By the age of eighteen the boys tried to emulate him.
It wasn't until he'd reached the age of twenty that his mother finally asked him when he was planning to give her grandchildren.
"Is there someone special?" she’d asked.
"Only you, Ma."
"I mean a girl. You do like girls, don't you?"
"Of course I like girls. I just haven't found that one yet."
"You worry me sometimes, Cary. Most kids have already been in love. When I was in high school, I thought I'd found the love of my life several times by the time I'd graduated, the emotions so powerful I thought my heart would break in two."
"I'm not most kids, Ma."
"People think of love as a color, you know? Like the valentines you give me every year. The cards are red, because the heart is red. Red is the color of love. Maybe you can't feel it, because you can't see it."
"Blood looks black to me."
"My black and white boy with the black heart, color is only perception, you know? Whether you know it or not, that black heart of yours is as red as red can be."
"I wonder if blind people love."
"I'm sure they do."
"Then why can't I?"
"I don't know. I'm sure it's only a matter of time."
"I wish I could make you happy."
"You make me happier than any mother has the right to be. I just worry is all."
Lung cancer claimed her three years later, leaving him alone in the universe.
For the next fifteen years he'd lived in one apartment or another, working as a waiter, doorman and busboy. Unlike most people in San Pedro, he didn't have the desire to work as a longshoreman. It wasn't that he didn't mind a day's work, it was just that his persona of elegance couldn't make the transition. After all, longshoremen don't wear wingtips.
***
The coming of night promised the opening of Momma Desta's which was only open during the hours of darkness. No advertising, no sign, only word of mouth allowed for new clientele–or those lucky enough to stagger through the back-alley warren to find the single story windowless stucco amidst its equally indistinct neighbors.
Tudose told Cary Grant of the place a month ago. "You wanna be like me? I gots just the place for you," he said in his thick Romanian accent.
Now, after a thirty-seven block trek down Pacific Avenue, he slipped inside and headed towards his stool at the end of the bar.
Momma Desta's didn't look special. Decrepit was a word that came to mind. Little had been done to decorate the paint-peeling walls. Here and there stained streaks cascaded through cracks in the ceiling and down the walls like frozen sluices from the broken tiled roof. Half-a-dozen tables covered with checkered tablecloths hugged one wall, while a long wooden bar made from a shuffleboard court of a long dead cruise ship hugged the other.
The space behind the counter was off-limits to all but Momma Desta herself and no one dared trespass. At least 300 pounds, she was anything but obese. Taller than six feet, the weight was distributed evenly upon her wide-shouldered Jamaican frame. An afro grew unfettered and obstinate. She used tinsel-like thread to capture and subdue it.
Cary slid into place.
Momma Desta nodded her welcome and pulled a cordial glass from behind the counter and placed it in front of him. He licked his lips and pushed an errant strand of hair away from his face. Closing his eyes, he prayed. If only this time it would last. If only this time it would last forever.
When he opened them again, his cordial was filled with a shimmering gray liquid. With a trembling hand, he brought the glass to his lips. Eager for the transformation, he swallowed the thick alcohol in a single gulp.
He stared at a bottle on the counter that stood twice as tall as a normal bottle. It had a fluted neck curved like a swan's. As he watched, the gray contents shifted to an almost neon red liquid bending and transmuting the light. An oval label displayed Portuguese writing surrounding a wickedly-grinning, red devil dressed in a Victorian-era suit complete with top hat and cane. Below the devil in letters that seemed to swim across the surface of the bottle were the words Sorrow Da Cisne – The Swan's Sorrow.
"My boy be wanting some more now?" asked Momma Desta, chuckling in a deep accented voice.
Her Caribbean dress was a montage of browns, oranges, yellows and reds. A