Broken Glass
Moving Day.
When Hank was a kid, those words usually meant sandwiches wrapped in butcher's paper. The local church would send men to heft his mother's few antique pieces in and out of the house, while their wives filled old milk crates with what few precious glass objects they'd managed to keep. When Hank was old enough, he helped the church boys heft those same boxes into the truck next to Mama's cherrywood bed. And then he had to pretend not to care that none of these bustling, helpful people would remember any of the Stanley family in a week.
Moving Day.
Now that he was older, and had dedicated his life to helping folks he'd never see again, he found himself wishing for the slightly phony company of a church congregation while he packed his meager belongings. It wasn't that he had a bunch of heavy lifting to do - the bed, stove and icebox he used were all provided by his soon-to-be ex-landlord. It was more that the silence in the slowly emptying apartment rankled him. No one cared to see him off. No one would miss him when he was gone. Oh, he'd had no illusions about that, but at least when he was a kid, the church folks had cared enough to offer even that much of a lie.
Hank laughed at himself. He was being ridiculous. He'd left his shift early, met up with a crazy man, and would be working in a completely different station on his next shift. Of course no one had come to see him off. He hadn't told anyone. Hell, he hadn't figured out if he was supposed to be telling Capt. Whitmore where he was going himself, or if HQ was going to handle it all for him.
He certainly hoped HQ would be taking care of personnel changes. He didn't have the first clue of what to tell Capt. Whitmore. Hell, he hadn't even figured out where he was going to live. All he knew was that he was suddenly renting a garage in South L.A., and that he was leaving the brush behind for good.
He took the box down to his truck, and was surprised to see Capt. Whitmore's car easing into a space near the driveway. He leaned against his truck and stared at the car, as seven grown men emerged from its confines. They wore their usual sly smirks, and gathered around Hank to snicker and stare at him expectantly.
He raised his eyebrows. "Um... hey?"
More snickering was interrupted by the squeal of skidding tires, and they all turned as one to watch a small pickup round the corner. "Ah," Whitmore said. "There they are." The pickup whipped into the driveway, kicking up dust and a plume of smoked rubber. It jerked out of gear scant millimeters from the back end of Hank's own truck, and half scattered the rest of the fire company's personnel in the back of the truck bed. They just hooted and hollered and laughed about the bad driving. Hank couldn't help but laugh a little himself, though he tried to quiet it when the men turned to him as a single unit.
Whitmore looked at the apartment building looming over their heads. "So. Which way, Cap?"
There came a whooping cry, and the whole company swooped in on Hank. They swept him up, and carried him into the courtyard, where he was dumped unceremoniously for being a “heavy ass bastard”. There was more laughter, more catcalling, and the cranky old retired folks began to peek through their curtains at the mess of merrymaking firefighters. Hank whispered a silent prayer of apology, and led the noisy group to his unit.
"You aren't even packed," came an indignant cry, followed by more laughter. Then the crowd dispersed, and began gathering things to dump into boxes. Anything that wasn't bolted down wound up in the back of Hank's truck, whether he wanted (or needed) it or not. He had to go tearing from room to room, repeatedly begging the men off of the landlord's large pieces. "No, the bed stays here!" "Don't unplug the fridge, just let it be!" "What in the world are you doing with a hand truck?!" "Put that down!"
Hank had no idea why the hell he thought he wanted someone to see him off. He couldn't wait to free himself of this gaggle of clowns. Eventually, he sat down in a corner of the room, and watched them deteriorate into a pack of hyenas. A cold beer and a hot pastrami appeared at his elbow at some point. Hank laughed and ate it, grateful for at least this one small bit of actual help in the face of so much insanity.
In the end, Hank was in his truck a good three hours after he'd planned to start driving. But they'd meant well, and their parting embraces had been powerful and eye opening. It was almost enough to make him want to stay.
Almost. He knew that in a short while, they'd have their new engineer all settled, and they'd forget all about him. He gave 'em a week, tops.
The miles rolled away under the heavy tires as Hank made his way south. Dry shrubbery and rocks that lined the sides of the freeway soon gave way to greenery and small dwellings, which in turn became rows of fruit trees and pockets of suburbia, before finally grounding down to the slow plodding traffic of Downtown Los Angeles, surrounded by the glass and steel and concrete monuments to the nouveau riche. The heat of the day was trapped in the narrow streets that crisscrossed both below and above the freeway, where sunlight was bounced from high rise to high rise, to double and triple in intensity. The stifling midday heat married with diesel fumes from the big rigs that ran the length of the interstate day and night, and with plumes of smoke from all the old factories that separated Downtown from East L.A. They mixed together to create a noxious stench that filtered into his front cab through the open windows, and settled on him like an old giant drapery. A moment of homesickness rattled him. What in hell was he doing out here with all this pollution, away from the wide open spaces of the AV?
A moment later, a station wagon full of giggling children pulled into the lane in front of Hank. They were pressed into the back together, pointing and laughing at everything they saw. They looked up at him, and waved with such enthusiasm that he couldn't help but laugh and wave back. The station wagon switched lanes again, and dropped down behind Hank before exiting the freeway somewhere in the middle of all this urban sprawl, to join the millions of other folks living and loving together in the southern end of the L.A. basin.
Despite the late start, he made it down to Carson before the business day closed. He unloaded his belongings into the tiny lockup he'd secured the night before, and headed even further south, towards the cheap lodging for the sailors and whores that landed in the ports of L.A. and Long Beach. After a bit of cringing at the dirty surroundings and grizzly patrons, Hank found a motel that was clean and structurally safe enough for the price and cheap enough for the lengthy stay he hoped he wouldn't actually need. He nearly drove the desk clerk crazy while asking to see every empty room, and was pretty sure the guy hadn't shown him all his options despite his badgering. He finally settled on something on the bottom floor near the road for easy access, and a door that didn't necessarily open out onto the street where any and everyone could see inside his room as he came and went. Satisfied with his temporary lodgings, he returned to his car and breathed a sigh of relief. With his possessions properly secured just a couple miles up the road from his new assignment, and a place to stay for the next couple of nights, he could now turn his attention to the lengthy task of finding a permanent address without the burden of a cross-county commute looming over his head.
The plan was to find a suitable apartment by the time he started his second shift with 51s - which meant a good two and a half weeks of search time, broken only by a single work shift. Moving his junk to a convenient location meant he never had to make the long trip north again, which in turn meant he could dedicate all his off-shift hours to the search for a new home. But the chore of apartment hunting could wait until morning - he'd promised himself that this day was dedicated strictly to moving down to the South Bay, and with his possessions properly secured, Moving Day was officially over. Time to celebrate with a drink!
Where the dusty trails in Calabasas and Agoura Hills had been pretty much dry tracks that tied together a couple of one horse, two bar towns, the industrial trappings and concrete jungles that surrounded the Carson area had a variety of bars, clubs, lounges and dance floors to peruse. He'd already poked his head into some of the plusher places the night before, and had seen just about every kind of drunkard Southern California had to offer. He hadn't quite settled on a favorite place - truth be told, Hank wasn't the kind of guy who liked to drink in public, where just any old body could hear the sensitive kinds of things he was liable to reveal when he was well oiled - but he knew he wanted some place where the atmosphere was friendly to new faces, without being too aggressive about making you an old face. Of all the places he'd tried the night before, the only place that stuck out in his mind was, ironically enough, practically a sex club.
He supposed it made a certain sort of sense, though. Men were meeting up for an anonymous sexual encounter, with no emotional strings attached. That meant that they were probably in a chatty mood, but because everyone there was out to get an itch scratched, no one was going to play games to try to trick anyone into liking him. Either you could get the job done - whatever the job might be - or not.
The trick for Hank, though, was that he didn't know what the job was just yet. He was a private kind of a guy - he didn't really want to tell some random stranger, oh yes, I'm a faggot fireman, please, call the county board of directors and try to make lots and lots and lots of trouble for me because that kind of thing gets you off. But he also didn't want to just grab some dude in a bar and boff him for a few minutes as a reward for achieving a fairly impressive milestone in his life's work. And it was his life's work.
He found the bar he'd only spent a few minutes in the other night with ease. It was a tiny gray box of a place, standing on its own in the middle of what looked like a vehicular graveyard. He'd only paused there the first time because he'd seen a tiny, handwritten sign advertising cheap beer in front of the door, and cheap beer meant public bathrooms. The interior had been... eyeopening, to say the least. After he'd gotten over the initial shock of how unconcerned everyone seemed about the complete lack of female company in such a sexually charged space, Hank had gotten the bright idea of asking any and everyone who approached him where else he could find some like-minded individuals. It had been while checking all the places that had come with at least three recommendations that he'd come across that fox in the country western bar.
Just the thought of the stranger brought a smile to Hank's face. A smile to his face, and a plethora of positively dirty thoughts to his mind. He was a little sorry he hadn't been a little bolder in his approach. Maybe he'd have gotten that fox to open up to him if he had. But at least he'd helped the guy out with a sticky situation from an angry john.
Hank sighed. It actually probably just as well that he hadn't approached Foxy - he'd run through just about all his cash with all the drink minimums he was trying to meet while he checked out the bars. He doubted he'd have been able to afford any paid company at that point in the night. Still, it was nice to dream.
He didn't have any illusions about whether or not he'd come across someone so attractive again in such a short time. Most folks were just ordinary folks, like he was. Not terribly frightening trolls, but certainly not the painfully sexy kind of creatures that only the movies could create. He wondered how much of the Fox was real, and how much was carefully calculated to separate a lonely blind man from his wallet. He wondered if he'd find Foxy as intensely delicious as his memory insisted he'd been.
The interior of the gray shack was dark and warm, and smelled like beer and sugar and semen. The sharp change of bright late afternoon sun and sea salted air to dark sex dungeon was a crisp, sharp admonition. Hank was a fireman, a damned good one. He had a fine memory, and it was finely tuned to all his senses. It was a talent he'd been born with, and a skill he'd honed in his years in the fire service - quick attention to detail in an overwhelming situation could easily save lives. He'd come to trust his first impressions on the job, and they'd never failed him. Why he didn't trust those first impressions when he was off duty, neither he nor the voice in the back of his head could understand.
He nodded at the bartender in one corner of the room, and smirked at the pink wigged overmade monstrosity holding court at the near end of the counter. He'd spent close to an hour with that one, listening to not only all the queen's opinions about every fairy bar from NoHo to Seal Beach, but every godforsaken bitch who patronized the bars. "Don't worry, not every regular gets put on my list, honey. Just the assholes, the losers, and the honest to God winners." He walked past the bar, and waved a little to the queen's chardonnay salute. Maybe some other time he'd go join the small crowd gathered for more bullshit gossip. For the time being, Hank wanted something a little more personal for his celebration.
He headed for the covered stand-alone booths that filled the space before the hall that lead to the back rooms, where a couple of guys could get it on and get it off without ever leaving the building. The booths themselves were like little tiny citadels in the middle of an otherwise empty room. Standing in the middle of them, he thought they looked like impregnable steel boxes, little tiny cities unto themselves. He chose a booth at random and approached it carefully. A pair of uptight looking business types were sitting in it, negotiating their upcoming tryst on a table that served as battle ground and protective fort. Hank moved on, unobserved. He chose another booth, where a hairy man in drag sneered snottily at Hank. Hank sneered back and doubled back to the other side of the room. After encountering two more couples, he finally found an empty booth, and sank into it, relived. Now he could be the one to watch for potential partners, to smile invitingly or shake his head at passers by. Having the booth gave him the thinnest illusion of control over a situation that could easily spin out of his hands in the blink of an eye. But it let him play the part to the fullest, confident that he was safe at port, while other pleasure seekers were still out to sea, looking for the one.
A pair of legs wandered into view, and paused. Hank's breath caught in his throat - he'd seen those magnificent legs before. Thick, supple thighs, covered in fashionable slacks that clung so tightly they might as well had been painted on. The hips swiveled and canted as their owner surveyed the room, revealing the swell of an ass not even Michelangelo could have crafted. All thoughts of over-imagining last night's soul shaking beauty were blown away. Hank ducked his head and saw under the canopy of his booth the long line of a strong, lithe back that was squared off with shoulders broad enough to put Atlas to shame. Though he couldn't see the color of the hair in the dark, purplish light of the club, Hank could make out the rich, luscious waves that feathered out over the collar, and he knew without a doubt that the face would be as perfect as he'd remembered it.
The stranger turned his head, as if he could hear Hank's thoughts, and seemed to be listening for more. The dim lighting played up the stranger's profile, and gave his mouth a cherubic pout that made Hank groan with need. Then those suspicious eyes were upon Hank, fairly demanding to know who dared undress him with their unworthy eyes. A flash of recognition flitted across that glorious face, and then Hank was graced with his full attention. "Hello."
Hank shuddered. Foxy's voice was was like a bowl filled to the brim with steaming cream and melted chocolate. It was deep, rich and warm, and made Hank feel like the gangly awkward stork child he used to be, instead of the capable man he was promised he’d become. Foxy looked uncertain, and began to withdraw.
Hank's hand shot out like viper and clamped onto Foxy's wrist. They both jumped, and Hank released the man's arm with a gulp. "Hello," he said, and laughed at himself. He sounded like a country bumpkin. He could do better than that. "Would you like to help me celebrate a promotion?"
Foxy hesitated for a moment more, looking around the rest of the room as if he was hoping for rescue. But then he sighed and slipped into the booth across from Hank and waited.
His face looked so soft and smooth, like butter on a warm summer night. Hank wanted to lick it, to see if it was as buttery as it looked, but he didn't want to spook Foxy - heaven knew it'd been hard enough just to get the guy alone. Instead, he decided to try a safe question. "What's your name?"
But the question wasn't as safe as Hank hoped it would be. Foxy tensed up, and made to push out of the booth. "I don't do names."
Hank nodded. "Okay, Foxy, okay. Don't worry, I didn't mean nothing. We're not getting married. I just wanted to break the ice."
Foxy blushed and made a little choking noise before settling down in his seat. "Did you just call me foxy?"
Hank felt his own blush rise up his collar, and for a minute he thought he'd blown it. But the way Foxy was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth parted in wonder, gave Hank courage. Own it, Henry. He smiled, slow and deliberate, and let his mind wander down the dirty little trail it was so determined to take him anyway, and nodded. "Actually, I called you a stone cold fox. But that's a mouthful, ain't it baby?"
Foxy stared at him and seemed to be having just the tiniest bit of trouble catching his breath. "So you did," he said, and that voice, oh that voice was going to be the absolute death of Hank. "Exactly how much have you had to drink?"
Hank couldn't help his roar of laughter, though he doubted Foxy was trying to be funny. It was just such a... a square question. Hank struggled to get his laughter under control, but then he made the mistake of looking at the Fox, and the confused little pout on his face was just so precious that Hank lost it again. "'M sorry," he said with a wheeze. "I just... you sound like a doctor!"
Foxy's confused pout dropped away, like someone swiped an eraser of a chalkboard. "What do you mean?"
Hank wiped his eyes, and held his breath until he was sure he wouldn't burst out laughing again. "Nothing. I just mean that's such a funny question from a guy in a sex bar. Never mind. I'm nervous."
Foxy's face remained carefully blank. "Why are you nervous?"
"Because you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen and I honestly never expected to see you again but now that I have I think I might die if I don't get just one night with you." Hank clamped his mouth shut, mortified. What the hell had happened to his damned brain to mouth filter? "I... I'm... I didn't... I wasn't..."
Foxy's face began to soften as Hank stammered and stuttered around an apology that his brain couldn't begin to form. He slid out of the booth, and Hank's heart dropped. But then Foxy held a hand out. "Let's go someplace more comfortable. Do you stay nearby?"
Hank's mouth dropped open, but he nodded, relieved that he hadn't sunk a good thing after all. "Well, I have a room in Wilmington. It's just a mile down the road, and then a couple blocks over. Smells like the port and dead fish, but it's pretty close."
Foxy seemed to consider that. "Any liquor stores nearby?"
Hank shrugged. "I guess. I just moved here today." At Foxy's suspicious look, he rushed to explain. "I used to live up around Sun Valley. Uh, north of the San Fernando Valley. Not too far from Castaic. I moved here for the job - I got it yesterday, and I-"
Foxy nodded and waved his hand and walked away, towards the exit. "I'll follow you in my car. If I see a liquor store on the way, I'll honk. I need a drink."
"Well, wait, we can stay here so you can get-" But the Fox was already well past the bar, and on his way out the door. Hank skipped through the empty bar to catch up. If Foxy wanted to drink in his room, that was fine with Hank.