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Hello Yves

Page history last edited by PBworks 14 years, 8 months ago

Cutting Room FloorIt's Always Time Book OneBook TwoThe Menagerie

Hello, Yves

Rough draft of the opening scenes of Book Three


"Dee? Dee! Is that you? What are you doing here?"

 

Dee looked up at the tall, lean blond threading his way through the crowd. "Hello, Yves," Dee said, and returned to nursing his drink.

 

"Hey," Yves greeted, kicking away a stool and reclining backward against the bar, elbows propped up on the mahogany countertop. "How are you? You look—"

 

"Drunk?" Dee said. He brushed a few strands straying from Yves' low, long ponytail away from his whiskey glass.

 

"Well, yeah, a little. But I was going to say 'great.'" Yves waved at someone across the room. "No one's seen you for days," he told Dee. "We were all sorry to hear about your grandmother."

 

"She'll get over it."

 

Yves blinked. "Uh, okay. So, Dee, why are you here?"

 

"To get drunk and to get away from my girlfriend," Dee said.

 

"Well, you came to the right place, then," Yves said. A man in a business suit approached Yves but he shooed him off with a polite, shy smile. "On both counts. I didn't know you were seeing anyone," he added. "It's been almost a year since your last breakup, hasn't it? Who is she?"

 

"Galatea. I made her last Sunday."

 

"Jesus, Dee, that's a crude thing to say," Yves said.

 

Dee squinted up at him. "What are you doing here, Yves? This place is full of swingers on Thursdays, and that's not your scene. You're more…what's that dumb phrase you use? 'Serial monogamist?'"

 

"Existential monogamist." Yves said. He shrugged, whipcord muscles rolling against the tight, tan, sleeveless tee he wore beneath his signature unbuttoned dress shirt. "Friday is single's night, and that's no fun. On weekends, this place is full of kids."

 

"If you weren't six-foot four, Y, I'd think you were twelve," Dee grumbled.

 

"You're a mean drunk. I'm glad you don't drink often."

 

"I'm not a mean drunk. I'm a stupid drunk. I told her I needed some time alone, some time to 'be me,' and here I am, in a bar, drinking bourbon." He rolled the tall whiskey snifter over his fingers. The jigger of amber alcohol crawled up the glass.

 

"You're drinking it like a pro."

 

"But I hate bars." Dee took a tentative sip of whisky. "And I hate bourbon," he groused.

 

"Then why are you here? Did you two have a fight?"

 

"Sort of."

 

"What about?"

 

"My girlfriend thinks I'm a god."

 

Yves shook his head, chuckling. "I thought that's what all guys like you wanted."

 

"Maybe," Dee shrugged. "But this is different. If Galatea thinks you’re a god, she makes you a god."

 

"Okay, you are a stupid drunk. But that still doesn't explain why you're here."

 

"I told you already."

 

"No, Dee, I mean why are you here, in a gay bar?"

 

Dee glanced at the clusters of men around the bar and high tables. "It's safe," he said, nursing his drink.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"It doesn't work with men," Dee said. "Or maybe it does, but I can control it better, because I understand men." He emptied the snifter in a single toss. "But I don't understand women," he coughed.

 

Yves eyes rolled. "I can't believe it. A drunk and bitter Dieter Detweilier. I never thought I'd see the day. C'mon, let me drive you home."

 

Dee slid the snifter across the mahogany bar. "You don't believe me."

 

"It's more like I haven't understood a single thing you've said. You're absolutely crapulous, as my mother likes to say."

 

Dee tapped the snifter with a fingernail. "How many women are in here, Yves?" he said.

 

Yves took stock of the crowded barroom. "About three or four."

 

"Notice anything about them?" Dee asked, not taking his eyes off the snifter.

 

"All right, I'll indulge you." Yves twisted around, surveying. "Well, now that I've made a jackass of myself," he said, frowning, "they're staring at me."

 

"Guess again," Dee muttered, but Yves was already speaking. "Wait a minute," Yves said, frown deepening. "They're all staring at you. What's up with that? It's not like you’re the only cute guy in here. Or the only straight guy, for that matter."

 

Dee pushed himself away from the bar. "Watch them," he said, "and then watch me."

 

Dee strolled across the room. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to watch his every move. The bartender licked her lip and dropped a shot glass. A woman in a booth in the corner scissored her legs, squirming in her seat. The girl by the payphone broke into a sweat, downed her beer, and retreated to the restroom. "What the fuck?" Yves said.

 

Yves watched Dee bear down on a coed clad in a little black dress. She boggled at Dee, a deer in headlights, ignoring the quizzical glares of the two men at her table. Dee stood, nonchalant, opposite her and said something. The coed clambered up onto the table, knocking over wine glasses and kneeling in a platter of tapas, her two friends jumping back in shock. "What the fuck?" Yves said again.

 

The coed clawed her way up Dee's denim shirt and dragged him into a clinching lip-lock. Dee backpedaled, arms windmilling, but the coed just hummed and squeaked and clung to him as he fell over backward. The bolted-down table stood fast while the coed in the tapas platter slid forward before both she and Dee hit the floor. She lay astraddle over him for a few more seconds before finishing off the kiss with a delirious, happy squeal. "Oh, wow! Um. Hi!"

 

"What the fucking fuck?" said Yves, the only other sound in the bar.

 

The coed looked up, noticed that everyone in the barroom was gawking at her, blushed redder than a beat, leapt to her feet and fled out the front door. Her two stunned friends moved to help Dee up but he said, "I'm fine, I'm fine. God, I'm sorry, I didn't think—Look, just go after her and make sure she's all right, okay? Go, go!"

 

Dee stood and made his way back. Yves looked everywhere but the other three women had vanished. Dee bellied up to the bar, daubing tapas off his pants with a napkin. The carousers slowly got back into the swing of things. "What the fuck did you say to her?" Yves hissed.

 

"I said, 'Hi'," Dee sighed. "Just 'Hi.' It's getting stronger. Or maybe the less I say, the more powerful it gets?" He laughed. "That would fit. It would also mean the only way to control it is to yak my head off."

 

"Control what?" Yves asked.

 

Dee's eyes narrowed at the whiskey snifter. "My voice," he said in a deep register carrying strange harmonics that rattled all the glasses on the countertop.

 

Yves heard a few muffled cries from the women's restroom.


 

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Cutting Room FloorIt's Always Time Book OneBook TwoThe Menagerie

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