4.

One day Marty brought up the idea that they should move while they still had the money for a deposit. “Look at it this way,” he said--“this apartment needs a lot of work thanks to how we’ve fouled it up. I say we go to Jenkins” (Jenkins was the landlord) “and demand a fifty-buck reduction, or we move.”

“I don’t want to move,” said Alex. “I mean, when I move it will be to the mountains or something--some place where I can rest and scale everything back. Just for being in the city, this place is fine.”

“The mountains is no good,” said Marty.

“Why not?”

“That’s where the aliens nab you.”

“Have you ever been nabbed?”

“Not personally. But I’m smart enough to know they can’t park a damn flying saucer right over urban Denver.”

The conversation seemed to have drifted off subject, and Marty had a hard time remembering now what his point had been. But now he brought it back. “It’s a renter’s market,” he said. “We’ll get a fresh place free of all these bugs, or maybe Jenkins will reduce the rent just so he won’t have to clean this place up for new tenants; and we’ll stay here and have fifty bucks a month less to pay.”

“Why do we just try it and if he refuses, we cave and stay put.”

“Never make a threat you can’t make good on,” said Marty. “That’s the first rule in negotiations.”

“Where did you learn that? That’s a rule?”

“It’s a rule. I read it in a book,” said Marty.

“Well anyway, where in hell are we gonna move?”

“Cheesman Park is full of vacancies,” said Marty. He’d checked it out here and there. The suburbs weren’t an option because neither of them was driving.

Alex moaned at the mention of the Cheesman Park neighborhood. “Man,” he said; “it’s full of gays like you wouldn’t believe. Even the taggers are gay. There’s one with the handle ‘Hotboy’ who sprays his name everywhere in pink.”

“So what?” said Marty. “What’s it to you? Gays aren’t gonna rob you like thugs. I say gays are better.”

Alex moaned again.

“What? What is it?” said Marty.

“They think I’m a whore,” he said.

“Who?”

“Those guys who go and look for male whores,” said Alex. “Whenever I’m in Cheesman Park some guy will drive up and ask me if I need a ride, all that.”

“That’s your imagination,” said Marty.

“A guy driving right up and asking me into his car is just in my imagination? Look at me--I’m a little young, I’m pretty, but scruffy. You know, like a junkie fag whore.”

“What in hell were we talking about?” said Marty. “We were deciding whether to move out of this bug-ridden hole! Okay, Cheesman is out. But there’s plenty of--”

“I don’t know why,” said Alex--“I don’t know how to fix it or anything, because I’m not sure what it is.”

“What what is?"

“What makes those guys think I’m a hooker. Fuck. I’m going to go lie down; I’m damn burnt out.”

He walked out of the room. Marty paced about nervously till he saw the bong on the coffee table. He hadn’t smoked any weed since the early morning when he’d got up; suddenly it was very appealing. He sometimes thought the taste of weed smoke was half its attraction, like people feel about cigarettes.

He sat on the couch and began loading a bong. Five minutes later he’d forgotten the entire idea he’d had of moving, and never brought it up again.