Dirty Talk

Four

Clarence and Jackson walk idly down the sidewalk. Sometimes, their shoulders would brush together and bombs would drop in every corner of Jackson's memory.

Dennis would be there, just like he's always been, a parasite slowly killing him from the inside with all the little details. Like the way he touched, his nervous nature in all things Jackson, and how he'd become a stuttering mess when that Jackson put his hands on him.

But fuck it.
Dennis Weaver isn't a saint.

And Jackson wouldn't remember him as one. That parasite would either starve or crawl his way back, and Jackson would be right there waiting.

The sun is a murderer. It'll kill the two of them, melt their skin off if they're not careful. Yet, Jackson's still willing to put up with the sweaty damp shirt and glistening forehead, his hair reduced to silky strands by the sweat he's combed into it.

The air's consistent to the inside of an oven, but it's free and prospering. The wind's still brushing up their backsides with cool breaths of relief. It's alive, unlike the four walls he's surrounded by every morning. That's the simple fact that keeps him going.

Clarence's voice calms Jackson's urge to get the hell out of dodge, makes him want to listen to the words Clarence speaks. And he speaks them. So well.

He doesn't know what it is. And he can't help but continue the walk, to ask and pull those thoughts from Clarence's throat, hoping to figure out what it is about that voice that makes him different from any other person.

"This won't get you on Dennis's good side," Jackson says, "knowin' you're hangin' with me. People get sensitive when it comes to who their friends are friends with, especially Dennis." Jackson pauses on the thought. "He always cared more about that stuff than me, I think."

"Considering we only met a week ago, I don't think he cares too much."

Jackson peeks a curious glance over at a Clarence. "Hank hired you at the same time?"

Clarence makes a little shrug. "Something like that. Dennis was workin' there before I was. I was just lookin' for a temporary thing." He absentmindedly scrapes the heel of his boot along the ground as they walk. It's grating to the ears, but Jackson puts it aside.

Clarence continues, "My dad and I got into town about the same time I got the job. Hank was nice enough to help me out again, does every summer, but I'm surprised that old thing's still runnin'."

"You got the money to come down here every summer?"

Clarence rumbles a tickled laugh that picks apart Jackson's words like he's said something dumb. "We're not rich or nothin'," he negates. "We hike most of the way, really. Hitchin' and whatnot. Summer's a bad time to sell firewood, so we come down here, get some money flowin' in and settle for a bit."

Jackson stares distantly at the sidewalk, lost beneath the cracks in the cement and wondering what that life could look like, not being strapped down, going where you please on your own two feet.

Is that why Clarence looks at him like that? Because he's been around, seen things that Jackson's never had the pleasure to?

And that's it. That's what it is about Clarence. He has a way of looking at Jackson, as if he matters, and simultaneously, doesn't.

"Sounds like one hell of a time," Jackson murmurs. He wipes the sweat from his top lip, tucking back the flyaways from his face.

"You get used to it," Clarence says.

Clarence's voice had dropped at that last bit, becoming nothing but a dull-spoken, dry truth. Jackson wants to stir the tension, maybe change the subject, but he can't find the strength to overcome the silence.