Free I Loved You More by Tom Spanbauer Page B

have known about his eyes, how he had to keep them covered up, or maybe he was just weirded out by my stare, because he quick started down the basement steps. I waited a bit before I followed him down, and when I looked at him again, he was in the dark and wearing his safety glasses.
    The cement walls of the boiler room were only a couple feet wider than the boiler itself. The motor and the oil burner assembly were on the floor of the boiler room right next to the pit the boiler was set in. The whole apparatus had to come off and then we had to bleed out the pipes. Or something like that. In any case, in no time at all, the whole magilla was torn apart. Just one light in the room. I had to plug in an extension cord for another light. Marco’s hands were thick and calloused. Grease along the nails. On his left hand third finger a simple gold ring.
    There were boiler parts everywhere and I had to be careful where I stepped. We talked some as we worked. Guy talk, as much as I can figure out what that is. I told him I was from Idaho and he mistook Idaho for Iowa then mixed them both up with Ohio. I didn’t try and correct him. He was a Yankees fan and had a motorcycle. Some kind of fast Honda motorcycle. He didn’t cuss like most guys. I went to ask him about his wife, and if he had any kids, but decided against it.
    After a couple hours of handing him wrenches, after an afternoon of holding my monkeywrench on the bolt heads whilehe screwed the washers and nuts on tight, hours and hours of maneuvering my body around so I could get a better grip, both of us our arms up inside the dark hole of the boiler – there was no fucking way I couldn’t not touch him – something changed. I have a theory about men working close in dark New York basements. Brings something out in you.
    Sometime in the late afternoon, Marco stood up. He started making a big deal about how hot the basement was. A production number, him taking off his coveralls. Underneath he was wearing one of those Guinea T-shirts and a pair of jeans. White white skin. Lots of black hair on his chest. His jeans were some kind of designer washed-out jeans. When he bent over in those jeans. I mean he had to know he was showing hairy cleavage.
    Propinquity. At this one point, I’m lying next to him on the cement floor, holding some damn oil pump burner thing steady, while Marco tightened a screw down. All the while his armpit’s in my face. Sweat is what always tells the tale.
    Marco smelled like my father.
    And the most amazing thing. I didn’t want to be in the next borough.
    Later on, seven-thirty, eight o’clock, we were outside having a smoke. The boiler was back up and running, Marco was wearing his faux Aviators and his orange coveralls were back on. The tools were put away. The early evening was hot, and after a day in a dark basement, the bright burnt orange sky was good on my eyes and the air felt warm on my skin. I was sitting on the stoop. Marco was leaning against his black van. There was something different about Marco. The way he just kept standing there smoking. And his lips, Marco kept moving his red red lips, as if he was trying to say something. I wanted to say something too. I mean I felt like the boiler had lost and Marco and I were on the winning team. Didn’t most guys feel this way after their hard work paid off for them? Wasn’t that called camaraderie ? Of course, I wanted to say something more. But Marco’s lovely butt crack kept flashing in my brain. Made my breath stop. And how Marco smelledlike my father. How fucked up I was that smell was sexy. So I didn’t say anything. I had no voice, my heart was broke, same way as my dick was.
    Marco pushed away from the van, walked through all the sunset bright orange, over to me on the stoop. I put my hand over my eyes. When his body was between me and the sun, I could see his hand stuck out. Marco shook my hand the way I always shake hands with men, too