The Secret of Life
"Beer."
He glanced up from his half-empty glass, eyes somewhat crossed but still functioning, "What?"
"Beer, man. The secret of life."
Mild disbelief touched him; he felt fairly sure that such a vaunted secret had nothing to do with hops and barley. "Only an alcholic would say that."
He laughed, "And who do you think you're sitting with?"
"The secret of life," He said, "Is...good work." He said thoughtfully. Thought was his enemy; if it wasn't, he would have been born an accountant.
Brock, frankly, didn't even know the man's name. His attention centered around the notion that he was standing in the middle of his smokey, dilapadated bar, not quite knowing yet what was what. This wasn't the gay bars of his first experiences, brightly lit and filled with happy, dancing boys. Now, he tried to figure out how the fuck he was supposed to recognize his blind date. Paul hadn't given him much of a description to go on, describing a blond, stocky, with piercing eyes, scarred up; in the business. Just out of a relationship. That described half of the men he knew.
Couple of guys sittin' around drinkin'
Down at the Starlight Bar
One of 'em says, "You know I've been thinking"
Other one says, "That won't get you too far"
He had consumed a shot or two, attempting to quell his panic. Then that big, blond drunk plopped down on the stool adjacent to his and started talking.
"Kid, do you even know who the fuck I am?"
Brock, in all honesty, did not. He understood that the guy had some sort of fame in their chosen professional field, but he really wasn't a student of the business.
Then the guy, with a somewhat wicked smirk, grabbed the beer can he had just purchased and smashed it, rappidly, against his forehead, drawing blood and spraying brew across the bar.
Brock held his foccus, trying not to panic like a moron, but, well, that was the most unusual thing that had ever happened to him during a date in his life. And he had spent an evening at an art museum with Jeff Hardy.
The guy daubed the small rivet of blood from his forehead and grinned. "Look familiar now?"
He says, "This is your life, and welcome to it
It's just workin' and drinkin' and dreams
Ad on TV says 'Just Do It'
Hell if I know what that means"
"No. Did you hurt yourself?"
The blond's fuzzy gaze refoccused, "Huh? I do this every damn night of my life." He tapped the bleeding area and then plucked a napkin from the bar, "My forhead's numb. Want me to prove it? You can stick a nail file right through the skin..."
"No thanks," Suddenly, rationality dawned within Brock's mind, "Let me guess: you worked for ECW?"
He tapped the bar, "You're a genius, kid."
"Oh, I only guessed; Paul likes to talk about the company all of the time. I was too busy training for my amature career to pay much attention to the business..."
"Paul talks all of the time. He told me that the kid he set me up with is a good one."
Cold sweat, "Yeah, I guess."
"And that kid is you, isn't it?"
Brock nodded, "Brock."
The blond held out his hand, "Jim. Jim Fullington."
Brock blinked, "The guy who got banned in Jersey?"
"Yeah, but the commitee's filled with asswipes..." He trailed off, "I need some music that doesn't sound like it's being puked out of a cow's cunt..." He ambeled off to the jukebox, and as someone shouted at him for cutting off Faith Hill, Brock hailed the bartender.
"Can you cut him off?"
The girl standing behind the counter gave him a look of complete incredulity, "Cutting off my left hand would be a smarter idea."
Apparently, the woman had dealt with his date before, "What can I expect?"
The girl smiled, "Jim's a nice guy. He's even a nice drunk. Don't worry, he's not mean."
"Good."
"Just crazy."
That wasn't so good. But he smiled invitingly as a Deep Purple riff blasted from the jukebox.
"Wanna dance?"
He supposed he did; the tips of his cowboy boots were lined with metal. Surprise filtered down his spine when they began a slow dance to the mid-tempo tune.
He never imagined that he would dance to "Smoke On The Water" while wrapped in the arms of a man, but it made a surprisingly appealing reality. Jim bounced lightly on his feet, not even once crushing his toes.
"Where did you learn to dance?" Brock asked, mindful of the strange picture the two of them must've made.
He shrugged, "My old boyfriend loved dancing. Classical dancing, actually. Waltzes, shit like that."
Brock had been avoiding the subject of that boyfriend, and it was odd to have Jim address the man's existance out of the blue, "Ahh..we don't have to talk about him, if you don't want to."
"Nope; time for me to start living on today." He sighed, as the song stopped and they resumed their positions at the bar; instantly, Faith Hill resumed her warbling, but Jim was too involved in explaining himself to care, "Scotty's doing it, why can't I?"
"Scotty? Scott Levy?"
"Yeah; we broke up a month ago; he wanted his 'personal space'." He actually curled his fingers into quotation marks, "He loved that psychobabble shit. I still find self-help books all over the appartment."
Brock smiled, "You spend a lot on shipping charges."
"Nope. Still lives in the same building. With his girlfriend."
"Shit; who'd he dump you for?"
"Oh, some rat; liked the way she sucked dick," He shrugged, "Don't date someone who's bi and get attached. Someone should've told me that when I was fresh out of the closet."
"You and me, we're just a couple of zeros
Just a couple of down-and-outs
But movie stars and football heroes
What have they got to be unhappy about?"
Brock shrugged, "Good. Not in my plan to get emotionally involved with anyone."
"mmm..." Said Jim, quietly; his expression serious, "That's what I said to myself." He shrugged, "Anyway, you eaten?"
Brock nodded.
"Want to go see a movie?"
He shook his head, "I have to be back home by one. Flying out at six tomorrow."
"You have a curfew?" Jim smirked, "Cute."
"Well, it isn't a cerfew, really, when you set it yourself," Brock pointed out. Jim laughed.
"It's still cute. Almost as cute as Helms and his braces. He and Shannon can send a person into sugar shock."
"We should double with the two of them sometime. They make a person feel very sane."
Jim laughed, his hand brushing Brock's accidentally. A warmth stroked it's way up Brock's spine, and his eyes widened.
Jim coughed, "Yeah. Sane."
Brock smiled. "I'm not a good flirt, so maybe we should just cut through the crap." He moved closer to Jim, tasting the whisky upon his breath, "Go ahead and kiss me."
Jim was kind enough not to laugh in his face. And to kiss him, right in the middle of this stagnant, very straight but very empty bar.
It was a nice kiss; unmannered, touched with drink and inexperience on Brock's part. But sexy, shockingly sexy. His hands found a soft spot on Jim's worn, stained teeshirt and clutched, trying to find some balance. He was aware that his fresh new black shirt was being stained in a greasy grip, but he didn't mind.
When they separated, Jim wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
"My place," Said Brock.
The secret of life is gettin' up early
The secret of life is stayin' up late
The secret of life is try not to hurry
But don't wait
Don't wait
"OK." Jim said, surprised at his own willingness to be lead.
They leapt off of their stools, clearing their tab with the bartender swiftly.
"Ever done it in a car?"
"No. And I don't think your back could stand it."
"Good point, kid. Good point."
And as the rust-brown door swung open, spitting them out onto Third Street, Brock smiled like a wise, elevated soul.
Faith Hill, or her innumerable backup crew, were right.
The secret of life is nothin' at all