The First Male (10 page)

Simon hurriedly exited the train and had to walk a long five blocks to reach the club. As he moved down the street with purpose, he popped the collar on his jacket to help block a wind that seemed to have developed out of nowhere. As he made a beeline for the safety of the club, he walked past a few homeless people who had taken up residence along the cracked sidewalk. Some made a perfunctory gesture of holding out a cup or a hat, hoping Simon would bless them with a few loose coins. When he could spare it, he had no issue with dropping some coins or a few dollars into their cups. He had a hard time seeing people on the
street suffering and not helping when he was able. Even though he wasn't religious, as he passed the less fortunate, he often thought about that song “What If God Was One of Us” and he was careful to not look upon them with disdain, as if he was better than them simply because he had a roof over his head.
There but for the grace of God . . . 

Simon continued his brisk walk. Usually, when he made the trek to Starry Nights, which he did twice a week, he was fearless. He lived in a neighborhood just as tough, but for some reason tonight, he felt . . . small. He thought a good wind could blow out of the clouds and toss him away. He needed something tangible to anchor him to reality. Thoughts of ghosts and serpents and telepathic children occupied too much space in his head. He couldn't move fast enough across the sidewalk. The cool wind licked his neck and he felt something
unnatural
in the air. It might have been his imagination, but when he turned around he saw a group of dried leaves swirl suspiciously across the street as the strong breeze scattered them.

He shook his head and told himself there were no such things as ghosts. Even though he wanted to believe his words, they lacked conviction. Something was going on with him, or that house, or both. Maybe he had done something to attract a spirit, but, what? His routine over the last few weeks had been quite ordinary. And, if he had been haunted all his life, why?

Simon saw the neon lights of the club and felt like a sprinter crossing the tape at the end of a race when he burst across the threshold into the club. As soon as he entered, his shoulders relaxed. Instantly, the smell of booze, cigarettes and cheap perfume comforted him. He took five dollars out of his wallet—his last five dollars—and paid the cover charge. Luckily, he had a credit card with him for drinks.

He eased into the room and staggered over to the bar, climbing atop a bar stool at the end of the long, dirty counter. The place was a dive by any standard, but the music was good, and the drinks were cheap and strong. He had become such a regular among the much older crowd that they served him liquor with no hesitation, even though he wasn't yet twenty-one. He lied and told them he was twenty-three and no one questioned him, particularly Debbie, the curvaceous bartender who more than flirted with him each time he was there. And lucky for him, she was working the bar tonight.

When Debbie saw him, she slung the towel across her shoulder and sashayed over to him, wearing a too-tight T-shirt that showed more than her ample bust line. Her seductive smile grew with each step she took.

As she moved over to him, Simon focused on her breasts struggling to break free from the confines of the cotton that held them back. All thoughts of ghosts were gone. By the time she made it to him, he had already stripped her naked and had her bent over the pool table and was thrusting inside her from behind. He imagined holding onto her rather large, soft breasts as he pressed into her. The image was so vivid in his head that he could smell the fragrance between her legs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he felt his nature roaring to life.

“Hey, Simon,” she said with a sexy smile that illuminated her entire face. He was so enthralled with his secret fantasy about her that he hadn't realized she was speaking to him until she touched his hand. The warmth of her touch made him want to jump across the bar and make love to her right on the dirty floor. “Simon, you okay?” she asked.

“Oh, hey, Debbie,” he said, matching her flirtatious smile. They had played this cat and mouse game for months, all in good fun.
Simon fantasized a lot about her, but when his desire swelled too much, he always thought of Brooke. He wasn't a cheater. It wasn't in his nature. He always tried to do the right thing, even when the wrong thing would have provided so much pleasure. It wasn't easy for him to contain his lust, but he was in a relationship now and he was happy. He often thought about the days when he was single and free to fuck anything with a heartbeat. And, he did. Those days he blazed a red-hot trail through New Orleans that left many hearts broken, but smiles permanently were draped across faceless conquests.

“You came to see me?”

“Of course I did, baby. You know how I do.”

“What can I get you?”

He looked at her and lust filled his eyes. “Don't ask me that.”

She leaned in so close that her breasts rested atop the counter. He looked down and licked his lips. “I meant to drink.”

“Surprise me.”

“You got it.”

She patted his hand and turned to the bar. He watched her grab a couple of bottles from the shelf and pour more than an ample amount of brown liquor into the glass. He then turned around and faced the stage. He listened to the female singer wail about the troubles of the world. Notes floated through the club, hovering just above the clashing conversations that took place at the bar, at small tables located through the tight space, and in dark, mysterious corners. She sang in a deep and throaty voice filled with conviction and pain. When she belted out her last note, it sent chills up and down Simon's arm.

He scanned the club, looking at the familiar faces. Toothless Woody was at his usual table, which was front and center. Paulette sat at a back table with a bottle of beer permanently attached to
her hand. She screamed loudly and yelled, “Sang, bitch,” to the woman on stage, which was meant as a compliment. Simon couldn't help but chuckle at her and he smiled at the faces in the crowd. He loved these people; they never rejected him. He felt more than comfortable here; he felt at home. Long gone were thoughts of ghosts and hauntings. All he needed was a stiff drink and a nice pair of tits to take his mind off his issues. He had spent many a drunken night in this place listening to the blues and talking shit with the older people who often shared stories about growing up in the South during Jim Crow. Simon delighted in the stories as much as they delighted in telling them. Seems these days the audience for their stories had diminished, which Simon thought was a damn shame; people choosing to not learn their history. Simon would give anything to know his.

Debbie returned after a few moments and placed a glass in front of Simon. Simon looked down at the murky, almost intimidating liquid. “What is it?”

“It's a Debbie Surprise,” she said. She leaned in closer and whispered. “I stirred it with my nipple.” The mere thought of that almost sent Simon into a sexual frenzy. Quickly, he picked up the glass and took a long, long gulp, savoring the taste of every drop. He often wondered what her chocolate nipple tasted like. Were they like candy? Like Godiva chocolate, deep and rich?

“Damn, this is good.”

“I know,” she said proudly. “Just don't tell your girlfriend. You still with that white girl?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, we still together.”

“That's too bad. You need to get yourself a sistah.”

“You know that white boy is still with that white girl,” a voice from the middle of the bar said. “Limp dick can't handle a sistah.” Simon didn't even have to look up to recognize the voice that grated so profoundly on his nerves.

“I've told you, fool. I ain't white.”

“You ain't black, either, with dem white boy blue eyes.”

“Fuck you, Byron,” Simon said, venom seeping into his words. “We weren't talking to you anyway.”

“
We weren't talking to you anyway
,” Bryon repeated in an insultingly mocking tone. “You even sound like a white boy.”

“Mind your business, Byron. And don't start no trouble. I'll get Mac to throw yo' ass out,” Debbie chimed in, much to Byron's chagrin.

Simon had a long and painful history with Byron, who was his senior by at least ten years. When Simon found Starry Nights by accident and started frequenting the club, Byron took an instant dislike to him. Byron had been the big man in the club, the one all the women wanted, but Simon's youth and unbridled sexuality quickly dethroned the reigning king. It didn't help that Byron had been trying to get into Debbie's pants for years, only to be rebuffed time and time again. Everyone knew all Simon had to do was say the word and he could claim the prize that had eluded Byron for years.

Byron, a brick wall of a man, with huge biceps and a thick neck, did all he could do to irritate and intimidate him, but Simon would not yield. He wasn't afraid of Byron. Byron was a former linebacker for LSU, but Simon didn't care.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall
, he thought on more than one occasion. More than once they had come close to a physical altercation, but they had never come to blows. Simon had no doubt that one day they would; maybe that day would be today.

“My bad,” Byron started again. “I forgot this mutt doesn't know what the hell he is.”

Instantly, fire flashed across Simon's chest and before he knew it he was on his feet stomping toward Byron. He continued his approached, anger building inside.

“What the fuck did you call me, you dumb son-of-a-bitch?”

“I called you a mutt, a mongrel. Do you want me to spell it for you?” Byron stood up and a great shadow fell over the room; yet, Byron's size wasn't enough to make Simon back down. Simon, sensitive about not knowing his racial heritage or family history, had fought bigger men than him and he was not about to let this man insult him in such a public way.

Quickly, Debbie raced from around the bar and took a defensive stand between the two.

“Don't worry about him, baby,” Debbie said to Simon. “He's jealous.”

“Jealous of what? This pale-faced, lil'-dick muthafucka? Bitch, please.”

The word
bitch
fired across Simon's ears and, before he knew it, he had thrown the first punch. He hit Byron square in the jaw, but the behemoth barely flinched. With one sweep of his arms, Byron moved Debbie out of the way and took a swing at Simon, which hit him square in the face. Simon crashed into a few stools and hit the floor, hard. Simon's eye felt as if it exploded in its socket. Byron easily tossed the barstools out of his way in his quest to reach Simon, who had leapt to his feet. In spite of his pain, he felt rage like he didn't know was possible. His entire body now tingled; he was on fire.

Byron took another swing at Simon, which connected only with air. As he swung, Simon bent low and connected with Byron's face with an uppercut that sent the giant reeling. Byron stumbled, crashed into a table, and landed flat on his back, breaking the table.

“Get yo' ass up, bitch!” Simon screamed in a voice no one recognized as his. Most patrons in the main pit of the club snatched at their belongings, trying to flee the premises before things got too out of hand. They didn't want to be around if the cops had
to come in and bust up the fight; however, others like Paulette looked on in glee, egging the fight on. “Get up!”

Dazed, Byron staggered to his feet like a blind giant. Pure hatred for Simon colored his face. He balled his fists and approached Simon like an angry bull. He swung wildly a few times, missing each time. Simon swung back, but he didn't miss. He connected with Byron's face so quickly and so often that Byron didn't know from which direction the blows were coming; they seemed to be coming from all directions at once. Then, Simon sent a mighty fist into Byron's gut, causing him to double over in pain.

A voice echoed in Simon's head.

Kill him
.

Through Simon's rage, he barely noticed the command.

When he was bent, Simon kicked Byron in the face so hard that he unleashed a primal scream that could be heard down the block. The kick sent Byron flying onto the stage and he crashed into the drum set that had been abandoned by the musician. He hit the wooden stage with a loud thump and then didn't move again.

Simon stood there, heaving. His fists were still balled. He wanted to tear the place apart. He saw himself shattering glass and punching through walls. His anger was a tidal wave, almost uncontrollable. He looked around the room. People had stopped dead in their tracks to eye him, their mouths agape.

He closed his eyes.
Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
. Again.
Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
. Again.
Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
.

When his anger broke, he looked around the room at the dumbfounded looks on the faces of the patrons. Their expressions were a mixture of shock and awe. And fear. The smell of fear in the air was so potent that Simon felt intoxicated by it; if he could have drunk it, he would have.

Byron, who must've weighed close to three hundred pounds, had flown up onto the stage as if Simon had kicked a rag doll.

Slowly, Debbie approached him and touched his shoulder, cautiously.

“You better get out of here,” she said out of concern. Simon looked at her as if he didn't quite understand. “Go.” He looked at the people again. Their fear of him was thick. Simon took one last look toward the stage and exited the room quickly with his head held low, realizing that it was done—he'd never be able to go home again.

His lowered head hid the sinister smile that began to form on his face.