deluded child. And perhaps above all else, it was new evidence that even the freshest of apples, Miguel, could spoil if rot came too near. Let that be a warning to us all. How unfortunate for the bishop and his wonderful family. In light of recent events, let them continue to be a shining example. Bad things do befall good people. And only the bishop could have bounced back from all of this with so much grace. It is just further proof of his ability to lead our community. Miguel's birthday celebration occurred near the end of June, just a few weeks before the move. All of the expected families showed up, along with many of Miguel's friends from school; their treatment of him had not changed at all (which was the agreed-upon etiquette, carefully decided by the adults, drilled into the children). It wasn't, after all, Miguel's fault. The system had failed him. Sebastian was absent, of course, along with his mother and four siblings. Only the counselor stood there, closest to the doorway, as they sang with warm and genuine hearts and Miguel extinguished his thirteen candles. That night, Miguel cried into his pillow, harder than he had in weeks. The stupidity of his actions--or maybe just that one, single action--had fully sunk in, and he couldn't understand what had possessed him to allow it to happen. It wasn't Sebastian's fault. Sebastian was full of crazy ideas like that. They were a part of him, just like his long fingers, or the tiny streak of white hair above his left ear. It was Miguel's job to talk him out of the wildest of his plans, and he had failed. Would they ever have spoken again after Miguel's move to America? Beyond, perhaps, a few watered-down letters back and forth, it was hard to say. But it hadn't been over yet. How many more nights could they have slept in one's bedroom or the other's, one boy's arm sneaking around the other's torso? Miguel had ruined all of that; he had allowed something to happen that would forever steal away those moments that could have been, dwindling, but worth so much. And on that final day, during the last goodbye, what would they have said to one another? What emotions would each of them have felt, or tried to convey? Miguel couldn't guess. The opportunity was lost, and he cried hardest of all for this. On his family's last night in Argentina, Miguel slept on a mat in the same corner of the bedroom where his bed had been. His window was too high to reach from the ground outside, but still, he tortured himself with the possibility that his best friend might appear, emerging through it by virtue of some kind of miracle (so merciful was Heavenly Father), or at least wave at him from far below. Miguel rose to peer out at the dim yard four times before succumbing to his exhaustion. Of course, Sebastian never came. --- Gabe was due back tonight. Miguel would believe it when he saw it. He moved quickly along an alley route from his apartment, where the fetid breath of a grease dumpster nearly consumed him as he passed. The kid was to be driving a different car now, a large Toyota sedan, two years old and the color of sand. Miguel had asked Eddie if there were any other distinguishing details, and Eddie told him that it was the kind of car you forget you ever saw just one second later, if you ever noticed it in the first place--exactly the car they should have been using all along. Eddie had been ostensibly responsible for the delay in Gabe's return, which had been postponed by one week. The kid needs more time--that had been the determination, though Miguel couldn't be sure if Eddie had ordered it, or if Gabe requested it. Either way, Miguel was eager for things to return to normal. It wasn't just the thought of seeing Gabe again; he also felt it would do Eddie some good to reassume his regular post back at camp. Eddie had been moody--a descriptor that Miguel was shocked could ever apply to the hulking Vietnamese man. Some nights he acted cheery, and stranger yet, talkative, helping Miguel move the packages while asking him evaluative questions about his personal life; others, he would sulk around his SUV, or wait silently in the driver's seat, massaging his temple with his index finger. Miguel came to view his behavior as mostly volatile, especially around ten days in, at its peak: Eddie stood frowning in an open expanse of concrete, hands on his hips, and asked, "What the fuck are we doing here, exactly?" When Miguel asked him to clarify, Eddie had gestured wildly in odd directions around the warehouse, saying, "This, this, just, all of this," then told Miguel never mind, to forget about it. None of it was particularly worrying. It was just that Eddie's confidence truly did hold all of them together. All the guys, especially the encampment laborers, looked to Eddie for his stern reassurance and his conviction. Probably, Miguel thought, while Eddie maintained his calm out at the camp, the warehouse had become his emotional outlet zone (or something of that nature). It was possible that Eddie trusted Miguel more than the anyone else--besides his wife, of course--to field the airing of his burdens. Miguel flattered himself that this was the case. After a nervous smoke, propped against the concrete post at the edge of the garage door, Miguel watched a beige car approach down the lane and pad softly into the lot. The driver window dropped, and there was Gabe, looking unexpectedly friendly and eager. In the dim light, Miguel noticed course black stubble on his lip and under his chin. It hadn't always been there, had it? Could be. The kid wasn't much of a kid, after all. Miguel said the only thing that came to mind. "How's the new car?" Gabe shrugged, both hands still on the wheel. "It's fine. A little boring." Miguel went inside and raised the garage door while Gabe performed his usual three-point-turn. Once Gabe had finished backing into the garage, Miguel was glad to see him stand up out of the car, no groundhog scared back in by its shadow. Miguel flipped on the lights. For the time being, Gabe remained partially barricaded between the door and the car. A strange new chime rang out endlessly. Miguel reached into the trunk and brought out the first of the packages. He took another glance at Gabe and said, "It's the cleanest thing I've ever seen you drive." "Not for long. It's going to have a hard life." Gabe stepped out from the gaping mouth of the car door and closed it. Miguel continued to appraise the sedan. "Damn. Doesn't even look like it's loaded up." The kid nodded. "What happened to the Honda?" "It's my personal car now." He paused. "It belonged to my father." Well, that was fucking strange. Anyway, come on, Miguel begged himself, bring up something other than the stupid car. Anything. He cleared his throat and said, "It got kind of old having Eddie around all the time. Glad you're back." "Eddie can be a little intense sometimes." "You're telling me." Package still in hand, Miguel lingered on the edge of it now: that un-talked-about event, the reason for Gabe's absence. And somehow, Gabe seemed right there with him, preparing for the dive, so Miguel said, "Anyway, I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry." Then he asked in Spanish, "Were you close with your mother?" Gabe was thoughtful for a moment. "My mother and I had a complicated relationship." "Is your father still around?" Gabe's hands fidgeted, fingers drumming against the roof of the car. "No, he is not." "I understand," Miguel said, though this was not strictly the case. It still wasn't clear whether Gabe's father was dead or just absent. But more than that, the kid's mom was gone. Miguel, normally attuned to subtle changes in other people's behavior, could not detect even the slightest shift in Gabe's. It seemed unnatural, inhuman, not to be different after the death of a parent, no matter their role or lack thereof, whether beloved or loathed. He fetched a felt-tipped marked from a workbench along the wall, marked the package and brought it all the way to the back, where he dropped it in a canvas bin with some others. In the coming minutes, Miguel settled himself. Attempting to guide conversations, he had come to understand, was like teaching tricks to the pet cats his family had once kept in Argentina. The more you tried to influence them one way or another, the less manageable they became. --- Life in America posed so many novelties that Miguel could not properly mourn the loss of Sebastian. Instead it felt like a sadness once-removed: sadness at the frustration of being unable, in his distraction, to conjure tears--sadness because he knew he was supposed to feel it and couldn't. After several months' time had passed, Miguel's head became filled with too many new experiences, and the memory of his best friend, of that entire place he used to live, faded before it even occurred to him that he must grasp for it. Las Sombras was immense, even when measured against Buenos Aires, though his new school somehow felt larger than both of them. Samuel Odin No. 2, the largest public middle school in the city, housed a mass of kids more various in appearance and attitude than Miguel had ever encountered, especially in his small private school back home. Then there was the hapless (and strangely charming) veneer of the structure itself: A stench of burnt eraser permeated the halls, lined with firm green carpet that turned black as squid ink down the center; walls were a hodgepodge of quick fixes slapped over early-1960s construction. It wasn't just that he and his new friends from church formed an underwhelming minority; there were more than a few students who weren't religious at all. Discussion of God, or which was the correct one to believe in, or whether there was really one at all--it was all an endless dialogue, a lunchroom undercurrent, reaching the occasional zenith of sophistication one might expect of a group whose collective age was thirteen. It was late-September when Miguel had suddenly realized (in the lunchroom, no less), that some people did not think of "atheist" as a bad word. In fact, they proudly pinned it to themselves. A conniving eight-grader, chin speckled with bristly hairs, paused at the table where Miguel sat across from his new friend Lenny, and among several other kids from church. You guys sure like to stick together, he had sneered. His next question boomed across the cafeteria: Don't you know there is no God? A few of his cohorts had laughed and cheered from a nearby table. Surprisingly, Miguel's parents, and more sparingly, his two older sisters, continued to acknowledge the kiss (emotionlessly referred to as The Thing That Happened) partway into the fall season. The discipline he initially received had long ceased. Miguel's parents were intelligent folks. Maybe they had realized that continued punishment would only perpetuate the enigma of The Thing That Happened--as would pretending it hadn't. Miguel's father, as one might expect, never fell from grace during this period of casual dismissal. His mother slipped only once, when she and Miguel stood alone in the kitchen after dinner one evening. Or maybe it wasn't a slip, as the blur of her new life began taking shape around her, as her wits were once again fully gathered. Miguel recalled her demeanor, dabbing her hands against a yellow dish towel, staring down at his maturing face (even though he had recently outgrown her), impatient but frighteningly collected, and about to assume his knowledge of a word whose meaning he had only recently distinguished among the slurry hurled between students. "My love," she begged, voice barely above a whisper and constricting at that final syllable, "please tell me you're not really gay." He answered her quietly but with great conviction, "Of course I'm not." She believed him, just as he believed himself, and her concern fell immediately into a years-long sleep. Miguel's own concern over his sexuality remained an auxiliary one, as it often does for young teens. Primarily he was Miguel, the good Christian. Miguel, man of the people. Unimpeded by social anxiety except under the most extreme of circumstances, he formed friendships more quickly than he could keep up with them. He joined soccer, where he asserted himself as a mostly-valuable player. His presence put people at ease, made them feel listened-to. And so, when it came time for the associated student body to elect a president, he was encouraged to run. He had worried at first that a faith-based campaign to lead a decidedly secular group of constituents would be ineffective. This was the case. So he immediately backed away from it and began a more general approach, every bit as honest, in which he told them all, I will figure out what it is you want, and I will spend every waking minute reaching for it. My goal is to get to know you, and then to serve your needs. Miguel met with both the varsity and junior-varsity football teams. He learned to play Magic: The Gathering during his lunch hour with the trench-coats who hung out in the storage hall. That deep gruffness to his voice, which he had once loathed for its gross intermittence, had now fully settled, and he laid it just as thickly upon the Young Men's Chorus as he did the Young Women's Soccer League. It wasn't teenage dissent, but rather Miguel's campaign principles lifting that first cigarette to his lips after class, as he came to know the grungy (and somewhat feared) kids who roamed the reaches of the schoolyard. Sure, they laughed at him as he choked and coughed his way through it, but with each new jab came another pat on the back. You're alright, they said, you're not fucking around. It never felt like work to Miguel, maybe because the informal aspects of running were already part of his daily practice. People fascinated him, especially new people, and although he remained closest with his friends from church, their experiences were not varied enough to keep him interested. Call it a side effect of his social inclination and his limitless charm, or call it the hard-earned fruits of his labor: He was ultimately elected and served an unprecedented two-term stint as official leader of the people. Here was Miguel: prominent politician, important church member, central midfielder and advanced-placement student. His life occurred in millions of flashes, explicitly clear in the moment, impossible to construe as the months tallied. Later on, he would reflect that it had been for the best, because there had been no time left over to think about himself. At fifteen, Miguel entered high school, where it became clear that his coveted title would no longer come easily. In fact it would not come at all his first year, because Miguel was a freshman, and freshmen were barred from running for that highest of offices, according to item 9B in Miguel's cherished, spiral-bound copy of 70th Avenue Public High School Student Council Code of Conduct. The first student council meeting was held under a stained and sagging dropped ceiling at a vast round table--which was really just two large guided reading tables shoved together, leaving a functionless, doughnut-channeling hole in the middle. As he sat down, Miguel noticed that the boy to his left bore photocopies of an annual schedule, soon to be passed around. It seemed his boy was in the know, so Miguel nudged him with his elbow, accusing item 9B with his index finger and asked, "Why is this a rule?" "It's just the way things have always been done." The boy adjusted his glasses, glanced around the table and began counting the copies before him. Miguel scoffed. "That doesn't make any sense at all." He did not mean to sound rude, and the boy apparently hadn't taken it that way, tossing Miguel quick smile and nod to indicate his sympathy. Having presided over a previous student body was certainly a leg-up, but Miguel quickly learned, through a whirlwind of cross-table introductions, that he shared his distinction among at least three other students, also incoming freshmen from feeder schools. They were Beatrice, Anna, and a mumbled name Miguel could not decipher. The boy to his left remained mostly silent and fully seated during all the socializing, but after a few minutes, he stood, cleared his throat, and everyone became quiet. "Right, so, I'm Daniel Lin. I'm a junior, and I was Student Body Vice President last year. Most of you know that Nicholas, last year's president, is preparing to start his first semester at Rutgers. He will be missed." A few knowing glances were exchanged at this point. "Mr. Lewis had the flu, so I'll be leading things today. Any last words before we get started?" Someone directly across the table from him raised their hand. "Hi Daniel Lin, I'm Meghan Tuttle." She spoke with the cavalier lilt of someone producing an inside joke--it was obvious they knew each other. "Will you be running for Student Body President this year?" Miguel felt a hand on his shoulder as Daniel Lin leaned coolly to one side. "Of course." Elections were to be held in less than a month. Miguel knew that his only sensible course of action would be to get an in with Daniel Lin. After that first meeting, Miguel met him at the door and asked how he could maximize his involvement as a freshman. "I can tell that freshmen mostly get kicked around here. Do they ever even hold office?" There was that sideways smile again, full of charm, and suddenly Miguel understood how Daniel had made it all the way to VP as just a sophomore. "Not usually, no." "But we're technically allowed to run, right? For everything except president?" Everyone else had left the room. Daniel just stood there smiling for a moment, hands in his pockets. "Meet me here a day before next week's meeting. Same time. We'll chat about my campaign." Over the next six days, Miguel found it next to impossible to contain his anticipation. He attended church services and activities on Sunday and Wednesday, where his interest was veritably feigned--well enough, he hoped, that his parents wouldn't notice as he ran through possibilities of the various roles he might be asked to play. There was, of course, only one role that would satisfy Miguel, and he felt he stood a good chance of convincing Daniel. 70th High's bounds were theoretically finite, and the two boys' eyes met exactly twice between classes that week. Miguel shuddered that they would exchange only quick smiles in these moments--obviously time better spent formulating an unbeatable stratagem, efficient and unprecedented. When the moment finally came, after the two of them got settled under the droopy ceiling, Daniel was candid. "I am in a good position to take top office this year, and I'm not going to stop until I get it. How would you like to help?" "I would like to be your running mate." Daniel burst into laughter. "Sorry, that spot is filled." "By who?" "Meghan Tuttle. We agreed on it a long time ago." He paused. "Wait...did you actually think VP was on the table?" Miguel hid both his outrage and his shame. "No, not really. Listen, I will do whatever it takes. If you want to be president, I'll focus on it every waking minute. I've made myself look good before, and I can certainly make you look good now. I assume you're taking the mass-appeal route, right? I'll make it happen." He thought quickly. "I brought a notebook with me. Let's write down the details of your platform, then come up with some ways to spin it for different crowds. I'll start talking to people right away." They worked for over two hours, bleeding ink into many pages of Miguel's notebook, outlining speech possibilities, mapping out the myriad cliques, their associated sentiments, and coaxing the often blurry lines which divided them into focus. When it finally came time to close up shop, Daniel turned to him and said, "This is so much fun, isn't it?" "Nothing excites me more than this," Miguel told him. Daniel's brown eyes stayed trained on him for an extra second, and then the two stood and began to pack up. "Hey, listen," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll let you know if anything changes, okay?" It wasn't clear to Miguel what this meant--not until things did change. Daniel appeared out of nowhere as Miguel exited biology the next morning. "What do you think of Lin-Gonzalez? Has a nice ring to it, right?" "What are you talking about?" "Tuttle wants top office, so she's running her own campaign. I told her no hard feelings. She'll be more of a challenge than Layton. Keep us on our toes." Miguel couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I'd rather go with someone I've known longer," Daniel continued. "I'm taking a risk with you." "That's not true," said Miguel. "I know you think you are, but you're not." And so it became Tuttle-Cushman, Layton-Park and Lin-Gonzalez, all three campaign teams clawing for the fattest slice of approval from the rest of the school. It wasn't a fair fight. Greg and Kyung-soo were both seniors who were naturally relatable, but they were also lazy. It was Meghan and her running mate who gave Miguel and Daniel a run for their money, but by the eleventh hour, they too had fallen fatally behind. On the night before the school-wide vote, the two boys met up in Daniel's room, as had become their custom, and realized suddenly that there was nothing left to do. "Well then. I guess I should be at church," Miguel said. "Have your parents been giving you grief?" "No, but only because I've rarely missed." "It's weird to have church on a Wednesday, isn't it?" Miguel laughed. "Maybe to you. You don't go to church at all." Daniel smirked, pushing his glasses up the steep bridge of his nose. "I don't think I would feel welcome in church. Especially in Mormon church." Miguel shrugged. "You might be surprised--" "I don't think so," Daniel said. His voice was cold. "There's something you should know about me. It's this thing that I'll always struggle with. A secret I'll have to keep forever. I've only told Meghan. No one else. I'm sorry to spring this on you. It's just that I want you to have one more chance to...I don't know. After tomorrow, you're stuck with me." Daniel Lin, whom Miguel had only ever known as all-business-at-all-times, now bore his entire soul. "Look, if you know what I'm talking about, please just say so." "I know what you're talking about." Let there be no doubt: Miguel had been consciously hiding himself for some time. He had long known the moment would come for him to emerge, if just a little bit, to someone, somewhere. It could not have occurred before now, and now, looking into Daniel's dark eyes, he knew it could not wait a second longer. "When you're the bishop's son," he said, "you are obligated to feel welcome in church, or at least pretend that you do, even if you don't." He thought for a minute. "Everyone at church acts like it's the most welcoming place on earth, but it's not," he said, then added, "Not for people like you and me." Miguel remembered the seconds that followed down to each shift in Daniel's gaze, back and forth from Miguel's right eye to his left, the lifting of hand to face in a slow arc, an eternity, as Daniel pushed up his glasses once more. Daniel, who was all of a sudden undeniably, irresistibly handsome (but how could Miguel not have noticed this before?), dropped his scrutiny to the crotch of Miguel's pants. And yet, nothing happened. Neither boy could gather the courage to make the first move, and it was better that way. Daniel's bedroom was not secure and his doting mother often poked her head in. Should they ever be caught, the consequences would be unthinkable. After the election, this invincible duo was officially awarded the titles they knew had been coming. A party was held in the evening, spilling out of the dingy student council room and halfway down the hall. When it was over, they left together and took the concrete steps down to the 70th Street Station platform. Daniel's parents were visiting family in Shanghai. Miguel marveled at the unrestricted life of his friend, who was allowed to live as king, adult at seventeen, completely on his own in a 19th-floor luxury condo, no parent in sight. That night would allow Miguel the smallest taste of such a life, and a much larger taste of Daniel, who, after next to no convincing, entered Miguel fully, deeply, between the gray jersey-knit sheets of his twin bed. Years later, Miguel would decide that he had reacted poorly (to be specific: non-strategically) to his parents' concern. It escalated steadily over the next year and a half, by which time general complaints were submitted on the regular, on behalf of both parties. Every ounce of their anxiety would be instantly validated, if only they knew what their son was hiding: namely, a painfully secret and intensely promiscuous relationship with his closest friend and political partner. It was lucky that Daniel's parents travelled frequently, but they still spent more time at home than away, leaving the boys' private moments in short supply. Sometimes, when the stakes were too high, Miguel and Daniel suspended their intimacy for as long as a few weeks. Neither resented these times of rest all that much. They were extremely protective of their public lives, and both kept frantic, distracting schedules. Miguel carried on with soccer, where he remained a middling but cheerful player, and Daniel showed up to the most important games, proudly airing his support for his prized second-in-command. That was all it needed to mean to anyone else. At least for Miguel, bolting across the field, eyes meeting for an instant with those of his clean-cut companion in the stands, an sense of deep intimacy persisted even when it could not be tangibly expressed. One evening, as Christmas drew near, Miguel's father barged into his room and announced, "You absolutely don't have enough friends who are part of the faith." "That's because most of my friends are in student council." "You have friends of all kinds," he corrected. "And I'm okay with that. It's what you're good at--good enough to be trying harder with your friends from church. You're a natural leader, Miguel, and I know exactly where you get that from. There are plenty of ways to put your leadership skills to work at church, ways that are more worthy--and more righteous." "The student body is a completely worthy place to put my leadership skills. At least as worthy as the church." "See, right there. That's the problem. First, it's all of your absences from church events because of student council. And now, I can hear it in the way you're speaking. You covet your interest in politics more than you covet your relationship with God." Miguel shrugged. "Miguel," he demanded, "please tell me I am wrong." "Fine, you're wrong. Whatever you want to hear." Flames danced behind the bishop's corneas. Miguel braced himself in anticipation of his father's strike, clean across the face and straight back to his childhood, but it never came. Instead arrived his solemn dictation: "This is not a game, Miguel. Your utter servitude to Heavenly Father is not a game. Misconstrue it and you will not be saved." "Okay," said Miguel. "I'm sorry. I will try harder." Without another word, his father left the room. He did try harder, but by that time, no matter how many smiling faces met him at church, the message was loud and clear to Miguel: You are rejected. This clarity arose in part out of the church's extraordinary obsession with marriage. Everyone talked about it--this most beautiful of contracts ever to be handed down, and how it was so constantly under threat, strangled at the filth-covered hands of secular society. Still a few months shy of seventeen, he found himself steeped in the subject, along with other members his age, almost all of whom embraced matrimony as a sort of mysterious miracle (or was it miraculous mystery?) with which they would, with any luck at all, soon engage. For them, it could not happen soon enough. But for Miguel? He was coming quickly to terms with the futility of his own tragic, humiliating attempts at worship, furiously diverting his love and commitment toward an insatiable deity that did not love him back. One summer evening, a week before his seventeenth birthday, he directed his fury elsewhere. His sisters had since left home, were both married and living with their husbands back in Argentina. His father stayed late at the church, so Miguel and his mother ate dinner alone. Nothing about it was premeditated; the moment simply arrived, unanticipated, and he recognized it immediately for what it was--time to confess. "Mom," he said to her, "there is something I need to tell you." She set down her knife and fork, chewed for several more seconds, swallowed and then looked at him. "What is it?" "Daniel and I are in love. We have been together for almost two years. We are sexually active, and we care about each other very much." There. It was done. He waited grimly for her reaction, for the screaming and shouting, for the tears. But at first, none of that happened. "What do you want me to do with this?" she asked him quietly. Miguel hesitated. "I...I don't know. I'm really suffering over this, Mom. At church." "Suffering? To me it sounds like you are not suffering at all. Rather than suffering, which is what we all must do, you are seeking every last bit of the pleasure you desire--in this perverted, disgusting indulgence--and showing no restraint whatsoever. My son, that is not suffering." He swallowed painfully. "I thought it would be better to tell you, and not Dad--" "Why? As if you thought I would not tell him myself?" "Mom, you can't. I'm not ready for that." Only now did she raise her voice. "You must be spoiled rotten to think you have a say. Not at this point. There will be no secrets between your father and me--let alone something of this magnitude. What exactly did you think was going to happen?" In all honestly, Miguel had not thought about it. "I don't know. You're my mom. Can't I trust you with this?" Just as tears filled his eyes, so did they flood into his mother's. "That's not what this is about. You think you can just do whatever you want? You think your situation is special? Look around you Miguel. We all have our proper roles to fill, and we all must suffer for them." She got up and began gesturing wildly around the kitchen. "Look at this place. Just look at this...fucking place." (It was the first and only time Miguel would ever hear his mother swear.) "I am capable of so much more than this. And yet, this is my role. This is my suffering. It is what I am supposed to do. Is that clear to you or not?" She smeared her hands across the front of the refrigerator, sending a dozen magnets, notes and greeting cards tumbling to the floor. "This is what suffering looks like." Both of them cried openly now. Miguel scraped together his thoughts, told his mother, "You say you are so capable, but all I see is that you are incapable of changing your shitty life. I feel sad for you." He left immediately, hurrying down the townhouse steps to the sidewalk. His mother called out his name exactly twice before slamming the front door shut. Without realizing where he was headed, Miguel landed five stations up the line, in the lavish hallway outside of Daniel's home. Daniel's mother answered the door, and the boy soon met Miguel out in the hall. Together they went up to the roof and stood at the edge, where the city spread out before them in a thick blanket of lights. Here, Miguel told Daniel everything that had happened. "Your parents will contact mine," Daniel said. "My life will be over." "I don't think so. They barely know each other." "But you're not sure about that, are you? Fuck, Miguel, how could you be so careless? All I can do at this point is just hope to God they don't find out. And of course, you and I can't keep doing this." "Can't keep doing what?" "This. All of it. It's gotten way too risky, and now it could fuck over everything else in our lives. All of our personal goals. Don't you care about that, even a little?" "Of course I do. But I care about us, too." Daniel looked confused for a second. "There's nowhere for this to go, understand? I'll be at Stanford in two months. You knew that. Look, I'm sorry neither of us ever made it clear before now, but we aren't soulmates. It just wouldn't make any sense. I have goals in politics. Real-world politics, Miguel. My face sets me back enough as it is. But an openly gay man with this face? I wouldn't stand a chance." Overwhelmed, Miguel blurted out the only thing he could muster: "Your face?" "This, stupid." Daniel drew an imaginary circle twice around his features with his index finger. "Not white." "Oh, come on. It's not that big of a deal." "Wow. Easy for you to say, when you're a lot closer to the kind of face people vote for. Don't you dare act like you understand how it is." Miguel felt himself becoming hot with panic. A bull lurked in Daniel's words, and he knew he must now grab it by its horns. "So that's it, then? It's that easy for you to end this?" "It's not like that. It's not about easy or hard. This is just how it has to be. I know it, and I think you know it too. I can't speak for you, but I have some big plans. I'm not willing risk it all over romance. Not even close." Miguel's tears returned. "Then you are not who I thought you were." In the coming weeks, as Miguel would recall these few, pivotal seconds, he gleaned comfort only from the fact that Daniel had cried as well. "I'm so sorry, Miguel," came his final words, "but you're right. I'm not." --- "Get up." The man kicked Miguel's side, not hard enough to cause injury, but enough to wake him and startle him to his feet. Immediately, this figure, still only a shadow, began dusting dry mulch from the side of Miguel's tattered vinyl jacket. "You're too young to be sleeping underground like this. What's wrong with you?" Miguel just stared at him, bleary eyed, swaying on his legs. The stone walls radiated aquamarine and a grimy, caged clock above the platform read 1:40 in the morning. What the fuck was going on? Where had he ended up tonight? An offensive block of Helvetica sharpened on the wall behind the man's head. Senna-Joyce Station. That's right. Ejected from the train during a drunken midnight pilgrimage to the water. Fuck, he hadn't made it very far this time. The man switched to Spanish. "What language do you speak? My God, you smell terrible. I would like to take you somewhere so you can shower. I can also give you clean clothes--hello?" He banged his fist against Miguel's scalp. "Any of this getting through?" Miguel rubbed his eyes and nodded his heavy head. "Okay. The train is coming. Let's get on." The man was older, a bit shorter and very attractive. If he was out looking for a good time, maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. Maybe it was what Miguel deserved. Besides, what else did he have to look forward to? "If you can prove you're worth a damn," added the man, dragging Miguel toward the warm breath of the train, "I might even have an opportunity for you. We'll see." We'll see? In Miguel's world, there was nothing left to see. Every worthwhile stone had been turned over already, each revealing a mottled underside more grotesque than the one before. By this time he was adrift and under total influence, with each coming moment, of whatever rank breeze happened to blow with the most force. But this was not a breeze. It was a whirlwind that plucked him up and pressed him to a cushion-less seat and thrust the car doors along their rusty rails until they were shut tight. --- "You want any help?" The kid spoke hastily, noisily in order to reach Miguel's ears at the back of the warehouse. Miguel returned, unburdened, to confer with Gabe over the roof of the car. "What did you say?" "I asked if you want any help." "That's what I thought you said." "Eddie says things need to change around here. He says I need to be more involved. I know we've got a lot of heroin in the pipeline these days. I was reading about how, gram for gram, cocaine's volume is almost twice that of heroin--sometimes more." He paused and drew in a breath, at which point Miguel felt himself smile a bit. Gabe said, "Anyway, do you want help or not?" Apparently, the kid had discovered a few things since their last meeting. Miguel smacked the hood of the car and said, "What the hell, let's crank this out." Gabe placed his fingers gingerly around the scuffed edges of the first package (a small brown cube, Koreatown-bound), as if it were hot to the touch. Miguel directed him carefully among the pallets, accompanying him to ensure no mistakes were made, explaining where each package belonged and why. Sure, Miguel could have performed everything himself in less time, but where the fuck did either of them have to be? Once they were finished, Gabe closed the trunk for Miguel and then, stern-faced, gripped his hands over the edge of the deck lid, as if to steady himself. "You okay?" "I'm fine," Gabe replied. "There's a lot going on right now, that's all." Miguel felt something in his chest sinking fast for the kid. "I know." "So, do you have other stuff to do after I go?" Miguel shrugged. "I could tidy up the office, but I probably won't. Just have to double-check a few things and close up." "Okay. Do you...uh...want to get out of here?" After such a corny line, Miguel could not help but laugh. "Where exactly do you want to go?" "I don't know. But I think we should talk. I'm not old enough to go to a bar, but I know a few restaurants that are open late." "If you want a drink," Miguel suggested, "there's this place I know that doesn't check. Just don't shave off that stubble on the way over." There it was again--that rare unfiltered smile. "I don't have a razor with me." And so, instead of following the stench-filled alleyways home, Miguel rode along with Gabe, whose driving proved quick and tidy--he was a professional, after all. Inside the car, the air was thick and hot. Thus far, thought Miguel, Gabe seemed to have mastered the art of inner-reconciliation. Was it just a front? Miguel wanted desperately to know more of his situation, to understand. He coughed. "I don't speak to my parents, but if my mom died, I don't think I could handle it. Not like you are, anyway." Miguel recoiled. It hadn't come out right. In fact, he wished he could take back every stupid fucking word. Gabe just shrugged. "We're not the same people." Miguel waited for something more, but nothing came. That was his response? He glanced over at Gabe, who withered among the car's rather generous accommodations. Damn, he was a skinny kid. "I know we're not the same. Sorry to bring it up again." "It's okay. Like I said, my mom and me, our relationship wasn't normal. Look, I don't know how else to say this, but I think she was ready to go. I have to just accept that." Miguel inspected this notion. He supposed it did make a difference. "Just making sure you're doing okay. And letting you know you've got someone to talk to." "Thanks." He paused. "It's been okay. I know how to grieve. And when I get sick of grieving, I distract myself by going somewhere that is always busy." "Like where?" "Like the Station. Or Odin Park, or Chinatown." "Chinatown." He turned to Gabe. "Back where you belong?" Gabe shook his head. "Little Saigon, if that's what you're getting at." "Oh." It was. But he couldn't be full Vietnamese. "Are you half?" "Does it matter?" The kid shifted uneasily in his seat. "Sorry. No, it doesn't." Miguel refrained from speaking for the rest of the ride, except to offer directions. They parked on an upper floor in a crowded, towering garage. Miguel paid the toll. Down on the street, they crossed over radiant asphalt, toward the rhythmic white beacon of a walking man. The place, Pub Odessa, was crammed into the bottom floor of a slab-sided finance building on the adjacent corner. "Odinberg's finest," he assured Gabe, who only nodded. Miguel drew in one last calming breath of hot night air before pulling open the door. If he had known the weight of the information he would soon ingest, he might have taken greater pause. The structure of the camp was partly to blame, its workings compartmentalized as they were, its employees so unlikely, given the harsh consequences, to gossip among themselves. Up until this point, Miguel had been mostly satisfied to remain in the shadows, but he would later wonder why it had been necessary to keep such a detail secret. Indeed, it seemed the Gabe knew how to mourn. How else could he have regained composure so quickly? The only loss of life Miguel had ever truly mourned was Marco's. Miguel would later feel like he had been blind, and deaf, too--as well as generally ignorant--because he had not figured it out on his own. He should have sensed early on, led by his famed intuition, that a cogent fragmentation of his beloved mentor lived on, stood right before him now in human form, breathed and walked among them all...but that wasn't how Miguel came to know. --- END OF PART 2 Email me at kidboise@gmail.com with comments, questions and/or criticisms :) ...part 3 to come soon... Thanks for reading!