A Bit Like That
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Lake. To my left. Blue. Twilight blue, like on the dark side of the horizon.

Red. To my right. Fraser. Red as the blood beating in my ears, backup vocals to his voice.

His voice. Sometimes, I just hear it. Other times, many other times -- most other times -- I listen. Not to the words.

To the sound.

Deep, but not too deep. Clear. Perfect pronunciation.

Soft, sometimes. But with a rough edge. Or is it rough, with a soft edge?

Don't. Just don't.

But, yeah. Soft. And rough.

Possibilities, vague ones, always come to me, cruising south on north Lake Shore Drive, Fraser riding shotgun.

Possibilities I never do anything about.

They've gotten more detailed and less vague lately.

But still they're only possibilities. Possibilities he knows nothing about.

Usually, with me, possibilities means impossibilities.

In this case, that's probably best.

Don't. Just don't.

"...and the raven said to the caribou..."

The voice stops.

"Ray? Are you listening?"

"Mmmm-hmmmm."

"Ah."

That little 'ah' should annoy me, but it doesn't. I'm in that place, that cool place that I can sometimes go. But only when I'm alone with him.

Half-in, half-out of my head. Body relaxed. Guard down... mostly. Not drowsy... but a bit like that. Not horny... but a bit like that. Not in love... but...

A bit like that.

"I'll just leave you to your thoughts, then," his voice returns. Gentle. With the ghost of a smile. Soft.

If I could touch it, it would be suede. And dark blue, like the lake on one of those partly cloudy, windy days. Like his eyes are sometimes.

Suede. But not that silky imported Italian stuff. More like you'd expect on the Marlboro Men. Just wrap it around me. That voice. Soft. But rough, too. Just rough enough to always break into my concentration, get my attention. Rough like I imagine his hands would be from living up in the Great White North, choppin' his own wood. They'd be rough... but he'd use 'em softly on me.

If only.

I shift a little in my seat. We're coming down to the curve. Where you used to be able to see the big, white Playboy bunny lit up over the Drake hotel, years back -- back when the S curve was really an S, and a bad place to be in snow or rain or when drunk or -- worst-case -- all three at the same time. Fish-tail... try to get control... turn the wheels into the direction you're sliding into... makes no sense but it works...

The bunny's been gone for a while, though. When they sold the building to DePaul and they made it into dorms. And now part or all of it's the Knickerbocker hotel. They were gonna name a street after Hefner the other day -- one of those honorary street names. 'Til that alderman -- a minister, too -- killed it. Wonder if the guy who originally proposed it got it back on the table at the council meeting? I didn't watch the news last night.

Bye-bye, bunny. Hello, Mountie.

Move. Lips. Open. Mouth. Speak.

"Sorry, Frase. I was listening... just not to the words exactly."

Don't say anything else, Ray. Don't ruin it. Just... leave it at that.

"Ray, for some strange reason, I believe you."

Suede again. The little tension that seeped into my body drains from it.

"Because I'm telling the truth."

"I'm sure you are," he answers. How can something be clear and soft at the same time? And be soft and rough?

Possibilities hang, like moisture, like fog, between us in the car. Hang.

And then slowly disperse.

"As I was saying... the raven then said to the caribou..."

Tune out specifics. Words: unnecessary. But the sound? The tone, the feel -- his voice, my eardrums... hell, my whole body.

Words? Whatever. Sound: need.

Engine rumble and purr, up through the seat under my butt, through my feet on the floor, up through the steering wheel into my hands.

Blacktop vibration under the tires turning fast under the car makes the car hum at a certain low pitch.

And the sound of his voice. It goes good with all the rest.

Too bad you can't close your eyes and drive. That would make these trips south on north Lake Shore Drive just about heaven.

But I don't need to close my eyes to see what I want to see. I can see it, and see the street, see the lake out of the corner of my eye -- and the red on my right out of the corner of my other eye.

And picture him. Picture him doing not what his words say, but what his voice feels like, when it's coming to me across the front seat.

He'd be strong. Bigger, more solid than me. Like he is, physically. Or even vocally. If I listen to my voice, especially after listening to him talk, I realize how thin and flat it sounds.

And still he talks to me, clueless as to what I'm really thinking.

Want. Need. Don't let myself have. Can't even let myself try.

Why? Because this is as perfect as it can get. This I can take with me, this I hold in my mind. It's there when my eyes close at night, but I don't fall asleep right away. It's there when I close my eyes for a sec at work. There before I open my eyes when I wake up in the morning.

Him. His voice. His sound. Sitting next to me, so fine, in the front seat of my car.

Gets too much, sometimes. Wanna let it out. Wanna let him know. Not sayin' that's smart... just sometimes it gets too much. Not telling anyone -- it gets hard sometimes.

Huh-duh. It's half-hard all the time, when I'm with him... but that's another story.

Difficult, is what I meant. It gets difficult sometimes. Feeling like this, and not being able to tell anyone. And of course, the first person I'd want to tell is him, because he's the only one I can really talk to -- since Stella, the only one I really have talked to.

But he's not the one to tell about this stuff.

Every once in a while, I look over at him, and nod, and he keeps talkin'. About the raven and the caribou. 'Cept now there's a bunch more caribous and ravens. I think.

Wasn't really paying real close attention, though. At least, not to his words.

You turn the wheels in the direction you're sliding in... Oh, if only that worked in situations outside of driving...

But you straighten your wheels. And you're both back in your seats exactly like you were before you started slip-sliding.

The only way to get totally knocked outta your seat, 'course, is to keep sliding.

But that won't happen. Because I know how to drive. I drive very, very well. This car is never out of my control, even in bad weather.

Sometimes wish it was outta my control, though.

But it's not. So I settle for driving all over the damn city, even when I don't have to, don't need to. Just so I can listen to him. Driving more than I probably have in my life.

We get to be alone together that way. Well, with Dief, but I get a warm vibe from him, too.

We're alone together, but with me and my attention occupied.

Not that much attention is required. I can be on autopilot all the way from Hollywood down to Grant Park. I know this because I have done it more times than I can count, and only remembered one thing (everything else in my mind goes into making movies ...of him ...with me)...

His voice. Hands. Mouth. Soft. Rough. Suede. Gentle. Persistent.

I slit my eyes... let the possibilities flow, see-through, across my view of the street, the skyline, the dashboard, the front hood.

They'll never happen. Impossible.

But so damn good to conjure up, while his voice is strokin' over my senses.

It fits, you know? Fits right in, with the sounds of the GTO on the Drive, the sounds of the engine, the sounds I'd be makin' if...

Nah...

Lake. To my left.

Red. To my right.

And Fraser's furry voice strokin' over my senses, in my ears with my blood, soothing my body, relaxing... possibilities...

*want* Soft. Rough. *need* Suede. Clear. *must* Strong. Gentle. *have*

*secret*

*damn*

Not sad. But a bit like that.



end
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Soundtrack: repeatedly listening to RealAudio samples from Moby's The Sky Is Broken (used recently to great effect in the X-Files episode "all things").