Drifting Flake (Silver or Lead)

The marriage of alcohol and flight, though of an unusual duo, is such that the genealogy of the world has come full circle (or so some two-bit playwright had divulged to me before our flight, when, immersed in the velvet Miami sunlight poolside and sipping, neighborly Chase had warned me of his slur and the impending Midwestern chill). With that rapidly foregone advice to view we had perched ourselves at the sheeny rim of the bar of The Miami International Airport Hotel, behind which a regiment of liquor bottles flirted with us in the gaslight. A damp and grey Chicago slithered along the horizon. The absolute listlessness of our stonefruit-figured bartender showed no signs of abating. All judgment aside, hes just a strange man, a man to whom the confines of ordinary behavior simply dont seem to apply, Chase was saying. He coughed through his fifth scotch. Chase, to begin with we dont know all of the facts. And secondly, this idea of ordinary behavior is something that doesnt hold water coming from the likes of you. My third gin martini had just the right zip of citrus. I never once said that I exhibited ordinary behavior, he protested. Of course you didnt. None of us do. So holding Jack to a higher standard doesnt make any sense. Its like when all of the early Christians started comparing themselves to Jesus. Nothing but suicide and homicide after that. Not a Christ-like one amongst them. Oh, and Im sure you know exactly what Jesus was like? he asked. As I matter of fact, I said, taking a final magnificent gulp, I do. The bartender had stood silently by for the majority of our conversation, her eyelids bobbing up and down, a vision of freedom running somnolently behind them. Do you fellas want the check? she asked. Not if we dont need one, replied Chase with a constellatory wink. We drank until the disembodied voice called our departure, and then went quick shot for shot despite the pink-cheeked incredulity of countless aged leers.

For someone who explored all longitudes and latitudes of our planet (and every nth dimension in between, he lost his risible Panama hat somewhere between Bangkok and Budapest to the royal machinations of a Siamese princepimp), Chase packed luggage like he commanded an invisible charioton the road for more than a month and all he swung from his jagged shoulder was a navy ruddy duffel. You could find him lost, you could find him hunkered down between the defaced walls of an abominable toilet stall in Mexico City whimpering and cold, cloyed on the alkaloid of the bane the coca plant (nearly Pentecostal and sweating), but never could you find him in need of a sartorial overhaul. Suits, more suits, boots, loafers, sweaters, collars, and a series of blazers tacked with an eye sedulous to a teelike when tea-time struck in the Tate Modern and Chase pulled like a rabbit from a hat (that fucking Panama hat) a charcoal blazer that just about ruined my own cynical approach to the majesty of cloth. He wouldnt have called himself a god just yet, but given more time, money, women, and chemical hee-haw (but mostly his promotion to the iodide office of the 72nd floor) hed be challenging the moon as the superior shadow across the earth. So, silver or lead? asked Chase. He had paused to face me, one whiskered cheek slightly rougher than the other. What? What do we give Jack? Hes a friend. And he might be a genius. In either case you always give the silver. Chase nodded. There was a problem boarding the flight. Apparently one of us was too drunk to board, and, although my memory is a little weary, Im almost sure it was Chase. A pink androgynous hippopotamus screamed at him from behind the authority of a plastic desk. After a few rambling phone calls in which I implored skyscraping powers for intervention and Chase let loose his impossible ancestry of Greeks and medieval kings, we were let on. When Chase learned I wasnt riding first class he nearly threw up in the jet bridge. Its possible he nearly threw up despite any prodding. Youre one of us now man, youre a Penter! he pleaded failing to grip the smooth steel walls for support Not until the wedding.

It doesnt matter. You should have told me if first class was too much! For the majority of the flight I slept peacefully skimming the clouds, a dream visiting me in which a golden throne had been erected atop One World Trade Center. Chase and I gawked at its emptiness, unsure of how neither us had managed to climb it. A figure clad in violet swept in from the west. Simon, a seasoned pervert on the payroll of Chases mother, picked us up at OHare. He was in town conducting an investigation on behalf of her. Thick surly brows, his crescent eyes measuring me from the rectangle of the visor mirror (I was impressed by the width of his smeared-on mustache), his expressions bled malice. If ever there was silver and lead, if ever a reward hummed in tune with a twin-sister punishment, so he delivered the whistle of the axe. Whether he recited it to Jack or the pro remained the mystery. Not a ludic sentiment in him, not a vein of silver running the length of that icy grey boulder. Where are you going? he asked. He articulated his words with the fineness of a true brute. The Drake, offered Chase. Im going to Lincoln Park, I said. Lincoln Park, corrected Chase. The lit silent stretch of the highway, upon which a limitless pair of parabolic eyes clawed through the Northern suburban sheath, held me close like a hug. Simon munched M&Ms, the crunch consonant with the mastication of bones. Chase texted ex-crushes with the help of pixelated smiley faces and anniversary recollections of a winters college night, the heat of which still clung to jaded loins. I called Jack. He answered almost immediately. His voice, that of someone rarely seen but always heard, echoed like that of a memory without a physical past. Its not what you think, he said. Theyre blogging about you, Jack, and its only a matter of time before a paper picks it up. At Jacks name Simon made no effort to hide his interest. He stared back and forth between my cell phone and the weaving fluorescent lines of the road. Her boyfriend came home andwell he robbed me. Did he hurt you? Nothing too serious.

Good. Now I have a very important question, and I dont mean to offendI dont mean to offend, Jack. Yes. Was this woman a professional? Not that Inono she has a child! he blurted out like he had pulled it from a remote corner of the past. I dont understand then. What are all these blogosphere rumors of a prostitute? Its the boyfriend. He wants more money. Otherwise he says hell make her tell the police that I tried to give her money in exchange for intercourse, and then beat her when she refused. Beat her? He beat her last night when he found us. In front of me. We have until tomorrow night. He mentioned me by name on Facebook, he confessed. How did he know your name? He reads The Journal. I have to go. Shes getting upset listening to me talk about all of this. Youre with her now!? Shes scared, and were both innocent. He hung up.