punishment he recognized that he deserved, and the pain pushed out everything else.
He called his boyfriend in Seattle. In a panic he told him that he had robbed someone named Benjamin Takemitsu, that he had used a baseball bat. The boyfriend said, “You’ve had a bad dream, Matty. That didn’t happen. You would never do such a thing. Go back to sleep, sweetheart, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After that he lay awake wondering what had become of the person he had once been, the one who had gone to Africa. To the ceiling, he said, “I am no longer myself.” He did not know who this new person was, the man whom he had become, but when he finally fell asleep, he saw in his dream one of those shabby castoffs with whom you wouldn’t want to have any encounters, any business at all, someone who belonged on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign that read HELP ME . The man was crouched behind a tree in the dark, peering out with feverish eyes. His own face was the face of the castoff.
Somehow he would have to make it up to Benjamin Takemitsu.
—
In The Lower Depths, when Quinn entered, Black Bird did not look up. He was seated in his usual place, and once again his finger was traveling down the page. Cymbeline this time, a play that Quinn had never read.
“It’s you,” Black Bird said.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
“Did you bring a book of your own?”
“No.”
“All right,” Black Bird said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” He then issued elaborate instructions to Quinn about where in the men’s room to put the money and when he, Black Bird, would retrieve it. The entire exchange took over half an hour, though the procedure hardly seemed secret or designed to fool anyone. When Quinn finally returned to his basement room, he had already gulped down two of the pills, and his relief soon grew to a great size. He felt his humanity restored until his mottled face appeared before him in the bathroom mirror, and then he realized belatedly what terrible trouble he was in.
Two days later he disappeared.
2.
That was as far as I got whenever I tried to compose an account of what happened to Matty Quinn—my boyfriend, my soul mate, my future life—the man who mistakenly thought I was a tightwad. I was very thrifty in Ethiopia, convinced that Americans should not spend large sums in front of people who owned next to nothing. But to Matty I would have given anything. Upon his return to Minneapolis he had called me up and texted and e-mailed me with these small clues about the medical ordeal he was going through, and I had not understood; then he had called to say that he had robbed this Takemitsu, and I had not believed him. Then he disappeared from the world, from his existence and mine.
Two weeks later the investigating officer in the Minneapolis Police Department (whom I had contacted in my desperation) told me that I could certainly come to survey the city if I wished to. After all, this Officer Erickson said, nothing is stopping you from trying to find your friend, although I understand that your permanent home is in Seattle and you do not know anyone here. It’s a free country, so you’re welcome to try. However, circumstances being what they are, I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you. The odds are against it. People go missing, he said. Addicts especially. The street absorbs them. Your friend might be living in a ditch.
He did not say these words with the distancing sarcasm or condescension that straight men sometimes use on queers. He simply sounded bored and hopeless.
Matthew Quinn. First he was Matt. Then he was Matty. These two syllables formed on my tongue as I spoke his name repeatedly into his ear and then into his mouth. That was before he was gone.
This is how we’d met: I had come by the clinic, the one where he worked, to deliver some medical supplies from the company I was then working for, and I saw him near a window whose slatted light fell across the face of a feverish young woman
He called his boyfriend in Seattle. In a panic he told him that he had robbed someone named Benjamin Takemitsu, that he had used a baseball bat. The boyfriend said, “You’ve had a bad dream, Matty. That didn’t happen. You would never do such a thing. Go back to sleep, sweetheart, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After that he lay awake wondering what had become of the person he had once been, the one who had gone to Africa. To the ceiling, he said, “I am no longer myself.” He did not know who this new person was, the man whom he had become, but when he finally fell asleep, he saw in his dream one of those shabby castoffs with whom you wouldn’t want to have any encounters, any business at all, someone who belonged on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign that read HELP ME . The man was crouched behind a tree in the dark, peering out with feverish eyes. His own face was the face of the castoff.
Somehow he would have to make it up to Benjamin Takemitsu.
—
In The Lower Depths, when Quinn entered, Black Bird did not look up. He was seated in his usual place, and once again his finger was traveling down the page. Cymbeline this time, a play that Quinn had never read.
“It’s you,” Black Bird said.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
“Did you bring a book of your own?”
“No.”
“All right,” Black Bird said. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” He then issued elaborate instructions to Quinn about where in the men’s room to put the money and when he, Black Bird, would retrieve it. The entire exchange took over half an hour, though the procedure hardly seemed secret or designed to fool anyone. When Quinn finally returned to his basement room, he had already gulped down two of the pills, and his relief soon grew to a great size. He felt his humanity restored until his mottled face appeared before him in the bathroom mirror, and then he realized belatedly what terrible trouble he was in.
Two days later he disappeared.
2.
That was as far as I got whenever I tried to compose an account of what happened to Matty Quinn—my boyfriend, my soul mate, my future life—the man who mistakenly thought I was a tightwad. I was very thrifty in Ethiopia, convinced that Americans should not spend large sums in front of people who owned next to nothing. But to Matty I would have given anything. Upon his return to Minneapolis he had called me up and texted and e-mailed me with these small clues about the medical ordeal he was going through, and I had not understood; then he had called to say that he had robbed this Takemitsu, and I had not believed him. Then he disappeared from the world, from his existence and mine.
Two weeks later the investigating officer in the Minneapolis Police Department (whom I had contacted in my desperation) told me that I could certainly come to survey the city if I wished to. After all, this Officer Erickson said, nothing is stopping you from trying to find your friend, although I understand that your permanent home is in Seattle and you do not know anyone here. It’s a free country, so you’re welcome to try. However, circumstances being what they are, I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you. The odds are against it. People go missing, he said. Addicts especially. The street absorbs them. Your friend might be living in a ditch.
He did not say these words with the distancing sarcasm or condescension that straight men sometimes use on queers. He simply sounded bored and hopeless.
Matthew Quinn. First he was Matt. Then he was Matty. These two syllables formed on my tongue as I spoke his name repeatedly into his ear and then into his mouth. That was before he was gone.
This is how we’d met: I had come by the clinic, the one where he worked, to deliver some medical supplies from the company I was then working for, and I saw him near a window whose slatted light fell across the face of a feverish young woman
Similar Books
