​MENTORSHIP
RECIPIENT

Mentor Commentary:
Laura Maylene Walter

​Recipient Reflection:
Steven Carey-Walton

Meat Sweats

Fiction by ​Steven Carey-Walton

​A vested waiter placed a spick of dripping meat on the edge of the table. “Beef sirloin?”

I gulped and patted my bloated belly, trying to locate my colon.  There were Tums in the medicine cabinet and thick toilet paper back home. “Please.”

The waiter sliced a chunk off. “Tongs.”

I pinched the slice of sirloin and added it to my plate, letting it sink in the leftover puddles of beef and pork blood. I cut it into smaller pieces and sucked on them. When my mouth was full of juice and spit, I flushed everything down like a toilet.

The waiter moved to the man seated across from me. “Beef sirloin?”

“Slap it on me, brotha. Slap it on me.” He ate straight off the tongs. “Keep it comin’. I ain’t driving tonight.” He reached over for the bottle of Cabernet in front of me. “Ya mind?”

“Help yourself,” I said.

“Right on.”

The man took his meat and made a sandwich, stuffing mashed potatoes and hunks of Parmesan cheese between a dinner roll. He wiped his forehead, made eye contact with me, winked, and wiped his hand on the back of the man seated next to him. “The meat sweats are coming. And they are no joke!”

I raised my glass to him in one hand, and with the other dried my forehead with a cloth napkin.

He pointed to his right. “Salad bar?”

I quickly rebuttoned my pants and followed him. Holding our plates, we pounded our fists in greeting instead of shaking hands.

“Walter,” I said.

“Walt? I’m Dre.”

Dre headed for the cheeses and cured meats. With the serving chopsticks, I grabbed sashimi cuts of tuna and salmon.

He pressed his body to mine and looked at my plate. “I don’t fuck with shellfish.”

“Me either, but I like sushi.”

We sat back down and were told to hush up. A waiter carried out a birthday cake, candles ablaze, and set it down in front of our mutual friend. Dre’s voice cracked. Composing himself, he sang the birthday song louder, as if each new note erased an old one.

The waiter clapped his hands. “Coffee?”

I ordered a cappuccino, Dre an espresso. I wrapped my hands around the warm mug and licked the froth off my drink. The server, balancing the tray on his fingertips, set an espresso cup in front of Dre.

“Bro,” Dre said. “Where’s the brown sugar.”

“One moment, sir.” The server continued down the table, dropping coffee drinks before guests.

“This is bullshit,” Dre said.

I eyed my drink suspiciously and pretended to be disgusted by what I saw.

“Espresso needs an additive,” Dre said.

“Really?”

He slapped his fingers on the table, counting. “Brown sugar. Condensed milk. Half-and-half. But—" he glared at the waiter, who brought two sugar packets. “It’s too late, bro.” He stuck his nose in the cup. “It’s stale. Needed to add the sugar within seven seconds. Shit’s gone stale, bro.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the server said.

“It’s cool, but it’s stale.” Dre pushed the saucer away and grabbed the neck of the nearest wine bottle.

 “I’m serious about my coffee, too,” I said.  “Have an espresso machine at home. Brand new. Press a button and bam—beans are ground, and I got an espresso or an Americano in seconds.”

Dre swirled his wine glass.

“It’s pretty convenient. And it tastes great.” Quality and convenience. Was I the salesperson from the home shopping channel? “It has a steamer for lattes, but I never use it—makes too much of a mess.”

“I don’t fuck with push-button espresso machines,” Dre said.



From the restaurant, we headed to a bar. Our mutual friend, the birthday boy, was blacked out, his lips glued to his girlfriend’s neck. Dre macheted his way to the front of the bar and ordered us shots of Hennessy. It was too loud to talk. I wasn’t sure if he was checking out women or sizing up the men for a fight.

“I’m gonna piss,” he said.

“Cool,” I said.

“Come with me.”

Sure, I could pee.

He shoved open the door like a sheriff in a saloon. He peeked under each stall. A man swayed over a urinal, his stream sounding different splashing against the urinal cake, the porcelain, and the tiled bathroom floor. Dre pulled me into the handicapped stall.

Oh shit. I almost laughed.

“Hey, man,” I said, “you’re a cool guy, but—"

In one motion, he reached around me and shut the door, twisting the lock. He pulled out an Altoids tin and his car keys. He popped open the tin and carefully fished out a bag of white powder.
I felt like I was at the fair, waiting to try a foreign delicacy.  He handed me the key, a mound of cocaine balanced on the tip. I accepted it as if it were a candied apple.

We passed the key and baggy back and forth.

“Should we do—"

"More.” He licked his finger and stuck it in the bag.

I followed suit, and we brushed our gums with our makeshift toothbrushes.

Dre left the stall first, and coughed, indiscreetly, to inform me that the coast was clear.

We washed our hands, and our enlarged pupils met in the mirror.

“Sooooo,” I said, “shots?”

“My man.”

Lubricated, we slithered between the bar crowd. Dre pushed me into a pack of women. I smiled. They stepped back, and I closed the space. They turned away, and I ran around to face them. We moved in unison, players in a well-rehearsed musical number.

Dre screamed, “Dance on ’em, boy. Dance on ’em.”

I locked eyes with a short, dark haired girl, a long island ice tea pressed against her bosom like a feeding baby. From the ground up, inspiration pulled at my feet. Shuffled steps. Knee bends. And then my arms. I spun. Every thought left my mind. Empty, my body was agile. The crowd gasped. The shock on their faces powered me. Overcome by my performance, the girl spilled her long island down her jeans.  The glass shattered, shards flying across the floor. The music cut out, and the bouncer hugged me. In his embrace, I felt everything inside him: his wants, his inner child, his forgotten artist, the disdain for his job, and his love for me.

Back on the street, Dre put his arm around me, his shirt’s cuff soaked through. “You wanna work out?”
I nodded. I felt loose. My belly had shrunk; my slacks flimsily clung to my hips. “What do you have in mind?

“The Cage.”



We took a taxi back to his place and entered through his garage.

“Check this out.” Dre yanked the cover off his car and caressed the beast underneath. It was a turquoise 1962 Chevy Nova.

“Wow,” I said and reached to touch the grill.

Dre snatched my wrist. “Better not. She bites.”

I followed him through a back door. He pulled a string, turning on a single swaying light bulb. He had a bench press, plates, and a few dumb bells—kilogrammage etched on the sides—scattered on the carpeted floor.

I cracked my knuckles and rotated my shoulders. “What’s your routine?” I asked. “Warm up then calisthenics? Or—"

"Chest.”

“Chest?”

“All I do is chest.”

“Chest it is.”

“You seen Fight Club?”

“Of course,” I said. “Please don’t hit me.”

The corners off his mouthed curled. “If it’s your first time in The Cage,” he tossed me a beach towel for my sweat, “you have to bench.”

He turned on the stereo mounted on a ledge. The bass of the rap penetrated the walls and my head. I scooted into position. On the ceiling, carved in the paint was the message “Don’t get ready. Stay ready.”

I cried. My chest cramped. When I exhaled, the air got caught in my throat, still sticky from the drip, and burned through my nose. Dre curled the bar off me.

“Take the weights off,” he said.

Hunched over, I took off the 35-pound plates from each side.

Dre flicked through the tracks on the CD. “Need to get jacked up.”

He grooved to the beat and mouthed the lyrics badly. He pounded his chest. “Let’s go.” He slid two 45-pound plates on each side of the bar.

“You sure about this?” I said. “Don’t you want to start with something lighter?”

He slapped himself on the chin. “Gotta shock the body.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s what Schwarzenegger does.”

He wriggled under the bar and pounded his fists against his forehead. “Let’s go.”

I moved in behind him, trying to remember where I should stand and where I should place my hands to spot him.

He looked up backwards at me, his voice soft, “Walt, you got me?”

Like the drugs earlier, the music powered me. “I fucking got you. Shock the body, boy.”

“My man.”

He took a free diver’s sized breath and lifted the weight. I squatted with the bar. It fell on his chest, and I reached to grab it.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch it.” It was a whisper and a threat.

The bar rose an inch and fell again, this time bouncing off his chest and hovering motionless for a moment. I hung my face over his. “Diiiiig.”

After our workout, Dre turned off the stereo and tossed my soiled towel in the washing machine.

“Alright,” he said. “Time for a protein load.”

We walked up the stairs and into the kitchen. He rumbled through the fridge, plastic containers crackling and jars clanking.

“I’m gonna cook for you,” Dre said.

“Great.”

“One condition,” he said. “You gotta face the wall. This is a secret recipe.”

I laughed.

“Face the wall.”

I turned my chair and focused on the autumn foliage splayed across the wallpaper.

The farts of a near-empty bottle. The twist of a pepper grinder. The slap of a hand against raw chicken.

I glanced at the chef at work. He was slathering mustard on a chicken breast. On the counter were two bottles of hot sauce, BBQ sauce, and a jar of white stuff, maybe horseradish.

His back to me, still marinating the chicken, he said, “I see you peekin’ over here. Don’t be peekin’ at my secret chicken recipe. If you see anything, I’ll slit your throat.”

The wallpaper was picturesque, I told him.
 
“How you like dat chicken?” Dre asked.

“I see why you are so protective of the recipe,” I said.

“Crispy on the outside and JUICY on the inside. Need that juice.”

We ate using paper plates and plastic forks and knives. He left the pan in the sink to soak.

“Where you wanna sleep?” Dre said.

Sleep? Sleep was the name of an elementary school classmate I hadn’t thought about in decades. He took me to his room. A California King-sized bed filled the entire room.

“Pick a side,” he said.

I hopped up on the bed.

“Not there.” He laughed. “That’s for the ladies.”

I hopped off and stepped on a plastic bag. I picked it up. It was knotted shut, slightly inflated like a dying balloon. “What is it?” I said, holding it up to the light.

“My nut bag.”

I was in possession of a bomb. Had he not learned basic Sex Ed?

“No condoms,” Dre said. “No babies and no mess.”

A gooey silvery substance oozed from a tear in the bag and fell in a glob. I threw the bag, and backed away, hands running over my body making sure I hadn’t been infected.

Dre dropped to his knees laughing. When he gathered his composure, he said, “Wanna sleep in the living room?”

He tucked a sheet between the couch cushions and fluffed my pillow. He showed me how to use the TV remote. “I’m an early bird, all right?” he said. “The party starts at dawn around here.”

“I stay ready.”

“My man.”



Giggles.

A shot of air tickled my foot. I tucked my legs under the blanket. It was still dark. Cool air entered the sanctity of my blanket. A jagged fingernail scratched against the arch of my foot. I bolted up. Curly headed dwarves fell over themselves laughing. The flashlight on my phone chased them like they were escaped fugitives. They hid behind the couch.

“Hello,” I said to the darkness.

One of the girls fell out from her hiding place. Her head bounced off the floor, and she started to cry. The taller girl ran away. I flicked on the light and kept my distance from the wounded lion cub, knowing her protective mother was near.

Dre opened the door. “Mi chula, you okay? Come here.” He cradled the crying girl. “What happened?”

She wiped the drool from her mouth and mixed it with her tears. “We were playing hide and seek, and she" —pointing at her sister—"pushed me.”

The taller girl, definitely older, now that I could see her in the light, burst in and took the witness stand, hand up in oath, imitating the family court proceedings on daytime TV. “She’s bad at hiding. She ruined the game. I don’t want to play with her anymore.”

Dre nodded and pulled her into his arms. “She’s your sister. You can lead, but you shouldn’t stray, okay?”

I helped wash them up for breakfast—bagels and cream cheese, Coco Puffs and grape juice. In the daytime, I could see how huge and empty the house was. A living room and a sitting room. Family portraits of folks with the same complexion as Dre.

The girls showed me their playroom. They treated me to tea, and I met their imaginary friends. When they resorted to their toddler talk, I got up and found Dre.

“Are you married?” I asked.

He let out a huge laugh. “Fuck no. Those two are enough women for me.”

“Sorry for asking. But are they yours?”

“Now they are. They’re my nieces.”

“Now?”

“I fixed up the car pretty good, huh?”

“What? Oh. In the garage? Yeah, it’s a beauty.”

“That’s where their parents, my brother and his wife, died.”

“I’m so sorry.” I patted his shoulder.

“Me too.” He stepped closer to me. “Got accused of sexual harassment at the funeral.”

“Oh my god. Do you—I know a lawyer.” I gave him my card. “Call me, I can—we can figure this out.”

He looked disappointed. “Walt, I’m fuckin’ with you.”

“About what?”

“Everything! Parents are on vacation. I’m house sitting or babysitting. Whatever you call it. I’m being a
good uncle. Hey, thanks for helping.”

“Of course.” I laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “You would be a pretty shitty foster father after seeing you in action last night.”

“Right.” He darted around me and opened the front door. He stood out on his stoop. “I’m gonna take the girls out in the Nova. Should get them ready.”

“Need a hand?”

“I’m good.”

“I don’t mind.”  I’d change their diapers. I’d take them to the Brazilian barbecue place for meat. “Bet those car seats are a pain to—”

"I'm good."

“Well…” I stuck out my fist. “You got my card,” I said.

“For sure, Walt. Fuck, man.” He shook his head. “Didn’t expect to bring you home last night. Later, boy.”

I waved and walked down his stairs. I hoped he would call. Not for coke or for The Cage. And not for the chicken, though it was juicy. But I wanted to know more about him. He had been an actor on-stage, a man with many masks. I put a hand to my face. Was this the real me, or a mask?

​I turned back, but Dre was gone. The porch light was still on from last night. I might have knocked on the door and asked where the nearest bus stop was or where I could catch a taxi. But he was busy, I told myself, double-knotting shoelaces and brushing out thick curly hair.

Steven Carey-Walton

Steven Carey-Walton grew up in San Francisco and studied in San Diego. He quit his college bartending gig in hopes of finding a “real” job. Instead, he found a temp agency. After months of stuffing envelopes, he took his mom’s advice and traveled to South Korea to teach English. A week later he met the woman that would become his wife. For the last five years he has been learning Korean and writing fiction. His work has appeared in GNU Journal and Likely Red Press.