Blue Sky

Blue Sky By Emery C. Walters Sky Harbor Airport, Phoenix, Arizona. August. Twenty-two years before, his mother had given birth right there, in the lobby; the plane she was on having had to make an emergency landing. He was delivered ten minutes after she had been rolled off the airplane. Considering she’d had three drinks in the last hour alone, she was feeling no pain when she was handed the baby and named him Sky. She’d been hoping for a girl. And then, to make matters worse, his father had insisted his middle name be Aberthol, which unknown to his mother, meant sacrifice in Welsh. And sacrifice it was, for his father had been intending to leave his wife, but because of the baby, he decided to stay. In the long run, he ended up raising Sky by himself, as his mother drank herself into an early death. Sky had no memory of her at all. His father was one of those parents who, like everyone else, did the best he could. Anyhow, it was his birthday, he was job hunting with no luck, fresh out of college, and had just had dinner with his dad and his dad’s latest girlfriend who was an illegal immigrant from Guatemala, and now he had heartburn. As he climbed into his car, his beat up old car that had been old when he’d gotten it five years before, he asked his phone to find him a gay bar. “There are at least twenty,” it answered. “What kind do you want?” It’s my birthday, and I’m talking to my phone. “One with men. And booze. Nearby. Go!” “You sound angry. Are you angry at me?” his phone asked. “Because I’m not programmed to respond to anger.” “f**k you,” Sky shouted, realizing too late that his windows were open. They were stuck open, actually. Since the air conditioning didn’t work anyhow, it didn’t matter. Except, it was usually a hundred and ten degrees out during the day lately. While he was job hunting. In a suit and tie. “The Grotto is the closest gay bar. It’s run by a transsexual woman named Renee…” Here Sky interrupted Siri. “Directions to the Grotto, please,” he said, adding under his breath, “bitch.” “Turn right at the next street, and then left eight blocks later. It will be on your right side. I cannot find any listing for b***h in the local area. However, if you drive to Canada, there is a listing there for a Miniature Pincher b***h who was sired by Phoenix Dandy and…” “That will be all.” Sky, still agitated, was unable to make his usual philosophical leap from being disgusted to amused, which is how he dealt with frustration. Tonight, it wasn’t working. “I’d give my right arm for some Maalox,” he said, turning right at the next street. His phone said, “There is a CVS Pharmacy…” but Sky ignored her, counting blocks. He turned on the eighth one, hoping he had counted right, and then saw the rainbow-colored neon sign that read The Grotto on his right. He pulled into the parking lot and shook his head. Just one drink and some small talk, that’s all I want. Is that too much to ask? Well, I wouldn’t mind getting laid, either. Climbing out, he stretched his arms over his head. He looked like his mother. He had the same sometimes turquoise, sometimes deep sea blue eyes, and curly hair sometimes as red as the dirt in the cliffs and desert that surrounded Phoenix. Sometimes it glowed like polished bronze. His features were fine, delicate almost, and he had a graceful way about him. His father had been afraid the boy would turn out to be gay; so he never asked and never educated his son about anything along those lines. He buried his head in the sand the same way he buried his wife, with fear and acceptance and a bit of anger that he should have been put in such a situation. The only light in the parking lot was sputtering, and there was nobody outside. There weren’t even many cars, just one or two that looked expensive. He wondered how much his one drink would cost him. It didn’t occur to him that if he worked it right, his looks might pay for drinks and probably a lot more. Wondering if he’d have anyone to talk to at all, he opened the door and stepped into the near darkness. This wasn’t bar-dark; this was grotto, cave, dark. The only light was from the red Exit sign. “Is anyone here?” he called out. “Are you open?” There was a rustle and a sneeze, followed by someone snarling, “Shh!” Lowering his voice, confused and angry, Sky called out, “Is this a bad time?” He knew he sounded sarcastic, and didn’t care at all. “Are you a cop?” a man asked. “No, I’m an unemployed queer out on his own on his f*****g birthday. And now I can’t even get a drink?” “Can we borrow your car?” a woman asked sweetly, huskily. “The a/c is broken, and the windows don’t roll up. Go right ahead.” “We don’t care, honey, we just need the car for a couple of hours.” This voice was husky and masculine, followed by the sound of someone else giggling. “Well, I’m a cop,” spoke another voice, “and I say we need your car. Now you just mosey on over to the bar, it’s on your left, that’s good, one step at a time so you don’t trip over anyone or slip on anything, and put your hands up with your car keys in them. And nobody will get hurt. Oh, and happy birthday.” A couple more false-sounding happy birthday comments came from various corners. He felt someone feel his way up his arm, take the keys, and then feel his shoulder. Then the hand moved lower down. “Renee, feed this kid. Give him one or two of your famous birthday martinis, and a sandwich. He’s too skinny.” Sky found a stool and sat gingerly. His heart was pounding. “It’s a surprise party, isn’t it?” he stammered out, not really believing it. The giggles started, then halfway through turned into guffaws. A glass slid in front of him. He heard it and reached carefully for it, engulfed it with both hands, briefly wondered if it was poisoned, and raised it to his lips. Behind him there were sliding sounds, more rustles, and some incoherent mumbling. He was terrified, so he sipped cautiously, but it was delicious. Sky didn’t think poison could taste like expensive gin, so he let himself enjoy the weirdness and taste. And then a plate of something that smelled like French fries slid in under his nose. He felt around, found them, and tasted. The hell with what else was going on. The drink was great, and the food was settling his heartburn, and for that, let the Lord be grateful. Next there came a sandwich, piled high. His mouth was stuffed full when two of the bottles behind the bar broke with a flash of light. He jumped, but kept on eating. Though he did pour half his drink into his mouth as well. A voice to his left muttered, “f**k all, we don’t need Casey breaking s**t now.” Then the voice got louder. “Go haunt someplace else! You can walk through walls, go next door.” Ghost, Sky thought. Cute. A ghost named Casey. I don’t believe in ghosts or any of that stuff. The voice moved away, still muttering. There was a dragging sound, the door opened and closed, and the air became still. Sky noticed another drink in front of him. There wasn’t anyone to talk to, not that he could see in the dark anyway; so his thoughts ran back over the evening. What a disaster.