Glimmering

Refuse bumped up against the boat. From somewhere onshore echoed music, guitar chords churned by bad radio reception or shitty boom box into something almost indecipherable; but Martin realized that he did know it—Sonic Youth, “The Sprawl.”

He did laugh, then. Because just when you think it can never, ever, possibly get anything but worse, someone comes up and bops you on the head with something like this, radiant guitars ringing in the wreckage of New York City, lemony afternoon light masquerading as sunshine, beautiful boy on deck…

For just a moment, for just that one instant, it was perfect. Even if the world was ruined, even if Martin was going to die, even if he would never know love again, never fuck again, never hear another song: if the world ended right now, it would have been perfect.

He began to cry.

Because it was beautiful. Because for that moment he had glimpsed the perfect geometry of desire, death at its apex, art and beauty and yearning bright angles below. He wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and felt it fall away; felt the world claim him again, for just a little longer.

The breeze left salt and a fine film of oil upon his cheek. He swiped at that as the Wendameen nosed on through the crimson water and the music fell silent and Trip assiduously avoided looking at him. But something of the moment’s radiance remained, something that Martin wouldn’t let go of, not that easily, not without a fight. He adjusted the tiller, tossed his long grey hair back with what he hoped looked like defiance, shot Trip a grin; and began to sing.

It made his chest ache, and his throat; he had trouble catching his breath. Still he sang everything he could remember the words to. Not a great deal, actually. Martin had a terrible voice, there had never been much outside encouragement. He sang “My Little Red Book” and “I Get a Kick Out of You,” “Camelot” and “Yellow Submarine” and “Valentine,” which had an impossible chorus; “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and “Amazing Grace” and something he’d learned for his First Holy Communion and hadn’t sung since. He bellowed “Coney Island Baby” and “Baby’s on Fire”—Trip took the tiller, still not a word. Rodgers and Hammerstein and old drinking songs,

Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu,
I can no longer stay with you.
I’ll hang my harp on a weeping willow-tree
And may the world go well with thee.

He felt as though he were drunk, or tripping. He had thought—hoped, maybe—that he might drive the boy away like this, such an unapologetic show of The Old Queer Cracks at Last: Rapture of the Creep.

Instead Trip continued to stare at the passing shoreline. Ahead of them an intricate network of docks and piers thrust out into the water, small freighters and workboats anchored amongst them. Onshore the mottled patchwork of a cobblestone street had collapsed beneath a block of eighteenth-century buildings, abattoirs that had been turned into warehouses and artists’ studios. Martin looked down into sanguine water and saw the outline of a train car there, sparkling where the light touched it. He glanced back at the shore, street sign skimming a few inches above the rippling surface; looked back down and started to laugh.

It was not a train car at all but the Starlight Diner. He had always hated it. “What?” said Trip; the first word he had spoken in an hour.

Martin shook his head. He was shaking. He was burning up. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. There was dust or grit in the outer corner of his eye; he ran his finger there: nothing. He blinked, raised his head, and saw it was not dust but the shadow of someone moving along the boom.

“Fuck,” he said, shading his eyes. “Who the—”

But there was no one there; of course not, was he crazy? He turned away so as to avoid seeing Trip’s expression—not accusatory, not disgusted, not grateful, not anything, the little prick—the wind raw against his face as once again Martin began to sing.

Riding on the Sloop John B
My grandfather and me
Around Nassau town we did roam
Drinking all night, got into a fight
Oh I feel so broke up, I want to go home…

He faltered. Martin’s mouth dropped open, and he turned in astonishment. Trip was singing.

And oh, please let me go home—
I want to go home
I feel so sad and broke up
I just want to go home…

Not just singing but seizing the song, taking the old words and transforming them, so that Martin felt as though someone had shoved an icy hand down his back.