The Shattered Gates Read Free Page A

creamy paper. Maybe a secret code in lemon juice, like the one he and his brother had used back when they were Boy Scouts. He turned the paper over, inspected the edges, and held it up to the light again.
    Nothing.
    He slumped down onto his cheap plastic chair and tossed the letter into the pile of bills on the kitchen table. He shoved the curly mass of his blonde hair out of his face. So, he’d spent the last ten minutes convincing himself that he had a right to open his crazy roommate’s mail, and this was all the payoff he got.
    “Don’t.”
    How disappointing.
    Well, at least it hadn’t been a picture of some porn star with his own face pasted over hers. He poured himself a cup of coffee. It was the cheap stuff, acrid in the mouth and hard on the stomach, but it was better than nothing. He took a slug and scowled.
    If Kyle did not show up soon, how was he going to scrape together enough money for rent? Sell something? He didn’t have much.
    He scanned the kitchen. The faded, old Victorian cupboards revealed a box of peanut-butter granola, a little pile of coffee filters and a single foam cup of instant noodles. The total value, he supposed, was maybe a dollar. The stale granola and ramen noodles had been in the house when John moved in a year ago.
    Probably more like twenty cents.
    He could always volunteer for one of the scientific studies at the university. One of his fellow graduate students had mentioned a sleep deprivation trial that paid daily. But John rebelled at the thought of being so closely observed and monitored. He supposed that he was almost as bad as Kyle when it came to maintaining his privacy. Maybe that’s why they made such good roommates.
     Then John remembered running into Kyle at the Steamworks bathhouse. Had it really been so bad that they had seen each other?  If Kyle hadn’t disappeared, maybe they could have laughed it off together. Or maybe their mutual knowledge could have become something more. There had certainly been desire in Kyle’s eyes before recognition burned it away.
    John wasn’t sure if he liked that idea or not.
    Also it was beside the point. Right now John needed rent.
    He strode past the carved staircase into the living room. He gazed at his possessions. Not much: an old DVD player and a 12-inch television, which couldn’t be configured to work with any remote control unit in existence. Not surprisingly, a number of supposedly universal remotes were piled up beside the television like sacrifices to an indifferent god of technology.
    Both the television and the DVD player shared a rickety plywood-and-brick structure that served as John’s entertainment center. Stacks of ecology textbooks slumped on the remaining shelves in no particular order. John glanced through the open door to his bedroom. His futon was the only thing of any value in the dim room. Maybe seventy dollars. John frowned at the hopelessly compacted futon and the disheveled bedding. It gave him a slightly sordid feeling to stare into his bedroom and contemplate money. He sensed that this wasn’t a resource that decent people ever resorted to considering.
    The gently aged architecture of the house itself didn’t add any sense of respectability to John’s endeavor. While the house wasn’t in the best repair, the natural luster of the wood floors and detailed moldings reflected an enduring craftsmanship. Deep care showed in the perfection of the tall, smooth walls, and the carefully turned rungs of the staircase. The obvious devotion that had produced the house carried an almost moral quality. It radiated a simple goodness.
     John’s possessions suffered from the comparison. From his CD player to his running shoes, every item seemed conceived with an eye for quick satisfaction and disposability. Nothing accrued value. It all just fell apart.
     John returned to the kitchen for a refill of coffee. Unwillingly, his gaze drifted from the cracked white cup in his hands to the substantial stack of bills