The Orchid Eater by Marc Laidlaw Page A
Authors: Marc Laidlaw
streetlight on
their way out of the lot. He screeched onto Old Creek Road, cutting through a
narrow gap in traffic. Stoner howled in delight at the near miss, yet another
brush with the oaf’s imminent death. It was for exactly this reason that Hawk
treasured the big clod’s company. Stoner knew instinctively how thin the line
was between Here and Hereafter. Most who walked that line so boldly had deluded
themselves into forgetting the fact that they were essentially disposable. But
Stoner knew it—reveled in the fact. Or else he was utterly ignorant of it. Hawk
could never be sure which.
Dusty was in
his own little world, his fishbowl full of dust, hunched over in the back of
the jeep.
Old Creek
was dangerous enough at midday; at night it was a constant string of dead man’s
curves. He loved to drive it fast, but traffic was too thick.
Crawling
along with the summer tourist cars, Hawk wondered if the boys had pushed Sal
too far this time. Edgar said he’d dispatched karate assassins, Sal’s personal
bodyguards. It seemed unlikely, but one never knew. Hawk believed that under
the right circumstances, anyone was capable of anything. You couldn’t always
read it in their eyes. What were eyes anyway but a couple of cameras? Forget
all that talk about the windows of the soul. Eyes were more like two-way
mirrors, and the soul hung out behind them, watching you like a department
store detective.
(Have to
remember this for next Saturday, he thought. Some good riffs building here.)
No, there
were no shortcuts to understanding people. You couldn’t judge from one
conversation, or even from a week’s worth of talk. The only way to understand a
man was through study over time. Some people had good years the way most people
had bad days, years when everything flowed right to them without the smallest
hitch; and in such times they appeared perfect saints, wise and compassionate
and easygoing. If you were stupid enough to judge them by those fat times, you
might be inclined to fit them with a halo. But the next year could start with a
flood, followed by famine and drought. . . and suddenly your saint would be
devouring women and children to keep his belly soft and fat.
As for Sal,
Hawk hadn’t yet made up his mind. There were so many unpredictable elements
involved. A lot of complications.
The guy was
a faggot, you had to take that for granted. If you let him, he’d tell you all
about it, making everything real clear. He didn’t care if anyone thought it was
a sin; he wasn’t apologetic or guilty or shameful, and he didn’t show remorse.
He was honest about it. Hawk respected that—no matter what other preachers
said.
The thing
Hawk didn’t really trust—and the reason he still waited to see how things
turned out, waited to judge—was the way Sal surrounded himself with boys. Hawk
had known some of Sal’s “students” over the years. Wild and mixed up, most of
them—though what boys weren’t? A few had hung out with Hawk at first, trying to
be part of the One-Way Gang; but they had never really fit in. There was
something in them he just couldn’t reach. After drifting away from Hawk, they
had hooked up with Sal and suddenly started to pull themselves together. He
hadn’t liked some of the changes they went through—the faggy accents, the
bangles and makeup and all that superficial shit—but at least they’d managed to
get their heads straightened out in some essential way. Sometimes this meant
they finally faced up to their parents and moved out on their own, which Hawk
had been telling them to do anyway. Randy was like that. A good kid from a
fucked-up home. Sometimes they bleached their hair, like Martin Schwann, who
called himself Marilyn now.
When Hawk
asked them how they were doing, they spoke of Sal in reverent tones: he was a
great teacher, a good friend, a wonderful this and that. What Hawk could never
figure out was if Sal was really doing all of this for them, or if he was doing
it for
their way out of the lot. He screeched onto Old Creek Road, cutting through a
narrow gap in traffic. Stoner howled in delight at the near miss, yet another
brush with the oaf’s imminent death. It was for exactly this reason that Hawk
treasured the big clod’s company. Stoner knew instinctively how thin the line
was between Here and Hereafter. Most who walked that line so boldly had deluded
themselves into forgetting the fact that they were essentially disposable. But
Stoner knew it—reveled in the fact. Or else he was utterly ignorant of it. Hawk
could never be sure which.
Dusty was in
his own little world, his fishbowl full of dust, hunched over in the back of
the jeep.
Old Creek
was dangerous enough at midday; at night it was a constant string of dead man’s
curves. He loved to drive it fast, but traffic was too thick.
Crawling
along with the summer tourist cars, Hawk wondered if the boys had pushed Sal
too far this time. Edgar said he’d dispatched karate assassins, Sal’s personal
bodyguards. It seemed unlikely, but one never knew. Hawk believed that under
the right circumstances, anyone was capable of anything. You couldn’t always
read it in their eyes. What were eyes anyway but a couple of cameras? Forget
all that talk about the windows of the soul. Eyes were more like two-way
mirrors, and the soul hung out behind them, watching you like a department
store detective.
(Have to
remember this for next Saturday, he thought. Some good riffs building here.)
No, there
were no shortcuts to understanding people. You couldn’t judge from one
conversation, or even from a week’s worth of talk. The only way to understand a
man was through study over time. Some people had good years the way most people
had bad days, years when everything flowed right to them without the smallest
hitch; and in such times they appeared perfect saints, wise and compassionate
and easygoing. If you were stupid enough to judge them by those fat times, you
might be inclined to fit them with a halo. But the next year could start with a
flood, followed by famine and drought. . . and suddenly your saint would be
devouring women and children to keep his belly soft and fat.
As for Sal,
Hawk hadn’t yet made up his mind. There were so many unpredictable elements
involved. A lot of complications.
The guy was
a faggot, you had to take that for granted. If you let him, he’d tell you all
about it, making everything real clear. He didn’t care if anyone thought it was
a sin; he wasn’t apologetic or guilty or shameful, and he didn’t show remorse.
He was honest about it. Hawk respected that—no matter what other preachers
said.
The thing
Hawk didn’t really trust—and the reason he still waited to see how things
turned out, waited to judge—was the way Sal surrounded himself with boys. Hawk
had known some of Sal’s “students” over the years. Wild and mixed up, most of
them—though what boys weren’t? A few had hung out with Hawk at first, trying to
be part of the One-Way Gang; but they had never really fit in. There was
something in them he just couldn’t reach. After drifting away from Hawk, they
had hooked up with Sal and suddenly started to pull themselves together. He
hadn’t liked some of the changes they went through—the faggy accents, the
bangles and makeup and all that superficial shit—but at least they’d managed to
get their heads straightened out in some essential way. Sometimes this meant
they finally faced up to their parents and moved out on their own, which Hawk
had been telling them to do anyway. Randy was like that. A good kid from a
fucked-up home. Sometimes they bleached their hair, like Martin Schwann, who
called himself Marilyn now.
When Hawk
asked them how they were doing, they spoke of Sal in reverent tones: he was a
great teacher, a good friend, a wonderful this and that. What Hawk could never
figure out was if Sal was really doing all of this for them, or if he was doing
it for