Devin lives in the apartment directly across the Piano Factory parking lot and with an unobstructed view from my bedroom window. I've leered at him through Dad's old army binoculars. (Never tell him that.)
Tonight his roommate, Hank, the one with the ponytail and the bad skin, is eating a sandwich on the roof. It splits and plops onto his lap. He's a hippie; he doesn't give shit. Tucks it back into the wet sub slit with one forefinger, real casual, like a dick back into the pants after a piss. He's perched cross-legged under that rusty jungle gym advertising sign Devin and I climbed last Friday night. I clipped his chin with my nose, like a cross-eyed coon dog. Hardly a kiss. The Boston skyline spread out below like a love story, like a special effect.
During the seven o'clock news the lights in his kitchen ignite. There's Dev, shirtless, boiling water in front of the gas stove. Blue flames flickering like Christmas tree lights on his pretty, preoccupied face. I kill the beer, kill the lights, wrench the field glasses out of the leather case (knocking a half-filled glass of water onto my floor), and focus in. CIA Berlin. Stake out.
Devin has the chest of a teenager. His arms are skinny, his waist narrow, shoulders smooth as stone.
Guess if he'd let me, I'd do anything he asked. He won't ask.
The disclaimer:
Devin has, as he puts it: 'heavily made out with guys'. But when emotional intimacy thickens the vibe, he gets 'weird'. He would have felt really 'uncomfortable' if I'd slipped him the tongue the other night. On the other hand he does seem pleased (with himself) that we became friends so quickly. (Is there such a thing as too quickly?)
'Don't obsess about the future, Rick. We're lucky you're leaving for Switzerland tomorrow and that I'll be at Bard by the time you get back to Boston. We are spared the corruption of familiarity and withheld contempt.'
(Big vocabulary on this kid, but do I buy the bullshit?)
Anchovies: The lesbian-owned restaurant in the South End. Sloppy, second-rate spaghetti, dark booths.
My Big Dump Of The Summer:
'I think about you, Devin. All day long. When I stare at Berklee legs-in-shorts, blazing sidewalk eyes outside the Store Two Four, I superimpose your gaze: the implacable Devin overlay. It's no contest. Your fabulous, arty, enigmatic expression, shuddering look, as if into my lungs, shrugs these assholes off the screen. I like how they look - generic Interview Magazine bubbleheads, but all I feel is a great big So What?'
I tell him this, machine-gun pace, hands gesturing wildly, booming laugh ricocheting all over the lesbian restaurant. I notice, too late, that pouring it on turns him off.
It's over, he's outa here. Spiraling off into the late afternoon sky like a loose kite.
Chapter 3