Date: Wed, 19 Aug 2020 16:02:02 -0400 (EDT)
From: doctordestiny@comcast.net
Subject: Aleksandr Part 1

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Aleksandr -- Part 1

By Dudley Jarvis-North

It had been a wreck of a day. My work colleagues had been in a foul mood.
Phone callers were in a rage. I work as a newspaper editor; the readers
specialize in complaining about almost everything. Today, the phone
didn't stop ringing. When I finally got home, the cat had thrown up on
my new Oriental rug. I burned dinner. When I called a friend to go for a
needed cocktail, he said no. What was going on?

I climbed the stairs to the roof deck, drink in hand, to take in the
night air, and there was my answer: a large, ominous, full moon hanging
low in the sky, throwing nefarious vibes on Planet Earth. People turn
strange when the moon is full, the legend goes; too much blood courses
through one's arteries and flows to the brain and other organs. It
isn't just the tide that's affected.

I should have stayed home on this chilly November evening. But what if
the guys at the Boston Eagle were as charged up as I. What if I missed
some fascinating drama? What if the moon brought out passion from every
crotch? To put it inelegantly, what if I missed the best fuck of my life?

A lot to ponder as I walked through the swinging doors. Jack the manager
saw me and had my VO and water ready. I headed to the back. The Eagle is
a long, narrow bar, with a ramp on one side that leads to higher ground.
I headed there, the better to scope the clientele. It was a Thursday
night, so the club was half full. II preferred that to the rowdy, noisy
Fridays and Saturday nights when a guy couldn't get through the masses
for a drink.

I looked to the corner and saw him. A stranger. Taller than I, perhaps 6
feet to my 5-9. Rail thin and wearing a long black coat buttoned to the
neck and topped by a black scarf. He had an elegance that intrigued me.
What also caught my eye was his face -- pale gray and luminous. I chalked
it up to the bar's lighting. I moved closer, 8 feet away. His skin still
glowed but was not nearly as smooth as it looked from farther away. His
skin was marred by what looked like little blue veins. He must have been
much older than I first thought. His eyes were black and piercing,
intense under thick eyebrows. His hair, also black with streaks of gray,
was slicked back -- looking like a shiny black bathing cap. He had no
facial hair; his lips were an odd color -- not pink; closer to a
gray-blue.

While my head said "stay away," my need for something different from
the usual Eagle denizens took over. I pondered how to get his attention.
His gaze was focused straight ahead; he didn't have a drink in hand or a
cigarette.

Gingerly, I sidled up to him and said hi. He turned in my direction and a
small grin formed on his face.

"Hello," he said. Now, I was at that awkward moment of starting a
conversation, finding something common between us to make for smoother
communication.

"I haven't seen you before. Are you visiting Boston?" I asked.

He took his time answering. "I am from abroad."

His voice was deep, I noted an accent, possibly Eastern European.

"Welcome," I said, trying to establish friendliness.

"Thank you,"

"I am Peter."

"I am Aleksandr" he said, rolling the r.

I pushed my hand toward him; he hesitated before he finally shook it. His
hand was surprisingly cold, making me look downward. His pale fingers
were long and thin. His fingernails were almost black, as if he had
painted them with nail polish.

"Such strange customs -- this shaking of hands," he said in a lilting
voice. "I prefer a simple bow of the head."

"That is OK, too," I nodded.

"May I get you a drink? I asked. "Not now, but thank you," he said.
"May I ask you a question, Peter? He pronounced it "peyt-her." I have
been away from people, having taken care of my parents for many years in
Slovenia. This -- being in a place like this --is new to me. Tell me why
have all these men come to this tavern tonight? Why are you here?"

"It's a place to meet men," I said directly, "to have a drink, to be
together with men like me." I said, wondering if Aleksandr understood
the nature of place he was in.

"Men like you?' he arched an eyebrow.

"Yes. Men who prefer the company of other men, even to make love," I
said bluntly.

He seemed startled. "Now I understand why there are no women here," and
he chuckled, the first sign that he had a sense of humor.

"These things are more hidden in my country. Pardon me if I need time to
get used to your country's openness."

"Of course," I said. "I can imagine how strange this must be,
especially after a long time away from people.How long were you engaged
in taking care of your parents."

"Almost 40 years. We lived in a manor near Ljubljana. They both took ill
from a rare blood disease and I was their only son. I did not have a
normal life." And he winked, oddly.

"I am sorry for your loss," I said when he interrupted me.

"They are not completely dead," he said, causing me to wonder why he
had used that strange combination of words. One is either dead or not. He
had also used the past tense in saying "I was their only son." I
chalked this up to an unfamiliarity with English and didn't press him.

He asked me to stand face to face instead of next to him. "You can tell
much about a man when you look into his eyes," he said. as he stared
into mine, I felt a magnetism, almost as if he were hypnotizing me. My
legs felt strangely heavy. The glass I held to my lips seemed heavier in
my hand.

"I'm sorry if I seem old and weary, my friend. It has been a long
journey and I have not been fed in a long while."

I took this to mean that he had not had dinner and in my desire to help,
I asked if he would like to get a snack somewhere nearby.

"That wouldn't help," he said politely.

As the clock moved toward closing time, he asked almost shyly, "Would
you like to see more of me?"

This seemed more forward than I was expecting from him. But again because
of language I wondered what he meant by "more of me." Did he mean
seeing him without his clothes on?

I felt my blood stir. "Yes," I said. There was no other answer that
would come from my lips.

"Come with me," he said as we exited the swinging doors. We found a cab
outside on Tremont Street.

....



When I was a boy, I had been intrigued by a bank of cement tombs with
metal doors, cut into an embankment about 5 feet high that could be found
on the east edge of Boston Common. These narrow stone cabins-- there were
six of them stuck together -- were on a knoll above a cement path. They
were separated from the path by a low wrought iron fence. Earth and grass
were piled on top, forming roofs. These slanted upward a few feet toward
the back. This part of the Common was a forgotten place. Overgrown grass
and tossed rubbish betrayed any semblance of care.

Years later, I concluded that they housed the graves of soldiers or
perhaps Sons of Liberty from pre-Revolutionary War times, although I
couldn't find any names or dates that would mark them as graves. Perhaps
they had stored munitions during that war. The weather-beaten doors had
rusty metal hinges and no doorknobs. It looked as if even a crowbar
wouldn't have dislodged them easily.

....



Aleksandr and I were in the back seat of a taxi heading downtown from the
South End of Boston. The driver let us off at the corner of Tremont and
Boylston streets.

My new friend pointed toward our destination as he led the way. I
wondered where we were heading. It was my city, but he had taken charge.
We seemed to be on the wrong side of Tremont Street. The hotels and
apartment buildings were on the other side. There was nothing really in
this dank corner of the Common. Yet, I was not entirely in control of my
movements. My legs seemed to be moving without acquiescence from my
brain. I felt oddly robotic as my body pulled me forward.

We stopped at the sixth and last door of the houses at the embankment.

"Why are we stopping here?" I asked.

"It is a remarkable discovery I made when I got here," he said calmly.
"It is a great treasure -- a peaceful resting place from a lost time. I
feel comfortable here. I hope you will feel comfortable as well."

As Aleksandr's hands pointed at the door, it seemed to move magically,
swinging inward.

"Would you like to see my little place?" he asked.

I felt some trepidation, but it was too late to turn back.

"Enter," he said. I did as he asked.

I stepped forward on the uneven grass. The inside was pitch black, which
gave me pause. Aleksandr snapped his fingers and suddenly the room was
ablaze in light. I walked through the opening and downward on a dirt
slope. I saw hundreds of candles sitting in nooks in the cobwebbed cement
walls along the 10-foot-wide by 25-foot space. Except for an old wooden
chair and what looked to be a low, narrow wooden cabinet sitting against
a wall, the room was empty.

The candlelight was dazzlingly bright and something else was noticeable
-- the smell. It was something like damp earth mixed with clay, like the
ocean at low tide. Moss rose in patches from the floor -- perhaps that
was causing this strong odor.

Aleksandr pointed to the chair and said "sit." His voice sounded more
commanding and guttural. I sat and took time to have a better look at the
place. There was no obvious way anyone could live here. There was not
even a sink. The long cabinet that looked to be made of dark wood could
have been a long coffee table, but there was nowhere to make coffee.

"I am sorry, Peter, that I have no refreshments to serve you. This is
merely a temporary place." Stand up for a moment and look into my
eyes."

As I got up, his head inched closer to mine. I thought how handsome he
must have been when he was younger before the years and his caretaking
had taken their toll. He grabbed my shoulders and almost looked as if he
was going to kiss me. He said, "Come here, Peter -- "here" sounded
like hay-ah with his accent. His voice became louder and echoed off the
cement walls. His voice rang in my ears painfully. "Do not look away,"
he emphasized.

I couldn't look away if I tried. I felt paralyzed. The whites of his
eyes had turned a flaming red color as his hands pulled me closer. "Look
at me," he repeated.



(Coming soon, Part 2)



Other stories I've posted are (in Encounters) The Bass Player,The Pact
(both

Sept. 13,'17), James (Jan. 26, '18), "At the Underwear Rack" (2 parts,

April 23 `19). In Urination there are Drink It (2 parts, Sept. 24, '18)
and

Lesson at Rock River (Nov. 6, '18); In Adult Youth -- Aaron's Basement

(Jan. 12, '18); In Authoritarian -- Taken in the Woods (May 28, '18),
Forced Reinactment, Nov. 12, Dec. 14; The

Punishment that Wasn't (Feb. 9, April 2 2020); In Camping, -- the 4-part
Camping

with Josh (Sept. 24, '18) and in High School -- "William the Great" (3

parts, Jan, 16, '19).



Be glad to hear from you if any of these stories excite you.

doctordestiny@comcast.net