"The mistake the two of us made,' I said, 'was that we skimped the foreplay.
I'm not blaming you, it was as much my fault as yours, but it was a fault nonetheless."
― J.M. Coetzee, Summertime
Chapter Thirteen
Bad Connection
The blinding sun of morning had replaced the full moon that had brought about such animalistic behavior in the hours prior. The radiance poured through the thin draperies that were cast over the bedroom window; it showered down upon the tangled mess of limbs that had become of Waylon and Moe. They'd somehow made their way throughout the apartment as their drunken romp reached intensity and had crashed upon the mattress somewhere between climax and orgasm.
Eyelids twitched at the disturbance caused by the light, which Waylon attempted to ignore by turning onto his side to bury his face within a pillow. The soft cushion he had expected through his grogginess, however, wasn't what greeted him; his face nuzzled against a fleshy substance, sprigs of curly hair tickling against his cheek. The scent of musky cologne and spunk infiltrated his nose, and he rose to sit upright. His head throbbed as his mind was seemingly kicking him for the copious amount of alcohol he'd gulped the night before, and a dull ache dashed across the lower portion of his abdomen.
He groaned as he hid his face in the palm of his hands, terrified of the repressed memories of the night that would surely resurface as soon as he peered to the other body in the space next to him.
"Oh God, what happened last night?" The words of shame spoken by so many after nights of lust transitioned into mornings of humiliation.
A cleansing breath attempted to clear away the anxiety that buzzed behind his ribs as Smithers forced himself to lift his head from his hands and face the man he laid with. A glimmer of hope burned like a candle behind his eyes as he hoped that, by some chance, they hadn't crossed boundaries friends should never go beyond. The flicker dimmed as his eyes fell upon the shirtless body of Moe, yet that flame wasn't fully extinguished as he reasoned with himself.
"Okay, so Moe's shirtless in my bed. A lot of guys sleep shirtless…. Please tell me I have clothes on," he muttered as his head lowered in disappoint and embarrassment. His hands trembled as he peeled the ruffled comforter from his body, holding his breath as his eyes were clenched shut in fear. A single eye peered open, his heart unable to handle viewing his own nude figure with both eyes, and glanced downward toward the foot of his bed. "…. Damn."
He lowered the blanket in disgust for himself, attempting to conceal the shame of letting the situation get so out of hand. He shifted toward the other, gazing upon the peaceful face and hesitantly reaching to move a curled strand of hair that swooped across Moe's forehead. Smithers' hand halted as a dull buzzing caught his ear – had the buzz not been accompanied by the familiar whistles of his ringtone, he could have sworn it was the pounding of his heart.
"Shit, what time is it?"
Lisa's legs swung thoughtlessly beneath one of the elongated tables in the school's cafeteria. Her plate of mixed greens and other veggies sat untouched beside her, her focus anywhere but on her lunch. She held a pen tightly within her grasp as she wrote in her log:
Dear Log,
One more spat with Bart and Mom says I won't be able to play in the music parade. I haven't come this far to let my idiot of a brother take that away from me, so I've decided a peaceful protest would be my best approach. Whatever he says, I can't let it get to me – or I can't show that it does anyway. Either way, the flyers Mr. Largo asked me to pass out already have me down as the lead….
But the music parade isn't my only focus; I'm still worried about Mr. Smithers. I haven't heard anything about Mr. Burns' condition or about Mr. Smithers'. I've decided that if I don't hear anything soon, I'm going to use the flyers as an excuse to see them again and, hopefully, get some more news.
Her writing carried her along the current of her thoughts, which ebbed deeper within her subconscious and left her surroundings to fizzle away. The words flowed freely from her hand as her chin rested upon the other, and with each letter her awareness of her cramping hand and the fingers snapping in front of her face faded.
"Lisa," Bart called calmly for the final time, his temper near to burst. "Lisa! Hello, Earth to Lis-ss-s-a!"
"Huh?"
"Jeez, I was starting to think we lost you forever," her brother teased as he set his plate in the space opposite her. He took his seat, taking a bite out of the grease-laden pizza on his plate as he spoke, soggy crumbs flinging across the table, "so, what are you writing there? More stuff about your boy-yy-yfriend Mr. Smithers."
Lisa scoffed as she slammed her log shut after brushing the soggy crust from its pages, "it's not like that, Bart!"
"Then what is it like, huh?"
"It's complicated."
"Complicated is a math test, Lis, not Mr. Smithers," Bart retorted with a chuckle. "Well, he's complicated alright, but that's not what I mean."
"Really, Bart, a jab at his sexuality?" The young girl grumbled as she rolled her eyes, clutching the bridge of her nose as she continually reminded herself not to be confrontational. "Look, if you leave me alone, I promise I'll explain everything after school."
Her brother's face lit with skepticism as he jutted out his pinky finger and curled it toward her, "pinky-swear."
"Alright, alright."
Their pinkies locked in a tight grip with each other as their promise was passed between them. A simple pinky-swear was supposed to hold the weight of the world – yet Lisa considered it more of a "boy thing" to make such childish gestures to seal a vow.
Smithers felt his innards inching up his throat as he reached for his phone. The digital numbers on the screen proving that it was well past noon; but that wasn't the number that concerned him; no, that number hovered above the tiny emoticon of a reel of tape – eight new voicemails.
The number hooked its circular ovals about Waylon's neck, squeezing against his Adam's apple until it was near to burst. He swallowed, his fingers hesitantly scanning over the screen to open the voicemails. The icon intimidated him, hungrily staring him down as his reflection upon the screen proved his terror. Suddenly, much to his dismay, the icon vanished and an incoming call flashed upon the screen, showing the same number that had tried to reach him at the bar.
"Oh God, oh God..." He panicked as sweat beaded upon his brow and he answered the call. "H-hello?"
"Smithers!" A sharp, distant yell from the other end of the phone. "Oh, give me that, you bumbling quack!" Burns shouted as his fragile wrist gained the strength to repeatedly snatch at the phone that Dr. Hibbert held.
"Mr. Burns, please calm down," Hibbert beseeched with that playful snicker booming from his chest, "don't want us to have to redo that IV again, do you?"
"Hmmph, if you knew what you were doing, you would have gotten it right the first time," the elder grumbled through a scowl as his arms folded upon his chest.
"Well, in all fairness, you ripped it out fiddling with that remote you've got there."
Smithers barked impatiently into the phone as his eyes stared dully upon the slumbering bartender, "could you hurry it up? Ugh, I'm sorry; it's just been a long night. D-did you need something?"
"Why, yes, Smithers," Burns interjected as he shouted to be heard, "I did need something – you here three hours ago! It's one in the afternoon, you lazy, no-goo-,"
"Oh-ho-kay," the doctor coughed to cover up the insensitive ramblings and placed a hand over the speaker to block out anything other than his voice, "well, as you can tell, Mr. Burns here is a little cranky. He's been asking for you all morning; honestly, I'm shocked you didn't answer the first time we called."
"Uh, yeah, I was a little… tied up."
Before the conversation had time to advance, Waylon felt a stir ripple from one side of the mattress to the other, signaling that Moe was awake.
"Da hells am I?"
"Shush!" Smithers rudely shushed the other as he clamped the palm of his hand over the phone. He glared with eyes as sharp as daggers as they examined the other and slapped a hand gingerly against Moe's thigh. He shouted in a whisper, the words sliding through his teeth, "I'm on the phone! I'll explain all this later, just please be quiet right now."
"Aw geez, did we-?"
"Later!"
Hibbert's brow arched in confusion as he failed to regain the attention of his patient's assistant. He awkwardly chuckled as he purposelessly shook his phone as though it were a fault in the signal.
"Uh, Waylon, are you there?" The doctor chortled with a twinge of nervousness as the sounds of Burns' incessant cries of fury flung about the room. "…. Hello?"
Waylon snapped out of the hung over trance he'd been drawn into, his eyes darting away from the stark-naked man beside him and to his own feet that hung shamefully toward the floor. He sighed heavily as his response came as a frustrated groan, "y-yeah, I'll be right there. Just… just give him something to make him sleep until I get there."
The phone call had ended many moments prior, leaving that awkward "morning after" cloud hanging overhead. The two men sat propped against the headboard of Waylon's bed, their lower halves so modestly covered in stark contrast to how brutally exposed they'd been the night prior. How ironic it was that they'd been so careless and had so freely exposed themselves to one another, and so easily ravaged each other's bodies only hours before, and yet when light reveals what happens in the dark, they stay silent. What had been so erratically done in the dark was dropped to a faint pulse when held to the light – and embarrassment was all that remained of a night of drunken passion.
"S-so's," Moe coughed in an attempt to shatter the silence that kept them both frozen upon the bed, "Burns' pretty mad at youse, huh?"
"Really, Moe?"
"What?"
"What?" Smithers scoffed as the frustration he harbored toward himself lashed out against the other. "We had sex – that's what! How could I let this happen? How could you let this happen?"
The bartender's eyes widened as a blend of resentment and shock danced upon the stage of his pupils. He sneered as the comment sorely offended him, "hey, I didn't hears youse complain' last night! Don't even try to pin dis on me, Waylon; dat was just as much yo' fault as it was mine."
Smithers heaved a heavy breath as he clambered out of the bed, snatching the sheet to cover himself, not caring about leaving Moe with the shame of his nudity sprawled upon the bed.
"I don't have time for this; I have to take a shower and get to the hospital, and you have to get out of here."
"C'mon, Waylon, don't be dat way…."
A fear – a true, raw panic – of having ruined a budding friendship with one night of beers and scotch and a loveless romp left Moe an emotional mess, which he refused to show as he stood from the bed. He trailed behind the taller man's footsteps, stepping on the bottom of the sheet in a successful attempt to stop Waylon in his tracks.
"Look, it was stupid, yeah," the barkeep muttered as he wrapped his arms about the other's muscular waist, "but it didn't mean nothin's – youse know, just like dat kiss back at city council. We can just forget dat it happened and move on, right? Just like we's did befo'?"
Weakened by the whispers and the sentiment, Waylon slightly collapsed into Moe's grasp.
"I-it can't happen again."
"In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart.
And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you'll never see again."
― Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders