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"Surfin' USA" - Beach Boys Paul's pearl-gray Lincoln town car was almost big enough to be a limo. Kareinon drove competently and mechanically as we sat in the plush back seat… as far apart as possible, of course. Los Angeles was interesting - big and spread out - and chock full of all sorts of strange people. As another large city, the flavor might have been similar to the Big Apple, but somehow it wasn't. Paul kindly pointed out well known landmarks such as the "Hollywood" sign and Rodeo Drive, but I was much more interested in watching Paul and hearing his story than in sightseeing. Kareinon drove without a word… maybe he couldn't talk. Paul ignored him and, after a while, so did I. Paul had come to Earth when he was about fifteen, twelve years ago, which made him twenty-seven now. He sidestepped why, but I had a feeling he just got sick of palace life. Of course, they didn't want him to leave, so he slipped quietly away one day, much like I had, but with less fanfare. The fact that both of us had come to Earth, rather than any other place in the universe, seemed to be only a coincidence. Since his arrival, he had visited almost every country on this planet… sometimes changing his body to "pass" as a native and at others just being himself. After a while he started feeling even more down than he had when he arrived, and he "lost himself" (his words) for two years. I took it to mean he couldn't remember that time period. I supposed that even someone as powerful as Paul could develop amnesia if he really wanted to; I doubted it could happen by accident. A woman named Xintaie[1] who was another sort of alien residing on Earth, had found Paul and somehow "rescued" him. When, with her care, he got his memories back, he felt compelled to tell the Lecurelan government where he was and, when he refused to return "home" as they demanded, they sent Suria here to watch and "advise" him. He was perfectly open about his own actions and feelings, but I didn't think I would have interpreted them exactly the way he did. I thought he probably had suffered from a major depression because of the way the Lecurelan government treated its young rulers-to-be. Maybe I was just reading more into it from my own prejudiced viewpoint, but I didn't think so. I didn't kibitz though; I just listened - letting him talk all he wanted. Just being in his presence was a treat, and having him share anything at all with me was fascinating. He could have recited the phone book and I'd have been happy. I felt like I'd been living in a desert for years and had finally found an oasis. So he dutifully fell in with whatever plans Suria cooked up for him until Vaira came along. That was fairly recently, I guessed. Apparently, when they met, her planet had been under some sort of attack by their local variety of bad guys, and she and a few other freedom fighters retreated to Earth for a breather. Paul decided that he should help them, and called in his own private company of the Federation Legion Guards to assist. After their victory, he persuaded Vaira to marry him. (His words again.) Persuaded? What the hell was wrong with a woman who had to be persuaded to marry this hunk? I figured there must be groupies lining up around the block to do anything at all for him. No wonder I didn't like her. Anyway, I supposed I still had to be grateful to Vaira. I had first "heard" Paul's mental cry of anguish when she refused to marry him. Without that wake up call, I might still be living in NYC, ignorant of his existence. They had only been married for a couple of weeks. Well… at least he didn't seem particularly depressed now. I'd give Vaira that much credit. Paul wanted to take me out to lunch - somewhere nice, he said - but I was not dressed up enough for a fancy restaurant. I did let him buy me a hot dog from a drive-in whose building was shaped exactly like what it sold. Scary. Even New York City isn't that weird. The dogs weren't bad, though. Before he could ask for my story, I spotted a clothing store in the suburbs and he was glad to stop. I bought slacks and shirts… even some shoes and underwear and one nice sports jacket. At home it had been either jeans and tees or black slacks/white dress shirt for my job - waiting tables. Here it looked like I'd need a little more depth to my wardrobe. Even the threatened dinner with Vaira was probably a formal occasion… and I'd need to find a shower before then. Paying the bill at the cash register made me remember that I had a little money, but not enough for a prolonged stay at a luxury hotel. Maybe there was some sort of lodging nearby that was more in my price range. I decided to broach that subject with Paul… he had to know this town better than I did. Of course, his first suggestion was that I stay with him and his wife. I had to veto that, but fast! Even if she was okay with it - which I doubted - I wouldn't be able to sleep in a house that contained Paul without wanting to sneak down the hall to his room after lights out… which would only embarrass both of us. His next suggestion was a room at Suria's "lab," which gave me visions of waking up dissected some fine morning. No, thanks. He finally looked thoughtful and said that we should drop by a place owned by some friends of his. By that time I was wondering if I shouldn't just call a cab or hop on a bus and look for a hotel. Paul and I might be technically related, but I didn't want to sponge off his friends. The building we stopped at looked like nothing more than a big grey warehouse, and it was in the right sort of neighborhood for that too. I hoped that Kareinon would be staying with the car, because otherwise it might be minus a few parts when we came back. Paul and I walked over to an unobtrusive metal door that did not look like the main entrance to anything. It opened for him, closed silently behind both of us, and we were suddenly somewhere over the rainbow. The long hall was plush, in a fancy hotel sort of way, and the seriously muscular doorman looked like he modeled for GQ on the side. The inner aspect of the place couldn't have been more in contrast with the outer. We followed the good looking (not like Paul, but who is?) guy down the carpeted hall to a wood-paneled door that proved to have a luxurious wood-and-leather-type office behind it. Paul looked quite at home and took a chair, so I did too - and we waited. But we didn't wait for long. Anyone else who entered a room that fast would have looked like he was running, but not this guy. He wasn't there one minute, and then he was… I had to blink to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks. The guy was worth a second look, too. He wasn't handsome, exactly… his face was too rugged for that - all sharp angles and beaky aristocratic nose. His short hair was coal black and his body long and lean, and the expensive-looking suit he wore was obviously not off the rack. The charcoal-gray wool made his face look even paler… it almost matched his white linen shirt. But it was his eyes that really held my attention - they were deep-set under high arching brows, the irises a striking shade of emerald green. If eyes are really the windows of the soul then, from his expression, this soul had seen many unusual and perhaps dreadful things. He looked like nothing could ever surprise him. For a second I almost forgot my infatuation with Paul. I thought that the man was looking at me more intently than normal too, then I realized that we were being introduced. I heard Paul naming him Phillip Drackett, and then a long, slender, perfectly manicured hand was extended in my direction, and I shook it briefly before it was withdrawn. Unobtrusively, I rubbed my fingers against my thumb. His skin had outwardly felt only cool and dry, but some kind of strange energy had tingled across my palm when he touched me… what the…? I realized that I had lost some of the conversation. Paul and Mr. Drackett were chatting like old friends, comfortable and almost affectionate. I knew Paul was straight, but I was starting to wonder about tall, dark, and dangerous. "Of course your friend is welcome to stay here," Mr. Drackett said. I was? Well, of all the places I had been offered, this one was the most welcoming. No wives, so far, and no female Dr. Frankensteins. The dark man was looking at me intensely again, but when he noticed me noticing he turned firmly back to Paul. "And there is always a place for another entertainer at the club. He can talk to the band members tonight." Well, I had mentioned that to Paul. I enjoyed singing and often supplemented my income by doing it at one of the local clubs back in the city. I had no illusions about being very good, but nobody had ever thrown rotten fruit either. I knew I'd have to find a paying job sooner or later, but singing in exchange for a place to stay, in this plush joint, wouldn't be a hardship. I wondered what sort of "club" Mr. Drackett might be talking about. Somehow I couldn't picture him being involved with anything less than high class. I looked down at my jeans and almost-worn-out boots, my ass slouching comfortably in his spiffy leather chair, and thought that maybe I was wrong. If he was hiring a slob like me to sing for him, then maybe it was a just a bar, after all. I smiled to myself. Or maybe it wasn't just for singing… maybe there were other things I could do for Mr. Drackett… things we'd both enjoy. Looking up and leaving the lazy smile on my face, I caught his eye… and received in return a look so sharp and deadly that I wished I hadn't left my suit of armor at home. Ouch. Well, wrong again, I guessed. I quit showing my teeth and shook my head slightly. Damn… "Sunny California" or not, LA already had too many straight guys to suit me. It had grown late somehow, and Paul was due at his house for a dinner with the wife. I had my choice of going with him - jeans, T-shirt, B.O. and all - or staying at Mr. D's place for a tour of my lodgings-to-be and a chance at a shower. Although I wanted to be with Paul, I thought a little break might do me good… maybe give me time to adjust to everything. So I asked Paul to tender my regrets to his missus. I'd see her again some other day when I was at least clean. Since the D man and I weren't getting along too well, I was a bit worried about how things would go after Paul left, but Mr. Drackett turned me over to the local concierge, a big guy, name of Andre, who reminded me of nothing more than a dangerous-looking eunuch. Andre and I were about the same height, but he looked like he'd outweigh me by a good fifty pounds… none of it fat. I'm not sure where I got the eunuch vibe, but he just seemed more focused, less distractible than most people. Not that he wasn't nice. He showed me to a suite of rooms - sitting room, bedroom, and a huge bath - that were fancier than the poshest hotel I'd ever stayed in. Almost made me want to wipe my feet, if there'd been a mat outside. Then he stayed long enough to make sure I knew my way around and promised to be right back with my luggage. Such service… I wondered if I should tip him. I decided not when he returned in record time and left me with the warmest, non-sexual smile I could ever remember. I kinda had the feeling he liked me… maybe the way a man and a dog like each other…. except I couldn't figure out which one of us was the dog. An hour later, showered and dressed in some of my new duds, I reported to the "club", escorted by Andre. It turned out to be another part of the complex housed in the same big gray building. As I had feared, it was incredibly fancy, all plush and gilt like something out of the fourteenth century instead of the middle of the twentieth. The stage filled one corner of the main room and was so modern by comparison that it only made me think of the eighteen-hundreds. I wondered if they had electric guitars, or if we'd have to make do with a harpsichord. I also wondered when they served dinner around here. That lunchtime hotdog was getting a little lonely. Even though the place hadn't yet opened for business, the musicians had obviously arrived. A bunch of guys were crowded around a folding table which I quickly noted was piled with cold cuts and fruit. They all turned to see me and, from the looks I got, I was sure that at least two of them were fags. Suddenly, I felt at home. There were introductions all around. The tall skinny kid with the long dark hair who looked about sixteen but assured me he was much older, was called "Key," God knows why. The nerdy looking guy with glasses was Dexter, a genius on the keyboard (I was told) and the group's arranger and songwriter. The short, Asian-looking one, who looked me up and down with an inscrutable smile, was called Kohl, and proved it by wearing eye makeup. These three - guitar, keyboard and drums - were the core of the band. They called themselves the Grave Diggers, which was a little strange but not much worse than a lot of other names around. The cute redhead (Jimmy) and the solemn dark haired one (Andrew) helped out with lights and equipment. The last, a blonde guy almost as tall as me, said that he was not at all musical but was only there for the food. He introduced himself as "Buddy," sometimes called "Fang" by his friends. I didn't spend much time checking out the teeth in his big white smile, but his muscles were impressive. When he slipped an arm around my waist while reaching for the salami… (the sliced one, on the table next to the Swiss cheese, you pervert)… I didn't see any reason to object. Before I knew it we'd made a date. Tomorrow morning I was going surfing. Viva California!
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