attractions, being as it’s the only man-made forest in the United States of America.”
The crew stood quietly, heads bowed, and withstood this onslaught of English like schoolboys being singled out for unfair punishment, so I excused them and they escaped to their rooms with the equipment. Later I gave them petty cash and asked them to fend for themselves; I had to eat with the Commissioner. He’d been such a valuable asset during preproduction, I explained, and had introduced us to Mrs. Beedles and her Brisket and all the nice folks of Nebraska ... but Suzuki and Oh and the director were already deep into communion with Jack Daniel’s, cackling convulsively about something esoteric pertaining to their choice of video entertainment for the evening.
I left them in the motel room, cabling up the Betacam to the motel TV. In our equipment case was a small but well-curated collection of prerecorded tape stock with titles like “Texas T-Bone Does the Hoosier Hooters.” These were little-known regional delights that the crew had acquired during our travels, and needless to say, the climax was always about meat.
It was a cinematic night. A seedy motel room. A tall, dark stranger in cowboy boots, who followed me through the door, shut it firmly behind, then locked it. The unfamiliar hand, resting heavily on my shoulder, letting me know that I wouldn’t get away. In the cool night, beyond the venetian blinds, the nervous light of the neon flickered red and hot. Sloan was unapologetic as he pushed me down onto the flimsy bed and lowered himself on top. As the Commissioner, he was relentless.
“Nebraska,” he breathed into my ear. “Population: one million, five hundred eighty-four thousand, six hundred seventeen. Birth rate: seventeen per thousand. Death rate: nine point two per thousand. Population density: twenty point seven persons per square mile. Thirty-seventh state in the Union.”
He kissed me for a long time, then turned me over onto my stomach. “Major agricultural products,” he continued, “—corn, soybeans, hay, wheat, sorghum, dry edible beans”—he gnawed on the back of my neck—“sugar beets”—he doubled me over—“cattle, pigs, sheep ...”
He ran his hands around me, up under my T-shirt and down into my boxer shorts. With a quick yank, he pulled them down, then pressed against me. “Nebraska state motto: Equality Before the Law.”
There was to be no discussion.
Sloan played the sax. He had a remarkable embouchure and a memory for facts. All the things I’d told him on the phone over the previous months he remembered and now put to use, in an ebb and flow that lasted until morning. It was odd. Since I knew him so intimately from the phone, I felt emboldened to do or say anything—but at the same time, since I’d never met the physical man before, I was rocked by the heart-pounding terror of fucking a total stranger. He felt the strangeness too. During a rest, I opened my eyes and caught him staring.
“Is it what you’d imagined?” I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.
“More or less. You’re younger looking. Like a prepubescent boy after a growth spurt.”
“Do you feel like a pedophile?”
“A bit. But I like it. What about you?”
“I knew you. Your descriptions were good. Gaunt, cadaverous.”
“Do you feel like a necrophile?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t mind looking like a corpse, but you shouldn’t think I fuck like one. I’d be upset.”
He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. His face was rough and his eyes were deep-set, curtained by a forelock of dark-brown hair, which diffused their intensity. He was tall. Taller than me, and lanky, but still somehow elegant. He had the most remarkable fingers, long and dexterous, and a habit of pressing his fingertips against his lips, as though to seal them shut. He could do wonderful things with his fingers.
In the morning, when it was still dark, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and dressed. I left
The crew stood quietly, heads bowed, and withstood this onslaught of English like schoolboys being singled out for unfair punishment, so I excused them and they escaped to their rooms with the equipment. Later I gave them petty cash and asked them to fend for themselves; I had to eat with the Commissioner. He’d been such a valuable asset during preproduction, I explained, and had introduced us to Mrs. Beedles and her Brisket and all the nice folks of Nebraska ... but Suzuki and Oh and the director were already deep into communion with Jack Daniel’s, cackling convulsively about something esoteric pertaining to their choice of video entertainment for the evening.
I left them in the motel room, cabling up the Betacam to the motel TV. In our equipment case was a small but well-curated collection of prerecorded tape stock with titles like “Texas T-Bone Does the Hoosier Hooters.” These were little-known regional delights that the crew had acquired during our travels, and needless to say, the climax was always about meat.
It was a cinematic night. A seedy motel room. A tall, dark stranger in cowboy boots, who followed me through the door, shut it firmly behind, then locked it. The unfamiliar hand, resting heavily on my shoulder, letting me know that I wouldn’t get away. In the cool night, beyond the venetian blinds, the nervous light of the neon flickered red and hot. Sloan was unapologetic as he pushed me down onto the flimsy bed and lowered himself on top. As the Commissioner, he was relentless.
“Nebraska,” he breathed into my ear. “Population: one million, five hundred eighty-four thousand, six hundred seventeen. Birth rate: seventeen per thousand. Death rate: nine point two per thousand. Population density: twenty point seven persons per square mile. Thirty-seventh state in the Union.”
He kissed me for a long time, then turned me over onto my stomach. “Major agricultural products,” he continued, “—corn, soybeans, hay, wheat, sorghum, dry edible beans”—he gnawed on the back of my neck—“sugar beets”—he doubled me over—“cattle, pigs, sheep ...”
He ran his hands around me, up under my T-shirt and down into my boxer shorts. With a quick yank, he pulled them down, then pressed against me. “Nebraska state motto: Equality Before the Law.”
There was to be no discussion.
Sloan played the sax. He had a remarkable embouchure and a memory for facts. All the things I’d told him on the phone over the previous months he remembered and now put to use, in an ebb and flow that lasted until morning. It was odd. Since I knew him so intimately from the phone, I felt emboldened to do or say anything—but at the same time, since I’d never met the physical man before, I was rocked by the heart-pounding terror of fucking a total stranger. He felt the strangeness too. During a rest, I opened my eyes and caught him staring.
“Is it what you’d imagined?” I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.
“More or less. You’re younger looking. Like a prepubescent boy after a growth spurt.”
“Do you feel like a pedophile?”
“A bit. But I like it. What about you?”
“I knew you. Your descriptions were good. Gaunt, cadaverous.”
“Do you feel like a necrophile?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t mind looking like a corpse, but you shouldn’t think I fuck like one. I’d be upset.”
He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. His face was rough and his eyes were deep-set, curtained by a forelock of dark-brown hair, which diffused their intensity. He was tall. Taller than me, and lanky, but still somehow elegant. He had the most remarkable fingers, long and dexterous, and a habit of pressing his fingertips against his lips, as though to seal them shut. He could do wonderful things with his fingers.
In the morning, when it was still dark, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and dressed. I left
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