Tombo
By
Joshua Vise
Joseph Lynch ducked into the darkened alley, not overly concerned about attracting attention, but at the same time hoping to avoid being noticed. Though the chances were low, there was always the possibility of bumping into one of his students from his Academic Writing class, despite the fact that any student would likely want to keep an unexpected meeting under wraps just as much as him. After all, it was assumed that anyone in this area at this time of night would be looking for the same thing, and the rumor of such a thing could torpedo a reputation or a career just as quickly as a fact.
The alley that ran behind the line of modern ten- and twelve-story buildings along the main thoroughfare twisted deeper into the neighborhood, following a jagged route that was a remnant from when the district was much less developed, and the lots were haphazardly plotted. As Joe walked further, the buildings on either side began to hang low, as if themselves trying to slink past without being noticed. Blacked out windows stood on either side of heavy, recessed doors bearing an eerie resemblance to the sunken orbits of skulls. Joe walked through this darkness as indifferent to his creepy surroundings as an ant might be in the depths of the Catacombs of Paris. For Joe, darkness implied discretion, and discretion was an ally to those who frequented the Tombo Social Club.
To those not in the know, the Tombo Social Club looked exactly like any other building in this unnamed alley; which is to say it looked like nothing. With no signage or outer decoration alerting people to its presence and a matte-black door that looked as massive and unmovable as an iron slab, the Tombo appeared to be anything but social. However, to the gay community, it was a place of respite; patrons could socialize in an environment free of stigma from a society that too often viewed their innate preferences as an abomination.
Joe wasn’t gay, at least he didn’t think so. He didn’t feel any attraction to or desire for men physically. In fact, the powerful allure that compelled him to frequent this particular establishment was as complex and mysterious to him as it would be to those that knew him in his daytime life. Unable to pinpoint the exact feeling that drove him down this alley, he instead clothed his behavior in unsophisticated practicality. As a solitary person who still craved human contact, he frequented the more popular and less secretive establishments in his city’s downtown. In those places, he often found himself buying drinks for women who clearly had no intention of spending any time with him once their glass was empty. Every now and then, and with a few pregame drinks under his belt, it felt nice to be at the opposite end of that exchange.
Over time, the regular clientele of the Tombo grew comfortable with his presence. Many recognized in him hints of an internal struggle for acceptance that they all had to face at one time or another. Others were just happy enough to have another person to chat with, one of a host of characters whose lives in safe places were as colorful as they were muted in the wider public sphere. This sense of recognition was mutual. In the patrons of the Tombo, Joe saw a people who just wanted to be at ease, and their contentment in this sphere engendered within him a sense of peace. In such a place, outside of the common view, the fixed rules of society felt less rigid and oppressive. Some could be relaxed, and others could be ignored entirely.
As Joe stepped through the entrance and into the dim warmth of the bar’s mood lighting, his eyes flitted from here to there as he scanned the scene. All of the regulars were in their familiar places. Mr. Kerr stared quietly into his cocktail glass, not bothering to look up as he leaned against the high-top bar table closest to the door. Two of the three booths lined up against the near wall were occupied; one couple sat across from each other, their low voices occasionally rising, betraying hints of enthusiasm as they discussed some topic that Joe couldn’t hear. The other couple sat next to each other, their glasses clinking as they toasted before drinking. The elderly gentlemen, whom the regulars referred to as “The Baron” on account of his sophisticated dress, wiped at the water ring from under his empty glass of whiskey with a paper napkin. Joe nodded to the room and found his usual seat up against the bar.
“What’s new, George?” said Joe casually, as George slid a coaster in front of him.
“Just the usual,” George answered. “I suppose it will be the same for you.”
“Right,” nodded Joe.
George plucked a rocks glass from the rack and tossed in two ice cubes.
“Been anywhere else tonight?” George asked casually.
“Downtown. I popped into Griffin's for a few. Pretty slow.”
George set the glass on the coaster. The vodka he pulled from the bar’s rail was some rotgut brand decorated with a generic onion-domed Russian cathedral. Joe had never seen that brand anywhere but the Tombo. He watched as George upended the bottle.
“That’s a heavy pour,” said Joe, somewhat surprised.
“Double,” confirmed George as he topped off the glass with tonic water. “On the house.”
“Really?” Joe remarked, suppressing a hiccup. “What’s the occasion?”
“Well, that’s just the thing,” replied George.
He wiped his hands on a bar towel, and then leaned in towards Joe.
“You know, some of the other guys and I have been talking.”
“Yeah?” asked Joe. He kept his gaze on his drink, steeling himself for some bit of unpleasantness. “About what?”
“You…”
Joe looked up from the glass. George was not an intimidating person by stature, but in the muted lights, his eyes radiated a toughness earned through the silent carrying of an emotional burden.
“What about me?” challenged Joe, his tone bearing a hint of defensiveness.
“I’ll be honest,” continued George. “We’re not really sure this is a place you should be coming to anymore.”
The statement landed like a punch to Joe’s solar plexus. With the wind knocked out of him, the best he could manage was a huff as he stirred the ice cubes around in his drink.
“Look, Joe…” George explained. “This is my bar. You understand? And nobody is telling you that you can’t come here anymore.”
“Yeah,” chimed Joe softly.
“That door is always open to you. All we are saying is that…well…we just think you don’t really belong here.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Then what is it?” Joe asked directly, mustering his strength in spite of the hurt he felt. “Why don’t you want me here?”
George sighed roughly, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation, but still wanting to share a difficult truth rather than a convenient lie.
“Let’s be blunt,” stated George, a slight tinge of anger starting to pervade his words. “You GET to come here. WE can’t go anywhere else.”
He swept his hand from left to right. Joe followed the gesture with his eyes, only then noticing that in the entire space, not a single conversation was being had. Instead, he had become the focus for everyone in the room. They stared at him in silence, their faces devoid of emotion. As Joe looked from one person to the next, he still hoped for a single indication from any of the others that he was welcome here. He found nothing.
“Joe, look at me.”
He complied, eager to turn away from the uncomfortable stares of the other patrons. George had leaned in even closer now, and the toughness in his eyes was tinged with a hint of concern.
“I can’t stop you from coming here. And I don’t want to stop you. But…”
He placed a cold hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“We’re all just hoping you could stop on your own.”
A blinding light suddenly illuminated Joe from the direction of the entrance. It was powerful enough to be sensed as warmth on Joe’s cheek.
“Mr. Lynch.”
A firm voice called to him from the doorway. Joe raised his hand, shielding his face from the light. The powerful beam lowered a bit.
“Joe, step outside please.”
Joe stood from his bar stool, his feet crunching the dead leaves and shattered tile beneath him as he shuffled to the door. His nose was filled with the acrid smell of burnt plastic and mildew.
“Watch your step,” said the police officer, using the beam of his flashlight to guide him around the charred remnants of furniture and collapsed ceiling panels. As he neared the exit and the waiting officer, he offered a soft wave goodbye in George’s direction, but found only a blackened bar top streaked with water damage and speckled with mold. Joe stepped through the doorway, though he could have just as easily passed through the gaping hole in the wall where the window had once been.
Outside, things in the street appeared much as they did when Joe had arrived; the other buildings were as blacked out and private as ever. Still, enough moonlight trickled into the alley to highlight the officer’s face, and Joe flashed a sheepish smile in recognition.
“Hey Keith.”
The officer nodded as he guided Joe by the arm through the alley.
“My car’s over here.”
“Are you arresting me?” Joe asked softly.
“No, I’m taking you home. You been drinking?”
“Some.”
“I’d say more than some,” the officer spat in frustration. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in there?”
“I don’t know. I was just…” Joe stammered, feeling the effects of the drink. “Just visiting some friends.”
Joe could feel the officer’s grip tighten, but he couldn’t tell whether it was for stability or restraint.
“Bullshit, Joe,” the officer’s voice descended into familiarity. “Are you sober?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Because this is the third time I’ve had to pull you out of that building, and one day it’s going to fall on your head, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”
“Fall on my head?” he murmured, attempting to steal a glance at the Tombo from over his shoulder.
“You are drunk,” spat the cop.
He stopped guiding Joe through the alley, allowing him to turn and get a proper look from a distance.
“It’s condemned. Unsalvageable. Has been since the fire. But you already know this...”
From this vantage point, it was easily apparent that the building was an absolute catastrophe. The brick wall facing the alley bowed outward, weakened from the loss of structural support beams behind it. One corner had completely collapsed inward, and the bathroom fixtures it revealed glinted in moonlight that snuck through large holes in the roof.
“...because we had this conversation twice before.”
Seeing a small bit of recognition creep into Joe’s face, the officer probed further.
“Did you know any of the guys that died?”
“I know all of them,” Joe muttered.
Unsure of how to process that bit of information, the officer pulled at Joe’s arm, and they continued their walk through the alley in silence. When they reached the officer’s car, Keith spun Joe around so that they were face to face. Joe noticed a familiar glint of toughness and concern in Keith’s eyes.
“Did you drive here?”
“No, I walked.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“No.”
“Look, Joe. I don’t know what you’re doing here. You’re not even gay.”
“You don’t know that,” Joe stated flatly.
“Yeah, well…” sputtered Keith. “Even if you are, there are other places to go. You stay out of that building. Understand?”
Joe nodded.
“Every time you go in there, we get a call. Next time, I won’t have any choice but to take you in. Understand?”
Joe nodded once more, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Okay then.”
The officer released his grip and walked around his car to the driver’s side. He began to step in, but caught himself.
“Joe.”
Joe looked up, not having moved since the officer released him.
“I really don’t care if you are or aren’t. Just go somewhere safe.”
The officer ducked into the car and shut the door loudly. The engine came to life, and the emergency lights flickered. As the car merged into traffic, Joe’s gaze followed it for as long as he could. Eventually, when he could no longer distinguish its lights from the lights of the other vehicles around it, he turned away from the alley. With slow, trudging steps, he made his way forward, with no specific destination in mind.
Joshua Vise is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. His writing has previously been published in anthologies from Wicked Shadow Press and CultureCult Press. He can be found at www.joshuadvise.com.
By
Joshua Vise
Joseph Lynch ducked into the darkened alley, not overly concerned about attracting attention, but at the same time hoping to avoid being noticed. Though the chances were low, there was always the possibility of bumping into one of his students from his Academic Writing class, despite the fact that any student would likely want to keep an unexpected meeting under wraps just as much as him. After all, it was assumed that anyone in this area at this time of night would be looking for the same thing, and the rumor of such a thing could torpedo a reputation or a career just as quickly as a fact.
The alley that ran behind the line of modern ten- and twelve-story buildings along the main thoroughfare twisted deeper into the neighborhood, following a jagged route that was a remnant from when the district was much less developed, and the lots were haphazardly plotted. As Joe walked further, the buildings on either side began to hang low, as if themselves trying to slink past without being noticed. Blacked out windows stood on either side of heavy, recessed doors bearing an eerie resemblance to the sunken orbits of skulls. Joe walked through this darkness as indifferent to his creepy surroundings as an ant might be in the depths of the Catacombs of Paris. For Joe, darkness implied discretion, and discretion was an ally to those who frequented the Tombo Social Club.
To those not in the know, the Tombo Social Club looked exactly like any other building in this unnamed alley; which is to say it looked like nothing. With no signage or outer decoration alerting people to its presence and a matte-black door that looked as massive and unmovable as an iron slab, the Tombo appeared to be anything but social. However, to the gay community, it was a place of respite; patrons could socialize in an environment free of stigma from a society that too often viewed their innate preferences as an abomination.
Joe wasn’t gay, at least he didn’t think so. He didn’t feel any attraction to or desire for men physically. In fact, the powerful allure that compelled him to frequent this particular establishment was as complex and mysterious to him as it would be to those that knew him in his daytime life. Unable to pinpoint the exact feeling that drove him down this alley, he instead clothed his behavior in unsophisticated practicality. As a solitary person who still craved human contact, he frequented the more popular and less secretive establishments in his city’s downtown. In those places, he often found himself buying drinks for women who clearly had no intention of spending any time with him once their glass was empty. Every now and then, and with a few pregame drinks under his belt, it felt nice to be at the opposite end of that exchange.
Over time, the regular clientele of the Tombo grew comfortable with his presence. Many recognized in him hints of an internal struggle for acceptance that they all had to face at one time or another. Others were just happy enough to have another person to chat with, one of a host of characters whose lives in safe places were as colorful as they were muted in the wider public sphere. This sense of recognition was mutual. In the patrons of the Tombo, Joe saw a people who just wanted to be at ease, and their contentment in this sphere engendered within him a sense of peace. In such a place, outside of the common view, the fixed rules of society felt less rigid and oppressive. Some could be relaxed, and others could be ignored entirely.
As Joe stepped through the entrance and into the dim warmth of the bar’s mood lighting, his eyes flitted from here to there as he scanned the scene. All of the regulars were in their familiar places. Mr. Kerr stared quietly into his cocktail glass, not bothering to look up as he leaned against the high-top bar table closest to the door. Two of the three booths lined up against the near wall were occupied; one couple sat across from each other, their low voices occasionally rising, betraying hints of enthusiasm as they discussed some topic that Joe couldn’t hear. The other couple sat next to each other, their glasses clinking as they toasted before drinking. The elderly gentlemen, whom the regulars referred to as “The Baron” on account of his sophisticated dress, wiped at the water ring from under his empty glass of whiskey with a paper napkin. Joe nodded to the room and found his usual seat up against the bar.
“What’s new, George?” said Joe casually, as George slid a coaster in front of him.
“Just the usual,” George answered. “I suppose it will be the same for you.”
“Right,” nodded Joe.
George plucked a rocks glass from the rack and tossed in two ice cubes.
“Been anywhere else tonight?” George asked casually.
“Downtown. I popped into Griffin's for a few. Pretty slow.”
George set the glass on the coaster. The vodka he pulled from the bar’s rail was some rotgut brand decorated with a generic onion-domed Russian cathedral. Joe had never seen that brand anywhere but the Tombo. He watched as George upended the bottle.
“That’s a heavy pour,” said Joe, somewhat surprised.
“Double,” confirmed George as he topped off the glass with tonic water. “On the house.”
“Really?” Joe remarked, suppressing a hiccup. “What’s the occasion?”
“Well, that’s just the thing,” replied George.
He wiped his hands on a bar towel, and then leaned in towards Joe.
“You know, some of the other guys and I have been talking.”
“Yeah?” asked Joe. He kept his gaze on his drink, steeling himself for some bit of unpleasantness. “About what?”
“You…”
Joe looked up from the glass. George was not an intimidating person by stature, but in the muted lights, his eyes radiated a toughness earned through the silent carrying of an emotional burden.
“What about me?” challenged Joe, his tone bearing a hint of defensiveness.
“I’ll be honest,” continued George. “We’re not really sure this is a place you should be coming to anymore.”
The statement landed like a punch to Joe’s solar plexus. With the wind knocked out of him, the best he could manage was a huff as he stirred the ice cubes around in his drink.
“Look, Joe…” George explained. “This is my bar. You understand? And nobody is telling you that you can’t come here anymore.”
“Yeah,” chimed Joe softly.
“That door is always open to you. All we are saying is that…well…we just think you don’t really belong here.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Then what is it?” Joe asked directly, mustering his strength in spite of the hurt he felt. “Why don’t you want me here?”
George sighed roughly, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation, but still wanting to share a difficult truth rather than a convenient lie.
“Let’s be blunt,” stated George, a slight tinge of anger starting to pervade his words. “You GET to come here. WE can’t go anywhere else.”
He swept his hand from left to right. Joe followed the gesture with his eyes, only then noticing that in the entire space, not a single conversation was being had. Instead, he had become the focus for everyone in the room. They stared at him in silence, their faces devoid of emotion. As Joe looked from one person to the next, he still hoped for a single indication from any of the others that he was welcome here. He found nothing.
“Joe, look at me.”
He complied, eager to turn away from the uncomfortable stares of the other patrons. George had leaned in even closer now, and the toughness in his eyes was tinged with a hint of concern.
“I can’t stop you from coming here. And I don’t want to stop you. But…”
He placed a cold hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“We’re all just hoping you could stop on your own.”
A blinding light suddenly illuminated Joe from the direction of the entrance. It was powerful enough to be sensed as warmth on Joe’s cheek.
“Mr. Lynch.”
A firm voice called to him from the doorway. Joe raised his hand, shielding his face from the light. The powerful beam lowered a bit.
“Joe, step outside please.”
Joe stood from his bar stool, his feet crunching the dead leaves and shattered tile beneath him as he shuffled to the door. His nose was filled with the acrid smell of burnt plastic and mildew.
“Watch your step,” said the police officer, using the beam of his flashlight to guide him around the charred remnants of furniture and collapsed ceiling panels. As he neared the exit and the waiting officer, he offered a soft wave goodbye in George’s direction, but found only a blackened bar top streaked with water damage and speckled with mold. Joe stepped through the doorway, though he could have just as easily passed through the gaping hole in the wall where the window had once been.
Outside, things in the street appeared much as they did when Joe had arrived; the other buildings were as blacked out and private as ever. Still, enough moonlight trickled into the alley to highlight the officer’s face, and Joe flashed a sheepish smile in recognition.
“Hey Keith.”
The officer nodded as he guided Joe by the arm through the alley.
“My car’s over here.”
“Are you arresting me?” Joe asked softly.
“No, I’m taking you home. You been drinking?”
“Some.”
“I’d say more than some,” the officer spat in frustration. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in there?”
“I don’t know. I was just…” Joe stammered, feeling the effects of the drink. “Just visiting some friends.”
Joe could feel the officer’s grip tighten, but he couldn’t tell whether it was for stability or restraint.
“Bullshit, Joe,” the officer’s voice descended into familiarity. “Are you sober?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Because this is the third time I’ve had to pull you out of that building, and one day it’s going to fall on your head, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”
“Fall on my head?” he murmured, attempting to steal a glance at the Tombo from over his shoulder.
“You are drunk,” spat the cop.
He stopped guiding Joe through the alley, allowing him to turn and get a proper look from a distance.
“It’s condemned. Unsalvageable. Has been since the fire. But you already know this...”
From this vantage point, it was easily apparent that the building was an absolute catastrophe. The brick wall facing the alley bowed outward, weakened from the loss of structural support beams behind it. One corner had completely collapsed inward, and the bathroom fixtures it revealed glinted in moonlight that snuck through large holes in the roof.
“...because we had this conversation twice before.”
Seeing a small bit of recognition creep into Joe’s face, the officer probed further.
“Did you know any of the guys that died?”
“I know all of them,” Joe muttered.
Unsure of how to process that bit of information, the officer pulled at Joe’s arm, and they continued their walk through the alley in silence. When they reached the officer’s car, Keith spun Joe around so that they were face to face. Joe noticed a familiar glint of toughness and concern in Keith’s eyes.
“Did you drive here?”
“No, I walked.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“No.”
“Look, Joe. I don’t know what you’re doing here. You’re not even gay.”
“You don’t know that,” Joe stated flatly.
“Yeah, well…” sputtered Keith. “Even if you are, there are other places to go. You stay out of that building. Understand?”
Joe nodded.
“Every time you go in there, we get a call. Next time, I won’t have any choice but to take you in. Understand?”
Joe nodded once more, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Okay then.”
The officer released his grip and walked around his car to the driver’s side. He began to step in, but caught himself.
“Joe.”
Joe looked up, not having moved since the officer released him.
“I really don’t care if you are or aren’t. Just go somewhere safe.”
The officer ducked into the car and shut the door loudly. The engine came to life, and the emergency lights flickered. As the car merged into traffic, Joe’s gaze followed it for as long as he could. Eventually, when he could no longer distinguish its lights from the lights of the other vehicles around it, he turned away from the alley. With slow, trudging steps, he made his way forward, with no specific destination in mind.
Joshua Vise is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. His writing has previously been published in anthologies from Wicked Shadow Press and CultureCult Press. He can be found at www.joshuadvise.com.
