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“Do you believe in telepathy?”
There was a bit of static over the line, then a low, soft, “Mmh?”
“Telepathy.” Jerry propped the telephone against the pillow and the side of his face so he could lay sideways and talk as if there was a person there. “Like, you know, when you’re thinking of something and someone else can tell what you’re thinking from miles away, and it's all up there, in your heads.”
“Oh boy, he’s hearing things in his head again.”
“No, I’m serious.” He smiled. “I am, really.”
Pause. “Sure, why not?”
“I’m happy that you said that.”
“Jesus, you do sound serious.”
“Listen,” he dropped his voice to little over a whisper.
“Hm.”
“I have a crush on you.”
A fit of giggles crackled like champagne foam over the receiver. “No kidding?” More foam, until Jerry thought he was drunk on it.
“Yeah. I like you, ya lovable old fag.”
“Fuck, I’m missing you bad.”
“Me too. All I wanna do is hold you in my arms and hear you say,” he affected an airy woman-ish voice, “ Oh, Jer’! ”
He chuckled. “I wish you were here and that I was kissing you.”
Jerry just hung onto the phone for a little while, and rubbed his tongue along the inside of his lip like he could taste the words from the air. “Are you drinking?”
“Do I sound drunk?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Always.”
“I’m not drinking. Why’d you ask me about that head thing?”
“The what?”
“The telepathy.”
“I was just wondering, I like to wonder.” He thought for a second. “Do you remember when we used to get sick at the same time, even if we hadn’t been together for weeks?”
“Yeah, sorta. Is that telepathy too?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think we still have it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What card am I thinking of?”
Jerry ummm’ed for a considerable amount of time before deciding upon: “The seven of spades.”
“No luck, four of hearts. Maybe we’re getting too old.”
“Fuck.”
“Are you flying into L.A.?”
“When I get back to Los Angeles, I won’t stop anywhere else, I won’t even go home, I’ll come straight to you, how’s the sound of that?”
“Sounds good.”
Quiet for a little while. Jerry closed his eyes and was suddenly very tired and almost fell asleep. He thought about L.A. and thought he might not have that much time or he might not want to go after all or they might not be there at the same time.
“Jer’?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothin’, I was just calling.”
His voice sounded delicate and it made Jerry’s nose sting. He badly wished, out of nowhere in the dead of night, for his friend to be young and strong again.
“Yeah. Goodnight, Paul.”
Click.
—
Atlantic City again. The heat and the overcrowded beaches and the having no money and the being young and not very smart. There was this one night, I guess in ‘45 or ‘46. This long, hot night in mid-July, back when we were holing up in a $3.00 room because we were on the very cusp of making it but still too far from tipping over into “made it” for our comfort. You came in and opened the window so you could breathe and then you fell asleep on top of the sheets with all your clothes on and sweat drops of whiskey down your neck and through your shirt. I put my nose to your skin and you smelled like rain after a forest fire and salt and Kentucky bourbon. I traced a line with the tip of my finger from the back of your ear to your collarbone. I don’t know why, I guess it was because I was young and I didn’t know better. No one ever knows why they do things. I think kids know and then they forget. I wasn’t a very good kid at 19 or any other time really. When you were half-asleep like that, I would talk to you, I bet you don’t even remember— all those things I said to you, about myself, and about what we would do in the future when we were rich and famous, like saying that stuff to you would make it come true— I knew it would, like somehow I knew you would make it come true for me because you always made things come true for me. Even back then, I knew. And you’d just sit or lay there, your dark hair on my pillow, and stare at the ceiling with your head slightly tilted like you were waiting for something and you’d smoke so slowly and considerately, you’d make the cigarette last twice as long. And there were all those times when we’d walk on the beach with our pants rolled up to our knees like a pair of dumbasses, and the sea air made the hair on my arms and legs get all sticky and gross, and made you all Mediterranean-god-like, and sometimes I’d look at you and you’d look just like the devil bastard, my old man. It freaked me out, god, it was funny too. Jesus, you were more to me than you’d ever know. I never even told you. You’d shove the back of my head and go, “Where’re you at, kid?” And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.