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Briney's Tale Approximately 1800 words
Briney’s Tale
by
Max Griffin
Byron Spenser von Dryden Cook, otherwise known as Briney to his friends, pulled his slender cigarette from his lips and exhaled clove-infused smoke. Holding the smoldering cylinder aloft with two fingers, he said, “Really, Alice? Memphis has a ballet? Will wonders never cease?”
They sat alone, facing each other, in le Corbusier-inspired chairs, cloistered in the smoker’s corner of the hotel’s cocktail lounge. She waved smoke away with an impatient hand. “They’re quite good, actually. Their latest ballet, Come Sail Away, has gotten absolutely rave reviews.”
“You don’t say.” He paused to inhale another rush of clove-scented euphoria. “Those reviews would have been where? The local paper, perhaps?”
“Don’t take that dismissive tone with me. Their choreographer is world-class.”
If she’d been standing, she doubtless would have stomped her foot. Briney sniffed. “And what are they dancing to? Perhaps something by Elvis? I had quite enough of him in today’s tour, thank you very much.” The Graceland tour this afternoon had been absolutely hideous. Still, it had been better than the alternative. Lingering in the gift shop with that dreadful oaf Ozzie would have been just too much to bear.
She snapped, “I told you. Come Sail Away, by Styx. You know. They played it duing the dance scene in The Virgin Suicides.”
He avoided rolling his eyes. "Ah yes. Haute couture indeed."
His comment must have gone over her head since her expression turned vapid, like she was a character in that movie's tacky junior high school gymnasium. "I love the way the song's lyrics twist at the end, where the angels morph into aliens and invite you fily away their starship. It's awesome."
That bit of stupidity earned the eyerolll he gave her. “Ah yes. Space aliens and UFOS are the perfect choice for classical ballet.” He inhaled more clove-scented bliss, this time letting it escape from his nostrils.
She glared at him. “Well, I’m going. I spoke to the concierge, and she said the performance is at a restored vaudeville theater downtown. Apparently it’s something of a landmark and worth seeing on its own.”
He regarded her with lidded eyes. Of all his travel companions, she had the most class. A low bar, to be sure, but she wasn’t hopeless. And who knows? It was ballet, after all, even if it was in Memphis. He might meet an interesting man with a vestige of a brain and at least a minimal social sense. “I suppose it’s better than whiling away the evening here. Too much kitsch and too little taste.” He sniffed and ground out his cigarette. “I’ll speak to the concierge. Tickets for two, my treat. Would you care to join me for dinner?”
“I’d be delighted.”
The woman absolutely cooed at him. Clingy, really, and so bourgeois. He gave her a crisp reply. “Excellent. Doubtless the concierge can recommend a restaurant near the theater. I’ll text you.”
Dinner had been a pleasant surprise. The charred octopus salad had provided a piquant starter, and the D'Artagnan Rohan duck had been truly amazing. The Veuve Clicquot digestiv had left him with a pleasant buzz, perfect for whatever Ballet Memphis happened to present this evening.
The vaudevillian grandeur of the venue’s lobby certainly lived up to its reputation. But the audience that mingled there, well, they were what he’d expected. Overweight local social mavens stuffed into glittering gaucherie, with their reluctant banker spouses in tow.
That was when Adonis made his entry and set Briney’s heart a-flutter.
The man wore a tuxedo, his tie rakishly askew. His attire accented his narrow hips, broad shoulders, and classic features. He brought to mind Duquesnoy's Adonis Mazarin, except, alas, he was clothed.
Alice was hanging on Briney’s arm. She must have seen him looking, because she said, “Quite the hunk, huh?”
Briney couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Indeed.”
“It looks like he’s with that bald dude.” She tugged at his arm. “Come on. Let’s introduce ourselves.”
He let her lead him in their direction. When they arrived, she fluttered her eyes and purred, “We’re from out of town. We’re kind of at sea here.”
The older man scowled at her, but Adonis’s fleeting smile filled Briney’s heart with moonbeams and amour. When he spoke, his voice, soft as velvet, soothed the soul. “We’re old hands. Our local ballet is a gem. You’re in for a treat.”
Alice rattled on, “I know their reputation. I dance with Ballet Oklahoma. I’m really looking forward to their interpretation of Come Sail Away.”
His velvet voice turned indulgent when he replied, “As are we all.” His cerulean eyes sparkled in the light from the crystal chandelier.
His bald companion harumphed and said, “Nice to meet you, miss.” He squinted at Briney, “Young man." Then he turned back to his captive Adonis. "We should be heading out to our seats.”
But Adonis ignored him and extended his hand to Alice, “I’m Beau Perkins. So pleased to meet you.”
“Alice Miller. You too.”
Beau turned to Briney, extended his hand, and said, “Are you from out of town as well?”
Briney accepted the offer of his hand and said, “Byron Cook here. Yes, I’m from Scarsdale, but have been away, pursuing my studies at University.” No reason to tell him it was at the University of Oklahoma. Beau’s grip sent warmth cascading up his arm.
Beau said, “Well, we’re glad you’re here. Perhaps we’ll run into each again this evening.”
Was that a wink? Maybe it was just wishful thinking. “Perhaps we shall. I’d like that.”
The bald man scowled at them and said, “We really need go. Now.”
The man pulled Beau away, but not before he murmured, “Later, then, Byron Cook.”
According the program, there were two items on the bill. The first was a Balanchine ballet, set to music from Donizetti’s Don Sebastian. The performance was, indeed, professional, even if the music was a bit conventional for Briney’s taste. The dance that Alice kept harping on was slated for after the intermission.
But what made Briney squirm in his seat wasn’t thinking about ballet. He was thinking about the intermission, about Beau, and about that wink.
When the applause faded and the house lights came up, Briney stood and said, “Nature calls, I’m afraid.”
Alice didn’t look up from reading the program. “Okay. Run along.”
Indeed. Briney headed to the lobby. He’d spotted Beau and his companion near the front and center stage. Beau was already in the aisle. Briney rushed to follow him.
The audience crowded into the lobby, and long lines formed outside the restrooms. Briney paused, lit a cigarette, and inhaled euphoria. His senses thus heightened, he spied Beau, about thirty feet away, gazing at him. The man’s crystalline eyes lit up and he gave Briney a tentative smile and little nod.
Briney wasted no time and headed his direction.
Beau spoke to him in that same velvet voice. “So, we meet again, Byron Cook.”
“So we do.” He eyed the queues. “Looks like there will be quite a wait.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He ran fingers through his hair, mussing the perfectly quaffed locks. “I know all the nooks and crannies of this place, though. There’s a quiet lounge downstairs, open only to select patrons. Like my partner, Jerome and his guests.”
A hint of an invitation, but mention of a partner, too. “Where is your partner?”
Beau gave his hand a casual wave. “We’ve been having a bit of a tiff, actually. I’m returning to Chicago tomorrow. I met Jerome through an agency there that caters to wealthy men of a certain persuasion.”
Briney let his eyebrows crawl up his brow. “I see. I’ll be gone from here tomorrow, too.”
“We seem to be alike in many ways. Where is your charming companion?”
“She’s just a friend. She’s back in her seat, studying the program.”
“So she’s just a friend, then? Not your paramour?”
“Hardly. We have different persuasions, to use your phrase.”
“Excellent.” Beau traced a finger across his upper lip. “Are you interested in that lounge, by any chance? We could have some privacy there.”
The rush those words brought was better than any clove-infused cigarette. “That sounds nice.”
He followed Beau through the crowd, keeping his eyes on the man’s tight butt. He really was like a Greek god come to life.
His other travel companions had spent the day regaling the group with tales of their tedious adventures from the previous night. So middle class and low brow. Nothing like this. Tomorrow, he’d gift them with a tale of romance and charm.
Two flights down in a sub-basement, Beau pressed a numeric code into a keypad mounted on an oak door. A light flashed green and a lock whirred. When it opened, soft light swelled up from within, revealing plush couches, colorful Persian rugs, and abstract prints on the walls.
Briney followed Beau inside. The room was empty. His heart raced.
They kissed.
Briney lost himself in Beau’s strong arms, in his sweet scent of sandalwood and vetiver, in his moist lips. Time stopped then, for an instant. For an eternity.
But then the strangest thing happened.
A low frequency thrum rose and fell, up and down, softer, then louder, over and over. A glowing ivory fog filled the room, pulsing in rhythm with the thrum. Vertigo danced along, making the room spin in a dizzying gyre.
The far wall of the room dissolved.
Figures emerged from the shadows. Dwarf-like, grey-skinned figures, with enormous eyes and long, spindly fingers that clutched at his limbs like spiders. Fingers that pulled Beau away from him and toward that now phantom wall.
Briney reached for him, but the spidery fingers held him back.
Beau’s outstretched arms reached in Briney's direction. His mouth opened in a silent plea.
But then the fog swallowed him, as if he were sailing away, saliing away, disappearing into the mist.
Darkness closed over Briney and the world sailed away.
An uncertain time later, he woke with his cheek pressed against the nape of a Persian rug. Dim overhead light painted shadows on empty couches and silent walls.
There was no sign of Beau. No sign of aliens with giant eyes and spidery fingers. No thrum, just silence.
This was crazy. Only stupid people had experiences like this. Low brow, gullible people with mush for brains. Fools, driven by fevered superstition instead of the cold certainty reason provided. What happened couldn’t have happened.
At least, not to somoene like him.
Maybe it was the meth that laced his cigarette. Yes, that must explain it. The whole thing must have been just a drug-induced fantasy.
But that kiss. Somehow, he couldn't make that memory go way. He didn't want to make that memory go away.
He chewed his lip and thought about recounting this to his companions. To the authorities. To the yowling masses. Then he thought about the scorn that would follow.
This was not a tale he was going to tell. Not to anyone. Not ever.
That kiss, though. That would be a perfect memory he'd treasure until the end of his days.
He stood, straightened his clothes, lit another cigarette, and headed back upstairs.
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© Copyright 2025 Max Griffin 🏳️🌈 (mathguy at Writing.Com).
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