SEX OFFENDERS:Interlude 1 - Elvis Is Leaving The Building

In a cramped bedroom across the river from Manhattan, two young men, in a way still boys really, lay in separate bunk beds. A chest of drawers, about four feet wide, was all that stood between them.

Elvis lay on his right side in the sweltering heat, sticking to his clammy white sheets. He knew he should get up. He knew he should get dressed. It was time to leave. He had promised himself, and his dead brother Philip, that when he graduated high school, he would make his way back to Florida. Back to his real father. He had a murderer to catch.

And yet, he lay there, unable to move.

One more time, Elvis thought. Just let me watch one last time. Then I’ll go.

He intently watched his stepbrother, Jesus, across the room while stroking himself absent-mindedly; his cock flopped out through the opening in his boxers. His stepbrother lay on top of one of his hoes, quietly screwing her while she softly moaned and clutched at his back.

Elvis watched Jesus’ furry buttocks, caramel colored, hips grinding. They clenched. Unclenched. Clenched. Unclenched. Elvis longed to bury his face in the musky crevice, lick his stepbrother up and down and tug on his balls while his lower back arched, bowed, then arched again.

“Elvis!” Jesus whispered harshly. “You . . . awake?”

“What?” Elvis asked, startled from his reverie.

“C’mon . . . bro . . . get . . . ready . . . you’re . . . next.” Jesus punctuated each word with a deep thrust.

“Jesus!” The girl slapped him playfully on the butt.

“What do you mean?” Elvis mumbled, his heart racing suddenly. A part of him grew even more excited. He only hoped the girl wouldn’t stay to watch.

“Gotta . . . deep . . . pussy . . . fuck . . . sometime, bro.” Jesus panted.

“Oh.” Elvis said, disappointed. Then he muttered. “I’m not fucking her.”

“What the . . . ” Jesus stopped thrusting suddenly and gasped. “What are you . . . you can’t put your finger . . . ” Jesus protested. But the girl giggled and kept worming her finger in and out of his rectum. And then, “Oh . . . my . . . god!” Jesus started up again. “I’m . . . right . . . there . . . unh!” Jesus grunted and shook like a car with a bad engine.

Elvis sighed and came in his hand. He rolled onto his back and quietly sucked his fingers, licked the top of his hand, his palm.

“Christ.” Jesus said as he stood a moment later, his muscled body rippling and sweaty. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” His entire attitude toward Elvis changed as he pulled the condom off deftly with thumb and forefinger. He held it out to Elvis, teasing him. “Here. Wanna eat mine, too?”

“You’re an asshole.” Elvis stated matter-of-factly.

“At least I’m not a faggot.” Jesus flung the used condom on the floor at the foot of their dresser. Elvis looked at it, then up at Jesus. His stepbrother took a step toward him. He glared down at Elvis, hands on his hips, and made his softening cock bob up and down. It was like it was beckoning Elvis, taunting him even more.

A lone drop, the one that wasn’t milked, glistened and lengthened. Elvis licked his lips and reached out for it, despite the disgust he felt at being unable to control himself. Jesus snorted and pulled back.

“Cocksucker.” Jesus tossed Elvis a knowing half-sneer.

“Fuck you!” Elvis snapped, defiant.

“You wish.” Jesus laughed maliciously and hurried out of the room. A moment later, Elvis heard the shower go on in the bathroom across the hallway.

“Mother fucker!” Elvis exclaimed, suddenly enraged. “Why the hell do I let him do that to me?” Filled with a burning desire to hit something, he looked up abruptly, remembering he was not alone. Across the room, sitting up on Jesus’ bed, a plump white girl with big breasts and hickeys on her pale skin, dressed slowly and cautiously.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Elvis spat.

“I know you’re not talkin’ to me.” She mumbled and clicked her tongue.

“Just hurry up and get the out!” Elvis snapped.

The girl eyed Elvis suspiciously and harumphed as she continued to dress.

Suddenly disgusted with the sight of her, and with himself, Elvis lunged out of bed and dove for the used condom Jesus had thrown on the floor. He picked it up and, without thinking, Elvis flung it at the girl. It smacked onto the side of her face and stuck.

“You fucking asshole!” She shrieked, fanning her hands crazily back and forth as if her face was on fire. Jesus’ seed dripped down her chin. “Eeeeeeewww! I hate cum on me!” The girl screamed at the top of her lungs and jumped out of bed. She grabbed her things and ran half-naked out into the apartment.

A part of Elvis wanted to laugh; the other felt bad for what he had done. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. Elvis sighed heavily. He could no longer sit idly by while his stepbrother continued to flaunt his naked body and his sexuality in front of him. The time to leave had definitely come. Besides, he had a murderer to catch.

With renewed focus, and a sense of urgency, Elvis jumped out of bed. He dressed quickly in jeans and a tee-shirt, then pulled his oversized knapsack from under the bed. He rummaged through the chest of drawers, pulling out underwear, socks, tee-shirts. A pair of jeans. Shorts. The money he’d been saving from his part-time job after school. An old key ring. A picture of him and his brother, a day at the beach with their Dad, months before Philip was murdered.

Elvis glanced at the photograph. His image, and Philip's, looked up at him, both grinning from ear to ear. They had their arms about each other’s shoulders. They had been inseparable, once upon a time. They had shared many things, many dreams, many secrets.

At first, it had been that way with Elvis and Jesus, as well. When Elvis first came to live in New Jersey with his mother, her new husband, and his son from a previous marriage. Jesus had become like a surrogate, older brother to Elvis even though they were the same age. Only, somewhere along the way, as they grew older, things had changed dramatically.

“Going somewhere?” Elvis stood in the open doorway, a towel wrapped loosely about his waist.

Fuck! Elvis thought to himself. He had been anxious to get moving before Jesus came back from his shower, before his mother got out of bed and started her day with a new bottle of Captain Morgan’s.

“So, where you going?” Jesus stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Away.” Elvis shoved everything into his knapsack.

“Where’s Carol? I heard her scream. Thought maybe you decided to fuck her after all.”

“She, uh . . . she said she had to leave.” Elvis fought back the urge to laugh at the memory of her flapping hands and the condom stuck to her face.

“Did you do something to her?” Jesus asked suspiciously.

“Nope. Not me.” Elvis replied. He averted his eyes as Jesus approached. He could smell the fresh scent of their mother’s Dove soap on his stepbrother.

“Damn.” Jesus lamented, brushing gently past Elvis. “Too bad she’s gone. I’m usually good for a second fuck in the mornings.” Jesus dropped his towel and stared at Elvis, letting his words hang between them.

Elvis struggled to keep his focus, forcing himself to look away from his stepbrother as he stood, a few short feet away, tugging on his balls, stroking his cock. Elvis licked his dry lips, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Wanna take her place?” Jesus quietly teased, a twisted smile on his face.

Elvis looked up, stared into Jesus’ eyes. Neither of them spoke. There were many things that popped into Elvis’ head, many things he wanted to say. But he realized they would all be lost on Jesus. There was no point in saying anything at all. Elvis zipped up his knapsack, shouldered it and walked out of their room.

“What? You’re not gonna say anything?” Jesus followed Elvis down the long hallway to the front door.

“What’s going on? What are you boys fighting about?” Elvis’s mother, Lydia, poked her head into the hallway. She was a Blatina woman with caramel colored skin and long raven hair. Her wrinkly eyes blinked against the light.

“Nothing’s going on, Ma. Go back to sleep.” Elvis replied.

“Bullshit, nothing’s going on. Elvis is leaving, Lydia!” Jesus cried out.

“Leaving?” Lydia sputtered and stepped into the hallway, blocking her son’s path. Elvis brushed past her. “Elvis? What’s Jesus talking about?” She asked, a slight worry in her voice.

Elvis stopped in his tracks. So much for making a smooth get away. He took a deep breath and turned to face his mother. Lydia searched his face.

“Listen. Ma. Don’t make a big deal out of this, okay? I’m leaving. I’m going away and I’m not coming back.” Elvis explained.

“What do you mean?!” Lydia cried. “You can’t do that. You’re just a boy!”

“I’m 19, Ma. I’m a grown-up now.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. What about school?” Lydia grasped.

“I’m done with school. Don’t you remember? Graduation was two weeks ago, Ma.” Elvis turned and started down the hallway again.

“What about college?” She asked, following Elvis.

“Not going to college.”

“Then what about work? Who’s going to help pay the rent? The groceries? The phone?” Lydia looked puzzled and chewed on her lip, pulling at straws.

Elvis stopped and turned around again, a half-smile on his face. He looked meaningfully past Lydia and up at Jesus, who stood directly behind her.

“You think I’m gonna get a job? I’m the one going to college. Remember?”

Elvis snorted and looked at his mother. “I guess that means your . . . husband . . . will have to go out and find a job now.”

“Elvis, please.” Lydia reached for him with one hand while pushing Jesus back with the other. “You can’t leave me. I’m your mother. I need you.”

“You can’t manipulate me anymore, Ma.” Elvis stared his mother down. “You left first. Remember? Or did you conveniently forget that you abandoned Philip and me?”

“It was never about either one of you.” Lydia protested. But Elvis had heard enough. He turned and moved towards the door. “Elvis.” Lydia followed closely behind him. “You’re being unfair. That was a long time ago. You have no idea the kind of man your father was!”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?” Elvis stopped and turned to her.

“It’s been a very long time, Elvis. Why are you asking me this now?” Lydia stared blankly at her son.

“I guess you deserve some kind of explanation even though you never gave me one.” Elvis sighed deeply. “When Philip died I made a promise to go back home . . .”

“But this is your home.” Lydia protested.

There was a moment of silence.

“This isn’t home, Ma. I’m sorry but, I’m going back to Florida.”

“But why?” Lydia asked, perplexed. “You lived here almost as long as you lived there. And what do you want to go back there for? Florida’s terrible! It’s hot, it’s muggy and there’s all those hurricanes. There’s nothing there for you.”

“Dad’s there.” Elvis said simply. Lydia lowered her eyes, screwed up her forehead and chewed on her lower lip. Elvis continued before his mother could find another reason for him not to leave. “Besides, I want to investigate Philip’s death.”

“Investigate his death? Ha! Who are you? The Hardy Boy?” Jesus laughed behind Lydia. “More like the hardly boy.”

“Honey, no one murdered Philip. He died of an asthma attack.” Lydia put a hand on Elvis’ arm.

“Listen, Ma. I don’t know why you left Dad. And after all this time I don’t think it really matters much anymore. I only know that I made a promise to my brother and to myself. I need to see my father.”

“You’re father is in that room,” Lydia said, extending an arm towards the room she had just stepped out of.

“That . . . man . . . in there? That’s not my father. That’s . . . ”

“Don’t talk about my father,” Jesus threatened and tossed Elvis a warning look. “I’ll kick your ass!”

“What’s going on out here?” As if on cue, Jesus’ father wallowed out of the bedroom. He stood behind Jesus, filling most of the width of the hallway.

“Nothing, honey. Go back to bed.” Lydia replied calmly.

Disgusted, Elvis turned his back on them. But as he faced the door, it was as if someone had stretched the hallway to make it longer than it was. For a brief moment, he doubted. But there was a part of him that had to move; a part of him that knew if he didn’t go now he would never go at all. He refocused, somehow found the strength he needed and took the first step.

As he reached the door, his hand on the knob, Lydia’s hand touched one of his shoulders. And in that one touch, time seemed to sand still. Both, mother and child, seemed to feel a slowly churning carousel of unspoken, harbored emotion. The past became present and the present seemed to dissolve.

“You didn’t even leave a note.” Elvis said softly, like a lost little boy. Without turning, he closed his eyes and waited for a word, a reason, anything.

But none came.

Lydia’s mouth opened and closed. She didn’t know what to say that would make her son understand.

“I . . . I’d like to know how you are.”

“I’ll write you. When I get there. Goodbye, ma.” Elvis said politely. After all, it wasn’t like he hated her; he just never found it in himself to forgive her for abandoning them. And then there was that little part of him that felt that maybe, just maybe, if she had never left, Philip might still be alive.

Elvis opened the door and stepped out into the vestibule of the small apartment building. Their door shut loudly behind him. Elvis closed his eyes, half expecting, half wanting his mother to follow him out. But she didn’t. He could hear the three of them arguing inside, now.

Saddened, and a bit disappointed, Elvis looked down. There on the dirty, black and white, cracked tile floor was the used condom he had thrown at Carol. He stepped over it, suddenly quite anxious to be on the road.



Elvis had forgotten about summer in South Florida. The still air was so heavy and thick with humidity that his breathing was more like gasping. His clothes clung to him uncomfortably and the knapsack on his back made him feel as though he were plodding through mud.

A variety of Spanish music, from houses with open doors and windows, assaulted his ears; salsa, meréngue, latin rock. In the trees, cicadas whirred noisily, making their own mad form of music. Less than a block away, the freight train blared angrily as it rolled by. It made the ground beneath his feet vibrate.

Elvis was tired. It had taken him nearly two weeks to hitchhike, via backroads, from New Jersey to Florida. He was sweaty, hungry and could not stand his own smell. He shuffled the last few steps that led to his father’s door. Elvis raised a fist and knocked timidly. There was no answer.

What if he had moved away? But that was not a thought Elvis wanted to entertain. All he wanted was to be inside, in the air conditioning, downing a tall glass of lemonade while he soaked in a cool tub of water.

What the hell am I knocking for? Elvis thought to himself, suddenly remember his keys. He shrugged the knapsack off his shoulders and rummaged through it. His hand wrapped around the old key ring and he wondered. Would the keys still be the same? Wouldn’t his father have changed the locks? More thoughts he did now want to deal with. Elvis tried the keys; they worked.

Dizzy from heat and exhaustion, Elvis turned the doorknob and pushed. It didn’t open. Then he remembered; doors in Florida opened out to offer better protection from hurricane winds. Elvis pulled. The door opened and a blast of cool air rushed at him, licking his sweaty flesh. Elvis sighed unexpectedly with relief.

“Dad?” Elvis called out from the threshold. There was no answer. Elvis stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Silence now roared in his ears. The house was cool and dark. He stood still a moment as childhood ghosts and memories flooded his senses. He swayed slightly, his body grateful to finally be out of the heat.

“Dad?” Elvis called out again, pushing the dizziness away. Still no answer. He took a deep breath and another step into the house. Elvis looked into the open living room; it was dusty and unkempt. The pendulum of a grandfather clock had long since stopped swinging. Months, if not years, of newspapers lay in skewed stacks over the floor. And on the sofa, to his right, just beneath the front window, lay his father, now bearded, his full, thick, dark head of hair now sprinkled with much gray. He was passed out in a dingy white tank top and stained, yellowed briefs. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell softly. In one hand, he clutched a picture.

Elvis approached quietly, stepping through a little path that had been left open to the couch. He sat at the edge of the sofa and placed a hand on the older man’s chest. His father snored lightly, slept deeply.

Elvis pried the photograph from his father’s fingers. It was a picture of the three of them, that day at the beach; his dad was in the middle, arms around each of his sons.

Filled with relief at finally being back with his dad and overwhelmed with the blankness of the last seven years, Elvis was surprised to feel his eyes watering. He lay his head gently on his father’s chest, closed his eyes for only a moment and almost drifted.

A sound inside the house startled Elvis. He sat up abruptly.

From one of the bathrooms, someone had flushed a toilet. Elvis heard the water running as whoever it was washed their hands. Then the door opened.

His heart racing furiously, Elvis’ first reaction was to run away. But he didn’t move. This was his house, after all. He stood to face the person shuffling down the hallway.

At first it was difficult to place the hairy, burly man that stood before him wearing nothing but a white, wife-beater tee-shirt and boxer shorts. The two of them stared each other down until recognition made the older man grin.

“I knew one day you’d be back. I kept telling your father but he wouldn’t believe me.” He spoke in a deep, reverberating voice.

“Uncle Rollie?” Elvis asked uncertainly. The man laughed and opened his arms. Like a child, Elvis went to him and turned to mush within the embrace of the huge, tight bear hug.



Several hours later, after he had taken a long, hot bath that left the tub ringed with dirt; after a refreshingly cool shower and several glasses of lemonade from an ice cold pitcher, Elvis sat in the kitchen with his Uncle Rollie. They spoke quietly over a plate of cheese and crackers and another glass of lemonade for Elvis, a cold beer for Uncle Rollie.

Elvis learned that in the last seven years, nothing much had changed for his father. He still got up every day at the crack of dawn, got into his pick-up truck and went to work. He came home every night just after the sun went down, had a couple of beers and, on weekends, drank until he passed out on the living room couch. There he would remain until Rollie picked him up and dropped him into his own bed. Then the week would start over again.

“At first, I stayed here weekends. I was always afraid he was going to . . . you know . . . do something stupid. Now I’m divorced, so, I stay here all the time. But don’t worry. Now that you’re here I’ll . . . I’ll start looking for my own place.”

“C’mon, Uncle Rollie. You don’t have to move out. This is your house, too. Just stay here. There’s enough . . . ” Elvis’ mouth opened wide, unable to supress the large yawn that escaped him. “Excuse me.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep, papito? We can talk about this tomorrow. Okay?” Uncle Rollie suggested and Elvis nodded sleepily. He got up from the table, made his way to his old room. Uncle Rollie followed quietly behind him.

The room he once shared with Philip was the same as it was when the County police came to take him away. Elvis looked around. The school pennants, family pictures, Marlins baseball poster. Their favorite bands, singers, scattered CDs and video games. Even their old computer, once confiscated by the police, had been returned.

“Thanks for taking care of Dad, Uncle Rollie.” Elvis said, now so tired that he didn’t know quite how to feel. He started to undress.

“He’s my brother. What else could I do?” Rollie replied. He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him, then changed his mind. He popped back in, like an afterthought. “By the way, I think you should sleep on this bed.” Rollie suggested, pointed to the bed nearest the door.

“I was planning on it. This is my bed.” Elvis screwed up his forehead. “Why do you say that?” Elvis asked curiously, removing his tee-shirt. He had already folded his jeans and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Well,” Rollie started. He seemed to grow uncomfortable but Elvis was far too tired to pick up on it. “Your father . . . somewhere in his mind . . . I think he still thinks Philip is alive.”

“Why do you say that?” Elvis asked, now stripped down to his underwear.

Uncle Rollie thought a moment, choosing his words carefully. He then cleared his throat and explained. “Just make sure you sleep in your own bed. Your father goes walking in his sleep from time to time and he . . . he winds up in Philip's bed. He . . . calls for Philip in his sleep. I wouldn’t want him to surprise you in your sleep the way he surprised me once.”

“Right.” Elvis replied automatically as Uncle Rollie stepped out of the room. Elvis stretched and yawned largely, then lay back in bed. He closed his eyes and fell asleep long before his head ever even touched the pillow.