February 1, 2012
It was cold out on the sidewalk. Remnants of winter still clung to the air, turning his breath to frost. Michael had never seen the city before, not really. This living breathing entity of a million cars and streets and windowpanes had subsumed him all these years, swallowing him into its belly of concrete. It was not the stars he counted to fall asleep as a child, but a thousand tiny pinpricks of light from a sprawling metropolis that seemed to stretch on for eternity.
He saw it now, of course. An elderly woman passing by cast a disparaging look at the cigarette dangling between his lips. It took three strikes for his yellow plastic lighter to catch a spark, and he covered the flame with his left hand. As he lit the cigarette, the skin on his face tingled at the proximity of the flame.
Had he drunk too much? Or too fast? Certainly, he hadn't eaten since noon but even an amateur like himself could handle one gin on an empty stomach. Michael had felt oddly woozy and light-headed earlier in the evening, but now an overwhelming calm had settled within him. This street, this city used to be his home - they were fastened together like links in a chain, adjoined and interdependent. Except it suddenly felt different; a cosmic clasp had snapped and sent him rebounding across the universe.
God, it was cold. Yet he was still standing here, feet rooted to the graying, cracked sidewalk. Michael reluctantly withdrew a hand from the warm woolen delight of his trench coat jacket and lit another cigarette. This was his haven, this street that bound him to earth. It was the only peace he'd ever known - his home and room and bathroom cabinet, his wonderful neighbors the Tsukawaki-Whitakers in the building across from theirs, the frozen-yogurt place at the end of the street. Three feet away from him was the faulty streetlight he'd stood under as he waved goodbye to his brother and father five years ago, for what he hadn't known would be the last time.
In a deep, dark place in his mind he knew that something of great moment had occurred, altering him irrevocably. Precisely then a man moved into his peripheral vision across the sidewalk, a beige scarf flapping in the wind about his shoulders. For an instant, as he passed under the light of a neon "Homemade Cupcakes" sign, Michael noticed the gleam of scarlet in his hair. His suddenly-pounding heart leapt into his throat.
No. This red carried a rust-brown hue, which resulted in the man's hair appearing sickly and almost weak-looking; unlike Raymond's rich, deep-bronze locks so perfectly windswept across his forehead. Also, this man had an awkward, slightly shuffling gait. Ray did not simply walk, but would glide across a room - completely aware, as it were, of his own powerful, innate grace.
The night had abruptly turned warmer. Michael felt a flush climbing along the back of his neck, creeping slowly into his cheeks. He began to walk briskly, every nerve cell in his body tingling and on edge. He couldn't go home yet, the night wasn't over. Was it? Second Chance's would still be open. Of course, what self-respecting bar would close at - he dug his phone out of his pocket - ten fourteen? If he kept up this pace, he could be there in twenty minutes.
Michael could not break down his argument logically beyond a certain point. Feeling debaucherous, he lit his tenth cigarette of the day and watched the smoke wither in the brisk wind streaming past his face as he walked on. If he did not see Ray, or even Casey again tonight, his face and name would blend into the nightly stream of customers forgotten by morning. Why, though, why should it matter if they maintained no memory of him? They were no more than friendly bar owners, picking up a casual conversation with an under-age customer. That's where Michael's reasoning stopped, and the maddening impulse continued to insinuate itself in his mind. He had to see Ray again.
The glaring flaw in Michael's plan was realized when he stepped out of a dim elevator and saw a nearly empty bar. A sharp wind nipped at the exposed skin on his face; he pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Some of the booths were still occupied but the majority sat bundled up in mufflers and heavy coats. Casey sat alone behind the bar-counter, staring forlornly at her phone.
Michael ignored the pangs of disappointment coursing through him and approached her, pretending to feel in his pockets as he did so.
"Hey," he said, affecting an expression of suitable concern, "did I drop my keys here? Well. Single key, really, HackerRank key chain attached."
"Now we know somebody's a nerd," Casey muttered. She placed her phone on the counter and peered up at him, her eyes dull and red-rimmed. "No, honey, I haven't seen your keys. Where are your friends?"
"Phil's mom called and started freaking out," Michael said glumly, taking a seat. "He'd neglected to tell us he was grounded. He's probably in deep shit right now."
"What about the other one?"
"Danny and I aren't that close. Phil's kind of the glue that holds our little trio together."
"So you're on your own for a bit?"
"Looks like it."
"Good then, you'll fit right in."
The occupants at the last table finally took their leave. Though the wind had momentarily let up, the night was still bitterly cold.
"A rooftop bar seems like a real fun idea in the summer," Casey remarked, as if reading his thoughts. "You should see how packed we are in July. Guys in shorts and flip-flops, girls in cute little sundresses. Everybody wants a second chance then."
Michael suppressed a groan. "Really? A second chance?"
Casey snorted. "You're new. Our name offers a very limited selection of puns, and my co-owners have heard them all."
Instantly Michael's ears perked up. "So how long ago did you start this place?"
"Couple of years now. We were wildly popular at the start, but it tapered off. Feels like I'm the only one interested in keeping it running, you know? My brother is not the easiest person to get along with. You probably saw that for yourself." Casey inspected her hands with a contrived nonchalance, glossy fingernails gleaming in the dim light.
"He seemed nice," Michael said casually. "Raymond, right?"
"Yeah, Ray." She straightened up and began fidgeting under the counter. "Tell you what, I don't usually drink during my shift but tonight a stiff one seems in order. You want a repeat of that gin?"
"Sure," he answered, pleased that she'd remembered. "Are you okay?" he added. "You seem a little... off."
"I'm fine." Casey slammed two glasses on the counter-top. "It's just... Ray?"
Her eyes grew glassy. Michael turned, and his heart caught in his throat - Raymond was striding toward them, the two solitary souls still left at the bar. A red-and-cream checked scarf hung loosely by the lapels of his charcoal-grey trench-coat; he looked more like a Burberry model than a corporate... whatever it was that he did for a living, besides owning Second Chance's. The wind shifted slightly and that wintry, unmistakable, intoxicating perfume sent Michael's oxytocin levels into overdrive. He gave Michael a half-familiar smile and reached out to take Casey's hand.
"Hey," Raymond said, his voice low and apologetic. "Sorry I took off. You know Craig's a touchy subject."
Casey was suddenly beaming again, bright-eyed and cheerful. "That's okay. Sorry for being so insensitive."
"Hey, you're still a little girl, my baby sister," Ray said playfully. "Don't bother about matters for grown-ups, okay? I love you. And could you please pour me another neat whisky?"
Casey scowled, but produced a glass. "Sometimes I feel like you take this gig too seriously."
"I'm just harnessing your natural talent."
Raymond sat down at the bar-stool beside Michael, their knees momentarily brushing under the table. Michael swallowed the urge to hyperventilate.
"Michael, right?"
And now he had no choice but to look into his face, to let his heart sink just a little as he beheld its perfection.
"Yeah," he said, unnaturally husky; mortified, he cleared his throat and glugged down half his gin. Immediately the edges of the world blurred, and the nip in the air reduced to a dull buzzing that reverberated somewhere between his ears. Strangely, only Ray's face seemed sharper than ever, as if he alone were illuminated by a giant suspended spotlight. Curling dark eyelashes framed his eyelids, brushing pale cheekbones when he blinked. His eyes themselves were burning emeralds, distinct even on this still, starless night.
"Glad as we are to have some semblance of business," Ray said sardonically, gesturing to the empty tables, "what're you still doing here? Where are your friends?"
Michael tried to tear his eyes away from Raymond's lips but failed. They were perfect, full and pink and sensual. "They left," he finally said. "They wanted to pick up a couple girls from a place nearby but struck out, and things went downhill from there."
"And he lost his keys," Casey added.
Right! The keys. They were safe in his pocket, of course, but neither of them needed to know that.
"I'm locked out for the time being," he lied glibly. "I'll just have to wait till my mom gets back at midnight. Mind if I stay here though? It's either this place or the sidewalk."
"Sure, sweetie." Casey reached out and pinched his cheek. Michael's countenance turned pink at the contact.
"No more alcohol though," Ray said unexpectedly, swilling his whisky around. "Casey might approve of your apocryphal means, but I don't."
"What?" Michael spluttered. "There's a-"
Ray snorted. "How old are you, sixteen? You might as well tell me, cause I'm sure as hell not buying twenty one."
"Eighteen," he said after a pause, adding in his mind, in eleven months.
"Huh." Raymond gave him an appraising look. Michael's breath caught in his throat. "I would've sworn you were a minor. Still, if that's what you say, I'll believe it."
"So I can drink?" Michael said hopefully, looking at Casey.
"Nope," she said lightly, popping open a beer. "That's my big brother's call. Don't worry, I think eighteen is a perfectly respectable age to drink. Ray's all talk, he's still sixteen at heart."
Ray coughed. "I'm pretty sure I'm twenty-nine in all the ways that count."
"You keep telling yourself that, sweetie."
The earth was spinning, but not in the chaotic uncontrolled manner to which Michael was accustomed; it was dizzying, certainly, but trenchant - simultaneously frightening and exhilarating. Passages of time seemed to flit in and out of existence. Michael captured snippets of conversation now and then, replying appropriately whenever asked a question. His gaze never strayed from Raymond Chance. In retrospect it occurred to him that perhaps this wasn't the ideal first impression to present, yet such thoughts mattered very little.
It was not alcohol that had done this to him. The evening's lucidity had been brought on by something else entirely, deeper and of far more significance than intoxication. Soon enough that too began to wear off, and Michael contemplated the half full glass sparkling before him, lemon wedge bobbing up and down in the soda. He cast yet another furtive look at Raymond. His collar button was undone and the tie hung loose, hair unkempt and swept impatiently across his forehead. The evidence of the three whiskies was visible at last.
"What's college like?" Michael asked out of the blue. The three of them had drifted into a comfortable silence as the night wore on, occasionally passing each other cigarettes or an ashtray.
Casey said, "Underwhelming," at the same time that Ray said "Liberating".
"Why so?" Michael asked, eyes swiveling between them both.
"Academics was never for me," Casey said, brushing stray strands of hair off her face.
"College is a magical time," Raymond explained, paying no heed to her. "Every closet-case comes one step closer to embracing his inner queen." He winked at Michael.
Casey snorted. "Let's just say you embraced quite a few queens during your glory days."
"A phase. My virginity practically grew back during law school."
" Liar. That's when you met Craig."
"Yeah." Ray sounded calm, almost weary - quite unlike the last time his sister had brought up the mysterious Craig. "We met so young."
"As opposed to what you are now?" Michael smiled, to show he was only joking.
Ray laughed. Tiny fairies danced around in Michael's brain to the rhythm of that mirth. "You're still in high-school. Don't get cheeky."
"Don't blame me. I've yet to embrace my inner twink."
Michael raised his glass to his lips, as if in a toast. The half-drunk gin and tonic was still cold, despite the fact that he hadn't touched it in nearly an hour. The bitter citrus-and-soda aroma made his eyes water.
"Well, why don't you let me help with that?" With a smirk that was almost a leer, Ray produced a business card and dropped it in the side pocket of Michael's coat.
More gin went down Michael's throat than he had planned. So, unfortunately, did the lemon wedge that had been floating around innocuously in his glass up until then. Immediately it lodged itself in his trachea, too large to progress lower into his food-pipe but too small to actually kill him. Consequently, he managed to let out a series of rasping breaths that alarmed Casey, who began frantically calling 911. In between loud, embarrassing, hacking coughs and tears streaming down his now beetroot-colored face, he managed to choke out, "Okay I will," before an extra-solid whump from a panicked Raymond dislodged the lemon slice, freeing his windpipe.
Mortified, Michael quickly pulled himself together. He wiped his face with a wad of balled-up tissues and said hoarsely, "I'm fine, guys."
"You look like hell," Ray said anxiously, and he placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Case, you think we should drive him to the ER just in case?"
"Honestly, I'm fine," Michael wheezed.
The reason he couldn't breathe was because Raymond Chance was on a bar-stool beside him. He'd have thought that much was painfully obvious.