Fic :: Hair :: The Invisible Man
Title: The Invisible Man
Fandom: Hair
Pairing: Claude/Berger, Berger/Sheila, Berger/Woof, Berger/Jeanie, Berger/Hud, Sheila/OMC
Rating: NC-17ish
Word Count: ~7,200
Notes: A sequel is planned.
Summary: “Maybe you could bring him back,” Woof said, as they lay there in the darkness, high and drifting.
"Maybe,” Berger agreed. It was a nice thought. If he just tried hard enough. If he just squeezed his eyes shut. Fairies became real. Unicorns too. Just think of ice cream. Snowflakes. Claude.
The Invisible Man
Sheila was leaving him.
She’d met someone better than Berger, someone who wrote her letters and called her apartment all the time. The guy wasn’t threatened by Berger, didn’t care when Berger answered Sheila‘s telephone, just asked “Is Sheila there?” like Berger was her brother or her butler or her friend.
Berger didn’t care either, but he didn’t like the harsh ring of the phone, didn’t like it at all now that the one person he wanted to hear from would never call on it. It kept ringing anyway. Eventually Berger unplugged the phone and when Sheila found it, the cord hanging onto the floor, she confronted him in her bedroom. When he made a big stink of it, going so far as to loudly and obnoxiously imitate the ringing, Sheila sighed. She folded her legs beneath her as she sat beside him on the futon, as she took his head in both of her hands and kissed his forehead. When he turned, she kissed his mouth.
“He asked me if you’d be jealous,” Sheila said. “I told him that you wouldn‘t care.”
“Who?” Berger asked.
He knew who. His name was Bobby. Berger didn’t know if Sheila had nicknames for Bobby yet. He didn’t really want to know.
“Bobby,” Sheila said, though she knew that he knew too. “That was all before though.”
She didn‘t elaborate. Berger didn‘t want to talk about it.
“I’m not jealous,” Berger insisted.
“I know,“ Sheila said. “Are you okay though?”
Instead of answering, Berger reached for Sheila, pulled her into his lap and lifted her shirt up and over her head. Sheila combed her fingers through his hair, tangling them in curls, and Berger leaned in. He kissed her, pulled her closer and laughed against the hollow of her throat just to show her that he could. She smiled and pulled away from him, moved back in and kissed his mouth again.
They’d always been good at this part. It was why they’d been able to convince themselves for so long that they worked together. This part was easy. It was easier than talking about Bobby. It was easier than answering Sheila’s questions.
Anyway, Sheila thought that she already knew the answer. Berger wasn’t okay. But she was wrong. Berger was fine. Berger was good and groovy and great.
Mostly, Berger was just angry.
**
Sometimes he wondered why Sheila hadn’t left him earlier. He’d certainly deserved to be left at times. He’d pushed, he’d prodded, he’d strayed over and over again, and yet she stayed. But now he watched her and saw how she lit up when she talked of Bobby. She talked about Bobby a lot, so she seemed to be surrounded by a permanent glow.
“I caught him watching me from across the crowd. Everyone else was focused on the FBI building, but not him. He was watching me. He smiled and waved when he saw that I’d noticed. And then the crowd pushed forward and when I looked for him again, he was gone.”
He’d heard her tell this story dozens of times to everyone in the tribe. Did she have a story like that about him? They’d met at a party that Sheila’s friend Shelly had thrown. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Nothing had happened then, but they’d talked and laughed and gotten high. They saw each other again and again and eventually it was pretty clear that they had something going on, that it wasn’t just sex and pot and hours of talking about nothing in particular. They just fell in together.
It wasn’t an interesting story. It was boring. They’d always been a little boring. Berger listened to Sheila talk about meeting Bobby and thought that Bobby must be nothing like Berger. Bobby must be amazing. Maybe he was Sheila’s Claude.
When Berger met Claude he’d wanted to tell the world about it. He hadn’t, but he wanted to.
“You’ve been quiet,” Sheila said, sitting beside him on the floor of the tiny living room in her apartment. Dionne and Suzanne had left. There was no one left for Sheila to talk to about Bobby. It was harder for her to light up an entire room on her own and everything seemed a little dimmer now, a little gloomy.
Berger shrugged. He just didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t have anything new to say to her about Bobby.
“Here,” Sheila said, pressed a piece of paper to the floor in front of Berger.
“What is this?”
“It’s paper,” Sheila laughed. She took his hand and pushed something into it. It was a pen.
Berger must have been staring at it because Sheila shook her head and said, “Berger, honey, that’s a pen.”
“I know that,” Berger snapped. He wasn‘t an invalid. He wasn‘t mentally impaired. He was high, that was all. He was high and he had no idea where she was going with any of this. He took the pen anyway, pressed the tip hard to the blank page.
Finally Sheila got to the point.
“Write to him,” she suggested. “Write to him and tell him everything.”
Berger laughed. Tell him everything.
“If you write, you know he’ll take care of himself. He’ll come home.”
She left him alone after that, with the paper and the pen. Berger crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it across the room. He stared at it and then he sighed, crawled across the floor to retrieve it. He hunched over it on his knees, smoothed it out, pressed the creases down and put the pen to its white surface again.
Dear Claude,
He stopped, scratched that out and started over.
Claudio,
I miss the smell of your neck in the summer. I miss the taste of your dick in my mouth. I think my heart is broken.
He crossed out the last line too. It might be true, but it looked stupid on paper. It looked fake in Berger’s hand.
Berger wondered how many people would read it before it reached Claude. Would they sensor it? Would love letters from Berger get Claude kicked out? It was a tempting thought, but it didn‘t matter.
He thought about it for another moment and then started to write again.
What the fuck were you thinking?
He wasn’t going to send the letter anyway. He folded it and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans instead.
**
They never actually discussed the fact that they were falling apart. They just let it happen. Sheila waited for Bobby’s calls, watched the street for the mail, and Berger let her have him, stopped coming around so much. It was better this way. Berger didn’t have to tell Sheila that he’d thought Sheila could convince Claude to stay, that he’d been so sure of it, and that he hated her a little when she failed. Sheila didn’t have to tell Berger that she’d always wished he was better, deeper, smarter.
If they’d tried to discuss it, Sheila would probably decide that it was all just a front, that Berger wasn’t really all that okay at all, and she wouldn’t be able to pull away from him. Berger didn’t want that. It wasn’t true anyway, and he didn’t want Sheila to stay with him when that wasn’t what she wanted to do.
He slept in the park for a few days. He just didn’t really feel like being locked away indoors.
Eventually Hud said, “Come on, baby, come home with me,” and Berger conceded. He let Hud lead him downtown. Hud was staying at an abandoned warehouse that week, a squatter’s paradise, full of strangers and a few of their friends. Berger hugged Walter, waved to Jeanie, and let Hud pull him into a secluded corner. A table had been set up there, a makeshift meeting place.
Hud kissed him, his hands at Berger’s waist. He pulled Berger forward until their hips knocked together and Berger grabbed him, kissed him back. This was exactly what he needed.
When Hud’s hand slipped into the pocket of Berger‘s jeans to pull him closer, to tease, he found the letter to Claude.
“What’s this?” Hud asked. He was so close that Berger could feel the reverberation of Hud’s deep voice in his own throat. Berger didn’t try to take it from him. He watched as Hud unfolded it, read the words.
“Shit,” Hud said. He dropped the letter and pulled Berger against him, his mouth soft against Berger’s, hot.
Hud fucked him that night when Berger asked, begged. Hud fucked him, deep and thorough. It wasn’t the first time they‘d done it. It wasn‘t the second or the third, but it was the time Berger would probably remember the longest.
Berger grunted, bent over the table, his hands pressed flat to the wooden surface. The table knocked loudly against the floor with each thrust. The building was empty except for the tribe, except for the squatters. Old men, veterans, cripples, and drunks. They’d hear and Berger hoped they did. He hoped they heard the table, heard Berger’s grunts, and slid their hands into their own pants. When Hud began pounding against him, hard and fast, Berger grabbed his dick, pressed his forehead to the table, braced it on his other arm. When his orgasm hit it sounded like he was choking, the feel of it catching in his throat, dripping from his hand onto the concrete of the floor. Hud slowed and Berger felt Hud’s mouth pressed to his back, Hud’s tongue between his shoulder blades.
Claude used to do that all the time, kiss Berger’s back right there, right in the center. Claude would kiss him there through the fabric of his clothes. He‘d place is lips to Berger‘s bare skin, stay there. Sometimes they’d have an entire conversation like that, Claude wrapped around him, his mouth moving against Claude’s back, his breath hot and damp.
Hud was talking to him, but Berger couldn’t hear what Hud said, didn’t care. He could only hear Claude.
**
After days of sleeping in the park, Berger decided that it was time to grow a beard. He’d never liked it, shaving, so why not stop it entirely? Most of the time he let Sheila shave his face for him and wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. He’d done it for her, and he’d done it for Claude.
But Sheila and Claude were gone and Berger liked the beard. It made him feel grizzly, weathered. It made him feel like he was really living. Free and untamed. Finally.
So he let it grow, bushy and dark and wild.
**
Bobby had arrived in New York.
He wasn’t what Berger expected. He wore glasses, looked so straight, like he was spit out by a machine. Sure his hair was a little too long and the knees of his corduroys were worn, but it wasn’t real. That wasn’t the real Bobby. The real Bobby wore a tie and there were creases down the legs of his trousers.
The real Bobby would change again when everything else did.
Sheila threw a party, a chance to introduce Bobby to the tribe.
Berger watched them together, watched the way that Bobby had Sheila wrapped in his arms. He squeezed her tighter and she smiled, leaned her head up to kiss his mouth.
It had been a while since Berger had seen her so obviously happy, never thought she‘d be so happy with a machine.
Bobby talked about his plans to move to New York. Sheila talked about the trip they’d planned to meet her parents in Connecticut.
“It’s all happening really fast,” Sheila admitted to Crissy while Berger pretended to listen to anything other than their conversation. “I think this could be really good for me. Really right.”
Berger looked up then and found Sheila looking right back at him. She knew he listened. She knew he was there.
Berger smiled, nodded, didn’t brush her off or make a joke. She stepped closer to him, past Crissy, and she reached up to brush his hair off his forehead. Berger took her hand, held it in his for a moment, and then left her when Walter and Hud began calling his name.
Sheila’s friend Shelly was there at the party and she glared at Berger from across the room. She’d always hated Berger so the look was no surprise, but for the first time Berger found it lacking. The glare didn’t have the same edge that it had when Berger and Sheila were actually together. The missing edge meant something. It might mean that Shelly didn’t like Bobby either. Berger decided to approach. Cautiously.
“So,” Berger said. “Bobby.”
Shelly rolled her eyes. “Bobby,” she repeated.
Shelly radiated negative energy. She seemed to be filled with it and Berger had never understood why Sheila couldn’t feel it, didn’t feel poisoned when she stood too close.
“Better than me,” Berger offered.
Shelly just shrugged.
**
Berger didn’t plan to sleep with Shelly. On the other hand, she hated him so much that subconsciously Berger knew the sex would be great. It would be scorching.
He wasn’t wrong. Shelly scratched him, ordered him, and Berger complied, pounded into her, hissed and bucked when her nails cut into his back. Shelly bit at his mouth, sucked on his tongue, demanded everything he was willing to give her.
Maybe Berger really was a little jealous of Bobby. Why else would he be here? Why else would he end up with Shelly wrapped tightly around him. He knew it would upset Sheila. Shelly had always disliked Berger, had always hoped that Sheila would come to her senses and leave him. The fact that Shelly had gone back on that opinion, the fact that she’d slept with Sheila’s boyfriend, it could ruin their friendship if Sheila ever found out.
“If you breathe a word of this, I’ll kill you,” Shelly said afterward, pulling her dress back over her head. She hadn’t been wearing underwear, so once the dress was on she was ready and she stalked out of the room without looking back.
Berger wasn’t going to breathe a word.
**
Berger couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone. There was always someone there now and Berger wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on. Sure, sure, they were all worried about him, but it was ridiculous. Berger was fine and there was nothing to worry about. He wasn’t even angry now, not really. He was moving on.
“It’s almost been a month,” Jeanie said, her hand entwined with his.
“A month since what?” Berger asked. He knew what she meant, but he pretended he didn‘t. He didn‘t want to talk about it, and anyway, he was moving on.
“You know,” Jeanie said. She didn’t want to talk about it either, just had to acknowledge the passage of time. “I was thinking that maybe we should do something. You know, when it’s been a full month.”
Berger looked up at the trees, imagined stars, imagined the sun blazing overhead. He imagined Claude leaning over him, Claude’s hair hanging down into his face. Berger pushed the thoughts, all of them, away. The sky was black. There were no stars and there was no Claude.
“Do you want to cut my hair?” Berger asked Jeanie.
He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he thought about it sometimes. He thought about how Claude must look now, wondered if he’d even recognize him.
“Cut your hair?” Jeanie repeated. “No.”
Berger shrugged, probably wouldn’t have made her do it even if she’d agreed. They shared a joint and then Berger slipped his hand beneath Jeanie’s skirt. She was going to have the baby soon. She had to have the baby soon. She was huge and her back ached and her breasts strained against her dress.
“Berger,” Jeanie gasped when Berger’s fingers slipped between her legs.
Berger leaned into her, set his cheek to her enormous stomach. He kissed her belly, kissed her breasts, felt his fingers become slick as he touched her, as they tangled in the hair there. She reached for him, kissed him, held tight to his arms. He pressed his nose into her hair, kissed the top of her head, held her as she shook and cried out.
She reached for him afterward, but Berger pushed her hand away. He’d take care of it later, kind of liked the slight ache of arousal for the moment.
“Do you miss him?” she asked instead. She probably thought that his pushing her away had something to do with Claude, and her voice was soft when she spoke the words, careful.
“No,” Berger lied.
Berger wasn’t made of fucking glass. He wasn’t going to break down, shatter into a million pieces. Claude was gone. He’d move on. That was what people did. That was how the world worked. He’d get high and he’d fuck and love and shout and Claude would fade.
Maybe Claude would return. Berger wouldn’t forget him entirely, but just in case Claude didn’t, Berger would move on, let Claude become invisible. It was what Claude had always wanted anyway, wasn‘t it?
It wasn’t a big thing. It wasn’t the end of the world. Sometimes people just left. Sometimes they disappeared.
They used to know this guy. His name was Guy, actually, and for a while he was around all the time, had a thing going with Suzanne or Angela, and then one day he just disappeared and they never saw him again.
“Remember Guy?” Berger asked Jeanie now.
“Who?”
Exactly.
**
Berger lit the edge of the letter on fire with the end of his joint. He watched the paper turn black, then red, then fall away, disappearing completely. He put the fire out before the flames were able to reach any of the words.
I’d die for you.
He’d written it that morning, but it wasn’t his own thought. It was something that Jeanie had said. Something that he’d copied from her. It wasn’t true anyway, was it? After all, Berger was still here.
**
The goal was simple. Strip naked, run from the southern end of Central Park all the way up to Harlem Meer without getting caught, without getting arrested.
Berger had dared Hud, had pulled Woof in as well. They started early, standing together by the pond.
“Ready?” Hud asked.
Woof nodded and Berger began to strip off his clothes. It was only then that he remembered the contents of his pockets, the letter folded there. He needed it, didn’t want to lose it. He found a fissure in a rock and stuffed his jeans within, left his shirt in the pile with Woof and Hud’s clothes.
Hud looked to Berger and Berger grinned, took off shouting. They dashed through the lower half of the park, laughing and yelling to each other. Free. Women shrieked at them and they had to lose an overweight officer by the lake, but he was on foot and dodging him was easy. They rushed into the Ramble and climbed barefoot over rocks and sticks. Once they reached the reservoir they slowed down again. The park was quieter up here. They ducked behind trees, stayed off the main paths except to cross them.
North of the reservoir they went east through the ravine, finally emerging triumphant at the edge of Harlem Meer. They spilled out onto the lawn and then Woof yelped and pushed them back toward the edge of the forest, surprised by the family of children playing at the edge of the water.
“We need to run a lap around the Meer,” Berger insisted.
“You do it,” Woof said. He was done. Making it this far was more than enough for Woof.
Berger ran the lap, waved when people stared, laughed and stopped to play with a man’s hair. When he made it back to the trees, Woof and Hud were laughing too.
It was only then that they realized they were naked at 110th street and their clothes were back on 59th.
“Well, shit,” Hud said.
Berger laughed harder, felt a little high on the whole experience. He reached out and slapped Hud’s bare ass.
They made their way back into the woods surrounding the ravine and spent the afternoon sprawled naked in a secluded clearing there.
Woof and Hud’s mood was celebratory and now that Berger was still again, he watched them as they discretely patted each other on the back. They’d finally done it, they thought. Finally got Berger’s mind off Claude. But Claude was the invisible man. Even when you couldn’t see him, he was there.
He was with Berger in the Ramble, reminding Berger of the time they’d fucked frantically there, urged on by the sound of approaching voices, a young couple strolling hand in hand, Claude and Berger entwined just steps away in the dense overgrowth.
Claude was there by the reservoir, laughing when Berger grabbed him and swung him around.
He was on the mall hanging on tourists and he was kissing Berger in those trees just off the Meer.
They were right though. Berger had been ignoring him.
It was time to move on and this was part of it. For that he let Woof and Hud celebrate, let them think him happy. He was happy.
When the sun started to set, Woof began complaining of hunger.
“I’ve got something you could eat,” Berger offered, hand on his dick.
Woof seemed to consider the proposition for a moment until Hud, who’d been quiet for some time, said, “Did you send that letter?”
“What letter?” Woof asked.
“No,” Berger said at the same time.
“Are you gonna?”
No.”
“You need to finish that thing and you need to send it,” Hud decided, and then he stood, as though that was the end of it all.
“Are you writing to Claude?” Woof asked finally, putting two and two together.
“Maybe,” Berger said, and then he waved a hand to dismiss them both. It seemed to be enough.
Hud stretched and said, “I’m fucking hungry, and not for Berger’s dick. Let’s go.”
It was late when they finally made it back down to the pond. Someone had picked through their clothes, strewn them about. Everything was still there though. Berger’s jeans were in the fissure, undisturbed, and he pulled them out, checked the pockets. The letter was still there.
Later he searched the warehouse until he found a pen, unfolded the letter and added yet more words.
I hate you.
He thought about crossing it out as soon as he wrote it, but in the end he left the words. There was no way he could be convinced to send it to Claude now.
**
Woof pretended to search through Berger’s beard with his fingers, as though he could no longer find Berger’s mouth through all of the hair. When he did find it, Berger parted his lips slightly so that Woof‘s fingers slipped inside. Woof leaned in and replaced his fingers with his lips. He seemed to like the courseness of the kiss. Berger liked it too.
He took Woof with him down to Whitehall Street. Berger stopped and stared at the Army Induction Center, imagined Claude walking through those doors and never emerging again. That was ridiculous. Of course Claude came back out. He wasn‘t locked away in there. Claude left the induction center and went instead to the other side of the world.
A young soldier was standing outside. They had lingered there too long and the soldier was becoming suspicious. He crossed his arms over his chest, stared back at them. Berger knew what he saw. He saw Berger’s hair, the thick beard, the fringe on Berger’s vest and the fur draped over Woof’s shoulders. The soldier knew they didn’t belong here. Berger could tell that he wondered what kind of trouble the likes of George Berger was up to now.
“I miss Claude,” Woof sighed, turned away from the soldier, bored with it all.
Berger shrugged, started walking again. “I don’t. Let‘s go.”
Woof rushed to catch up. “You don’t?”
“Fuck Claude,” Berger said.
Woof shook his head but he didn’t press and when they stopped again by the river, Berger kissed him for it. Later when the sun set and the city settled into the darkness once more, they fucked, long and slow, and then slept tangled together beneath a tree near the battery.
“Maybe you could bring him back,” Woof said, as they lay there in the darkness, high and drifting.
Berger laughed, actually laughed, and it seemed to surprise Woof.
“Maybe,” Berger agreed. It was a nice thought. If he just tried hard enough. If he just squeezed his eyes shut. Fairies became real. Unicorns too. Just think of ice cream. Snowflakes. Claude.
Woof was always so full of great thoughts.
Berger closed his eyes and imagined it, imagined Claude there with them as he fell asleep.
**
Berger dreamed of Claude, of course
He dreamed of Claude in the jungle, the sweat shining on his tanned skin. Claude wasn‘t happy to see Berger. He didn’t want to come home, seemed offended that Berger could see him at all. Claude wasn‘t invisible. He hadn‘t disappeared. He‘d just gone somewhere else. He’d just left.
In didn’t matter though because in the dream, Berger had resources. He had an extraction team and a helicopter, and he convinced Claude to board with kisses and whispered promises.
When they were in the helicopter, when they were free, flying away from Vietnam, Claude grabbed him, kissed him, and it tasted just like their first kiss, like every kiss they‘d shared afterward.
“Let‘s go to India,” Claude suggested and Berger felt his anger drain, felt his heart become whole.
**
He awoke to a dog barking, chasing a squirrel a ways away on the path. Woof was still asleep beside him, didn’t move when Berger reached between them and pulled the letter from his pocket. He had something to say, but he didn’t have anything to write with. He got up, left Woof beneath the tree and asked couples on the path until someone gave him a pencil and told him to keep it.
He opened the letter and pressed it flat to a bench.
You and Me. India. They‘ll never get us. Unicorns are real.
**
The trip to Flushing was Hud’s idea. Berger trailed behind them, Hud and Crissy, as they walked the blocks from the bus stop to Claude’s house.
When they arrived at the address, Hud hung back on the sidewalk, pushed Berger after Crissy.
Claude’s mother opened the door at the second knock. She seemed surprised to see them, her eyes wide as she greeted them, a question in her voice.
She and Claude had the same eyes.
Crissy nudged him, but Berger found that he didn’t have anything to say. He huffed a little, grinned.
Claude’s mother looked past them, eyed Hud, and then turned her attention back to Berger and Crissy.
“We’re Claude’s friends,” Crissy said finally.
“I know that,” Claude’s mother said.
“I’d like to write to Claude,” Crissy explained. “Could you give me an address for him?”
Claude’s mother’s face grew soft at Crissy’s question. “Of course,” she said. “He’d love to hear from you. I have the address for letters on the fridge. I’ll just go copy it down for you.”
Berger knew what she was thinking, a nice girl showing up at her home and asking about her son. She was probably planning the wedding for the day that Claude arrived home.
“You’re useless,” Crissy hissed at Berger when Claude’s mother disappeared down the hall.
Berger shrugged. This wasn’t his idea. Berger hadn’t ever planned to see Claude’s mother again.
“Here you are, dear,” she said, returning with a card.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bukowski,” Crissy said. “We really miss Claude.”
Claude’s mother was looking at him again, was probably freaked out by the beard, never liked him even without it. Berger thought of holding her, kissing her. Her eyes looked so much like Claude’s. Would she taste like Claude too?
She was still staring at him and he wondered if maybe she didn’t recognize him at all.
Once Crissy said their goodbyes, hugged Claude’s mother, once the door was shut on them, Crissy said, “I’m going to write him.”
“Me too,” Hud said when they rejoined him on the sidewalk. He nudged Berger’s side.
“Not me,” Berger said.
Hud shrugged, plucked the address from Crissy’s hand and slipped it into his pocket.
“Let’s go,” Berger said. He’d had enough of Flushing. He started walking, didn’t turn to see if Crissy and Hud followed.
**
Would you hate me if I kissed your mom?
**
He sat still as Jeanie shaved off the beard. She trimmed it all with a pair of scissors and then held his face as she carefully put the razor to his skin.
“There he is,” Dionne said as the hair started to disappear and she could see his mouth again, his chin.
It took a long time, but finally Jeanie stepped away from him. She reached out and ran the tips of her fingers over his skin.
“Done,” she said.
He picked up the scissors, handed them back to her.
“Cut the rest.”
“What?”
“I want to cut it off,” Berger repeated.
“No,” Jeanie said, the same answer she’d given him the first time he’d asked. The only thing was that this time he was sure. This time he meant it. He wanted it gone.
He took Jeanie’s hand, pressed the scissors to her palm, curled her fingers around the handle. When he leaned in and kissed her, she almost dropped them, would have if he wasn’t still holding her hand.
“Please,” he said. He kissed her again.
Jeanie shook her head and pulled away.
“I can’t.”
“I think you can,” Berger accused.
“Berger,” she said. “I remember Guy.”
He was surprised by the subject change and he paused before he said, “You do?”
“Of course I do,” Jeanie said. “But that wasn’t his name. His name was Kevin. You were the only one that ever called him Guy.”
“Oh,” Berger said. He’d never realized.
“Angela says his mother got the letter a few months back now. Kevin died.”
Berger couldn’t look at them. He stared at the scissors between them, held Jeanie’s hand tight. Jesus Christ, he thought. Guy hadn’t just disappeared. Guy was dead.
“I need you to cut my hair,” Berger said again.
“I won’t,” Jeanie told him.
Dionne had been watching them, watching everything, and she rolled her eyes now, said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She reached for the scissors. “Give me those. I’ll do it.”
She arranged Berger’s hair, pulling it back past his shoulders. Jeanie held his hand, squeezed her eyes shut tight as the scissors snapped shut and Berger’s hair began to fall to the floor in clumps.
**
He spent two days there, wrapped in Dionne, before Sheila heard and sought him out.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “What were you thinking?” Her hands were everywhere, all over his head, her fingers scratching at his scalp
“It’ll grow back,” Berger said. He wasn’t sure when he’d become so reasonable. It felt good, for once, to think things through. He’d just wanted to know how it felt.
“Your hair,” was Sheila’s response. She sat there for a long time just holding him and then she said, “Do you want to know why I bought you that yellow shirt?”
Berger didn’t want to know, not really.
“Why?” he asked anyway. After all, he was being reasonable today, trying it out.
“Because Shelly hated it,” Sheila admitted. “I thought that if Shelly hated it that much then it must be perfect.”
Berger thought of Shelly clawing at him, of Shelly’s mouth desperate against his. He imagined Shelly kissing Sheila, sucking at Sheila’s tongue instead of Berger’s, taking everything that Sheila offered. He thought suddenly that the image made sense, it fit, and maybe he and Shelly had more in common than Sheila thought.
“I never felt like I really knew you,” Sheila was saying. “It was exciting, you know? The fact that I never really knew you. Claude knew you. Claude never would have bought that shirt.”
Berger shrugged. Claude wouldn’t have bought him anything. That wasn’t how they were. And anyway, Claude was gone.
“I thought you’d leave and take him with you,” Sheila said. She sounded helpless, like she wanted to stop talking but couldn’t seem to do it. “I was going to let you go. I thought that’s what we were all moving toward, you and Claude running off together. It made sense, didn’t it? I thought it was why Bobby found me at the rally.”
Berger didn’t know what to say. He settled on nothing, but Sheila nodded as though he’d responded, and then she continued talking anyway.
“Claude loved you, you know,” Sheila said with a tone of finality, her speech finished now. “As much as you loved him.”
“Claude always loved you,” Berger said, shook his head. It was the truth.
It was Sheila’s turn to shake her head now. She shook her head as she held Berger’s still, only stopping so that she could kiss him instead. She held him there, forced him to look at her.
“You’re wrong. Whatever he felt for me was always about you. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”
It didn’t matter now who loved who. They’d all lost.
“So you’re in love with him,” Sheila pushed on. “You’re in love with Claude and you always have been. Is that such an awful thing to admit? Is it so hard to say?”
She was blaming him. He could feel it. If you’d just said it, Berger. If you’d just told him instead of trying to show him with your hands and your mouth and your eyes. If you’d just spoken in a language that he understood and if you hadn’t tried to filter it all through Sheila. Claude might have stayed for you if you‘d just tried harder.
He‘d tried. He‘d fucking tried. Every day he‘d tried.
Berger pushed Sheila away from him, stood and said, “Shelly’s in love with you.”
“Shelly?” Sheila repeated.
“I figured it out,” Berger said. “I figured it out while I was having sex with her.” It was a lie. He hadn’t figured it out until a few moments ago, wasn’t even entirely sure if it was true.
Sheila was standing now too. She crossed her arms over her chest, didn’t look at him for a long time. He waited for her to leave, waited for her to storm out of the room. She didn’t do it. Maybe it was her day for being reasonable too.
“Someday you’re going to grow up,” Sheila told him. It sounded like a prison sentence. “You’re going to grow up into the most beautiful man.”
Berger snorted, turned away from her.
“It’s just too bad I met you ten years too soon.“
Sheila finally gave in. She finally left him alone.
**
I’m in love with you. I never would have left you.
Berger stared at the words, felt the truth in them. Berger wasn’t moving on. He wouldn’t ever get over it. He wasn’t okay.
He shoved the letter back into his pocket. He’d hold onto it for a few more days and then he’d burn it, forget he’d ever written it.
**
Hud listened as Berger told him of how he met Claude.
It had been a quiet night. It was still and humid so that the smoke of Berger’s joint hung there in the air. Claude had come with Jeanie and Berger had noticed him right away. He was new. He was different.
The first time Berger kissed Claude he felt something jump in his chest, felt something come to life there, electric and pulsing. Claude tasted so good to Berger, like everything that Berger had ever craved.
He told Hud that more than anything he’d wanted to taste the rest of Claude, the skin of his chest and his stomach and his dick. His heart jumped when he thought about it, that same electric pulse. Hud had already read as much in Berger’s letter, so he wasn’t surprised. It felt good to talk about it out loud.
And then Claude opened for him, let him in, touched him and tasted him in return. Berger pressed his hand to Claude’s chest and he felt the familiar pulse, that same electricity, and knew he wasn’t alone.
“I never realized how it was,” Hud said.
“That wasn’t how it was,” Berger countered. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
No one ever remembered anything the way that it actually happened.
They’d met at a party, a gathering of the tribe under the invisible stars. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Nothing had happened then, but they’d talked and laughed and gotten high. They saw each other again and again and eventually it was pretty clear that they had something going on, that it wasn’t just sex and pot and hours of talking about nothing in particular. They just fell in together.
It was the exact same story. Berger and Sheila, Berger and Claude. The same and entirely different. And then it was the same again and Berger was alone.
Hud kissed him, his lips warm and wet, soft. Berger fell to his knees, felt them bruise against the concrete. He pressed kisses to Hud’s stomach as his fingers worked at the button to Hud’s jeans. Hud’s dick was thick and long in his mouth.
“Berger, baby,” Hud said, cradled Berger‘s head, fingers in Berger‘s short hair.
It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t ever going to be the same. But it helped.
**
The letter was gone. Berger turned the pockets of his jeans inside out, searched around on the floor, searched through Hud’s clothes.
Berger knew that Hud had taken it. He guessed that Hud must have woken in the night, reached over and pulled it from the pocket of Berger’s discarded jeans. Hud had been more obsessed with the letter than Berger. Hud had to have it.
“No,” Hud said, when Berger asked. “I didn’t know you still had that letter. I thought you said you burned it.”
“Right,” Berger said. He didn’t want it to seem like he cared. “I forgot. Of course.”
He had talked about burning the letter. He had told Hud that. Maybe Hud really hadn’t taken it. Maybe it had just fallen somewhere, slipped out of Berger’s pocket. It had been there though, it had been there the last time that Berger had pressed his hand against it.
It didn’t matter, Berger told himself. It was a mess of words. It didn’t even make sense and half of it wasn’t true. Unicorns weren’t real.
It would have felt good burning it though.
**
Berger stood on Whitehall Street, stood across from the U.S. Army Induction Center and watched people coming and people going. The people going seemed less real than the people coming, like they‘d left part of themselves inside.
For a moment he imagined Claude walking out the doors. Unlike the rest of them Claude still seemed whole and he noticed Berger, smiled and waved. It was a ridiculous moment, a ridiculous thought. It was a dream. It wasn’t why he was here.
The plan had been to bring the letter, to fold it until it was the size of a draft card, to burn it here in defiance. He’d get arrested, spend a night or two in jail. He’d fail to learn anything at all from the entire experience.
He hadn’t told the others this plan, had just told Hud that he didn‘t want to send the letter to Claude, that he‘d burn it instead. He didn’t want Woof or Hud with him. He probably would have had to learn something if they were here.
Berger stood there for an hour and watched whole people come and half people go, watched young men walking into the induction center, some of them willingly, some of them with deep frowns etched across young faces.
No one noticed him. No one even looked. Cutting his hair was the best disguise he ever could have cooked up.
He kept going back to Claude. Claude somewhere across the world. And Guy. Jesus, Guy was fucking dead. Claude was probably next.
“Maybe you could bring him back,” Woof had suggested.
It was ridiculous. The entire afternoon had been filled with ridiculous thoughts, and Berger laughed, alone on the sidewalk on Whitehall Street. Once he started there was a moment where he couldn’t stop. He did get some glances then. They’d found a crack in his disguise.
A kid came up and stood beside Berger. He was maybe 19, younger than Berger by a few years. His hair was red and he pushed a pair of glasses up on his nose.
“Were you drafted too?” he asked. He was scrawny, gangly. He looked like he would be anyone’s very last choice to fill the role of soldier.
“Yeah,” Berger said.
“I thought so,” the kid said. “I could tell by the way you were looking. Are you going in?”
Berger glanced back across the street toward the doors. “I don’t know.”
“Yesterday I stood here for four hours,” the kid said. “Just like you. Today’s my physical.”
“You scared?” Berger asked him.
The kid laughed and it was two high, a squeak. “Yeah,” he said.
Berger nodded, reached out to grip his shoulder. “Me too.”
The kid held out his hand. “I’m Pete,” he said.
“Berger,” Berger said, took the kid’s hand, his handshake firm. “George.”
“Let’s go in together,” Pete offered.
Berger imagined what it would be like on the other side of those doors. He imagined a huge open space, bigger than the building could hold, with row after row of desks and soldiers. Claude sat inside by the door, at the first desk in the first row. His eyes were hard as he looked at Berger.
Where’s your draft notice.
I lost it.
That’s an important thing to lose.
I’m good at losing things.
“I don’t know,” Berger said aloud now. He looked away, looked down the street the way he‘d come. He should go find Hud or Woof or Jeanie. He should really get out of here. Standing here wasn‘t helping anyone.
But Claude had done it. He’d walked through those doors and he‘d become invisible. They gave him a gun and shipped him to the other side of the world. They were going to give Pete a gun, ship him off, turn him into a killer, and then fly him back in a box.
Berger thought of Claude there, tan and dark, eyes sad. Claude would be an awful soldier. The worst soldier, even worse than Pete.
Pete was shifting from one foot to the other. He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve gotta go in,” he said.
“Okay,” Berger nodded. “Let me go first.”
He couldn’t watch Pete walk over there alone. He couldn’t watch him pull open those doors and disappear inside. He couldn’t wait there and watch for Pete to emerge, half the person he was, on the road to disappearing completely.
Berger moved, pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning on. The street was empty of traffic and they walked right across the middle of the block, a straight line to the doors. They paused on the other side, stood on the sidewalk together. Pete crossed his arms over his chest and Berger nodded, started up the steps.
Berger would go first. He’d test the waters for Pete. He’d take his own physical. He’d find Claude and he’d bring him home.
It was the first time it had ever seriously crossed his mind. He knew that it didn’t make sense. He knew it would be impossible, but suddenly that didn’t seem to matter. The idea was irresistible. Better than a fake draft card and night in jail, better than running naked through the park, better than a beard or a haircut.
Now that he’d thought it, the thought was impossible to dispel. He had to go in. He had to try. If he’d just tried, if he’d just told Claude - maybe it really wasn’t too late.
What the fuck were you thinking? I’d die for you. I hate you. I’m in love with you and I never would have left you.
Berger pulled open the door and disappeared inside.
Fandom: Hair
Pairing: Claude/Berger, Berger/Sheila, Berger/Woof, Berger/Jeanie, Berger/Hud, Sheila/OMC
Rating: NC-17ish
Word Count: ~7,200
Notes: A sequel is planned.
Summary: “Maybe you could bring him back,” Woof said, as they lay there in the darkness, high and drifting.
"Maybe,” Berger agreed. It was a nice thought. If he just tried hard enough. If he just squeezed his eyes shut. Fairies became real. Unicorns too. Just think of ice cream. Snowflakes. Claude.
The Invisible Man
Sheila was leaving him.
She’d met someone better than Berger, someone who wrote her letters and called her apartment all the time. The guy wasn’t threatened by Berger, didn’t care when Berger answered Sheila‘s telephone, just asked “Is Sheila there?” like Berger was her brother or her butler or her friend.
Berger didn’t care either, but he didn’t like the harsh ring of the phone, didn’t like it at all now that the one person he wanted to hear from would never call on it. It kept ringing anyway. Eventually Berger unplugged the phone and when Sheila found it, the cord hanging onto the floor, she confronted him in her bedroom. When he made a big stink of it, going so far as to loudly and obnoxiously imitate the ringing, Sheila sighed. She folded her legs beneath her as she sat beside him on the futon, as she took his head in both of her hands and kissed his forehead. When he turned, she kissed his mouth.
“He asked me if you’d be jealous,” Sheila said. “I told him that you wouldn‘t care.”
“Who?” Berger asked.
He knew who. His name was Bobby. Berger didn’t know if Sheila had nicknames for Bobby yet. He didn’t really want to know.
“Bobby,” Sheila said, though she knew that he knew too. “That was all before though.”
She didn‘t elaborate. Berger didn‘t want to talk about it.
“I’m not jealous,” Berger insisted.
“I know,“ Sheila said. “Are you okay though?”
Instead of answering, Berger reached for Sheila, pulled her into his lap and lifted her shirt up and over her head. Sheila combed her fingers through his hair, tangling them in curls, and Berger leaned in. He kissed her, pulled her closer and laughed against the hollow of her throat just to show her that he could. She smiled and pulled away from him, moved back in and kissed his mouth again.
They’d always been good at this part. It was why they’d been able to convince themselves for so long that they worked together. This part was easy. It was easier than talking about Bobby. It was easier than answering Sheila’s questions.
Anyway, Sheila thought that she already knew the answer. Berger wasn’t okay. But she was wrong. Berger was fine. Berger was good and groovy and great.
Mostly, Berger was just angry.
**
Sometimes he wondered why Sheila hadn’t left him earlier. He’d certainly deserved to be left at times. He’d pushed, he’d prodded, he’d strayed over and over again, and yet she stayed. But now he watched her and saw how she lit up when she talked of Bobby. She talked about Bobby a lot, so she seemed to be surrounded by a permanent glow.
“I caught him watching me from across the crowd. Everyone else was focused on the FBI building, but not him. He was watching me. He smiled and waved when he saw that I’d noticed. And then the crowd pushed forward and when I looked for him again, he was gone.”
He’d heard her tell this story dozens of times to everyone in the tribe. Did she have a story like that about him? They’d met at a party that Sheila’s friend Shelly had thrown. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Nothing had happened then, but they’d talked and laughed and gotten high. They saw each other again and again and eventually it was pretty clear that they had something going on, that it wasn’t just sex and pot and hours of talking about nothing in particular. They just fell in together.
It wasn’t an interesting story. It was boring. They’d always been a little boring. Berger listened to Sheila talk about meeting Bobby and thought that Bobby must be nothing like Berger. Bobby must be amazing. Maybe he was Sheila’s Claude.
When Berger met Claude he’d wanted to tell the world about it. He hadn’t, but he wanted to.
“You’ve been quiet,” Sheila said, sitting beside him on the floor of the tiny living room in her apartment. Dionne and Suzanne had left. There was no one left for Sheila to talk to about Bobby. It was harder for her to light up an entire room on her own and everything seemed a little dimmer now, a little gloomy.
Berger shrugged. He just didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t have anything new to say to her about Bobby.
“Here,” Sheila said, pressed a piece of paper to the floor in front of Berger.
“What is this?”
“It’s paper,” Sheila laughed. She took his hand and pushed something into it. It was a pen.
Berger must have been staring at it because Sheila shook her head and said, “Berger, honey, that’s a pen.”
“I know that,” Berger snapped. He wasn‘t an invalid. He wasn‘t mentally impaired. He was high, that was all. He was high and he had no idea where she was going with any of this. He took the pen anyway, pressed the tip hard to the blank page.
Finally Sheila got to the point.
“Write to him,” she suggested. “Write to him and tell him everything.”
Berger laughed. Tell him everything.
“If you write, you know he’ll take care of himself. He’ll come home.”
She left him alone after that, with the paper and the pen. Berger crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it across the room. He stared at it and then he sighed, crawled across the floor to retrieve it. He hunched over it on his knees, smoothed it out, pressed the creases down and put the pen to its white surface again.
Dear Claude,
He stopped, scratched that out and started over.
Claudio,
I miss the smell of your neck in the summer. I miss the taste of your dick in my mouth. I think my heart is broken.
He crossed out the last line too. It might be true, but it looked stupid on paper. It looked fake in Berger’s hand.
Berger wondered how many people would read it before it reached Claude. Would they sensor it? Would love letters from Berger get Claude kicked out? It was a tempting thought, but it didn‘t matter.
He thought about it for another moment and then started to write again.
What the fuck were you thinking?
He wasn’t going to send the letter anyway. He folded it and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans instead.
**
They never actually discussed the fact that they were falling apart. They just let it happen. Sheila waited for Bobby’s calls, watched the street for the mail, and Berger let her have him, stopped coming around so much. It was better this way. Berger didn’t have to tell Sheila that he’d thought Sheila could convince Claude to stay, that he’d been so sure of it, and that he hated her a little when she failed. Sheila didn’t have to tell Berger that she’d always wished he was better, deeper, smarter.
If they’d tried to discuss it, Sheila would probably decide that it was all just a front, that Berger wasn’t really all that okay at all, and she wouldn’t be able to pull away from him. Berger didn’t want that. It wasn’t true anyway, and he didn’t want Sheila to stay with him when that wasn’t what she wanted to do.
He slept in the park for a few days. He just didn’t really feel like being locked away indoors.
Eventually Hud said, “Come on, baby, come home with me,” and Berger conceded. He let Hud lead him downtown. Hud was staying at an abandoned warehouse that week, a squatter’s paradise, full of strangers and a few of their friends. Berger hugged Walter, waved to Jeanie, and let Hud pull him into a secluded corner. A table had been set up there, a makeshift meeting place.
Hud kissed him, his hands at Berger’s waist. He pulled Berger forward until their hips knocked together and Berger grabbed him, kissed him back. This was exactly what he needed.
When Hud’s hand slipped into the pocket of Berger‘s jeans to pull him closer, to tease, he found the letter to Claude.
“What’s this?” Hud asked. He was so close that Berger could feel the reverberation of Hud’s deep voice in his own throat. Berger didn’t try to take it from him. He watched as Hud unfolded it, read the words.
“Shit,” Hud said. He dropped the letter and pulled Berger against him, his mouth soft against Berger’s, hot.
Hud fucked him that night when Berger asked, begged. Hud fucked him, deep and thorough. It wasn’t the first time they‘d done it. It wasn‘t the second or the third, but it was the time Berger would probably remember the longest.
Berger grunted, bent over the table, his hands pressed flat to the wooden surface. The table knocked loudly against the floor with each thrust. The building was empty except for the tribe, except for the squatters. Old men, veterans, cripples, and drunks. They’d hear and Berger hoped they did. He hoped they heard the table, heard Berger’s grunts, and slid their hands into their own pants. When Hud began pounding against him, hard and fast, Berger grabbed his dick, pressed his forehead to the table, braced it on his other arm. When his orgasm hit it sounded like he was choking, the feel of it catching in his throat, dripping from his hand onto the concrete of the floor. Hud slowed and Berger felt Hud’s mouth pressed to his back, Hud’s tongue between his shoulder blades.
Claude used to do that all the time, kiss Berger’s back right there, right in the center. Claude would kiss him there through the fabric of his clothes. He‘d place is lips to Berger‘s bare skin, stay there. Sometimes they’d have an entire conversation like that, Claude wrapped around him, his mouth moving against Claude’s back, his breath hot and damp.
Hud was talking to him, but Berger couldn’t hear what Hud said, didn’t care. He could only hear Claude.
**
After days of sleeping in the park, Berger decided that it was time to grow a beard. He’d never liked it, shaving, so why not stop it entirely? Most of the time he let Sheila shave his face for him and wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. He’d done it for her, and he’d done it for Claude.
But Sheila and Claude were gone and Berger liked the beard. It made him feel grizzly, weathered. It made him feel like he was really living. Free and untamed. Finally.
So he let it grow, bushy and dark and wild.
**
Bobby had arrived in New York.
He wasn’t what Berger expected. He wore glasses, looked so straight, like he was spit out by a machine. Sure his hair was a little too long and the knees of his corduroys were worn, but it wasn’t real. That wasn’t the real Bobby. The real Bobby wore a tie and there were creases down the legs of his trousers.
The real Bobby would change again when everything else did.
Sheila threw a party, a chance to introduce Bobby to the tribe.
Berger watched them together, watched the way that Bobby had Sheila wrapped in his arms. He squeezed her tighter and she smiled, leaned her head up to kiss his mouth.
It had been a while since Berger had seen her so obviously happy, never thought she‘d be so happy with a machine.
Bobby talked about his plans to move to New York. Sheila talked about the trip they’d planned to meet her parents in Connecticut.
“It’s all happening really fast,” Sheila admitted to Crissy while Berger pretended to listen to anything other than their conversation. “I think this could be really good for me. Really right.”
Berger looked up then and found Sheila looking right back at him. She knew he listened. She knew he was there.
Berger smiled, nodded, didn’t brush her off or make a joke. She stepped closer to him, past Crissy, and she reached up to brush his hair off his forehead. Berger took her hand, held it in his for a moment, and then left her when Walter and Hud began calling his name.
Sheila’s friend Shelly was there at the party and she glared at Berger from across the room. She’d always hated Berger so the look was no surprise, but for the first time Berger found it lacking. The glare didn’t have the same edge that it had when Berger and Sheila were actually together. The missing edge meant something. It might mean that Shelly didn’t like Bobby either. Berger decided to approach. Cautiously.
“So,” Berger said. “Bobby.”
Shelly rolled her eyes. “Bobby,” she repeated.
Shelly radiated negative energy. She seemed to be filled with it and Berger had never understood why Sheila couldn’t feel it, didn’t feel poisoned when she stood too close.
“Better than me,” Berger offered.
Shelly just shrugged.
**
Berger didn’t plan to sleep with Shelly. On the other hand, she hated him so much that subconsciously Berger knew the sex would be great. It would be scorching.
He wasn’t wrong. Shelly scratched him, ordered him, and Berger complied, pounded into her, hissed and bucked when her nails cut into his back. Shelly bit at his mouth, sucked on his tongue, demanded everything he was willing to give her.
Maybe Berger really was a little jealous of Bobby. Why else would he be here? Why else would he end up with Shelly wrapped tightly around him. He knew it would upset Sheila. Shelly had always disliked Berger, had always hoped that Sheila would come to her senses and leave him. The fact that Shelly had gone back on that opinion, the fact that she’d slept with Sheila’s boyfriend, it could ruin their friendship if Sheila ever found out.
“If you breathe a word of this, I’ll kill you,” Shelly said afterward, pulling her dress back over her head. She hadn’t been wearing underwear, so once the dress was on she was ready and she stalked out of the room without looking back.
Berger wasn’t going to breathe a word.
**
Berger couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone. There was always someone there now and Berger wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on. Sure, sure, they were all worried about him, but it was ridiculous. Berger was fine and there was nothing to worry about. He wasn’t even angry now, not really. He was moving on.
“It’s almost been a month,” Jeanie said, her hand entwined with his.
“A month since what?” Berger asked. He knew what she meant, but he pretended he didn‘t. He didn‘t want to talk about it, and anyway, he was moving on.
“You know,” Jeanie said. She didn’t want to talk about it either, just had to acknowledge the passage of time. “I was thinking that maybe we should do something. You know, when it’s been a full month.”
Berger looked up at the trees, imagined stars, imagined the sun blazing overhead. He imagined Claude leaning over him, Claude’s hair hanging down into his face. Berger pushed the thoughts, all of them, away. The sky was black. There were no stars and there was no Claude.
“Do you want to cut my hair?” Berger asked Jeanie.
He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he thought about it sometimes. He thought about how Claude must look now, wondered if he’d even recognize him.
“Cut your hair?” Jeanie repeated. “No.”
Berger shrugged, probably wouldn’t have made her do it even if she’d agreed. They shared a joint and then Berger slipped his hand beneath Jeanie’s skirt. She was going to have the baby soon. She had to have the baby soon. She was huge and her back ached and her breasts strained against her dress.
“Berger,” Jeanie gasped when Berger’s fingers slipped between her legs.
Berger leaned into her, set his cheek to her enormous stomach. He kissed her belly, kissed her breasts, felt his fingers become slick as he touched her, as they tangled in the hair there. She reached for him, kissed him, held tight to his arms. He pressed his nose into her hair, kissed the top of her head, held her as she shook and cried out.
She reached for him afterward, but Berger pushed her hand away. He’d take care of it later, kind of liked the slight ache of arousal for the moment.
“Do you miss him?” she asked instead. She probably thought that his pushing her away had something to do with Claude, and her voice was soft when she spoke the words, careful.
“No,” Berger lied.
Berger wasn’t made of fucking glass. He wasn’t going to break down, shatter into a million pieces. Claude was gone. He’d move on. That was what people did. That was how the world worked. He’d get high and he’d fuck and love and shout and Claude would fade.
Maybe Claude would return. Berger wouldn’t forget him entirely, but just in case Claude didn’t, Berger would move on, let Claude become invisible. It was what Claude had always wanted anyway, wasn‘t it?
It wasn’t a big thing. It wasn’t the end of the world. Sometimes people just left. Sometimes they disappeared.
They used to know this guy. His name was Guy, actually, and for a while he was around all the time, had a thing going with Suzanne or Angela, and then one day he just disappeared and they never saw him again.
“Remember Guy?” Berger asked Jeanie now.
“Who?”
Exactly.
**
Berger lit the edge of the letter on fire with the end of his joint. He watched the paper turn black, then red, then fall away, disappearing completely. He put the fire out before the flames were able to reach any of the words.
I’d die for you.
He’d written it that morning, but it wasn’t his own thought. It was something that Jeanie had said. Something that he’d copied from her. It wasn’t true anyway, was it? After all, Berger was still here.
**
The goal was simple. Strip naked, run from the southern end of Central Park all the way up to Harlem Meer without getting caught, without getting arrested.
Berger had dared Hud, had pulled Woof in as well. They started early, standing together by the pond.
“Ready?” Hud asked.
Woof nodded and Berger began to strip off his clothes. It was only then that he remembered the contents of his pockets, the letter folded there. He needed it, didn’t want to lose it. He found a fissure in a rock and stuffed his jeans within, left his shirt in the pile with Woof and Hud’s clothes.
Hud looked to Berger and Berger grinned, took off shouting. They dashed through the lower half of the park, laughing and yelling to each other. Free. Women shrieked at them and they had to lose an overweight officer by the lake, but he was on foot and dodging him was easy. They rushed into the Ramble and climbed barefoot over rocks and sticks. Once they reached the reservoir they slowed down again. The park was quieter up here. They ducked behind trees, stayed off the main paths except to cross them.
North of the reservoir they went east through the ravine, finally emerging triumphant at the edge of Harlem Meer. They spilled out onto the lawn and then Woof yelped and pushed them back toward the edge of the forest, surprised by the family of children playing at the edge of the water.
“We need to run a lap around the Meer,” Berger insisted.
“You do it,” Woof said. He was done. Making it this far was more than enough for Woof.
Berger ran the lap, waved when people stared, laughed and stopped to play with a man’s hair. When he made it back to the trees, Woof and Hud were laughing too.
It was only then that they realized they were naked at 110th street and their clothes were back on 59th.
“Well, shit,” Hud said.
Berger laughed harder, felt a little high on the whole experience. He reached out and slapped Hud’s bare ass.
They made their way back into the woods surrounding the ravine and spent the afternoon sprawled naked in a secluded clearing there.
Woof and Hud’s mood was celebratory and now that Berger was still again, he watched them as they discretely patted each other on the back. They’d finally done it, they thought. Finally got Berger’s mind off Claude. But Claude was the invisible man. Even when you couldn’t see him, he was there.
He was with Berger in the Ramble, reminding Berger of the time they’d fucked frantically there, urged on by the sound of approaching voices, a young couple strolling hand in hand, Claude and Berger entwined just steps away in the dense overgrowth.
Claude was there by the reservoir, laughing when Berger grabbed him and swung him around.
He was on the mall hanging on tourists and he was kissing Berger in those trees just off the Meer.
They were right though. Berger had been ignoring him.
It was time to move on and this was part of it. For that he let Woof and Hud celebrate, let them think him happy. He was happy.
When the sun started to set, Woof began complaining of hunger.
“I’ve got something you could eat,” Berger offered, hand on his dick.
Woof seemed to consider the proposition for a moment until Hud, who’d been quiet for some time, said, “Did you send that letter?”
“What letter?” Woof asked.
“No,” Berger said at the same time.
“Are you gonna?”
No.”
“You need to finish that thing and you need to send it,” Hud decided, and then he stood, as though that was the end of it all.
“Are you writing to Claude?” Woof asked finally, putting two and two together.
“Maybe,” Berger said, and then he waved a hand to dismiss them both. It seemed to be enough.
Hud stretched and said, “I’m fucking hungry, and not for Berger’s dick. Let’s go.”
It was late when they finally made it back down to the pond. Someone had picked through their clothes, strewn them about. Everything was still there though. Berger’s jeans were in the fissure, undisturbed, and he pulled them out, checked the pockets. The letter was still there.
Later he searched the warehouse until he found a pen, unfolded the letter and added yet more words.
I hate you.
He thought about crossing it out as soon as he wrote it, but in the end he left the words. There was no way he could be convinced to send it to Claude now.
**
Woof pretended to search through Berger’s beard with his fingers, as though he could no longer find Berger’s mouth through all of the hair. When he did find it, Berger parted his lips slightly so that Woof‘s fingers slipped inside. Woof leaned in and replaced his fingers with his lips. He seemed to like the courseness of the kiss. Berger liked it too.
He took Woof with him down to Whitehall Street. Berger stopped and stared at the Army Induction Center, imagined Claude walking through those doors and never emerging again. That was ridiculous. Of course Claude came back out. He wasn‘t locked away in there. Claude left the induction center and went instead to the other side of the world.
A young soldier was standing outside. They had lingered there too long and the soldier was becoming suspicious. He crossed his arms over his chest, stared back at them. Berger knew what he saw. He saw Berger’s hair, the thick beard, the fringe on Berger’s vest and the fur draped over Woof’s shoulders. The soldier knew they didn’t belong here. Berger could tell that he wondered what kind of trouble the likes of George Berger was up to now.
“I miss Claude,” Woof sighed, turned away from the soldier, bored with it all.
Berger shrugged, started walking again. “I don’t. Let‘s go.”
Woof rushed to catch up. “You don’t?”
“Fuck Claude,” Berger said.
Woof shook his head but he didn’t press and when they stopped again by the river, Berger kissed him for it. Later when the sun set and the city settled into the darkness once more, they fucked, long and slow, and then slept tangled together beneath a tree near the battery.
“Maybe you could bring him back,” Woof said, as they lay there in the darkness, high and drifting.
Berger laughed, actually laughed, and it seemed to surprise Woof.
“Maybe,” Berger agreed. It was a nice thought. If he just tried hard enough. If he just squeezed his eyes shut. Fairies became real. Unicorns too. Just think of ice cream. Snowflakes. Claude.
Woof was always so full of great thoughts.
Berger closed his eyes and imagined it, imagined Claude there with them as he fell asleep.
**
Berger dreamed of Claude, of course
He dreamed of Claude in the jungle, the sweat shining on his tanned skin. Claude wasn‘t happy to see Berger. He didn’t want to come home, seemed offended that Berger could see him at all. Claude wasn‘t invisible. He hadn‘t disappeared. He‘d just gone somewhere else. He’d just left.
In didn’t matter though because in the dream, Berger had resources. He had an extraction team and a helicopter, and he convinced Claude to board with kisses and whispered promises.
When they were in the helicopter, when they were free, flying away from Vietnam, Claude grabbed him, kissed him, and it tasted just like their first kiss, like every kiss they‘d shared afterward.
“Let‘s go to India,” Claude suggested and Berger felt his anger drain, felt his heart become whole.
**
He awoke to a dog barking, chasing a squirrel a ways away on the path. Woof was still asleep beside him, didn’t move when Berger reached between them and pulled the letter from his pocket. He had something to say, but he didn’t have anything to write with. He got up, left Woof beneath the tree and asked couples on the path until someone gave him a pencil and told him to keep it.
He opened the letter and pressed it flat to a bench.
You and Me. India. They‘ll never get us. Unicorns are real.
**
The trip to Flushing was Hud’s idea. Berger trailed behind them, Hud and Crissy, as they walked the blocks from the bus stop to Claude’s house.
When they arrived at the address, Hud hung back on the sidewalk, pushed Berger after Crissy.
Claude’s mother opened the door at the second knock. She seemed surprised to see them, her eyes wide as she greeted them, a question in her voice.
She and Claude had the same eyes.
Crissy nudged him, but Berger found that he didn’t have anything to say. He huffed a little, grinned.
Claude’s mother looked past them, eyed Hud, and then turned her attention back to Berger and Crissy.
“We’re Claude’s friends,” Crissy said finally.
“I know that,” Claude’s mother said.
“I’d like to write to Claude,” Crissy explained. “Could you give me an address for him?”
Claude’s mother’s face grew soft at Crissy’s question. “Of course,” she said. “He’d love to hear from you. I have the address for letters on the fridge. I’ll just go copy it down for you.”
Berger knew what she was thinking, a nice girl showing up at her home and asking about her son. She was probably planning the wedding for the day that Claude arrived home.
“You’re useless,” Crissy hissed at Berger when Claude’s mother disappeared down the hall.
Berger shrugged. This wasn’t his idea. Berger hadn’t ever planned to see Claude’s mother again.
“Here you are, dear,” she said, returning with a card.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bukowski,” Crissy said. “We really miss Claude.”
Claude’s mother was looking at him again, was probably freaked out by the beard, never liked him even without it. Berger thought of holding her, kissing her. Her eyes looked so much like Claude’s. Would she taste like Claude too?
She was still staring at him and he wondered if maybe she didn’t recognize him at all.
Once Crissy said their goodbyes, hugged Claude’s mother, once the door was shut on them, Crissy said, “I’m going to write him.”
“Me too,” Hud said when they rejoined him on the sidewalk. He nudged Berger’s side.
“Not me,” Berger said.
Hud shrugged, plucked the address from Crissy’s hand and slipped it into his pocket.
“Let’s go,” Berger said. He’d had enough of Flushing. He started walking, didn’t turn to see if Crissy and Hud followed.
**
Would you hate me if I kissed your mom?
**
He sat still as Jeanie shaved off the beard. She trimmed it all with a pair of scissors and then held his face as she carefully put the razor to his skin.
“There he is,” Dionne said as the hair started to disappear and she could see his mouth again, his chin.
It took a long time, but finally Jeanie stepped away from him. She reached out and ran the tips of her fingers over his skin.
“Done,” she said.
He picked up the scissors, handed them back to her.
“Cut the rest.”
“What?”
“I want to cut it off,” Berger repeated.
“No,” Jeanie said, the same answer she’d given him the first time he’d asked. The only thing was that this time he was sure. This time he meant it. He wanted it gone.
He took Jeanie’s hand, pressed the scissors to her palm, curled her fingers around the handle. When he leaned in and kissed her, she almost dropped them, would have if he wasn’t still holding her hand.
“Please,” he said. He kissed her again.
Jeanie shook her head and pulled away.
“I can’t.”
“I think you can,” Berger accused.
“Berger,” she said. “I remember Guy.”
He was surprised by the subject change and he paused before he said, “You do?”
“Of course I do,” Jeanie said. “But that wasn’t his name. His name was Kevin. You were the only one that ever called him Guy.”
“Oh,” Berger said. He’d never realized.
“Angela says his mother got the letter a few months back now. Kevin died.”
Berger couldn’t look at them. He stared at the scissors between them, held Jeanie’s hand tight. Jesus Christ, he thought. Guy hadn’t just disappeared. Guy was dead.
“I need you to cut my hair,” Berger said again.
“I won’t,” Jeanie told him.
Dionne had been watching them, watching everything, and she rolled her eyes now, said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She reached for the scissors. “Give me those. I’ll do it.”
She arranged Berger’s hair, pulling it back past his shoulders. Jeanie held his hand, squeezed her eyes shut tight as the scissors snapped shut and Berger’s hair began to fall to the floor in clumps.
**
He spent two days there, wrapped in Dionne, before Sheila heard and sought him out.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “What were you thinking?” Her hands were everywhere, all over his head, her fingers scratching at his scalp
“It’ll grow back,” Berger said. He wasn’t sure when he’d become so reasonable. It felt good, for once, to think things through. He’d just wanted to know how it felt.
“Your hair,” was Sheila’s response. She sat there for a long time just holding him and then she said, “Do you want to know why I bought you that yellow shirt?”
Berger didn’t want to know, not really.
“Why?” he asked anyway. After all, he was being reasonable today, trying it out.
“Because Shelly hated it,” Sheila admitted. “I thought that if Shelly hated it that much then it must be perfect.”
Berger thought of Shelly clawing at him, of Shelly’s mouth desperate against his. He imagined Shelly kissing Sheila, sucking at Sheila’s tongue instead of Berger’s, taking everything that Sheila offered. He thought suddenly that the image made sense, it fit, and maybe he and Shelly had more in common than Sheila thought.
“I never felt like I really knew you,” Sheila was saying. “It was exciting, you know? The fact that I never really knew you. Claude knew you. Claude never would have bought that shirt.”
Berger shrugged. Claude wouldn’t have bought him anything. That wasn’t how they were. And anyway, Claude was gone.
“I thought you’d leave and take him with you,” Sheila said. She sounded helpless, like she wanted to stop talking but couldn’t seem to do it. “I was going to let you go. I thought that’s what we were all moving toward, you and Claude running off together. It made sense, didn’t it? I thought it was why Bobby found me at the rally.”
Berger didn’t know what to say. He settled on nothing, but Sheila nodded as though he’d responded, and then she continued talking anyway.
“Claude loved you, you know,” Sheila said with a tone of finality, her speech finished now. “As much as you loved him.”
“Claude always loved you,” Berger said, shook his head. It was the truth.
It was Sheila’s turn to shake her head now. She shook her head as she held Berger’s still, only stopping so that she could kiss him instead. She held him there, forced him to look at her.
“You’re wrong. Whatever he felt for me was always about you. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”
It didn’t matter now who loved who. They’d all lost.
“So you’re in love with him,” Sheila pushed on. “You’re in love with Claude and you always have been. Is that such an awful thing to admit? Is it so hard to say?”
She was blaming him. He could feel it. If you’d just said it, Berger. If you’d just told him instead of trying to show him with your hands and your mouth and your eyes. If you’d just spoken in a language that he understood and if you hadn’t tried to filter it all through Sheila. Claude might have stayed for you if you‘d just tried harder.
He‘d tried. He‘d fucking tried. Every day he‘d tried.
Berger pushed Sheila away from him, stood and said, “Shelly’s in love with you.”
“Shelly?” Sheila repeated.
“I figured it out,” Berger said. “I figured it out while I was having sex with her.” It was a lie. He hadn’t figured it out until a few moments ago, wasn’t even entirely sure if it was true.
Sheila was standing now too. She crossed her arms over her chest, didn’t look at him for a long time. He waited for her to leave, waited for her to storm out of the room. She didn’t do it. Maybe it was her day for being reasonable too.
“Someday you’re going to grow up,” Sheila told him. It sounded like a prison sentence. “You’re going to grow up into the most beautiful man.”
Berger snorted, turned away from her.
“It’s just too bad I met you ten years too soon.“
Sheila finally gave in. She finally left him alone.
**
I’m in love with you. I never would have left you.
Berger stared at the words, felt the truth in them. Berger wasn’t moving on. He wouldn’t ever get over it. He wasn’t okay.
He shoved the letter back into his pocket. He’d hold onto it for a few more days and then he’d burn it, forget he’d ever written it.
**
Hud listened as Berger told him of how he met Claude.
It had been a quiet night. It was still and humid so that the smoke of Berger’s joint hung there in the air. Claude had come with Jeanie and Berger had noticed him right away. He was new. He was different.
The first time Berger kissed Claude he felt something jump in his chest, felt something come to life there, electric and pulsing. Claude tasted so good to Berger, like everything that Berger had ever craved.
He told Hud that more than anything he’d wanted to taste the rest of Claude, the skin of his chest and his stomach and his dick. His heart jumped when he thought about it, that same electric pulse. Hud had already read as much in Berger’s letter, so he wasn’t surprised. It felt good to talk about it out loud.
And then Claude opened for him, let him in, touched him and tasted him in return. Berger pressed his hand to Claude’s chest and he felt the familiar pulse, that same electricity, and knew he wasn’t alone.
“I never realized how it was,” Hud said.
“That wasn’t how it was,” Berger countered. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
No one ever remembered anything the way that it actually happened.
They’d met at a party, a gathering of the tribe under the invisible stars. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Nothing had happened then, but they’d talked and laughed and gotten high. They saw each other again and again and eventually it was pretty clear that they had something going on, that it wasn’t just sex and pot and hours of talking about nothing in particular. They just fell in together.
It was the exact same story. Berger and Sheila, Berger and Claude. The same and entirely different. And then it was the same again and Berger was alone.
Hud kissed him, his lips warm and wet, soft. Berger fell to his knees, felt them bruise against the concrete. He pressed kisses to Hud’s stomach as his fingers worked at the button to Hud’s jeans. Hud’s dick was thick and long in his mouth.
“Berger, baby,” Hud said, cradled Berger‘s head, fingers in Berger‘s short hair.
It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t ever going to be the same. But it helped.
**
The letter was gone. Berger turned the pockets of his jeans inside out, searched around on the floor, searched through Hud’s clothes.
Berger knew that Hud had taken it. He guessed that Hud must have woken in the night, reached over and pulled it from the pocket of Berger’s discarded jeans. Hud had been more obsessed with the letter than Berger. Hud had to have it.
“No,” Hud said, when Berger asked. “I didn’t know you still had that letter. I thought you said you burned it.”
“Right,” Berger said. He didn’t want it to seem like he cared. “I forgot. Of course.”
He had talked about burning the letter. He had told Hud that. Maybe Hud really hadn’t taken it. Maybe it had just fallen somewhere, slipped out of Berger’s pocket. It had been there though, it had been there the last time that Berger had pressed his hand against it.
It didn’t matter, Berger told himself. It was a mess of words. It didn’t even make sense and half of it wasn’t true. Unicorns weren’t real.
It would have felt good burning it though.
**
Berger stood on Whitehall Street, stood across from the U.S. Army Induction Center and watched people coming and people going. The people going seemed less real than the people coming, like they‘d left part of themselves inside.
For a moment he imagined Claude walking out the doors. Unlike the rest of them Claude still seemed whole and he noticed Berger, smiled and waved. It was a ridiculous moment, a ridiculous thought. It was a dream. It wasn’t why he was here.
The plan had been to bring the letter, to fold it until it was the size of a draft card, to burn it here in defiance. He’d get arrested, spend a night or two in jail. He’d fail to learn anything at all from the entire experience.
He hadn’t told the others this plan, had just told Hud that he didn‘t want to send the letter to Claude, that he‘d burn it instead. He didn’t want Woof or Hud with him. He probably would have had to learn something if they were here.
Berger stood there for an hour and watched whole people come and half people go, watched young men walking into the induction center, some of them willingly, some of them with deep frowns etched across young faces.
No one noticed him. No one even looked. Cutting his hair was the best disguise he ever could have cooked up.
He kept going back to Claude. Claude somewhere across the world. And Guy. Jesus, Guy was fucking dead. Claude was probably next.
“Maybe you could bring him back,” Woof had suggested.
It was ridiculous. The entire afternoon had been filled with ridiculous thoughts, and Berger laughed, alone on the sidewalk on Whitehall Street. Once he started there was a moment where he couldn’t stop. He did get some glances then. They’d found a crack in his disguise.
A kid came up and stood beside Berger. He was maybe 19, younger than Berger by a few years. His hair was red and he pushed a pair of glasses up on his nose.
“Were you drafted too?” he asked. He was scrawny, gangly. He looked like he would be anyone’s very last choice to fill the role of soldier.
“Yeah,” Berger said.
“I thought so,” the kid said. “I could tell by the way you were looking. Are you going in?”
Berger glanced back across the street toward the doors. “I don’t know.”
“Yesterday I stood here for four hours,” the kid said. “Just like you. Today’s my physical.”
“You scared?” Berger asked him.
The kid laughed and it was two high, a squeak. “Yeah,” he said.
Berger nodded, reached out to grip his shoulder. “Me too.”
The kid held out his hand. “I’m Pete,” he said.
“Berger,” Berger said, took the kid’s hand, his handshake firm. “George.”
“Let’s go in together,” Pete offered.
Berger imagined what it would be like on the other side of those doors. He imagined a huge open space, bigger than the building could hold, with row after row of desks and soldiers. Claude sat inside by the door, at the first desk in the first row. His eyes were hard as he looked at Berger.
Where’s your draft notice.
I lost it.
That’s an important thing to lose.
I’m good at losing things.
“I don’t know,” Berger said aloud now. He looked away, looked down the street the way he‘d come. He should go find Hud or Woof or Jeanie. He should really get out of here. Standing here wasn‘t helping anyone.
But Claude had done it. He’d walked through those doors and he‘d become invisible. They gave him a gun and shipped him to the other side of the world. They were going to give Pete a gun, ship him off, turn him into a killer, and then fly him back in a box.
Berger thought of Claude there, tan and dark, eyes sad. Claude would be an awful soldier. The worst soldier, even worse than Pete.
Pete was shifting from one foot to the other. He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve gotta go in,” he said.
“Okay,” Berger nodded. “Let me go first.”
He couldn’t watch Pete walk over there alone. He couldn’t watch him pull open those doors and disappear inside. He couldn’t wait there and watch for Pete to emerge, half the person he was, on the road to disappearing completely.
Berger moved, pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning on. The street was empty of traffic and they walked right across the middle of the block, a straight line to the doors. They paused on the other side, stood on the sidewalk together. Pete crossed his arms over his chest and Berger nodded, started up the steps.
Berger would go first. He’d test the waters for Pete. He’d take his own physical. He’d find Claude and he’d bring him home.
It was the first time it had ever seriously crossed his mind. He knew that it didn’t make sense. He knew it would be impossible, but suddenly that didn’t seem to matter. The idea was irresistible. Better than a fake draft card and night in jail, better than running naked through the park, better than a beard or a haircut.
Now that he’d thought it, the thought was impossible to dispel. He had to go in. He had to try. If he’d just tried, if he’d just told Claude - maybe it really wasn’t too late.
What the fuck were you thinking? I’d die for you. I hate you. I’m in love with you and I never would have left you.
Berger pulled open the door and disappeared inside.