Eating the Moon Read online

  Eating the Moon

  By Mark David Campbell

  During his twice-weekly sessions, Guy, a sixty-seven-year-old anthropologist, tells Richard, his thirty-two-year-old psychiatrist, a fantastic tale about a society where almost everyone is homosexual and sex is considered the most basic form of communication.

  As a young man, on a cargo ship that sinks in the Bermuda Triangle, Guy is saved by the first mate, Luca, and they wash up on the shore of an uncharted tropical island. There, Guy must undergo a brutal initiation ritual, endure a crazed shaman, and swim across shark-infested waters in order to win the love of a local man. Meanwhile, Luca, who cannot accept his sexuality, is obsessed with being rescued and soon degenerates into drug dependency. Serious trouble ensues when Luca discovers that the locals have a large stash of gold, and he devises a plan to steal it. When Luca’s scheme falls apart, Guy must choose between remaining on the island with the man he loves or saving Luca’s life.

  Could there really be such a society, or does it only exist within the fantasy of a lonely old gay man?

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: In Take

  Chapter 2: The Crescent Moon

  Chapter 3: Waning of the Crescent Moon

  Chapter 4: Welcome to the Village

  Chapter 5: Coming Out

  Chapter 6: Introductions

  Chapter 7: Fitting In

  Chapter 8: Where is this Place?

  Chapter 9: The Birds and the Bees

  Chapter 10: Luca Returns

  Chapter 11: The Juice Market

  Chapter 12: Pico’s World

  Chapter 13: New Babies

  Chapter 14: Short Penis

  Chapter 15: Boyhood Forever

  Chapter 16: Fugi Birds

  Chapter 17: All for Nando

  Chapter 18: Tukuman

  Chapter 19: Rite of Passage

  Chapter 20: Back to Tukuman

  Chapter 21: Molap’s Finding

  Chapter 22: Babo Ceremony

  Chapter 23: Luca’s Arrangement

  Chapter 24: Baby Leo

  Chapter 25: Time Runs Out

  Chapter 26: The Story Ends

  Chapter 27: The Letter

  Epilogue

  References

  About the Author

  By Mark David Campbell

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  Dedicated to my husband. You are my island.

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU to Nancy Feyen, Phil Haddock, Robert Morley, Andrea Elizabeth Smith, Madeleine Johnson, and Eleonor Shannon, the members of the Milan English Language Writers Group, for the encouragement, criticism, and guidance they gave me during the very long process of writing this manuscript. Also thank you to my other friends, Howard Leviene, Raymond Doyle, Yanne Harrington Salomonsen, and Amanda Davis, who read and commented on various versions of the manuscript. Most of all, thank you to my husband, Piero Salvioni, who has always given me his love and support. Finally, I would like to thank my editor, Nicole Dowd, and all the fine folk at Dreamspinner Press.

  Author’s Note

  ALL CHARACTERS, events, and places in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  “THE USUAL, Brad,” Guy called out as he walked up to the front bar.

  “I was wondering if you’d be in tonight.” Brad scooped up a glassful of ice, then swung around. His trapezoid muscles flexed beneath his camouflage print undershirt as he reached up and took a bottle of Canadian Club Whisky from the shelf. He turned back, and with an exaggerated motion, poured a double into the glass.

  “Sleep well?” Guy said casually.

  “Like a baby.” Brad winked, leaned forward, and placed the glass on a cardboard coaster in front of Guy.

  Guy sniffed. “I see you found my cologne.” He picked up the glass and threw back a quick gulp.

  “Yeah.” Brad smiled. “But it smells better on me than it does on you.” His brown eyes sparkled as he looked directly into Guy’s.

  “Can’t argue with that.” Guy reached up and gently patted Brad on the cheek. “Just don’t go making yourself too comfortable in my cave.”

  Brad pulled back. “Guy, has anyone ever told you what a miserable old bastard you are?”

  Guy chuckled. “So often that I’m starting to answer to it.”

  Brad shook his head. “You never let anyone in, do you?” He went to serve an elderly man who was perched on a stool at the corner. The elderly man watched intently as Brad grabbed a moist beer bottle by the neck, popped off the cap, and plunked it down in front of him.

  “Keep the change.” He was almost salivating as he handed Brad a ten.

  Sailors was like any number of pubs in downtown Toronto—turn-of-the-century sandblasted red-brick exterior, oak-and-brass-accented interior. It was Thursday, and those getting a jump on the weekend would be out—less choice, better chance of scoring. Right now it was too late for the after-work rush and too early for the drag show. The DJ hadn’t even set up yet. It was mostly the old boys, like Guy, looking to stake out a barstool before the younger crowd came clambering in. Guy took a swig of his whisky. It was the summer solstice, and it didn’t really matter if nobody else was celebrating. As soon as the booze and E kicked in, he would party on his own.

  He went to the far end of the bar and climbed onto his favorite stool, swiveled it sideways, and leaned back against the exposed brick wall. From his vantage point, he had all the strategic zones in the main room within his scope: the back bar, the dance floor and stage next to it, even the washroom and the entrance to the dark room in the farthest corner to the right. No one could come or go; nothing of importance could happen without him observing. A Madonna remix droned on in the background, but the front bar was far enough away from the main room that you could still carry on a conversation. Not that Guy wanted to converse, but he liked to listen in on what other people had to say, especially when they didn’t realize he was eavesdropping.

  Guy looked toward a thin young man perched on a barstool facing the door—his spidery legs crossed, left elbow braced on the bar with one knuckle delicately pressed against his cheekbone, a Manhattan grasped in his right hand. He reminded Guy of someone he had known long ago and hadn’t particularly liked. But that was a world away from here.

  The young man turned suddenly and shot a sneer at Guy, as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding, old-timer.”

  Guy smiled and shrugged. Back on the island, that similar-looking man had almost killed someone just to get noticed.

  A cool blast of air blew in as another young man pushed open the fake stained glass panel door. Guy watched him as he stood there and tried to smooth his T-shirt over a little bulge of fat that rode up along the waistband of his underwear.

  The thin man at the bar rolled his head toward the door with a look of practiced tedium. “Don’t just stand there like a debutant.” His high-pitched voice rose well above the low drone of the techno beat. “Close the bloody door, darling.”

  The chubby young man smiled nervously, let the door swing closed, and walked up to the thin man. “Hi,” he chirped. “I was a little worried you might stand me up again.”

  “Well you know how busy my schedule is.” He placed his glass on the bar and made a zigzag motion with his forefinger in front of the chubby man’s chest. “New Armani tee?”

  “Yes, I got it for 10 percent off.” He beamed.

  “Love the clearance table.” The thin man reached out a
nd lightly whisked the chubby man’s sleeve, as if to remove grime acquired from the touch of bargain shoppers.

  The chubby man’s smile withered. “Hey, I thought this was supposed to be the first day of summer. I’m freezing my tits off.” He hugged himself and shivered. “How do they know when it’s summer anyways?”

  “It’s astrology, you know, like star signs.”

  Guy shook his head and took another drink of his whisky.

  “By the way, I read your horoscope on the Internet today,” the thin man announced loudly. “It said, ‘crossing paths with a mysterious stranger could lead to a defining moment in your life.’” He turned toward Brad. “Another Manhattan, no cherry in mine. And one for my friend.”

  “What did yours say?” the chubby man asked eagerly.

  “Oh, the usual, love, happiness, and riches.”

  The chubby man leaned against the bar while Brad placed two glasses near them and flashed a fluorescent smile.

  “Honey, pay the man. You know I’m saving up for my trip down to P-town at the end of July, and I’m short of cash.”

  The chubby man dug in his pocket, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to Brad.

  “Keep the change, Bradley,” the thin man cooed.

  The chubby man nodded hesitantly.

  As Brad turned toward the cash register, Guy caught his eye and made a circle in the air with his finger. Brad nodded and poured another whisky.

  The chubby man watched as Brad carried the glass over to Guy. Then he leaned in close and whispered something into the thin man’s ear, who immediately swung his head around and stared at Guy.

  “Very subtle,” the chubby man puffed. “Why don’t you just call him over here?”

  “Oh, don’t pay any attention to him. That’s just Jungle Jim. He’s probably deaf anyways.” The thin man recomposed himself, combing the side of his gelled hair behind his ear with his fingertips. “He’s a friend of Brad. Otherwise I’m sure they wouldn’t let him in. Completely nuts, you know, but I hear he’s rich. Drives a Compressor.”

  “My mother drives a Compressor,” said the chubby man.

  “Your mother drives a Golf,” the thin man scolded.

  “Volkswagen, Mercedes, no big difference.”

  “Not until someone sees you in one, my dear.”

  The chubby man frowned and began chasing the cherry around the bottom of his glass, trying to stab it with his stir straw. Having no success, he reached in, grabbed it with his fingers, and popped it into his mouth. “You know, you should get some rich old boyfriend,” he said while still chewing on his cherry.

  “Me? You know how wrinkle-phobic I am,” the thin man scoffed. “But what about you? Why don’t you find a sugar daddy?”

  The chubby man giggled nervously. “I’m not really sure.”

  The thin man surveyed the room. “Take your pick. It’s like Jurassic Park in here tonight.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I wish they’d play some real dance music and chase the dinosaurs out of here.”

  Just then the DJ in the main room cranked up the music, and the low, throbbing beat drowned out the rest of the conversation. More people came in and shuffled past the front bar toward the main room. Guy slouched comfortably with one hand on the bar, holding his glass. On the far wall, under a pair of crisscrossed rower’s paddles, hung a framed photo of the Titanic. He stared at the photo for a while and thought about the sinking of his own ship, the Crescent Moon. He shivered, took a large sip of whisky, and a warm glow began to flow through him. It wasn’t quite the same glow he used to get from the grog back on the island, but it was good enough for this place. A gas bubble rose up in his chest, bringing with it the taste of his dinner. Roasted chicken—when done right it was almost as good as baked iguana. That was so long ago, but those memories kept gurgling up, and sometimes it felt as if it had only been yesterday. The flickering flame from the tea candle on the bar caught his eye, and he thought of burning torches under a starlit tropical sky. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and floated away with the images.

  He imagined himself swimming in a beautiful sea, the water crystalline and warm. In the distance, he could see a beach so white it shimmered in the sunlight. On the beach, there was a young man calling and waving to him. He was brown and beautiful and naked except for a white loincloth. Guy couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but he saw him smiling and understood he wanted him to come and play. Then another man appeared next to Guy in the water. He tried to convince the man to swim toward the beach with him, but the man told him to swim in the opposite direction. Guy didn’t know what to do, so he just bobbed up and down, treading water. Suddenly, underneath him he saw the shadow of a huge shark. Frantically, he swam toward the beach. As he looked back over his shoulder, he saw an enormous dorsal fin only a few feet behind him. He could almost feel rows of teeth ready to bite off his lower half. The man on the beach ran into the surf. He reached out, grasped his arm, and pulled him forward just as the shark lunged and—

  Someone bumped his leg, and Guy opened his eyes with a start. He was panting, and his forehead was damp. Maybe he had dozed off for a moment or two. He looked around. The place was now packed full of men, young and old, but mostly young. He spotted the thin man and his chubby friend making their way through the crowd toward the dance floor. Guy drained his glass, stood up, and followed. He wedged himself past the loners clutching their beers for courage and pressed between the little clusters speaking into each other’s ears with cupped hands.

  Guy pushed his way onto the center of the dance floor. The strobe lights spun, and the music throbbed. The beat reverberated through his chest, and he began to dance. His feet floated, and his muscles undulated with each wave as he gyrated and swayed like a snake. Naked torsos swam through flickering strips of golden torchlight all around him. His body became moist with sweat, and he too pulled off his tank top and tucked it into his waistband. This was what he’d come here for—to remember what it had felt like to be lost within the rhythm. He inhaled the scent of warm bodies mixed with jungle spices and the humid Caribbean breeze. At last he was back on the island.

  Then the peripheral darkness began to close in on him, and the music echoed as if it were coming from a tunnel. His body went rubbery, and he sank in slow motion. In the distance he heard someone yell, “Call 911! Guy’s out again.”

  And all went black.

  Chapter 1: In Take

  GUY LOOKED at the yellow laminate plaque on the concrete wall next to the door. The name Richard Bowing, MD, PhD was written in black marker on a strip of medical tape, covering the engraved name of a previous occupant. Guy glanced up toward the Exit light at the end of the corridor and yawned loudly while he reached back and scratched his ass through his hospital drawstring pants.

  The nurse escorting him pressed his baby-shaved cheek against the frosted glass panel of the door, listened, then knocked twice. He looked back at Guy with puppy eyes, reached out, and gently touched his forearm. “Don’t worry. You’ll like Dr. Bowing. He’s very nice.”

  Guy nodded. “How nice to know he’s nice.”

  A deep voice within said, “Come in.”

  The nurse opened the door and stepped in. Guy followed him like a robot.

  “Good morning, Dr. Bowing,” the nurse said. “This is Mr. Palmer, your next appointment.”

  A handsome man in his early thirties with dark hair and a strong chin was seated at a desk in the corner at a right angle to the window. “Thank you, Armando,” he said while still staring at his computer screen.

  “Take a seat over there.” Armando gestured toward a blue vinyl sofa pushed against the wall under the window. “You’re in good hands.” He turned and left.

  The room was small, with basic Canadian public medicine decor: ocher concrete walls, institutional windows, and sparse furnishings—bright, but not happy.

  Dr. Bowing looked up from his screen and smiled at Guy. “Good morning, Mr. Palmer.” His e
yes were hazel, and his teeth said he came from a good middle-class Canadian family with a dental plan. He stood up and held out his gym-callused hand across the desk. He was tall, athletic, and well put together.

  Guy looked at his outstretched hand but stood there limply. “The name’s Guy,” he said, and went over and planted himself on the sofa.

  “Okay, Guy, you can call me Richard.” He picked up a clipboard and a pen, walked over to a half-egg-shaped swivel chair facing the sofa, and sat down. The crease in his linen pants was impeccable. His socks were pure Egyptian cotton and his shoes Italian.

  “Tell me something about yourself.” Richard leaned forward toward Guy.

  Guy slid back as if he were trying to let the sofa swallow him. “I’m a sixty-seven-year-old tattooed homosexual man they found half-naked, passed out on the dance floor of a gay bar,” Guy said flatly.

  “And how are you feeling this morning?” Richard’s expression was sympathetic.

  “Like somebody put a sweater on my tongue.”

  “It’s good to see you have a sense of humor.” He grinned.

  “Yes, all us crazy folks have a great sense of humor.” Guy dug his finger into a tear in the vinyl armrest. “But you’re the brain drainer here, so I guess it’s your job to decide if I’m looney tunes or not, isn’t it?”

  “I see you know where you are and why you’re here.”

  “Toronto Metro Psych Ward, right?” Guy cupped the sides of his head and began to massage his temples slowly.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Of course I do. Do you?” Guy sneered.

  “And do you know where you live?”

  “Apartment 1502, sixty-six Isabella Street, just off Church.” Guy returned to massaging his temples.

  “What do you do, Guy?”

  “You mean besides smoking, drinking, and recreational drugs? I guess you could say I’m a semiretired professor at Toronto University. I give a few classes and do a bit of research.”