The Tin Box (25 page)

Sure. Why not? William handed his glass to a passing waiter and followed his new friend. They had to maneuver a bit to find a spot. The current song was a fast one with lively harmonica riffs. William was slightly gratified to realize his partner was a terrible dancer. Not as bad as William, probably, but bad enough to not mind William’s spastic moves. They shouted a few words at each other, but the music was far too loud to catch anything. Either this man’s name was Teddy or he was ready for something, or maybe he was saying that something was trendy. William just smiled back.

At some point in the middle of the next song, William ended up with a new dance partner. This one was a skinny kid with a floppy emo haircut. He danced up close to William, rocking their pelvises together, and then disappeared into the crowd as soon as the music stopped. But he was almost immediately replaced by a big guy in a Harley shirt and then a handsome older man with sexy smile lines. The older man stuck with him for two fast songs and a slow one. When the slow one was over, he inclined his head inquisitively in the direction of the bathroom hallway, where the amorous crowds had not thinned. William shook his head with a smile. The man smiled back and gave him a philosophical shrug.

William got sweaty and thirsty and lost track of time. He sort of lost track of himself too, forgetting to think or worry or feel self-conscious. It was nice, but he eventually realized he was exhausted. He pressed his way off the dance floor, excusing himself the entire way even though nobody could hear him. He ran the gauntlet to the bathroom. When a hand reached for him and caressed his hip, he startled only a little before pushing it away gently but firmly. He barely even blinked at the two blowjobs-in-progress inside the bathroom, or at the harmonic grunting and moaning coming from the handicapped stall. The urinals were crowded, and everyone seemed to be openly checking out everyone else’s dick.

He made his way back to the main room. He intended to buy something cold and nonalcoholic and then return to dancing. But halfway to the bar, he stopped. He felt his body buffeted by passersby, but only dimly, because he was also being rocked by an epiphany. Surrounded by men with a variety of physiques, of coloring, of temperament, he suddenly knew what his type was. He felt it in his gut, his bones, and yes, his heart. And although the entire gay male population of the central San Joaquin Valley seemed to be packed into the Stockyard that night, not a single one of them was his type—because none of them were Colby.

Colby Anderson was his type, and anyone else would be a poor substitute.

But, to put it as bluntly as Colby might, it sucked balls that Colby couldn’t be convinced to have him.

William pushed his way outside to the relative quiet and coolness of the parking lot. Even here there was activity. Four men were leaning on a pair of cars, talking and laughing, and two men were making out in the front seat of an SUV, their radio playing a pop tune William vaguely recognized.

He walked around the corner and leaned against the wall. It was dark back there and smelled faintly of piss. But he was thankful for the seclusion because his body parts were having a vicious argument with each other.

His brain—his trusty, busy brain—was insisting that he ought to march right back inside the Stockyard and have sex with the first available man. And then another one, and another. Well, not necessarily all in one night. But William could return to the bar often, or he could try some of those online hookup sites Colby had told him about. He’d get laid that way and he’d get exactly the type of experience Colby insisted he needed. Hell, maybe he’d find someone better than Colby. The Stockyard guys wouldn’t resist him because most of them weren’t looking for something more meaningful. Men who groped strangers in dark hallways probably weren’t searching for commitment and a walk down the aisle.

His dick agreed with his brain.

But his heart…. William’s heart said that sex with anyone but Colby would be cheating.

Ridiculous!
his brain replied.
We’re not dating. We haven’t even spoken with him in well over a month.

It’s still cheating
, said his heart.

What the hell happened to your scientific objectivity? You’ve spent way too much time in that mental hospital. Now you’re crazy too.

Fuck scientific objectivity
.
And fuck sanity
.

It turned out that William’s heart was very stubborn.

With two of his most important organs grumbling in protest, he returned to his car and headed back to the asylum.

O
N
THE
first day of August, William awoke before dawn in preparation for his daily run. He’d been doing this every morning lately, because if he waited any later the sun would be unrelenting. A few weeks earlier, he’d mapped out a route through the grounds that was relatively free of hazards he might trip over in the dark. According to one of his phone apps, the route was just under a mile long, and he usually ran it four or five times. Today, as usual, he put on the exercise shorts he’d recently bought in Mariposa, then his old gray tee, socks, and running shoes. He climbed through his apartment window—faster that way, if ungainly—and started to jog.

He had big plans for the day. After the run, he intended to shower and eat, do some laundry, then read Clive Barker, nap, play solitaire, and watch porn. He might spend a little time in the records room, browsing the files. They were fascinating. His dissertation was currently in the hands of his committee members and he couldn’t work on it even if he wanted to. It was a wonderful feeling.

By the time he was midway through his third lap, the sun had risen. The birds were in full concert and the sky was a flawless blue, like Colby’s eyes. William rounded a building and then broke into a full run at what he saw: a car was parked at the gate, and a man was trying to scale the fence.

William arrived, puffing loudly, just as the man dropped to the ground inside the fence. He was maybe forty, deeply tanned, and wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and a khaki vest with a zillion pockets. A large camera hung on a strap around his neck.

“Hey!” William said. “This property isn’t open to the public.”

The man eyed him. “Who’re you?”

“Caretaker. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Look, man, I just want to take pictures. It’s a project I’m working on—a photographic history of mental hospitals. Here’s my info.” He pulled a business card from one of the pockets and handed it over.
Chet Gonzalez, MFA, Fine Photography
, it read, along with e-mail, web, and Twitter addresses.

“Sounds interesting,” said William. “But you need permission.”

“Yeah, I know. I was supposed to head up to Stockton and take some shots there. But I kinda got sidetracked at Yosemite—I know, not an asylum, but wow—and I spent the night near here last night. I figured since I’m in the neighborhood anyway….” He grinned hopefully.

William frowned. But he slipped his phone from the case on his arm and dialed Jan Merrick. He hoped it wasn’t too early for her. She picked up quickly. “William. Is something wrong?”

“No, everything’s okay. But there’s this photographer guy here, Chet Gonzalez. He wants to take photos of the place for a project on mental hospitals.”

There was a brief pause while she thought. “He looks on the up-and-up?”

“I guess so.” William wasn’t sure what a bona fide photographer was supposed to look like.

“Okay, then. I guess it’s okay. But get his contact info, please. I’d really like to see the results of the shoot.”

Gonzalez was waiting anxiously. “She says it’s fine,” William said, and Gonzalez beamed.

William jogged back to the apartment, retrieved the keys, and ran back. He unlocked the gate so Gonzalez could drive his Volvo through. They met up again near the main building.

Gonzalez waved vaguely. “I really like this light, so I’m gonna do a bunch of outside pics first. Then is it okay if I come on in?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll leave the door unlocked. My apartment’s not far from the lobby, so shout if you need me. I’ll hear you.” William couldn’t imagine Gonzalez would be up to trouble on his own. What was he going to do—steal a few pieces of busted old hospital furniture?

“Will I be able to access the rooms inside?”

“Some of them are locked. Just call if you want them opened. I’m William.”

“Thanks, man.” Gonzalez shook William’s hand. “Really appreciate it.”

William started a pot of coffee, then went to shower. He made it a quick one in case Gonzalez needed him. After drying and dressing, he had some eggs and toast. He sat down with his book and tried to read. But having another person on the grounds made him a little distracted. He’d had the place entirely to himself except for the crew that arrived every few weeks to subdue the weeds and mow the grass. And Colby, of course. But Colby hadn’t visited since that day back in May.

Over an hour had passed when he heard his name echo down the hallway. He loped to the entry hall, where Gonzalez already had his camera to his face, the lens focused on the big dusty chandelier. “Wow,” he said, glancing at William. “This place is amazing. Must be scary as hell at night.”

“Not really. It’s quiet.”

Gonzalez chuckled and focused on the inside of the door. “No ghosts?”

“I doubt it. And if there were, I think they’d be sad, not… vengeful. It’s a sad place.”

“Yeah. That’s my point with this project. I’m making the analogy between the abandoned people and the abandoned buildings.”

William watched curiously while Gonzalez photographed the entry space. Then they moved on to the dorms and cells—although not Bill’s. By the time they reached the kitchens, they were on a first-name basis. Chet had described some of the hospitals he’d visited as well as his inspiration for the project, which was learning that his grandmother’s twin sister had spent her entire adult life in an institution. William, meanwhile, spoke a little about some of the patients whose files he’d read. Again, not Bill’s. He couldn’t talk about Bill without becoming emotional.

Chet took a lot of pictures in the medical wing and in the morgue. William’s skin crawled in this area. He couldn’t help but think of the terrible things Bill had suffered in these rooms. And he’d suffered them alone, without even a friend to hold his hand and comfort him. After he died, he must have lain in the morgue for a while, unwanted and already forgotten.

“Hey, William?”

William shook himself to attention. “Yeah?”

“I need to break for lunch. What’s good around here?”

“Dos Hermanos is your only choice, but they’re great. Have the tamales.”

“Cool. Join me?”

It wasn’t a come-on. Chet was married and, as far as William could tell, straight. Lunch together would be fun. But William was avoiding Dos Hermanos. “I need to stick around here,” he said, fairly dishonestly. “But I’ve got some leftover grilled chicken if you want to eat here.”

“Really? Thanks, man.”

They sat in William’s apartment to eat chicken-and-avocado sandwiches. Afterwards, Chet asked permission to snap a few photos of the shelves, the smaller chandelier, the heavy desk. Then his eye fell on the tin box. “What’s that?”

“It’s… it’s an old lunchbox.”

“What’s it doing in here?”

William felt protective of the object, as if Bill had entrusted him personally with keeping it safe. But he was also a crappy liar. “I found it in a cell. It has letters in it, written by a patient.”

Chet’s eyes went round. “Wow, really? I’d love to take a few pics.”

Well, this was a conundrum. Those letters were private. And while Bill may have given up on Johnny ever reading them and instead intended them as his cry in the darkness, he certainly wouldn’t have imagined them in a photography exhibit, stared at by hundreds of strangers. But… those hundreds of people would learn about him. Would remember him. Maybe he’d touch their hearts the way he’d touched William’s.

“All right,” he said quietly.

Chet staged the box and letters, arranging them against an overturned chair in an otherwise empty cell. Even though William was glad to see him handling the objects carefully, respectfully, he was still relieved to have them back in his hands. Chet snapped several close-ups of the box in William’s palms, with the bars from a window forming shadows against the little tableau.

The records room was last. “Sorry,” William said. “I cleaned it up. It used to look a lot more… distressed.”

“That’s fine. I’ll do some close-ups of the files. I want to capture the sheer numbers of them.” Chet pulled out a few of the drawers and shook his head. “Is this where you got all the stories you’ve been telling me?”

“Yeah. I’ve been reading a few of them.”

Chet scratched his head thoughtfully. “You know, I have an idea. This project I’m doing, I got a grant that’s paying for it. When I’m done I’ll have an exhibit in LA. But now I’m thinking… what about you and me collaborating on a book?”

“A book?”

“Yeah. Just on this place. I’d contribute the photos and you’d do the text. You could do something like that, right? Not some kind of dry history or architecture thing. You could tell about the people, just like you’ve been telling me.”