These Days Just Slip Away
Chapter Three: I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance With You
By: Jondy Macmillan
A/N: Ahem, this might be the last, if not second to last chapter in India. I know you guys are patiently waiting for Clyde and Token and Stan and Kenny to show up. It'll happen by chapter five, I swear. (If not four; I'm only half way through this chappie as I write this note, so I'm not sure yet). By the way, all the places I mention are real, including Leela Palace- it's like the sister hotel of the Taj in Mumbai, the one that got attacked? And totally gorgeous, at that. Their website has a great picture; just google Leela Palace Bangalore, and check it out. You'll be impressed, promise.
Three days into my trip and it fucking monsoons on my head.
Rain? Yeah, I'm not a huge fan of it, and apparently in the summer here it likes to do it every single day. You can imagine my joy when I'm standing in the middle of a grimy ass street and the Indian Freaking Ocean decides to pour down on my head.
My new buddy Kyle though? He loves it. There in the middle of Commercial Street, Bangalore, he starts doing the get-down-boogey-oogey like he's in some seventies disco. Seriously gives whole new meaning to 'singing in the rain' for me.
Or dancing.
"You should take those moves into a club, Broflovski," I murmur, my voice muted by the rain. I'm soaked through to the bone. Kyle's shirt clings to his chest, white and see-through. I can make out the shape of his nipples.
"That, man, now that's an excellent idea!" Kyle grins at me, and I wish I'd just learn to keep my trap shut once in a while.
So we're on Commercial Street, like I said. It's basically this big fucking street filled with stores full of jewelry and clothes and tourist-trap shit, and there's vendors selling anything you can imagine. My favorite's over by a sweet store, a place that sells orange twisty pretzel things that taste like petrified funnel cake soaked in syrup and these cream puffs that are more like custard shoved in a hamburger bun and taste mmm-mmm good. There's a guy who stands outside and sells this mix of food in a popcorn paper cone; this crushed corn and onion and salty, bready chip type thing covered in masala, which is like paprika but better. I love this guy. I've visited him like five times already today, paying ten rupees for each cone. That's like, a dollar for all five, by the way.
Girls prance by me in saris, spelled sarees; that's what all the stores say. Sari with a double ee. I guess something got crossed in the American spelling. Anyway, these girls and these women, they're wrapped up like tropical birds, showing the skin of their abdomens and the back of their neck and their dark chocolate and milk chocolate arms. Sometimes they're skinny as twigs and sometimes they're round and as full as the Pillsbury doughboy. They've got red powder in their hair, or smears of what look like blood and rice on the center of the forehead, or maybe nothing at all. Their arms jingle with bangles in every color.
Sometimes the girls aren't dressed in sarees at all. Sometimes they're wearing denim skirts and tight t-shirts, but nothing near as slutastic as the girls back home. In the hotel I watched some movie about Mumbai; couldn't understand a word, but apparently the girls dress a little more skanky there. I like looking at their legs; girls from Northern India have paler skin, like burnished gold, while the girls native to hear look…well, blacker, like they've got ancestors from Africa or something.
The guys dress normal. Sometimes they look like geeks, stick skinny with pocket protectors and bicycles that look like they've seen better days. Sometimes they look like Kyle and me, with our jeans and our band tees and our wallet chains.
By the way, the Pizza Hut here is ace. It's an actual fucking restaurant, with an upstairs and a downstairs and better garlic bread than I've ever had. My next mission is to find a steak place; you'd think with all the Muslims running around there'd be at least one. Even the McDonald's only serves chicken and fish.
I spent most of my first day exploring with Kyle, walking around Jayanagar and drinking coconut milk and sugar cane juice, which is epically good. Men with machetes chop the coconut's in half and give you long straws, and they put the sugar cane through this crushing, rolling contraption that I don't entirely get, but it tastes pretty frickin' awesome. It comes in different flavors too, like masala. Well, everything comes masala flavored here, even the potato chips.
We went to eat at some place where Kyle warned me not to drink from the straws; he said they reuse them, and the bottles too, and I could kind of see specks of something inside both. He also keeps warning me not to get ice in anything, because then I'll get a case of Montezuma's Revenge that's actually called Delhi Belly or some shit, and anything that might make me smell like Delhi isn't on the top of my list of things to do.
That was the long and short of our first day. The second I didn't see him, because my family dragged me to some local shrine where I had to look at a giant statue of some guy sitting cross legged with a huge ass necklace, and another guy that looked kind of like what would happen if you stuck an elephant head on and got real fat.
My mom said I didn't have any appreciation for local culture.
Apparently eating Masala Lays Chips the whole time didn't count.
It seemed like a big gyp to me anyway. They wouldn't let you take pictures unless you paid for them. My sister snuck on her camera phone. She's got pretty good aim.
The monsoon stops like, ten minutes after it started. Now we're wet and the sun's half-out, but I'm not feeling so miserable anymore. Kyle drags me down Commercial Street past rickshaws and beggars and strangers awed by his vibrant red hair. Men are pissing in broad daylight and women are holding babies in slings.
We go back to our hotel around sunset. The sky is on fire, man. It's burning across the clouds, orange and red and raging over a pool of blue.
"Meet me after dinner," Kyle commands. He's fiddling with his eyebrow piercing, a nervous habit I'd noticed before but hadn't annoyed me quite so much until now.
"Why? What are we doing after dinner?"
Kyle just smirks and abandons me for his loud mouth mother.
I wait around by one of the many fake waterfalls the hotel's got set up after dinner. The sky's purple, and if I squint just so, I can imagine the turrets of the hotel belonging to a real palace, with real maharajas, like fucking Aladdin.
'Course, Kyle comes along with a cigarette dangling from his lips and the tightest jeans I've ever seen, ruining the whole picture.
"Steal those pants from Marsh?" I sneer.
He blinks, glances down, and goes, "Actually, yeah."
I shoot him an annoyed look that plaintively asks 'why-do-you-do-this-to-me'.
Kyle winks at me, "I thought I'd give India a thrill."
Oh. Oh yeah. That's the other thing.
Guys hold hands here.
It's like a utopia for homosexuals, or at least that's what I thought until Kyle told me all the ways gay people were suppressed here and blah blah blah.
I kind of tuned out. It's his mother's job to fight for the masses, not mine.
Back to the hand holding. It's like normal.
I saw four guys this morning all connected, the first held hands with the second who had his arm wrapped around the waist of the third who had his arm over the shoulder of the fourth. It was kind of sickening, but not in a nauseous, I-wanna-puke-my-guts-out way. More like in an I-feel-really-uncomfortable-in-my-own-skin-right-now-and-want-to-not-be-seeing-this-so-everything-can-go-back-to-normal way.
"Well, you might," I examine him seriously, "So what are we doing?"
"Going to a club? Duh, I thought we covered this like, this afternoon," Kyle crosses his arms and looks supremely satisfied, like a guy who's way too in love with his own ideas.
"Um, isn't that a little gay? Two guys, going alone to a club?"
"Hello, we're in India. It's not like anyone will know," Kyle stresses the last word and then continues, "Besides, I'm not going there with you. We're just going together. Maybe we'll meet some people."
"I don't know."
"Craigggg," he whines, "Come on, it'll be cultural."
"Oh yeah, 'cause that's a compelling argument."
"I bet there will be girls."
"Meh," I snort, thinking if they're anything like the girls I've seen so far, they're not worth my interest.
"Now who's a little gay?" Kyle's eyebrow pierce winks in the light, and he's giving me this look that demands I do what he says.
I frown and concede, "It's not like I have anywhere else to go."
Kyle whoops and hollers and scares off a few Austrian tourists before he says, "I knew you'd cave, loser."
"Sure you did."
I follow him out past palace guards that are really just cleverly disguised bellhops. We flag down an auto rickshaw; up until this afternoon we'd been taking taxis like we were tourists in New York City. Then one of Mrs. Broflovski's gay chickens clues us in that we were being ripped off epically, which I'd kind of suspected all along. So we'd decided to give the deathtraps a try. I'd seen two already overturned on the medians of highways, three men with scrawny muscles bulging trying to put them to rights. Anything running on three wheels other than a tricycle seems fishy to me, but once Kyle haggles the price down to something like three dollars and I'm inside, sitting amongst stickers plastered like wounds over vinyl, I'm feeling good. That is until we hit the first bump and I decide that clinging to Kyle might be the only way to save myself from imminent death.
I'm pretty sure something this small isn't supposed to go so quickly.
"Dude, how to they fit like eight people in these things?" I squeak, recalling earlier that morning when I saw a group packed like a sardine can inside one of these, a clown car in blue and yellow.
"Get a grip, Craig," Kyle says, and I suppose that's supposed to be soothing. Either way I can't catch my breath until we're back on Commercial Street, spots of pale peach, sticking out like sore thumbs.
Kyle leads me up to a nondescript building situated near my favorite Pizza Hut and a store full of knick knacks. We go inside, and there's an elevator that doesn't work and a set of stairs that look like they might lead up to the "Art Gallery" in that movie Hostel.
Sensing my thoughts, Kyle tells me to stop being such a total pussy. I straighten my back, even though I'm not fooling anyone, and follow him up. The closer we get, my ears are assaulted with thumping, pounding remixes of songs I've heard wisps of in the taxis and stores we've visited so far. I can hear people singing along inside, yelling out words that make no sense to me.
We pay a cover fee and get a drink receipt before heading inside.
To be honest, it's not that different from a club back home. There are flashing lights, loud, thumping music, and tons of people. There are a few peculiarities. Most of the people here seem like they're either some kind of Asian or really, really African.
I don't know what's up with that until Kyle leans in close and says, "They're mostly tourists or people here on business. One of the college kids I met earlier told me that they usually go to hookah bars and all night cafes instead of clubs on school nights, so we'll have to check out what it's like on weekends sometime before we leave."
The other huge difference is the smoking. I swear, Kyle must be in hog heaven right now. Everyone's lighting up, cigarette smoke making their silhouettes dance in the flickering light.
We order two Kingfishers, which is pretty much the only beer you can get around these parts for cheap. It costs a mint to get Coronas or Bud. Anyway, the stuff tastes pretty decent, so there's no reason to switch.
Actually, I spend a while trying to get vodka, but the bartender hasn't got any. What kind of bar has no vodka, I demand? Kyle just glares at me.
After about ten awkward minutes, I excuse myself to use the hole in the ground- excuse me, restroom.
When I come back, I get a shock. Kyle's surrounded by a group of girls and guys with saucer eyes, all staring up at him like he's got the secrets of the universe walled up inside him.
He sits there in the middle of the bar, a Kingfisher cradled in one hand and shots lined up next to him, his image reflected in the pupils of all his doting fans.
He's a young god.
He's fucking Bacchus.
Then he crooks his finger at me, beckoning.
The spell's broken.
"Dude, I have no idea what to do with all this," Kyle gestures at his adoring entourage, obviously at a loss, "It's kind of freaking me out."
"Where the hell did they all come from?"
"Oh," he looks kind of sheepish, "I don't know. One of them just started talking to me about home and the rest of them all just kind of…came."
"Looks like you're starting a cult."
"Seriously, Craig. Not funny."
"Well, say something. Dismiss them, like a good king."
"I hate you."
"Nah," I watch as Kyle makes a spectacle of himself trying to leave. One girl asks him to dance, and a boy requests that he describe South Park. They're entranced by his red hair and his too green eyes, and the way his voice gets all high and squeaky when he's nervous. Finally he grabs my arm and tells them all that he's going to dance.
With me.
I'm dragged out to the floor, bemoaning, "Man, not cool. Now they all think we're fags."
"At least they're gone!"
The blood in my veins thrums in time with the music, but I won't move to it. I hate dancing. I always look like an idiot.
Kyle, though. He's kind of good at it. He's moving and winding and grinding up against me, and maybe I'm forgetting for a second that we look gayer than gay.
All around me there are girls with kohl rimmed eyes and black liquid irises, and lips the color of bruised fruit. I don't even notice them because of the way Kyle's dancing.
I manage to snap myself back to reality for a second, "Imagine if our friends saw this."
"We'd never hear the end of it," Kyle comments, bobbing his head, shaking his hips. I stand there like a scarecrow, planted to keep all the curious Bangalore-ians away. Haha, I just thought of a pun. Bang-galore. Get it?
I guess it doesn't have the same ring as Pussy Galore, hunh?
"They're such douchebags."
"They are," Kyle agrees, "Imagine if we never had to go back."
Wait, what?
I grab Kyle's shoulders, stilling him, and say, "Dude, that would rip, hard."
He's watching me, unreadable, and it occurs to me that I really don't know him that well. Three days and a lifetime of being acquainted through school, but nothing solid. Nothing real.
"Would it?"
"What would you do if you never got to see Marsh again? Or McCormick?"
I don't add his third bastard friend, because really, no one considers Eric Cartman a friend.
"I'd survive," he says drily.
"Seriously? I thought you guys were fucking Siamese triplets or something."
"It's complicated."
Okay, so I have this insatiable curiosity. I should have let Broflovski have his peace right then, but instead I went and got myself into trouble.
"Tell me about it."
He crosses his arms, green eyes narrowed, "Craig, no."
"C'mon, Brof. You only live once."
"It's none of your business, asshole."
"I'm making it my business."
"What, so you can gossip about it like a girl to fucking Token and Clyde?"
"I wouldn't do that!" and yeah, maybe I start to get a little pissed. All around me people are singing along to the club music, yelling something out that sounds like 'johnny john!' and swaying. Not exactly primo arguing territory.
That's when this tall, lanky African guy starts dancing up behind Kyle. Now maybe if he'd done it before, I would have understood. When Kyle was twisting his body like some sort of fucking cyclone, I could have almost understood another guy taking it as an invitation.
But he's not dancing now. He's glaring at me, full out, standing rigid. Yet for some reason this tourist guy thinks Kyle's open for ass ramming.
See, I called it; looking gay in public is always a bad thing.
Kyle obviously freaks. He elbows the guy in the gut and backs away, only to have his ass fucking manhandled by this old Indian dude. I can see his eyes grow wide as hell, and I can see him inwardly spontaneously combusting.
Violence is about to abrupt.
Now, since I'm a total pacifist, I flip the old guy off and snatch Kyle right up and out of the club.
Once we're on the street, his face is red, he's breathing hard, and he yells, "What the fuck did you do that for?"
"You were about to whale on some fifty year old, dude."
"So? He grabbed my ass!"
"Whatever," I say dismissively, thinking he shouldn't have done the whole homoerotic dance thing in the first place, "I don't want to get arrested in a third world country. Haven't you ever seen fucking Brokedown Palace?"
I shudder just thinking of what an Indian jail would look like.
"God! You're such a pussy. Sometimes, Craig, you've got to grab life by the balls and just see where it takes you.'
I tilt my head, considering, "Well I think that old guy and the black dude up there want to grab you by the balls."
He's giving me the so-not-funny look again.
Before we can continue the conversation, as if out of my imagination, a cop walks up. The cops in India wear fucking night sticks and carry batons, so they're pretty easy to recognize. He starts yelling at us in an incomprehensible language, waving the stick around like he plans to clonk us on the head. Jesus.
"Shit. We're out past curfew," Kyle mutters, and frantically digs a few rupees out of his pocket, handing them to the cop. Bribing him.
It doesn't work, which I never really thought it would. Kyle then starts panicking, waving down an auto rickshaw and pulling me into it. All the while, the cop keeps yelling.
"What was that about?" I ask once we're moving.
"Curfew. He didn't like our skin. You pick."
"You tried to bribe him. Isn't that like, illegal?"
"Not here. One of my mom's group told me that you can usually bribe the cops enough to get out of anything. I guess I didn't have enough cash."
I whistle, surprised, "Anything? Even murder?"
"It's different here," is all Kyle says.
A couple minutes later he adds, "Parts of the government are corrupt, decaying from the inside out."
That's a lot to digest. I'm suddenly not as enthusiastic about being here. What if something happens? That would screw me right on out of my quiet, peaceful life.
We stop at a stand for chai, or Indian tea, which tastes nothing like what you get at Harbucks. It's more watery, and tastes hella better.
We sit on a brick wall that lines an unpaved road where the chai stand is, staring up at the stars. It's funny, but I can't see very many. I guess Bangalore is more of a city than South Park.
"Chai's pretty good," Kyle comments.
"It'd be better if we could spike it with vodka."
"What is it with you and vodka, man?"
"It's God's nectar," I reply, a snarky grin twisting my lips.
Kyle rolls his eyes, "Seriously?"
"Russians knew their shit; that's all I'm saying."
He gives me this look, the kind where you know the person's just thinking 'uhhhh, what the fuck is wrong with this kid'. I just smirk. I like smirking. It makes me look badass.
Then, out of the blue, he says, "Kenny told me he has a thing for me."
"A thing?" I hold my hands out about six inches apart and say, "This kind of thing?"
I don't know why I'm not flipping out. I'm stunned, sure, but my automatic response is to crack a joke about it.
"He told me he likes me. He wants to…I don't know, date or something."
"Did you tell him you like girls?" I settle back against the wall, sure this is going to be a serious conversation.
Kyle gives me a withering look, and oh.
"So what's the problem then?"
I'm not prepared for what comes next. I'm so so-not-prepared that I nearly fall of the wall when he tells me.
"The problem is…I guess…I like Stan."
"Marsh? You like Marsh?"
"Yeah," Kyle pulls a cigarette carton from his jeans, tapping one out. His hands are shaking.
After two failed attempts at lighting it I pull the thing away, push it between my lips, hold the lighter close, and breathe in. I feel like I'm drowning, dizzy, losing oxygen.
When I finally breathe out again, I say, "Well shit. Aren't you living in a soap opera?"
I guess it was the right thing to say. He half-smiles.
Then he punches me in the arm.
Ow.
A/N: I lied, we have one more chapter in India. I guess I'm kind of liking these five page size ten font single spaced chapters. This setting the scene thing is killing me, but I promise you, there's this one crucial thing that's going to happen next chapter that will directly affect the very end of the story, back in South Park. And no, before anyone asks, Craig and Kyle aren't going to hook up. Oh, and the song that's referenced is 'Pehli Nazar Mein' by Atif Aslam, which was a popular club/summer hit in '08; remixed, at least. I guess that's when I conceived of this story, so that's when I kind of place Kyle and Craig in India. The original version is kind of slow, but feel free to youtube it. Oh, and thanks again for all the reviews so far, and please continue to do so! I really appreciate it!
