A Rainbow and No Gasoline

"Well," I said, "I guess if I really had to narrow it down, it would have to be when I was twelve and my dad got ejected from two of my Little League games in the same week."

He laughs hard at this, bellowing and then hacking, his cigarette trembling in his hand as the ashes from the tip float down and splash on his lap. He catches his breath and brushes them to the floor. "Jesus Christ, you caught me off guard with that one. You mean to tell me that seeing your old man get tossed from a couple of ball games when you were a kid turned you into a drunk? I figured you’d say a woman or somethin’ like that!"

Jesus, this guy is talking really loud. He’s not even talking, he’s yelling. People at the other end of the bar are staring at us. I look right at him. "Listen John,"

"Sean."
"Yeah, right. Listen Sean, these were not just a couple of ball games, friend. We were in the district playoffs and I was pitching."
"You pitched two games in a week?" He takes a long pull from his pint of Budweiser and the foam clings to his thick handlebar mustache. For a second he looks like he has been eating ice cream.

"Yeah I was pitching both times, I was twelve for Chrissake. I could have thrown every day. You’re missing the point, Sean." I’m searching for the bartender now, hoping he can sense my need for another drink. I catch his eye and he glances at me and then at Sean, rolling his eyes. I tell him that I would like a double shot of Jameson’s and a Henry’s. He bows his head to pour the drinks and shakes his head, smiling.

"No, yes, I’m missing the point, you’re right," Sean says, adjusting the green mesh cap that rests way too high on his head. He smiles, flashing teeth like kernels of corn. "So, after your old man got the old heave-ho, you went home and busted into his liquor cabinet and went on to get pie-eyed?"

"Jesus Sean, I was twelve. I probably went home and watched Mr. Belvedere with my little brother and went to bed. The point of this whole thing is the question you asked me. ‘When did you know you were going to be a drinker?’ That’s what you asked me, right Sean?"

"It was something like that." He’s looking for the bartender now, waving his index finger in the air like he’s aiming a gun. He finds him and points at him. "’Nother Bud." He pulls another one of his shitty cigarettes from the crumpled pack in front of him, not noticing that it is still wet from the beer he had spilled earlier. "I get these from the gas station across the street," he says, motioning to his wet speckled tube. "Best deal in town."

"There’s a reason for that, Sean."
"Whaddya mean?"

"Nothing. Listen, I didn’t start drinking that summer. I guess that it was just an awkward and embarrassing experience for me and it made me realize that at some point I was going to need-"
"Y’know it’s almost last call."
"I’m well aware of that, Sean. "
"You gonna get another drink?"

"I’m still working on this one." The double shot is in front of me and I grab it, raise it to one of the guys staring at us at the end of the bar and take it, the whole thing, in one gulp. It burns just right as it slides down. I sip the beer and take a quick look around, thinking for an instant that I might recognize someone, but then realizing I won’t.

"That’ll make your bull run, eh partner?" Sean stabs his shitty cigarette out in the ashtray in front of him.
I smile, concentrating on the beer now, ready to close my tab and leave. Sean is grinning, holding his beer like a trophy, clutching it like an award that he can’t possibly deserve. He is in awe, his mouth is agape, cocked and ready to spew some hackneyed sentiment, and all I can do is stare into my pint and brace myself for it.

"It’s amazing, isn’t it?"
"What’s that Sean?"
"I just think it’s amazing that this, this drink, can bring so many people together. Thank God for it, brother." He holds his glass up to the ceiling and then downs what is left of it. How dramatic.
"Don’t you have some road to repave tomorrow morning or something?" He has told me that he is a road worker for the city.
"Hell no, man. I get Tuesdays and Wednesdays off."
"Thank God for that, brother." I say.
"Hell yes."

I swipe my hand in the air towards the bartender letting him know that I would like to close my tab for the evening. Sean seems a bit troubled by this, throwing his hands up and apart like he doesn’t know the answer to a question.

"Whaddya gonna do?" He asks.
"Probably go home and get back to unpacking my things."
"Shit, you’ve been here for two weeks and you still haven’t unpacked all of your boxes?"
"I’ve been busy, Sean." This, of course, is only half true. I have been fairly busy trying to find a job during the days that have passed, but I haven’t been too busy to unpack my things. There are a few boxes of books in my bedroom that I haven’t had a chance to rummage through, but that’s about it. I just need an excuse to go home, and an excuse to not have Sean over at my apartment. God forbid someone from home calls and he answers the phone. Then they might really start to worry about me.

Sean removes his cap and wipes his brow with his forearm. He’s staring off, weighing the things that must truly matter to him. I, on the other hand, am wondering how a man can produce so much perspiration when he hasn’t moved for the last hour. Sean is glistening brightly and it’s two in the morning on a Tuesday night in February.
He places the cap back over his matted mess of hair and turns to me. "Well, shit. I was just gonna say, you know, if you wanted, I’ve got this weed in my pocket...."

I have a six-pack of tall, cheap beer cradled under my arm like a football, and the cans are starting to numb my wrist. Sean is walking beside me as we near my apartment, which is only three blocks from the bar. I begin concocting plans: I could knock him out with the beer and leave him in the courtyard. Then I could grab his pot, smoke it alone like I really want to, and rustle him in the morning. I’d explain to him that he endured some sort of seizure, probably epilectic, and I would suggest to him that he should get checked out by a specialist right away. However, Sean wouldn’t have insurance and I would pat him on the back, say "Tough break" and give him some change for the bus.

I’m laughing at this as I turn the key in the lock and let him in. He stumbles a bit as he passes the threshold. He’s almost looking through me and he’s slurring his speech pretty obviously now.

"What’s so funny partner?"
I look at him with a straight face. "Oh, I was just thinking about how funny it would be if I were to beat you about the head and neck with this sack full of beer."

His grin dies. "Hey buddy, I don’t know-"

I laugh really hard now, a big fake phony laugh that causes his yellow grin to return. I pat him on the shoulder. "Just fuckin’ with you, bro. How’s about a cold one?"
"Now you’re talkin’," he says. "Boy, you kinda freaked me out there for a second. I was like, ‘Who is this crazy dude?’"
"Please don’t call me dude, Sean."
"No, well I was just sayin’-"
"How about that weed, Sean?"
"Oh, yeah, right." He looks a bit confused, but he gathers himself, falls back onto the couch, and pulls a crumpled baggy from the inside pocket of his coat. "You got a bong?"

As I’m walking back to my bedroom to grab the oversized water pipe that sits on top of one of the unpacked boxes, I find myself wondering if getting high is worth the surely painful conversation that will inevitably follow. I convince myself that I will politely shove Sean out the door afterwards, and if that doesn’t work, I can always be an asshole about it. Christ, there has to be more to this city. I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, but almost everyone I meet here, or at least the ones who are looking for conversation, are just like this fucker. It’s too late to worry.

When I return to the front room, Sean is looking at the racks of videos and CDs against the wall next to my TV and VCR setup. I haven’t had a chance to organize them yet. Sean is staring at them like he recognizes nothing.

"You got any Skynard?"
"Y’know, Sean, I don’t." He turns to the videos.
"You got any porn?"
I don’t know how I’m keeping a straight face. "Oh yeah, I got a lot of porn, but it’s packed away still and it’s mostly gay stuff, pretty hardcore, I don’t think you’d be into it. But, I mean, if you want me to go dig it out...."
He looks me up and down, waiting for me to laugh; he’s almost holding his breath waiting. I give him the big laugh again. He lets the breath out and sighs again in relief.

Sean’s pot is better than I thought it would be, and we smoke way too much of it. The beer somehow tastes good going down after we smoke. It’s really cold and reminds me of mineral water.

I go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror at my burning red-cracked eyeballs. Realizing how sufficiently wasted I am, I’m struck with the notion that it’s OK. I don’t have anything terribly urgent to do in the morning, aside from maybe calling the ex-girlfriend in a hung-over daze and hoping that she doesn’t voice her opinions(once again) on what a terrible mistake I’ve made by leaving. At least I can tell her about the quality people I’ve been meeting. As I lose myself in that thought for an uncomfortable second it jars the remembrance of my guest, sitting in the front room, surely looking around for something to rummage through.

As I step out of the hallway and back into the front room, I find that Sean has removed his over shirts to reveal a black tank top with the word "Queensryche" across the front in sparkly gold lettering. I also notice that his gaze is fixed on the end table beside the couch.

"Whatcha lookin’ at there, Sean?"
He doesn't’ really answer the question. "You write poetry?"
"Why would you ask that, Sean?"
"Well, I couldn’t help noticing some stuff you got jotted down over here in this notebook."
"What, are you going through my shit?"
He looks a bit panicked by this, and puts on his best honest face. "No, it was open, I just happened to look over, I’m not trying to evade your privacy or nothing."
"Invade."
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Listen, why don’t you hand that over here?"

He hands me the notebook and I realize that is was open, that I had left it there the night before after scribbling down some drunken ramblings. "Oh, this. Yeah, I guess I write sometimes. Just for fun."

He smiles at this and holds up his tall can of beer. "Well, it’s great to meet a fellow poet."
I can’t keep a straight face this time, and I grin at him. "You’re a writer, huh?"

His eyes are barely open. "Oh yeah, I’ve been published." He is gleaming now, with a huge smile on his face. He is so glad that this came up. He waits for me to say something.
"Really. What journal were you published in? Might I have heard of it?"
"Oh, well it’s not really a journal, more of a newspaper." He is still shining, flashing those teeth that look like they sleep in smoke.
"Wow, a newspaper. A daily?" I realize there’s a chance he might actually be telling the truth.
"Weekly."

"That is so super. In what context was the poem published? I mean, did they have like a writer’s corner in the back or something, or was it more of an op-ed piece?"
He stops for a second. "Uh, no. They were doin’ this article on me ‘cos I had built a go-cart using only things that I had found at the local junkyard, and I told the lady doing the story that I was also a writer, that I had written a poem about the experience. So, they put it in there, right next to the picture of me at the junkyard with a wheelbarrow full of scrap metal."
I think he’s really telling the truth. "Was it a color photo, Sean?"
"Nah, it was only black and white, that was kind of a bummer, but it was on the front page, which was the shit."
"Wow, so your poem was on the front page of a weekly newspaper in, what state was this in?"
"Montana. It was in Billings, which is a pretty big town."
"It sure is. Some might even call it a city. But that’s a whole different conversation. So tell me, how long ago was this? I mean you must have been writing for a long time, because this is back when you were into making go-carts, right?"
He takes a sip of his beer and lights his third cigarette since he has been here. I never told him he could smoke inside. "Yeah, it was about two years ago."

"How old are you, Sean?"
"Thirty-three."
"OK, listen Sean, it’s getting pretty late."
"You know, the go-cart, it wasn’t for me."
"I’m sure that it wasn’t. I really gotta get some sleep, buddy."

His look changes suddenly. He’s looking at me like he can’t believe that I want to end this magical evening that we have spent together. Like he took me out for a nice dinner and now I won’t even kiss him goodnight. I realize quickly that this has got to be the most fun Sean has had in a long time.

"Do you think I could mess around on your computer for a while?" He’s looking over towards the corner, towards my desk.
I give. "Yeah, whatever, just don’t fuck anything up and lock the door on your way out."
"Thanks man. And hey, I’ll bring over some of my poetry for you to check out. I’ve got stacks of it laying around."
"Sweet, Sean. I’d love that." I turn around and head into my bedroom, hoping I don’t knock into those boxes of books while I feel around for my bed and the deep pitch black consumes me.

I don’t like sleeping in my clothes. It makes me feel like I’ve been camping or something, and I don’t really care for outdoor expeditions. The first thing I hear when I sit up in bed and my shoes touch the floor is the clicking. The clicking sounds are slow and sporadic, coming from my front room. I look at my alarm clock and it reads 12:47 PM. I walk out to the front room and there he is, the tank top still hanging off his shoulders. The green mesh cap is backwards this time.

He swivels around in the chair when he hears me. "Morning, partner." He is smiling like this is OK, like we’re roommates.
"What are you doing?" I expect to see white powder on the mouse pad.
"Oh, well, you weren’t up, so I just got into this chat room and-"
"Chat room?"
"Yeah, this girl says she’s got a great ass and so I wrote back to her, I said-"
"All right, you gotta go."
"But I’m kinda gettin’ into it with this chick, man."
"OK, listen, I’ve got a feeling that she’s probably not that hot and you really need to go home."
He’s somehow shocked by this. "Home?"
I point toward the door. "I’ll see you later, Sean."

He picks up his jacket, which is lodged into the corner of my couch, and heads for the front door. "Sure, yeah, so I’ll just see you at the bar or we can go over my poems sometime," he says.

"Great, I’ll see you." I shut the door and slide over, watching Sean through the front window. He puts on his jacket, looks around the courtyard for a second, pulls out a cigarette, and begins walking back in the direction of the bar.