Put Yourself In My Hands: Reservoir Dogs Fic
We’re around the table in the diner. Pink and Brown seem to have developed quite a rapport. They’re going on like Siskle and Ebert about every fucking thing they’ve read, watched, heard, eaten, fucked or thought of fucking with Blue and Blonde as their audience. Joe’s in his own world, and of course Eddie right there with him. Orange is sitting next to me, hunkered down listening, watching everybody and I’m watching Orange.
He looks older in a suit. His slicked back hair looks darker then when it’s just loose, falling in his eyes. How many times have I seen him and I still can’t figure out if his hair is blonde or red or brown. There’s a lot I can’t quite figure out about this kid, like why I give a fuck. He’s strictly small time, a two-bit punk who probably shouldn’t be on this job. Except that I wanted him on it.
The other night at the bar, he’s telling this story about walking into a men’s room full of cops with a bag of weed and I’m thinking this guy’s a nervous wreck. This has got to be the jitteriness pothead I’m ever seen. But I laughed like I bought every word of it, cajoled Joe past his doubts, made sure he was accepted.
Why?
Because I want him, I can’t seem to keep my hands off him.
I’ve been attracted to guys before, I’ve fucked around with other men. Twelve years ago, after my second wife Gloria took the kids and disappeared I went through a pretty rough patch. Sometime during that ten month blur of booze and coke I decided that it didn’t matter if there was a man or a woman in my bed as long as I wasn’t alone.
Of course there’s more to it then that. Right from the start, Orange got under my skin. He’s got these eyes, these wide innocent blue eyes that seem to take everything in. He always seems a little dazed, a little frightened like a bunny rabbit that’s heart is about to stop. It makes me want to look out for him, take care of him. Then there’s something else, something guarded, hidden, closed off. I want to know what it is; I want him to open up to me. I want to peel you Orange; I want to get to the heart of you.
Brown and Pink aren’t helping matters. With all the trivial shit they’ve got in their heads they’ve decided to expound on their theories of about how far Al Pacino’s character, some kind of undercover cop pretending to be gay to catch a serial killer, went in this 70's flick Cruising.
“He was totally getting fucked.” Brown says. “They didn’t need to show it. It was obvious.”
“I’m from New York.” Pink argues. “And no New York cop takes it up the ass, no way. Not for anything. ”
“The whole point of the movie is that he forgets who he is, he stops being that cop. He becomes this other guy.”
Orange isn’t really eating, and he looks a little green. Under the table, his foot twitches relentlessly. I put my hand on his knee.
“Take it easy.” I tell him, low so that none of the other guys will hear. He jumps to his feet.
“I’ve gotta get some air.” He says and takes off. Brown and Pink never miss a beat in their simultaneous monologues. After a few minutes I get up and follow Orange. He’s just outside the door, his back to me muttering something to himself.
“How you doing kid? Nerves getting to you?” I ask taking his arm. He actually flinches at my touch, jerks away. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me, White. Are you all right?” He sort of wraps his arms around himself, staying back, staying out of reach.
“Keep your hands off me,” he snaps. “Don’t fucking touch me.” There’s a shrill edge to his voice, he’s put on his shades so I can’t see his eyes. I don’t know what’s going on.
“Take it easy kid,” I say.
“I’m not a kid. I’m not your motherfucking kid.”
“You got a problem with me all of a sudden?” I ask. “Did one of those assholes in there say something to you?” He laughs, sounding just sort of hysterical.
“Yeah you said something,” still laughing, backing away and laughing at me. “You said I should cut people’s fingers off. Yesterday, you said if a manager gives me any shit cut off his pinkie finger.” I grab his hand around the fingers, get right in his face.
“You afraid of me then,” I demand. “You think I’m gonna cut off your fingers?”
“You cut off people’s fingers, you bash in their noses, you kill people and you don’t have a problem with that. That’s the problem I have with you.”
“Look, I can’t deny any of that. I have hurt people, bad. And I’ve killed people. I’m a liar and a thief and a general all around rat bastard. I’m not going to tell you that’s not me…”
“Then be an asshole,” he snarls at me. “Don’t do horrible things then pretend to be a decent guy. Just be a motherfucking asshole and stop confusing me.” He’s trying to jerk his hand loose, I won’t let go. I can’t let him go, not like this. He wheels around, throwing me off balance. We slam against the diner wall, against each other and suddenly he’s kissing me. One long, hard, awkward gulping kiss then he pushes me away.
“You’re fucking everything up Larry.” He gasps. “You’re making me fuck everything up.” I take off his sunglasses drop them to the sidewalk, and then I kiss him properly. Slow and deep my tongue sliding around his tasting all the anger and confusion, fear and need he’s been trying to swallow.
When we separate I realize I’m still gripping his fingers, the tips of them are turning purple. I start to release them but he says, “Don’t, not yet.” Then he says “let’s get the fuck out of here Larry.” Did I tell him my name? I don’t remember telling him my name.
“What about the job?” I ask.
"Fuck Cabot, fuck the job, I can’t do it. I’m pussying out. Let’s just walk away from here right now, okay.” He’s pleading with me but I can’t do what he’s asking. I’m not leaving Joe in the lurch because I’ve fallen for some mentally unstable kid twenty years younger then me.
“Orange, sweetheart, we’re doing this job. I owe Joe too much. I really fucked up my life a couple years back. Joe was there for me when nobody else would give me a chance. I’m not going to screw him over.”
He looks like he’s about to say something but I don’t let him.
“Look,” I tell him, “you’re not thinking straight. You told me so yourself, you’re confused, you’re fucking strung out on nerves, you’re overwhelmed. Whatever you’re going through, what just happened between us, whatever you’ve got to say to me, you need to put it away. We’ll deal with it later. Right now we’re going to go back in that diner and listen to Pink and Brown’s bullshit. Then we’re going to do this job exactly like we planned. Don’t think, just do what you’re supposed to do and everything is going to be okay.” He screws his eyes shut, rubs a palm against his forehead. I squeeze his hand in mine. “Stop making yourself crazy, don’t argue with yourself kid. Keep things simple. What are you going to do? Tell me what you’re going to do.”
“Put it away,” he says flatly. “Don’t think. Follow the plan.”
“That’s right. Everything is going to be okay. I want you to put yourself in my hands. I’ll take care of you, I promise. Do you believe me?”
“I believe you.” I release his fingers; they’re streaked purple red and white where I held them. I pick up his glasses, fold down the bows, and put them in the pocket of his suit. Smooth his hair back from where it’s fallen into his eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder and lead him back inside. We take our seats at the table. Brown and Pink, having exhausted the Al Pacino question have moved on to Madonna.
“The first album was a treasure,” Pink is saying. “A true classic of dance pop. Like A Virgin was a piece of cheap flash.”
"You are so wrong, you are so an asshole for saying that. Like a Virgin is a masterpiece,” Brown retorted. “It contains every nuance of the feminine experience. Look at the title track…”