I started to walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water for him, but the second I’d formed the idea to do it, between the gut wrenching sounds of one convulsion and the next, he managed to say “Don’t leave me, please don’t—.” The rest was cut off.
I don’t know how long I stood there. It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so. The clocks said that. When I turned back around, he was no longer on his feet. Kevin was lying on his side, his head hung over the edge. His skin was damp and yellow. His eyes were closed, and his face blotchy and red. I had counted a full 120 seconds since the least heave. Later, when I allowed myself to think about the details, I was amazed at the fact that there was no mess anywhere but in the bowl. I wondered, all those years later, how much different the scene would have played out if maybe I’d had to clean up after Kevin. Monday morning quarterbacks always make the best plays, though.
I leaned past him and pulled the shower curtain. I leaned a bit further and started the hot water. The shower belched once, then again before a steady stream came out. I put my hand under his head from the back, lifted it, and closed the toilet seat. I let his head back down slowly. He was breathing loudly through his mouth. I pulled the lever and the toilet flushed. I stepped back and grabbed his arms, lifting him up and putting him on the toilet lid. His head lolled back at a strange angle. He groaned. “What’r you doing?” he slurred.
“Getting you cleaned up,” I said. I’d had to do this before. One of the kids who started at the garage a year or so back had been only seventeen, high school drop out, but really good with cars. The boss took a chance on him, and in about two weeks he was already “one of the guys.” Of course, when he turned eighteen, we all took him out. Drinking age is twenty-one, of course, but there are ways around that in a city. We got him torn up on beer and tequila shots. Of course, someone had to stay with him; we’d been gauging how much to give him by ourselves, forgetting that he was smaller, weighed less, and hadn’t ever gotten to that point before. I was the one who was most worried, so I was the one (along with his roommate) who got him cleaned up and in bed. Needless to say, though, he didn’t make it to work the next day.
Something was different about this, though. I pulled off Kevin’s socks, then his shirt, all the while noticing little things. His wrists were very small, but his fingers were very long. His shoulders were broad, but not very thick. His waist was extremely small. I was very busy with the thought of getting him “taken care of” so I could go home to sleep, though, and didn’t pay enough attention to myself to notice. I leaned in and sort of draped his chest over my shoulder. I stood us both up, and unbuttoned his pants. The whole time he was breathing loudly and mumbling. I slid his pants down and his hands came around me in a strange reverse hug. I sat him back down, and finished pulling his pants off.
Kevin was naked. It struck me all at once. He was naked, and even though I’d been around other naked men without thinking anything of it, something about this seemed intimate. I was uncomfortable immediately. I tried everything not to look, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t. I wish I could say that I was above that sort of thing. It seemed better than my own. That’s what I most remember. As stupid and weak as that sounds; it seemed better—larger and not as ugly, somehow. When I realized I was staring, I felt I had to do something. I grabbed Kevin’s arms and stood him up.
For a second, I wondered how I was going to keep him standing up in the shower. He was somehow able to step over the sides, though, as if he knew for a split second where he was. As soon as the water hit him, he flinched, trying to curl himself forward into a ball. His skin seemed to go from yellow to pinkish, though. I felt like I was doing the right thing.
As soon as the water hit him, though, he seemed to go on autopilot. He ducked his head under the water and then scrubbed his face with both hands. The water over his body made me think of a skyscraper; most of the men I’d ever known had large bellies, and were covered in fur. Kevin’s body was whipcord straight, and smooth. I got that feeling, again, of something moving around in my stomach, and turned to leave. I was going to get a glass of water and see if there were any aspirin. As if sensing, though, he grabbed my arm and mumbled “don’t go.” He nearly fell over from moving too quickly, so I had no choice but to steady him. Both arms of my shirt got soaked through.
I started washing him. He’d managed to keep everything contained to just himself and the bowl. For some reason, that stuck out in my mind. He kept sighing and slumping one way or another. I tried not to look at his body; I tried not to think about how he looked like one of those paintings I’d spent hours in the library looking up. I tried to think about Susan, or this one model from a car ad that the guys had had blown up to poster size back at the garage. I heard my mother’s voice in the back of my head saying “shame on you, Michael Kendall, shame on you!” but even that didn’t work. My eyes kept wandering over his body and it made me angry.
“Ow,” he mumbled when I started to scrub too hard. I felt my mouth pulled tight into a frown and the tension in my shoulders. At some point, I’d taken my shirt off. From the corner of my eye, I could see it in a wet pile on the sink, my watch sitting next to it.
I shut off the water and leaned him against the wall. “Don’t go,” he kept mumbling. I moved to get the towel from the rack. It was a huge, plush blue one. I pulled the shower curtain the rest of the way back and handed the towel to him.
“Here,” I said, “dry off.”
He started to rub at his skin with the towel, but nearly fell over several times. I had reached to put my watch back on, but stopped. He wasn’t going to be able to dry himself. I’d have to do it. Some part of me felt soft toward him, his weakness at that moment. Another part of me felt something stronger, more red-orange, and that made me mad. I snatched the towel from his hands. He nearly fell over. “Get out,” I said quietly, but there was an edge in my voice that made him look up. He stepped gingerly out of the tub. I wrapped him in the towel so I wouldn’t have to look at his thin ankles and narrow hips.
I dried him off roughly. He hunched his shoulders against my efforts, and his face was drawn into a scowl. “Ow,” he kept mumbling, and sucking air in through his teeth. When I bent over to dry his legs, my face was directly in front of the part of him I most wanted to avoid looking at. I stared straight down, trying not to notice how small and clean his toes were, and always aware that part of him was right beside my face. I felt the heat off of him on my cheek. I stood up and wrapped the towel around his waist. “Go,” I said, and walked behind him a bit, putting my hand out to stop him from running into anything as he walked down the hall. I steered him back into what I assumed as his bedroom.
He made it four steps. I heard the thud. I found a light switch and saw the tiny bedroom. He’d hit the bed at about hip level and had just fallen over onto it, as if he’d done this a million times. I shook my head; his eyes were already closed, and his breathing already deep. His light blue sheets seemed to wrap around him like a hand. I moved the dark blue comforter up over his shoulders and turned to leave the room. It was as I was reaching for the light that I remembered the towel. I shook my head, walked back to the bed, and reached under. My hand slid along the smooth plane of his stomach; I felt his bellybutton just under my pinky. I found the edge of the towel and unwrapped it. I pulled it out from under the comforter and smoothed the blanket down.