“So this job must pay pretty well,” I say, trying not to sound facetious.

“You bet!” he swears. He’s says he’s working for a major recording label. On the creative side.

“Artist and repertory?” I ask, skeptical.

“Wow!” he shouts, slapping the bar with the palm of his hand. “Cool. How did you know that?” he asks, impressed.

“Come on,” I say, teasing him, urging him to come clean. I’m hard-pressed to accept that any major label would entrust the nurturing of its precious investments, its stable of artists, to a baby-faced kid in warm-up pants and a baseball cap.

“Okay. Okay. You got me,” he says. “I’m a college rep.”

Douglas swears Columbia Records is paying him a living wage and a car allowance and an expense account to hit every tiny club on every campus across Tennessee and the Carolinas. He says it’s his job to learn the names of every new band as they emerge from suburban basements and garages, to schmooze local radio marketers and program directors, to hit frat parties with live music, to collect “alternative” weekly presses and clip every review of a Columbia record, to make the scene, listen to the buzz, to funnel leads to the real A &R people desperate to sign the Next Big Thing.

Sounds plausible enough. Only one way for me to be sure.

“So how much do they pay you for all that?” I ask.

The figure is too high, confirming my suspicions. The label could offer peanuts, or no pay at all, and still turn away hundreds of kids for a job like this, if it exists at all. Maybe he knows a connection or two at the label from his touring days and maybe, at best, Columbia Records picks up an occasional bar tab and reimburses him for show tickets. I’m pretty sure those bills on the bar are going to have to last him a while.

Yeah, it’s a great job, he says, not so enthusiastic now, but not throwing in the towel either. He’s looking for a place to live. He thinks he’ll be able to cover a thou a month, maybe twelve hundred. Maybe I know a place? He’s going to lease a car. Something with a little muscle. A Mustang. Red.

Elvis has returned to the building. The queen on stage is singing “Suspicious Minds.” Thanks for the warning, buddy, but I’ll have none of that tonight. I like the boy, appreciate his fumbling, guileless attempt to impress me. The fibs, the little white lies, they’re harmless, easy to swallow, warm honey to soothe my scratchy throat. It feels good to have someone care about what I think, to talk to someone who likes me.

“So Columbia must think there’s a market out there for fat fruits who look like Elvis the day after he bit the bullet?” I ask, sitting back down and dropping a twenty on the bar.

“Huh?” he asks, confused.

“You said you’re working now,” I say, pointing at the stage. “Guess you’re here to check out the talent.”

He bursts out laughing. I order another round and offer him a Camel filter.

“Naw, I came with a friend.”

“So where’s your friend?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Ain’t seen him for hours.”

“So you’re stranded?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t have a car.

“Nope. I’ll ask them to call me a cab.”

There’s two sorry Georges left on the bar.

I ask where he’s staying. He tells me the name of a cheap budget chain motel famous for its coin televisions and scruffy sheets and tiny soaps that cause skin rash.

“Only temporary,” he assures me.

Last call for alcohol.

Where did this evening go? What time did I get here? Am I drunk? Can I drive? Well, one more won’t make a difference. I’ll slow down. Another shot and a beer for Douglas; just a beer for me.

He’s evasive when I try to nail down his age. I try some simple arithmetic. Garcia’s been dead how long? Douglas was with the band a year. He must have been a high school kid when he took off on the road. He asks if he can give me a kiss. Sure, I say, laughing. He leans forward and gives me an awkward, affectionate buss on the lips, a peck without erotic undertones, like the kisses my oldest nephew used to give me before he turned into a self-conscious adolescent.

The bar’s closed. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, the bartender shouts to the stragglers. I excuse myself for a last piss. Douglas is gone when I return. Fucking little hustler probably found a better john. Naw, I think, choosing to be benign. The kid was working, always working. Must have got called in. Probably has a delivery to make. It’s a few steps down from his heyday in pharmaceuticals on the road with the Dead, but, what the hell, it’s a living. I step out into the heat and see him pacing the empty parking lot, cell phone at his ear, a duffel bag in the other hand.

“Who are you talking to at this hour of the night?” I ask.

He looks up, startled, frightened at first, then relieved, happy, when he sees it’s only me.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, letting himself breathe.

“Who are you calling?”

I see the wheels turning as he searches for a plausible answer, one credible enough to not prompt another question.

“The program director at the radio station. She left me a message. I need to get back to her.”

“It’s late.”

“She’s open all night,” he says.

“Always working too?” I ask, not too sarcastically.

“Yeah, right. Uh, she found an apartment for me. I have to get back to her.”

The cell phone rings. He hits the answer pad, then, having a change of heart, smacks the OFF button. He looks up at me, trying hard not to cry.

“Can I come with you?” he asks.

This boy is as alone as I am.

I can’t leave him here. He insists we put the duffel bag in the trunk. In case we’re stopped, he says. I wonder what the contents of the bag are worth. This is fucking crazy, I tell myself. But I want him to be safe. I want him to be with me. I want to leave quickly. Somewhere in the city, an engine is turning over, a determined foot is flooring the accelerator, a cigarette’s being lit in anger, Douglas ’s number is being punched into a cell phone.

I reach for the ignition and he attacks, knocking my head against the window. I panic, certain I’m being robbed. But what Douglas wants isn’t money. He bears down, smashing his mouth into mine, his teeth clipping my tongue, drawing blood, a kiss too furious and aggressive to be mistaken for affection.

“Come on,” he says, pulling at my arm as he crawls over the seat. “Come on. Hurry.”

Twisted and contorted in this jack-in-a-box backseat, he manages to wriggle out of his crackling running suit and kick off his sneakers. The car stinks of sweat and dirty socks. He feels like a plush toy, soft and furry. He crushes my face with his damp armpit and squeezes my head with his arm. His other hand grabs my cock through my pants. “I hope it’s big.” It’s big enough, but smaller than his fat firecracker with its thick, padded cushion of pink flesh.

“Oh yeah,” he says as he frees me from my pants. Something much fiercer than desire compels him. “Please,” he begs, actually tearing my shirt from my chest. “Fuck me. Fuck me really hard.” He’s too impatient to waste time on foreplay. He doesn’t want me to stroke his body, tease his balls, and take his enormous cock down my throat. I reach between his legs, thinking I’ll have to finger him to get him loose. But his ass yields without resistance, threatening to swallow my entire hand. He’s wet, maybe not entirely clean.

“No. No. Not like that,” he says, wiggling away. “Fuck me with that big cock.”

I tell him I can’t. I don’t have a condom and I’m certain without asking that he doesn’t either.

“I’m okay. I promise,” he pleads.

I have no reason to believe him. All things considered, I shouldn’t. But I do.

I lower my hips and push inside. It’s thrilling, feeling this alive. He grabs me by the waist, challenging me to ride him harder. He bears down, squeezing my cock. He says he can feel me shooting inside him. Don’t stop, he begs, not yet. I stay hard enough to keep pumping until he splatters a huge load on his chest. He flashes his most wicked smile as he licks his cum from his fingertips. My heart is racing and my pulse is pounding. For the first time in months, years maybe, I’ve made someone happy.