The circle of faces leered down at them, angry that their sacred celebration had been disrupted by American violence. What a mess. Cal knew from the staring faces that he and Frank had gone too far—had let their internal conflict boil over into the public space. Several bystanders looked towards the sound of the blaring whistle and waved their hands to attract the French policeman who was no doubt on his way.
"Shit!"
Cal jolted upright and picked Frank off the ground like he was a kid, and then they pushed through the circle and into the crowd leaving only scattered flower petals drifting in their wake. Beating drums and cheering crowds drowned out the urgent whistling behind them as they weaved through the throng of people until they reached the edge of the plaza and escaped the Bataille de Fleur and ran deeper into the city, Frank tugging on Cal's sleeve the entire way.
Head dizzy from alcohol and heart racing; Cal couldn't go on. He stopped and leaned against the dirty wall of some random alley before bending over and holding his knees like he was going to be sick. He gulped great breaths of air while Frank leaned against the same wall, heaving, with a poofy carnation stuck in his hair. The only sound now was Cal's pulse beating in his ears and their collective heavy breathing.
Eventually, Frank broke the silence.
"That was the gayest fight we've ever had," Frank said and when Cal glanced up, he saw a smile.
Cal couldn't help but return it.
"Not that there's," Cal huffed, "anything wrong with that." He tried to laugh but didn't have the breath for it.
Frank opened his arms in mock surrender. "Nothing at all."
Cal reached into his shirt and pulled out a crumbled bunch of flowers that were no longer recognizable. What were they doing, fighting like that—almost getting arrested? Sure, why not add another charge to his rap sheet. He and Frank were a mess, with smashed flowers in their hair and disheveled clothing. Frank was missing a button and his silvery chest hair peeked through the gap in his shirt. Just another adventure at the side of Butch Cassidy, a.k.a. Frank Martin Fumagalli.
A sudden thought popped into Cal's head like an oncoming car swerving into his lane.
"Hey—why did you choose the middle name Martin, anyway? It's a stupid name."
Frank ignored the insult and answered after a moment of consideration or hesitation, and it came in the form of a question. "No more secrets, right? Fine. Remember Martin Lawrence?"
An alley in the middle of Nice, with the police possibly on their tails: what a place to get into deep conversation, but Cal's shot knee wasn't about to let him run any further and his breath seemed to have run on without him.
"The comedian? You had to choose a middle name for government records, and of all the possible names, you chose a Black comedian from the 90's?"
"What's wrong with that?"
Cal stood to his full height, feeling better and now laughing at Frank's absurdity. "There's nothing wrong with that. It's just so fucking . . . random! You're like an onion, Frank—I peel back one layer only to encounter another eye-watering layer—"
"—It wasn't random," Frank cut in. He was vertical again, too, ready to go and obviously in much better shape. "I liked Martin Lawrence, and he was on my mind when I had to choose a name. It was after I came to visit you and Moll' for that week, back when MJ was still in diapers. Remember? We saw that movie in that crummy, little theater in town."
Cal remembered. He just couldn't believe it. Frank was a freak but could sometimes be surprisingly normal—almost mainstream—like he could turn it off and on. It was possible Frank didn't even realize he was doing it.
"You really liked that movie, huh?"
"It stuck with me," Frank admitted with a shrug.
"And you named yourself after the goofy comedian, huh? Why not the cool one? Why didn't you choose Will Smith?"
"All those years running around Heartland as teens? I was always just your goofy sidekick, Cal. You had all the friends. You introduced me to girls. You had the homebase we could return to for a hot meal and a mother's comfort. Cal, you were a fucking rock star back then and—well—I was just your weird sidekick. And I was happy for it! I was happy to be at your side instead of stuck at home with my weirdo dad and bratty little sister.
"So, back to the movie—yeah—I was Martin Lawrence. You've always been the cool one, Cal. You were Will Smith."
Fucking, Frank. Cal shook his head. How could he hate a man so much in one moment and then love him the next?
"Well?" Frank asked, his face expecting some sort of response.
"We ride together," Cal said.
"We die together," Frank finished automatically.
And then in unison: "Bad boys for life."
A fist bump turned into a hug and, this time, the bourbon on Frank's breath didn't stink so bad.
"We're really getting our movie metaphors mixed up now, aren't we, Butch?"
"All the world's a stage, Sundance," Frank said with a sweeping bow.
Cal tried to smile but the stitch in his side turned it into a grimace. "Alright, what's next?"
As if in answer, a sharp whistle sounded in the distance. The French policeman was still after them because of course they were.
Cal followed Frank out of the alley and into a bar. Tapas. Drinks. Phones were banned. Problems ignored. Another restaurant followed, and then a bar, and before long Cal was in a dark club bouncing to music he felt in his chest. Frank danced nearby with his arms up and eyes closed.
Daylight had gone.
New friends joined them, Nikolas and Dorian, and Cal couldn't remember which was which, other than one had dark shaggy hair and the other was blond. Frank greeted them like old friends. Within minutes it was clear that Nikolas and Dorian were lovers—married, it turned out—which caught Cal's attention but didn't bother him.
Times change.
Frank didn't seem to mind at all, dancing with them face to face. At a table for a break, Cal overheard the couple addressing Frank as Martin, with what Cal learned were Swiss accents.
"I told them we were married," Frank said at one point, slurring into Cal's ear.
"Why?"
Frank shushed him by pushing a finger over Cal's lips before Cal flinched away with a laugh.
"Cover," said Frank. "You never know when you'll need one."
That struck Cal as funnier than it would have been earlier in the day and he laughed it off. He slammed back a shot of something brought to the table and then gave his best victory WOO!
"You're a fucked-up individual, you know that, right?" he said to Frank with a big smile.
Frank pulled him back onto the dance floor, shouting, "I know I'm fucked up—because I'd fuck me."
He broke into a drunken mimicry of the Buffalo Bill dance from Silence of the Lambs and Cal crashed into him to get him to stop, laughing hysterically at the same time.
"You're absolutely sick," he yelled into Frank's ear, "but I love you for it."
The Swiss couple joined them and the four of them danced shoulder to shoulder with strangers who'd brought the revelry of the Carnival into the night. Cal lost himself to the rhythm and it felt amazing.
Until it wasn't.
Cal's vision was spinning, his eyes chasing the room. He stumbled off the dance floor, bouncing off other dancers towards the restroom and relief. The industrial pop music pressed into him, through the gates of his ears and into his core where it churned the alcohol into a froth behind his teeth. One hand clutched at his mouth and the other clutched at his stomach. A line of people filled the restroom hallway, but hope came with the word SORTIE glowing in green above a metal door with a push bar. Cold air and cigarette smoke greeted Cal on the other side—where his vomit hit the pavement with a splash.
Cal wiped his mouth and looked up. A familiar hooded face was looking down at his ruined shoes.