Two voices cut through Ryan's silent introspection. One was soft and fairly aristocratic, with an almost musical tone to it; or a whisper of accent Ryan couldn't place.
The other was classic eastern accent, not unlike the voices Ryan would expect to hear back home. He raised his head out of his hands, half curious and half annoyed by the interruption.
A painfully thin old man in a slate grey slacks and a matching suit coat was making his way up the park. At his heel followed a heavyset man in jeans and a polo shirt. The thin man was talking nonstop about something, Ryan couldn't make out. Something about art, or politics, or maybe both. It didn't matter.
The heavyset fellow panted behind, trying to keep up, periodically wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. Both men had similar features, especially the blue eyes and hawk-like nose.
The thin man was ranting in an animated way. "But then I told Wesley he was a fool for thinking that an unscripted line would be worth more than a few thousand. The man's an idiot, to be sure, but he knows how to wrap aldermen around his wrist like a cheap watch," the thin man remarked as he lightly ascended the steps.
His stout companion put a hand on the guardrail beside Ryan, pausing to catch his breath. "Hey," he panted breathlessly, "wait up…" His words were more a breathy whisper.
The thin man never looked back. He bounded easily up the stairs, continuing his tirade about whoever Wesley was. A few more steps, and he was gone from sight, leaving the garden and his companion behind.
The man leaning on the guardrail wiped his face and looked sadly in the direction the thin man had gone. He glanced at Ryan, gave an exhausted and apologetic smile, then started up the stairs. He only made it a few steps before his head snapped up like a dog's. He looked back at Ryan, took another step up while looking over his shoulder, and paused.
Ryan did not enjoy the man's eyes on him. He scowled, and folded his arms across his chest. What do you want? he asked with his eyes.
The stout man took one last look up the stairs, then clumped heavily back down. "Hey! Hey you!"
Ryan gestured to himself. He glanced around hoping there might be someone else this man was talking to. Alas, he was the only one in sight. He pursed his lips. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," the man replied. He pointed a thick finger at Ryan. "You on the bench." He walked, perhaps waddled, over to Ryan and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. "Yeah, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like my dad? Well, not my dad dad, my dad's husband. I call him Pop-pop."
Ryan pressed himself as far against the other end of the bench as he could. "No," he replied curtly. "No one's said that at all. Look, I should get going." He started to rise.
The stout man shook his head. "Hey, don't leave. I'm telling ya you do. You look just like him, well with longer hair and it's black, and you're a lot younger… but anyhow yeah: you look just like him. Here!" The man reached into his wallet and fished out a photo. He held it out to Ryan.
Ryan recoiled slightly, lip curling in a sneer.
"C'mon," the man prodded. "It's a photo, not a snake."
Fine, Ryan thought. Expression surly, he reached out and gingerly took the photo from the man's hand.
The face looking back at him might as well have been his own. Well, his own in twenty years. The same jawline and cheekbones, same deep eyes, except the man in the photo had brown eyes instead of hazel.
"Tell me that doesn't look like you! Why, it's uncanny ain't it? Weird coincidence and all, but I thought you'd get a kick out of it." The man made a grabbing motion, and Ryan passed the photo back in stunned silence. The man stuffed it unceremoniously into his wallet and pushed himself heavily to his feet. "Well, I probably better get going now. Nice to meetcha. Great chatting with you by the way."
He started up the stairs.
"Wait," Ryan croaked, finally able to find his voice. "Where are you going?"
The man paused. "Oh, me and my dad are staying at the Aqua Tower, right up there." He gestured to the street above. "I tried to get him to join me for drinks, they got a great bar, but he'd rather talk some business stuff with some guy." The man shrugged. "It's all over my head, I tell you. Like the top of that tower over my head. So, I'm gonna sit at the bar. Maybe make friends with a girl named 'Martini,' and olive her friends." The man grinned. "Get it? Olive her friends? All of her friends?" He laughed at his own joke.
Ryan didn't find it particularly funny, or clever. He folded his arms tighter across his chest. "Huh," he grunted.
"Hey? You seem pretty cool! You should join me there! You're a great conservationist, and I'm loving this chat."
"'Conversationalist,'" Ryan corrected.
The man snapped his fingers. "See? That, right there! You're smart like my dads. We should hang out. Come on, my name's Larry. Larry Burns. I'll buy ya a round and we can put it on my dad's tab. Unless you've got someplace to go or something."
Ryan stared into Larry's blithely innocent face. The man was either already drunk… or an idiot. Ryan wasn't sure which. But that photo! There resemblance was uncanny. At the very least, he'd be able to use that fake ID he'd gotten from Mitty, get a drink or two, and dig for information.
Finding his father had never been something Ryan wanted to do. Since childhood he swore he'd never give the man who abandoned his mother a moment of his time. This, well, this was different, right? It wasn't like he was searching out information on his father. Hell, the guy in the photo couldn't be his father anyhow. He must be ancient by now if he had a son as old as Larry.
He's not my dad, so it'll all be okay, Ryan reasoned. He looked at Larry as innocently as he could. "One drink, then I should probably be going."
Larry reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! You're not going to regret this!"
"I hope not," Ryan replied honestly. He stood up, brushed himself off, and dropped into step beside Larry.
"So what's your name anyhow?" Larry asked as they made their way up to the street level.
"Ryan."
"Just Ryan?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Larry shrugged. "Well, most people I met got a last name too. Not Oprah or Prince, but they got funny first names so it's not like they need a last name." Larry's blue eyes regarded Ryan. The man clearly meant no harm, but the expression on his face implied it he would not give up the topic until he got an answer.
Ryan sighed and relented. "Smithers. My last name is Smithers."
Larry paused then laughed. "Hey, that's wild! That's my dad's last name too! What a coincidence. What are the odds I'd meet someone with that last name here? Actually, they're probably pretty good. It's a common last name, like Smith. That's the most common last name in the world. Pretty good odds, right? Hey, but you got me talking too much again. Come on, I'll buy you that drink. Maybe it's fate I find someone who looks like my dad, eh?"
Ryan shrugged. When it came to common last names, he didn't know. Nor did he care. His mind was elsewhere. Coincidence, yes; a random occurrence, of course. But fate? Some sort of grand design? Ryan considered himself agnostic at best. Probably a straight atheist. An idea like "fate" was not something Ryan put much stock in.
Ryan followed Larry wordlessly. The man had lapsed into a merciful silence. It seemed like anything Larry thought, he said. Ryan surmised the man must've been born without a filter between his mind and his mouth.
For a quiet person like Ryan, it was a bit much. If he hadn't been so curious about the photo he never would've stomached Larry's company. That photo, he thought, it looks like me. But that doesn't mean anything. There was some guy on the internet who looked like a famous singer. The singer's name was Timberlake. The man called himself "Timberfake," and enjoyed pretending to be a celebrity. Or something like that. Ryan wasn't sure.
Along with ideas like fate, celebrities were not something Ryan was interested in.
Larry paused at the top of the stairs, then crossed a busy street and followed the sidewalk left. Ryan found the man's rolling gait to be surprisingly brisk on level ground. Apparently, Larry's bulk only slowed him down on the stairs. Ryan quickened his stride.
"Where are we going?" he asked, coming to beside Larry.
"Blu," replied Larry. "Me and my dad are staying there. He got himself a real nice room here at the hotel. He got one for me, but it's not as nice as his. Still, a place to stay is a place to stay, right? Beats sleeping underground." He pointed to a ramp in the street, a part of the road itself. It cut down under the avenue they walked along.
Ryan paused, and peered over the edge. "There's another street below us?"
Larry laughed. "There's like two levels below us! We're walking on the upper crust of society, literally. Feels pretty swanky when you think about it that way."
They came to an intersection, and Ryan paused at the crosswalk.
Larry tugged his arm. "No, we're turning here. That place. See?"
Ryan resisted the urge to pull away from Larry's touch. The gesture had been innocent enough, but he didn't like it. He took a polite step back, and looked in the direction Larry was pointing.
In the sea of towering buildings, one stuck out among the rest. The building had an oddly graceful and layered look, unique from the surrounding buildings. Gleaming white balconies, sculpted in curves extended at different lengths from its side. In some areas, there were none, the reflective window glass creating the illusion of pools. It had a very organic nature.
The tower reminded Ryan of a paper sculpture, rather than a tower of glass, concrete, and steel. The very aesthetic appealed to Ryan's love of nature and urban. A blend of the two that he'd never seen before. He stood, as if transfixed by the sheer artistry.
"Yeah, funny looking isn't it," Larry observed.
Ryan shook his head. "No. It's beautiful." He looked at Larry for affirmation.
Larry raised a single eyebrow and shook his head. "Whatever you say, Ryan. Different strokes for different folks, I guess." He resumed walking. "My dad's got himself a room, it's bigger than my house! I mean, the man's rich. He's got himself a walk in mailbox at home, and I think his place comes with its own zip code. It's the biggest house on Mammon Drive. You can't miss it. Me? I'm tryin' to learn the family business."
"So you're staying here?"
Larry nodded as they approached the lobby. "Yeah, but I just got a basic room. My dad said he'd make sure I had a room, but it's about the size of the closest in his. That's okay. It might be smaller than my house, but it's probably nicer, right? I mean, my house is so small the front door and the back door are on the same hinge!"
Ryan made a face. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It's a joke. I kid! But seriously, my wipe dropped a towel the other day, and it was like wall to wall carpet! Small, I tell ya. Real small."
Ryan was beginning to regret accepting Larry's offer for drinks. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stomach the terrible jokes. If it wasn't for that photo, he wouldn't still be talking to the man. He followed Larry down to a spacious sunken patio at the foot of the tower that opened into a bar through a wide entryway. A sliding door was set recessed into a slot at the end. The sounds of the street above followed him in.
The bar itself was significantly more upscale than anything Ryan had ever seen; not that, being underage, he'd been to many bars anyhow. The floor was a swirled pattern of black and white mosaic tiles. A row of spacious booths lined one wall, wide and inviting. The tables themselves were glass-topped, and filled inside with golden lightbulbs.
There was a central row of high-top tables, with gleaming silver chairs spaced at even intervals.
The bar itself went for a minimalist modern-art design. The back was angled tiles, jutting from the walls in a way that looked decidedly futuristic. Not overdone, not like science fiction, but very modern. The room itself was not overly bright. Most of the illumination came indirectly from under-lighting at the floor level. A few amber glass lamps hung from the ceiling, but they provided as much for atmosphere as illumination.
Larry sidled up to the bar and hefted himself into one of the chairs.
Ryan sat down next to him. His heart beating faster than normal. The sign by the entrance made it perfectly clear that people less than twenty-one were not to be in this establishment. He tried to look natural, and hoped his fake ID worked.
Larry ordered a beer, and grinned when it came.
The bartender asked Ryan what he wanted.
The young man froze.
Larry peered at him curiously. "What, cat got your tongue? You were downright chatty all afternoon."
"No I wasn't," Ryan snapped back.
Larry shrugged. "He'll have a gin and tonic."
The bartender smiled in a patronizing way. "And I'll need to see some ID."
Ryan fished out his wallet and handed the man the license Mitty had made. Ryan Smithers. Twenty-two years old. From Pennsylvania. His stomach was beginning to tie itself into a knot.
The bartender gave Ryan's identification a thorough look-over, then shrugged and handed it back to him. Ryan breathed a sigh of relieve, the tension in his guts relaxing.
"How come you didn't card me?" Larry asked, grinning.
The bartender gave him a patient look. Clearly, this wasn't the first time Larry had asked that recently. "I'm fairly certain, sir, that you're at least of age."
Larry ran a stubby hand through his grey hair. "Yeah, maybe. But what about my ego?"
"Would it make you feel better if I looked at your ID?"
Larry shrugged. "Nah. You don't need to."
The bartender gave him a smile, the forced pleasantries of one who had grown tired of Larry's antics some time ago. Ryan could sympathize. His gin and tonic arrived, and he sipped it tentatively. It was tart, refreshing, rather bitter but in a good way. He decided, right then, that he liked gin and tonics. Larry was busy looking over a food menu. Eventually he settled on a plate of fried calamari. "You like calamari?"
Ryan had to admit he'd never had it.
Larry assured him he'd love it.
Ryan poked at the lime in his drink with a straw, and mulled over his words. He tended to be a very frank individual. No one would ever accuse Ryan of beating around the proverbial bush when it came to addressing an issue. On the flip side, he'd learned that sometimes, patience and tact had a place as well. He was burning to ask Larry to tell him more about the man in the photo. Torn between the need for answers, and the desire to broach the topic carefully.
Finally, he relented. "So, Larry, tell me about your dad."
It turned out to be easier than Ryan expected.
Getting Larry to talk was like putting butter on bread. The calamari arrived and Larry happily rambled on. Unfortunately, he had the unpleasant habit of talking with his mouth full, but Ryan got the gist.
Larry lived out east. He admitted to having a wife and two kids, and a rich father who lived out east. "My dad's a sweet guy, a real pussycat," Larry crowed between mouthfuls. "He takes care of us all real good-like."
"I thought you said he had a swanky room for himself, and a small one for yourself."
Larry rolled his shoulders. "Yeah, but so what? I mean, it's not like we're equals or anything."
Ryan thought of his own mother, and his shoulders stiffened. Throughout everything, she'd always made sure Ryan was taken care of at least as well as she took care of herself. Ryan and his mother? They'd been a team. He looked out for her, and she looked out for him. That was how it was supposed to be. And now? No one was looking out for him anymore. Ryan felt a hot ball of sorrow lodge in his throat. He was alone. He took a sip of his gin and tonic, and tried to wash the feeling away. Why did it always catch him like that?
Ryan realized the endless drone of Larry's chatter had gone silent. He looked up.
Larry was looking at him, blue eyes gentle and concerned. "You okay?" Larry asked.
Ryan nodded with as much conviction as he could muster. "I'm fine. But I'm confused. You said you had two dads?"
Larry's eyes brightened. "Yeah! Ain't that a piece of work! See my dad, Pop, he had this guy who worked for him. He treated him nice enough. Almost as good as he treats me. Then, last summer, they got married." Larry laughed. "Who've thunk it? I go from having no mom and no dad to having two dads." He stuffed another calamari ring in his mouth. "Just goes to show you that life can be unpredictable."
Ryan's mind was temporarily distracted from the photo. "No mom?" he repeated.
"Yeah. I grew up in an orphanage. Pop told me he loved my mom, but her parents didn't want a scandal, so they sent her to a convent and me to the orphanage. Nice people, right?" He paused, then flagged the bartender down for a second beer. "But then one day, I see this guy on a train, and he looks just like the old photo of my father that they'd sent me to the orphanage with. Right. See, they said my parents were both dead, but then there's this guy who looks like my dad and he's very much alive."
Larry fished a second photo out of his wallet. It was a sepia print, a much younger version of the man Larry had been huffing along behind just a few short hours ago.
"He was there with this guy," Larry removed the now-familiar photo of the man with spikey grey hair and round-rimmed glasses. "And this guy was halfway in the bottle. But he's not usually like that. He drinks less than I do."
Larry set the two pictures on the bar top and slid them over to Ryan.
"Anyhow, so I guess they're you know, that sort of people. They got married. Me and my wife and kids came out for the wedding. It was really nice. They had good food, and I got to see my old buddy Homer again. So it was good."
The polished stone bar was as good as a mirror. Ryan looked at his face, side by side with the man in the photograph. They could've practically been brothers… or father and son.
"What did you say his name was again?" Ryan asked, tapping the photo.
"Oh, Pop-pop? His name's Waylon Smithers. He worked for my dad, and then I guess things just kinda happened between them. Weird to me, but I don't ask questions." Larry scooped up the photos. "I probably wouldn't understand the answers anyway." He folded them back into his wallet.
The ice had mostly melted in Ryan's gin and tonic. He didn't mind. He'd never been drinking before aside from sips of beer he'd shared with Mitty. This was different, stronger. He didn't want to make a fool of himself. Ryan savored his mostly-water gin and tonic, prodded the now mushy lime thoughtfully.
"Your dads… what do they do?"
"Well, Pop runs a nuclear power plant in Springfield, North Tacoma. Pop-pop worked for him, but now they're both running the plant." Larry puffed his chest with pride. "My family's been running nuclear power plants since my great-grandfather Wainwright. It's in my blood. I'm hoping to take over the family business someday. That's why I was out here. Meeting with people and getting cultured." Larry chuckled. "Heh, cultured. Like yogurt." He put up a hand. "Hey, barkeep, how about another round over here?"
Ryan glanced at Larry's glass. It was empty already. Hadn't the man just ordered a refill moments ago? Before he could even object, Ryan's glass was whisked away, and a fresh drink put in front of him. Not wanting to seem rude, or like an amateur, he took a sip.