Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/293932.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Midnight_Cowboy_(1969)
  Relationship:
      Joe_Buck/Ratso_Rizzo, Joe_Buck/Others
  Additional Tags:
      Internalized_Homophobia, Homophobic_Language, Angst
  Collections:
      Yuletide_2011
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-15 Words: 5488
****** Ride Lonesome ******
by Nyssa
Summary
     Joe's on his own now, but he hasn't forgotten.
Notes
     This fic contains canonical homophobic language, and one instance of
     canonical ableist language. The non-con and underage warnings refer
     to non-explicit, offstage events.
Joe Buck picks oranges in the hot Florida sun.
He doesn’t like it much. Not because of the heat; after that miserable winter
in New York, he’ll never complain about hot weather again. And the company’s
okay; his fellow pickers are mostly Cubans and Puerto Ricans, but they’re
friendly enough, and it’s hard to live in Texas all your life without picking
up a little south of the border lingo, so Joe can kid around with them some on
breaks. The money’s not too bad; it’s more than he used to make washing dishes
at the diner, that’s for damn sure. He doesn’t mind the physical work, either;
in fact, it makes him feel kind of good.
The problem is, it’s so mindless. It’s the kind of job that doesn’t require any
thinking, so a fellow’s mind just naturally wanders.
Joe doesn’t like where it wanders to.
 
*****
 
“How much is it gonna take?”
The undertaker purses his lips. “Sir, I’ve told you. It depends on the casket,
the clothes – ”
“He’s wearin’ the clothes. He’s goin’ into the ground in that shirt and them
pants. They’re all he’s got, mister.” Even if they weren’t, Joe can’t see
burying Ratso in anything else. A shirt with a Florida palm tree on it? Shit,
if Ratso could sit up and talk, he’d insist on it.
“Fine. Now, if I can show you the caskets? We have several lovely models – ”
“Which one’s the cheapest?”
The undertaker looks pained. “Sir, if money is a problem, I assure you we have
a generous payment plan.”
Joe feels the tightness in his chest ease up a notch. “Payment plan? Like
layaway?”
“Ah – well, I wouldn’t describe it in those terms – ”
Joe grabs the front of the man’s ruffled shirt. “Mister, I don’t give a damn
how you describe it. I gotta bury my buddy. He depended on me to take good care
of him, and that’s just what I aim to do. Now you tell me how much you want
down, and how much I can pay later, and you do it right quick, ‘cause I ain’t
in a real pleasant mood right now, you hear?”
Ten minutes later, Joe’s on his way to the bus station. He’s flat broke now,
and he’s got to make enough for the rest of the down payment. Then he’ll get a
job, some job, somewhere, for the rest. This is the last time, he tells
himself, the last damn time. It’s for Ratso, and it’s okay.
He strolls casually into the men’s room and takes his place, leaning against
the far wall, waiting. Damn, he hopes he doesn’t get busted.
And that undertaker better damn well go easy on the makeup. If Joe sees
lipstick on Ratso’s mouth, he’ll beat the guy’s ass.
 
*****
 
Joe lives in a room in Mrs. Callaway’s basement.
It’s okay. It’s not damp, and he only sees a bug once in a while, but they’re
great big sonsabitches. Palmetto bugs, Mrs. Callaway calls them. She gave him a
brand new can of Raid the day he moved in. She’s a nice lady, late middle age,
a widow who watches a lot of TV. Joe hears it through her floor, the theme
songs from the Newlywed Game and Love, American Style. Sometimes, once in a
while, he goes up and sits with her and they have a beer and watch TV. Her cat
Ginger sits on Joe’s lap and hums. Mrs. Callaway doesn’t sit on Joe’s lap, but
if she did, he knows damn well he could make her hum, too. He likes Mrs.
Callaway. She’s nice to him, and he wouldn’t mind making her happy, looking
down into her eyes and seeing them shine for him.
She’s not interested, though, he can tell. You get to learn those things, who
is and who’s not. Joe sticks to bringing her oranges, nice fat ones that he
swipes and smuggles home under his shirt.
Mrs. Callaway smokes a lot. Sometimes when he’s in bed late at night he hears
her coughing. He turns on his side and puts a pillow over his ears and stares
into the darkness until she stops.
 
*****
 
“I got you some medicine, boy,” Joe says, pulling a square bottle out of a
paper bag. “We’re gonna get rid of that goddamn cough so you won’t scare all
those rich old Florida ladies with it.”
Ratso’s sitting on his bed, wrapped in his stolen coat and his blanket, but
still shivering. “Yeah,” he says, flatly, and takes a draw on his cigarette.
“Is it the same stuff you got the last time? That stuff that tastes like shoe
polish?”
“Aw, I wouldn’t get you no shoe polish.” Joe holds the bottle up to the dim
light seeping through the window. “Says it’s good for ex-ex-pectoration.” He
sounds the word out carefully and gives Ratso a triumphant look. “That means
it’ll make you hawk up all that crap. Get it all outta your lungs and leave ‘em
clean.”
“Terrific,” Ratso mumbles. He points a stern finger at Joe. “When I start
hawkin’ up, I don’t want you around, you understand? There’s things a person’s
gotta do in private if he wants to keep some dignity, y’know. I mean, even a
dumbass phony cowboy from Texas oughta appreciate that.”
Joe snorts, lowering himself to the mattress next to Ratso. “Sure, I’ll go take
a stroll around the neighborhood while you’re in here spittin’, see if I can
pick up some trade. Here, take it.”
He pushes the bottle at Ratso, who recoils. “Dammit, don’t shove it down my
throat!” He snatches it from Joe’s hand, twists the top off, sniffs it, and
recoils again. “Just like shoe polish, goddamn shoe polish, this shit killed my
old man and you want me to drink it?” But before Joe can reply, he’s raised the
bottle to his lips and gulped down a mouthful.
“Easy, easy! That stuff’s got codeine in it, boy, you wanna knock yourself
out?” Joe takes the bottle back as Ratso gives a violent shudder, face
contorting into a mask of comic revulsion.
“You’re tryin’ to poison me, ain’t you?” Ratso asks, after several seconds of
gasping and spluttering. “You want me outta the way, so you can take my coat.”
“Wouldn’t have your damn shitty coat.” Joe settles an arm around Ratso’s thin
shoulders, and Ratso slumps against him immediately, as if he’s been waiting
all day for the chance. Joe takes his whole weight, not that there’s much to
take.
Ratso sighs a heavy sigh, which dissolves into a cough. When he can speak again
he says, “What are we gonna do about Christmas?”
“I don’t reckon there’s much we can do about it,” Joe says with a forced grin.
That cough makes him cringe inside, every time. “It’s gonna get here no matter
what.”
“Ha, ha, you’re a riot. You’re so goddamn funny you make my ribs hurt.” Ratso
takes a last pull on his Camel before dropping the butt into the tin can on the
floor.
“Well, what do you wanna do about it?”
Ratso lays a hand on Joe’s thigh, strokes him lightly with his thumb. “I wanted
to get you somethin’, but only if you were gonna get me somethin’ anyway. You
know, I don’t wanna lay some obligation trip on you, make you feel like you
gotta get me somethin’ if you don’t wanna.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t mind gettin’ you somethin’, but we ain’t exactly rolling in
dough here, boy. You plannin’ on knockin’ over a jewelry store?”
Ratso tilts his head up, a perfectly serious expression on his face. “Yeah, a
jewelry store. I’ll get ya the biggest engagement ring they got.”
Joe never knows what to say when Ratso says things like that. He laughs a
little, nervously.
Ratso drops his eyes again. “You don’t have to get me nothin’. I didn’t mean
that. Maybe – maybe we could just stay here all day, together. ‘Cause
sometimes….”
He trails off, fingers tracing an aimless pattern on Joe’s leg, and Joe bumps
him gently with a shoulder. “Sometimes what?”
Ratso says nothing for a long moment. Then he shrugs. “Sometimes I get scared
here when you’re gone. I start thinkin’ I might die before you get back.”
Joe swallows. “You ain’t gonna die, you hear me? We’re gonna get you well.” He
feels a wave of helplessness wash through him. Ratso won’t go to a doctor,
won’t go to the free clinic on 42nd Street (“That’s only if you got VD, I ain’t
got VD”) won’t do anything but drink cough medicine and talk about how great
everything’s gonna be when they get to Florida. How the hell Florida’s going to
help him, Joe doesn’t know.
“Yeah, well, if we could just kinda stay here on Christmas, I’d really like
that.” He hesitates. “We could maybe stay in bed, y’know? Together, to keep
warm. And we could just, y’know, talk.”
The hopeful note in Ratso’s voice is almost more than Joe can stand.
“Sure, buddy,” he says softly. “I’ll stay here with you. Won’t be too many
people lookin’ to get laid on Christmas Day, anyhow.”
Ratso smiles at him, and for a moment, Joe thinks they might kiss, even though
they haven’t done that for weeks now, ever since Ratso’s cough started getting
worse – lots worse. Little bastard has some crazy-ass idea that he’ll kill Joe
with his germs if they kiss. Joe doesn’t put much stock in that; he’s always
been strong as a bull, never sick a day in his life, plus he got shots for
every goddamn disease known to science when he joined the army. He hasn’t
pushed it because the last thing Ratso needs is something else to worry about.
But he misses it, a lot. He misses the sex, too – Ratso’s too sick for that,
these days – but he’s amazed at how hungry he is just for the kissing.
He leans forward, eyes on Ratso’s lips, but Ratso turns away abruptly, whipping
a ragged handkerchief out of his pocket and bringing it to his face. He rises
unsteadily to his feet, shaking off Joe’s hand, and lurches across the room.
Joe listens, eyes closed, to the strangled sounds from behind the bathroom
door. When they ease a bit, he opens his eyes and finds himself staring at the
calendar on the opposite wall.
Three days until Christmas. No way he’ll make enough for a bus ticket south by
then.
 
*****
 
Joe goes down to the beach at night and walks under the stars.
He’s seldom alone, though sometimes he’d like to be. Miami Beach swarms with
people during the day, and it’s only a little less congested after dark.
Couples stroll hand in hand, laugh and splash each other in the surf, roll and
moan together in any sheltered alcove they can find. Joe almost trips over them
sometimes, always excusing himself politely. His grandma raised him to be
polite.
His misses his grandma. Things were kinda strange at home when he was a boy,
and he kept a lot of secrets from his friends, things his grandma said other
people wouldn’t understand. But he never felt unloved, not with old Sally Buck
around, no sir. She taught him how to love, showed him what it meant, praised
him when he did it right. Sometimes he still feels her hands on his body just
before he slides into sleep, hears her voice whispering (Sweet baby Joe, sweet
little boy), feels her soft, slack breasts pressed to his face.
It was strange, maybe, but it made him the man he is today.
Joe doesn’t get laid much these days. He doesn’t really feel a hankering for
it, not like a fellow’s supposed to feel. He beats off sometimes, to vague,
shadowy images in his mind, faceless people who stroke his hair and murmur to
him. Sometimes it bothers him that he doesn’t want it more, but mostly he’s
content. He’s used to thinking of sex as something you do for other people,
something you give them in exchange for something else, money or love or a warm
place to spend the night. With his grandma’s boyfriends, it was so she wouldn’t
get mad at him. He’d watch her face while the guy touched him, did things to
him, and as long as she kept smiling at him, it was all right. He never cried.
Sally told him cowboys don’t.
Some areas of the beach are fag hangouts. Joe doesn’t know where at first, of
course; he just accidentally runs across a couple of guys making it one night,
behind a big rock a long walk from the water’s edge. They don’t see him, and he
watches them, fascinated, because he’s never actually seen two men getting it
on before, except once when an old guy took him to an apartment in Manhattan
and fucked him in front of the bathroom mirror (Look, cowboy, look how
beautiful you are, look at my hand on your prick!), and Joe hadn’t wanted to
watch that time. But it’s damn sexy, he discovers, when it’s someone else. He
watches their hands grasping and sliding, their hips rising and falling, their
backs arching. It strikes him how equal they are, how evenly matched, both big
and strong and healthy. He wonders if they’re just fucking, or if they’re
lovers. If they live together, need each other, depend on each other.
He wonders how long they’ll stay that way.
 
*****
 
“Look,” Ratso says, setting his empty Coke bottle down on the makeshift table
with a decisive thunk. “You know you gotta do it. We both know you gotta do it.
The intelligent thing to do is to learn how to do it right. It’s just good
business.”
Joe stares out the dirty window at the empty, derelict building across the
street, barely visible through the deepening shadows. Not that there’s anything
to see there; it’s no different than the empty, derelict building he’s been
living in for a week now, with Ratso. “I told ya, I’ve done it.”
Ratso levels a finger at him. “Once, you said, exactly once. You let a guy suck
you off one time, and you let him stiff you outta the money. That ain’t exactly
a brilliant track record, pal. I mean, that don’t exactly inspire confidence
that you got what it takes to make a killing in the queer market.”
Joe rounds on him. “Dammit, don’t you call me queer!”
“I ain’t callin’ you nothin’! Christ, don’t fly off the fuckin’ handle!” Ratso
taps a Camel out of a mostly empty pack and searches his pockets for a match,
muttering indignantly beneath his breath. “That’s another thing, you gotta
control that temper. Nobody wants a hustler with a chip on his shoulder the
size of the fuckin’ Empire State building. Would you wanna go to bed with a guy
who acts like he’s gonna beat the hell outta ya as soon as you come?”
“I don’t wanna go to bed with no guy.” Not one hundred percent true, perhaps,
but Joe figures he has an image to uphold.
“Yeah, uh-huh, sure. You wanna eat, doncha? Wanna keep yourself in chewing
gum?”
Joe starts to reply, and stops as something tickles the back of his mind.
Something Ratso said…. “What did you mean, learn how to do it right?”
Ratso shifts slightly in his chair. “I just mean, y’know, practice. Get good at
it.”
Joe narrows his eyes. “With you. That’s what you mean, ain’t it? Practice with
you.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that!” Ratso coughs a little and shrugs. “But, y’know, it
makes sense. You gotta admit, it makes sense.”
Joe says nothing, and Ratso’s voice takes on a defensive whine. “Look, here we
are, together, nobody else in the whole goddamn place – I mean, where else are
you gonna learn it, huh? Whaddaya gonna do, go trottin’ down to 42nd Street and
ask some tranny for fag lessons? I mean, you gotta be reasonable, here.”
Joe feels a twinge of anger, but it fades quickly. “You just wanna get your
dirty hands on my ass, doncha?”
“No! That ain’t – ”
“That’s why you wanted me to stay here, ain’t it? ‘Cause you’re a fag.” Joe’s
surprised at how little the thought of such deception bothers him. Over the
last few days, he’s gotten to like Ratso more than he ever expected after that
fiasco with O’Daniel. Where earlier he might have been outraged, now he’s
mostly just amused.
“No, I ain’t a fag! I just – I….” Ratso’s voice trails off, and his eyes dart
away. “I just – I done it before, that’s all. Just a coupla times, that’s all,
I swear to God.”
Joe stares at him, and Ratso meets his gaze with wary eyes. “Just a coupla
times, honest, that’s all it was. I mean, you don’t gotta be afraid of me, or
nothin’. It ain’t like that.”
Joe manages to huff out an appropriately scornful-sounding laugh. “Shit, I
ain’t afraid of you. Think I couldn’t snap you in half with my bare hands, boy?
I ain’t afraid of you.” He’s not afraid of anybody, he tells himself. Not
anybody, goddammit. He’s not a kid anymore.
Ratso puffs on his cigarette and sits up a little straighter. “Well, okay,
then. That’s good, right? You don’t gotta leave, you can stay here with me.”
Joe slumps down in the other chair with a defeated sigh. “Where the hell else
am I gonna go?”
Ratso studies him for a long moment. “You got nice hair,” he says at last.
“Could use a trim, though.” He reaches over, touches the shaggy strands just
above Joe’s left ear. “You wanna look neat, clean cut. You know, Joe College.”
He laughs.
Joe can’t help snickering, too, just a little.
“Yeah, that’s more like it,” Ratso says, softly, and the smile doesn’t leave
his face. “You ain’t short on looks, pal. You just gotta use ‘em to your best
advantage, you know what I mean? Wear them tight pants, them fancy-ass cowboy
boots – you’ll get every lonesome old queen in town after you. You and me’ll
have more dough than we can spend.”
He picks up the cigarette and holds it to the stubby candle between them on the
table until the flame sputters to life and shadows leap on the walls.
“Smile at me,” Ratso says. “Pretend I’m one ‘a them rich society dames you
wanna screw so bad. Lemme see your approach.”
Joe adopts his habitual “Hey, pretty lady, you want a good time?” expression.
Ratso tilts his head, pursing his lips meditatively. “Not bad, not bad. Maybe a
little cocky. That depends on who you’re aimin’ it at, y’know. Some guys like
cocky, some guys like sweet and innocent. You know, the wide-eyed, lost little
boy bit. Can you do that?”
“Uh – ”
“Never mind, just look dumb. That way you won’t have to act.”
“Now wait just a damn minute – ”
“Say somethin’.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me, say somethin’. Y’know, whatever kinda line you use.”
“I can’t.”
“Whaddaya mean, you can’t?”
“’Cause I say, Hey, pretty lady, and you sure as hell ain’t no pretty lady! How
much imagination you think I got?”
“For chrissakes, just modify it a little, can’t ya? You’re makin’ this a lot
more complicated than it’s gotta be, Joe. Say whatever you’d say to a guy if
you was tryin’ to pick him up.”
“I dunno what I’d say. I didn’t say anything before. That other time, I mean.
He just looked at me, and I looked at him, and that was all she wrote.”
“Eye contact. That’s great, that’s terrific, now we’re gettin’ somewhere! Look
at me.”
Joe does. The candle illuminates Ratso’s thin face, accentuating his
cheekbones, throwing shadows beneath his eyes. Twin flames flicker in his
pupils.
“Just look at their eyes, see? Lets ‘em know you’re interested.” Ratso’s own
eyes are gazing at him with such intensity Joe finds it hard to even blink.
“Goddamn,” Ratso says, voice soft with awe. “You look at guys like that,
they’ll be fightin’ over ya. Okay, you see the guy, you give him the look, he’s
interested. Then what?”
“Uh, we go somewhere private, and – ”
“No, no, no! Before that!”
“Oh! I make him gimme the money first.”
“I swear to God, you forget that again and I ain’t helpin’ you no more. You can
starve on the goddamn streets for all I care.”
Joe raises both hands in appeasement. “I won’t forget, Ratso, promise. Cross my
heart ‘n’ hope to die.”
Ratso sighs. “Okay, then you take him someplace, and – what? What are you
lookin’ at?”
Joe grins at him. “You’re kinda cute, you know that? I mean, under all that
big-city grime.”
Ratso’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “G’wan,” he says, after a
moment of stunned silence.
“No, I mean it, honest.”
Ratso shoves his chair back and stands, stumbling in his haste and grabbing the
back of the chair to steady himself. “You’re fuckin’ with me. You think it’s
funny, bullshittin’ a cripple.”
“Hell, no I don’t, Ratso! I wouldn’t do that – ”
Ratso’s voice shakes. “’Cause if you’re gonna laugh at me, you can walk right
out the goddamn door right now, you son of a bitch, you – you – ”
Joe springs from his seat and grabs Ratso by the shoulders. “Shut up, will ya,
shut up! Hell, I ain’t bullshittin’ you, and you ain’t throwin’ me out, ‘cause
you need me!”
“The hell I need you!”
“Yeah, you need me! Hell, case you hadn’t noticed, you ain’t got nobody else!
You ain’t got nobody, any more’n I do! Bet it used to get mighty lonesome in
this place at night, didn’t it?”
Ratso glares at him for a long moment. Then the fiercely defiant stare wavers,
and he drops his eyes. “Yeah.”
Joe feels the tense muscles beneath his fingers relax, and he pulls Ratso
against him, patting his back awkwardly. Ratso sighs, and his arms creep slowly
around Joe’s waist.
“’M sorry.” Ratso’s face is pressed to Joe’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “It’s
just, I gotta defend myself, y’know? Lotsa people, they just step on ya if they
think you’re weak.”
“I know, I know, hell, it’s a jungle out there.” Joe snorts, his breath
stirring the hair above Ratso’s ear. “I seen that much since I been in this
town.”
“Hey,” Ratso says, after they’ve been holding each other longer than fellows
are supposed to hold each other – a hell of a lot longer, Joe knows for a fact,
but it’s nice holding Ratso, nicer than he would’ve thought, so he’s not
complaining – “remember what I said? When I said I’d done it a coupla times?”
“Yeah?”
Ratso coughs, clears his throat, tilts his head up to look Joe in the eye.
“Well, the fact of the matter is, I ain’t never done it when I didn’t have to.
I mean, it wasn’t never my idea. Y’know what I mean?”
Joe laughs a little. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”
“But we don’t have to, you and me.”
“No,” Joe says, softly. “I reckon we don’t.” He lowers his head and brushes
Ratso’s lips with his.
Ratso makes a startled sound, pulling back slightly, and Joe laughs again.
“Whassamatter, you don’t like kissin’?”
“Yeah, I like it,” Ratso says, sounding annoyed at the question. “I just ain’t
done it much. Not everybody’s a goddamn makeout king, y’know.”
Joe smiles. “Then you need practice, same as me, doncha?” He gives Ratso a
gentle push, and walks him backward to the bed.
Turns out, Ratso needs practice bad. Joe doesn’t know how long he’s gone
without, but from the way he moans and groans and squirms at the slightest
touch, Joe figures it’s been quite a while.
“Easy, boy, easy!” he says, pushing Ratso’s frantically clutching hands away,
laughing out loud at his eagerness. “Lemme get my boots off first!”
“I can’t wait!” Ratso falls back on the thin mattress with a pitiful whine.
“Don’t make me wait, I got a nervous disposition, it ain’t good for me, I’ll
have a goddamn coronary right here, Joe c’mon, c’mon, please – ”
Joe shucks his shirt, yanks his boots off, and shuts Ratso up with a kiss.
While he’s got him distracted, he reaches down, fumbles awkwardly, one-
handedly, with button and zipper, and works his hand into Ratso’s pants.
Ratso almost levitates off the bed. “Oh Christ, oh God, oh yeah….”
Joe takes hold of Ratso’s cock – shit, it’s already so hard it’s leaking –
gives it one good, tight stroke, and dammit, Ratso yells right in his ear. His
head rings so loudly he almost doesn’t register the feel of the hot liquid
stream hitting him right in the belly.
“Damn,” Joe says, after a stunned moment. “That’s some hair trigger you got
there, boy.” He sticks a finger in his ear and rotates it cautiously, wincing.
Ratso’s eyes are closed, his mouth open, panting. He doesn’t reply, and Joe
grins. “Hell, you think that’s good, wait’ll I get a chance to really do ya. I
got some tricks up my sleeve, boy, and you didn’t gimme a chance to show ya any
of ‘em.”
Ratso opens his eyes a slit. “I’m always pretty quick. I don’t last long,
ever.”
Joe’s feeling pretty smug. “Oh, you don’t, huh? Sure it wasn’t just my
irresistible, overwhelmin’ sex appeal that got to ya?”
He expects a withering reply, but Ratso just looks at him with soft eyes, a
tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe.”
Joe blinks at the change of tone, and smiles uncertainly.
“Hey,” Ratso says, after a moment’s awkward silence, “you need any help here?”
He lays a hand on Joe’s crotch, cupping the swollen erection through the cloth.
The touch makes Joe suck in his breath, but he’s a gentleman. “Aw, you don’t
have to, Ratso – ”
“I wanna.”
“Hey, if you wanna.” Joe rolls over on his back and spreads his legs.
Ratso straddles him, softened cock dangling comically from his open fly. He
attacks Joe’s zipper, muttering under his breath, “Goddamn tight-ass pants, how
the hell do ya get ‘em off….” With a sudden movement, he lowers his head and
rubs his face against Joe’s groin, kissing him through the pants, running his
hands slowly up and down Joe’s thighs.
“Damn,” Joe grunts, squirming under Ratso’s mouth. “Feels good.” He’s starting
to want it, really want it, and that surprises him. He’s used to guys wanting
him, but not vice versa, not usually. Mutuality with his own sex isn’t
something he’s had much experience with.
Ratso raises his head and smiles crookedly. His hands work Joe’s zipper open,
and Joe’s erection springs free, slapping against his belly.
In the flickering candlelight, he watches Ratso studying his cock, eyes sliding
over it, up and down. He’s expressionless, and Joe can’t tell what he’s
thinking.
Ratso looks up at him. “I can blow you.”
Joe feels a hot jolt of desire. “You know how to do that?” It’s a dumb thing to
say, maybe, but he’s not feeling real smart at the moment.
“Yeah. A guy made me, once.” Ratso shrugs. “I can do it if you want.”
There’s something in his voice, something Joe doesn’t like, something familiar.
“Nah. Just with your hand, that’s good enough.”
Ratso seems to breathe a little freer at that. He takes Joe in his hand and
starts to stroke, and it’s good enough, all right. It’s more than good enough.
Joe comes like a fucking fountain, and Ratso says, “Christ, you really are one
hell of a stud.” And his mouth twists into a little smile.
Afterward, they sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night Joe wakes to the
sound of mumbling. Ratso’s talking in his sleep. Joe hears “Florida,” “beach,”
“running.” He touches Ratso’s arm, gets no response, and shakes him gently.
Ratso sighs deeply and turns over, toward Joe, pressing close, settling his
head on Joe’s shoulder, his arm across Joe’s chest.
It’s September, and pretty warm for cuddling, but Joe discovers he doesn’t
mind.
 
*****
 
Joe visits Ratso’s grave once a week.
He still hates bone yards, but not that much, not enough to leave Ratso alone.
He catches the bus into town every Sunday afternoon, walks through the gates of
Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Cemetery, and picks his way through the maze of
stone crosses and faded flowers to his destination.
He could have had Ratso buried in some potter’s field and let the county pick
up the tab. He never considered it. The grave is in a beautiful place, a sunny
spot near the top of a gentle incline at the far end of the cemetery, and
though the beach isn’t visible from it, Joe imagines he can just catch a whiff
of salt air. He’ll get it paid off eventually, and it’s worth it. The priest
told him it was consecrated ground, and Joe knows that’s where Ratso would have
wanted to be.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, to the grave. “You been missin’ me? I brought you
something.”
He can’t always afford flowers, but oranges and coconuts, that’s different. He
kneels, removes last week’s wilted offering, and places one of each at the head
of the grave, where the tombstone will stand once Joe can save up the money for
one. It’ll have Ratso’s name and dates on it, of course, and below that,
Beloved Friend.
He crouches there silently for a while, listening to the wind in the palm
trees, and the faraway cries of seabirds. He wishes Ratso could hear them, too.
“Well,” he says eventually. “I reckon I better be goin’. Remember Mrs.
Callaway, the lady I told ya about? I promised her I’d trim her hedges today.
She’s gonna knock ten bucks off my rent every month if I do it regular. I gotta
get back and get to work.”
He touches the grave lightly and stands, brushing dirt from his hands. “I’ll be
back next week. Don’t go nowhere, you hear?” He laughs a little, choking on it.
“Don’t you go nowhere,” he says again, more softly. “Rico.”
He leaves quickly, with his eyes stinging and his throat aching, but he doesn’t
cry. Cowboys don’t.
 
*****
 
“Here,” Ratso says, pulling a package wrapped in brown paper from under the
bed. “Merry Christmas.”
Joe takes the object wonderingly. “Where’d you get this, boy? You hadn’t ought
to be ramblin’ around in the cold by yourself.”
Ratso waves him off impatiently and pulls the blankets higher under his chin.
“Whaddya think, I’m gonna drag you along with me to buy your own goddamn
Christmas present? I can take care ‘a myself, I ain’t helpless.”
“Okay, okay, take it easy. Let’s see what we got here.” Joe picks at the string
and peels off the paper to reveal something he never thought he’d see again.
“My radio.” His voice comes out in an awestruck undertone. “My goddamn radio!”
“I got it back from the hock shop. Guy let me have it for three bucks on
account of it ain’t got no batteries.” Ratso shoots him an apologetic look. “I
guess he took ‘em out and sold ‘em, cheap bastard.”
Joe smiles. “Hell, that’s okay. We’ll get some more, and we’ll have us some
music around here again, you and me.” He pats Ratso’s hand under the blankets.
“Thanks, buddy.”
Ratso smiles, and coughs.
“Hey, I got somethin’ for you, too. Now, where’d I put it?” Joe slides out of
bed, winces at the feel of the cold floor under his bare feet, and retrieves
his fringed jacket from the hook on the wall. He hurries back to the bed with
it and climbs back in under the covers with Ratso.
Ratso reaches eagerly for the jacket. “What is it, where is it?”
Joe grins. “Inside pocket.”
Ratso gropes in the lining of the jacket and comes up with a soft packet
wrapped in tissue paper, which he rips open carelessly. He stares at it, lips
parted. “Handkerchiefs.”
“Found ‘em on sale. Three for ninety-nine.”
Ratso gives him a sharp look. “You shouldna paid that. I coulda lifted ‘em
easy.” His eyes soften. “Dumbass cowboy. Wastin’ your money on handkerchiefs.”
“Hell, you need ‘em. That one you been using’s more hole than cloth.”
“Yeah.” Ratso lays his head unselfconsciously on Joe’s shoulder and sighs, and
they lie quietly for a while, enjoying the warmth.
“This ain’t too bad, is it?” Ratso asks after a few minutes. “Christmas, I
mean.”
“No,” Joe says. “It ain’t.”
“And maybe next Christmas…maybe we’ll be in Florida.”
Joe doesn’t know which of them Ratso’s trying to convince. He’s not coughing
right now, but they’re so close Joe can hear the rattle in his lungs as he
breathes.
Joe closes his eyes. “Bet your ass we will,” he says softly. “Bet your ass.”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!