up. A couple steps in front of my car, forcing me to throw on the brake. It’s Laurel and Hardy, a pair of clowns, parodies of masculinity in tight leather jackets and faux motorcycle caps, trailing cigar ashes as they wobble in their lace-up combat boots, as unsteady as two drag queens in stilettos.
“Good thing you’re cute, baby,” the taller one giggles, blowing me a kiss.
This is not what I want.
They disgust me, these preening mannequins, mocking everything I believe in. I made a mistake. I should have left with Little Gloria. I should give my old life another chance, if not with Alice, then with someone different, a new start, a fresh beginning. I don’t belong here…
…but a parking spot miraculously clears and I’m standing at the door of the club, looking for a member to approach to sign me in as his guest.
There he is. The boy I’ve waited for my whole life. The boy I dreamed of being. Broad shoulders, open and friendly face, floppy hair, a wrestler, an Eagle Scout. He’s Clark Kent, Wally Cleaver, and David Nelson all rolled into one.
“Sure,” he says. “No problem. What’s your name, in case they ask at the door?”
“Andy.”
“Great. I’m Sam.”
Sam. It’s perfect. I’m gonna buy him a drink when we get inside. I’m gonna fight the urge to light up a smoke. I’ll ask him to dance. Better yet, he’ll ask me. We’ll dance until they turn up the lights, then we’ll end up in bed, fucking until the sun comes up, unable to get enough of each other. I’ll even bottom if he wants. And I’ll cancel my flight tomorrow so we can spend the entire day together, watching the game. Knoxville and Charlotte aren’t that far. We can see each other every weekend. I can move.
A young fellow, lanky and good-looking, jogs toward us.
“Shit, dude, I had to park almost a mile away.”
“Andy, this is Jason, my boyfriend.”
“Hi,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Jason, you sure you wanna do this?” my Sam asks. “It’s getting really late and my parents are expecting us to tailgate with them tomorrow. I should just sign Andy in and we ought to go home.”
But I’m already halfway to my car. I can’t get away from them fast enough. I hate them, everything about them, if only for one brief and fleeting moment. I don’t want to be a bitter old son of a bitch, steeped in envy. I’m glad they’re happy. I really am. It’s not their fault that I’ll never know how it feels to tell the boy I’ve been waiting for my entire life to step up, shake a leg, get a move on, because my old man is checking his watch as he flips the dogs and burgers, telling everyone the party can’t start until we arrive.
Randy T and the Long Red Snake
“D idn’t you tell me once you were admitted to the University of Chicago?”
My counselor can be a bit unpredictable. I’ve thrown him a bone, sharing my little Tennessee adventure, expecting we’ll spend our mandatory hour chewing on my rather promising attempts at insight. But instead, the motherfucker tosses me a curveball, a complete non sequitur.
“Yeah, so what? Don’t you want to talk about my huge breakthrough on the night of the Volunteers pep rally?”
“I’m just curious. I mean, Davidson’s a good school, but what made you give up such an amazing opportunity?”
“You’re a real fucking snob, you know that?”
“I suppose it sounds like I am. But what I’m actually thinking is that it doesn’t seem likely you’d be sitting here today if you’d made different choices.”
“What makes you think I had a choice?”
“Everything’s a choice.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t always feel that way.”
The old man put me to work the summer before I was to leave for the University of Chicago. He’d done all right for himself, a big dago who came south with only his tool bag and the certification by Pennco Tech, courtesy of the G.I. Bill, of his proficiency in resolving the mysteries of the brave new world of HVAC. He took a
“Good thing you’re cute, baby,” the taller one giggles, blowing me a kiss.
This is not what I want.
They disgust me, these preening mannequins, mocking everything I believe in. I made a mistake. I should have left with Little Gloria. I should give my old life another chance, if not with Alice, then with someone different, a new start, a fresh beginning. I don’t belong here…
…but a parking spot miraculously clears and I’m standing at the door of the club, looking for a member to approach to sign me in as his guest.
There he is. The boy I’ve waited for my whole life. The boy I dreamed of being. Broad shoulders, open and friendly face, floppy hair, a wrestler, an Eagle Scout. He’s Clark Kent, Wally Cleaver, and David Nelson all rolled into one.
“Sure,” he says. “No problem. What’s your name, in case they ask at the door?”
“Andy.”
“Great. I’m Sam.”
Sam. It’s perfect. I’m gonna buy him a drink when we get inside. I’m gonna fight the urge to light up a smoke. I’ll ask him to dance. Better yet, he’ll ask me. We’ll dance until they turn up the lights, then we’ll end up in bed, fucking until the sun comes up, unable to get enough of each other. I’ll even bottom if he wants. And I’ll cancel my flight tomorrow so we can spend the entire day together, watching the game. Knoxville and Charlotte aren’t that far. We can see each other every weekend. I can move.
A young fellow, lanky and good-looking, jogs toward us.
“Shit, dude, I had to park almost a mile away.”
“Andy, this is Jason, my boyfriend.”
“Hi,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Jason, you sure you wanna do this?” my Sam asks. “It’s getting really late and my parents are expecting us to tailgate with them tomorrow. I should just sign Andy in and we ought to go home.”
But I’m already halfway to my car. I can’t get away from them fast enough. I hate them, everything about them, if only for one brief and fleeting moment. I don’t want to be a bitter old son of a bitch, steeped in envy. I’m glad they’re happy. I really am. It’s not their fault that I’ll never know how it feels to tell the boy I’ve been waiting for my entire life to step up, shake a leg, get a move on, because my old man is checking his watch as he flips the dogs and burgers, telling everyone the party can’t start until we arrive.
Randy T and the Long Red Snake
“D idn’t you tell me once you were admitted to the University of Chicago?”
My counselor can be a bit unpredictable. I’ve thrown him a bone, sharing my little Tennessee adventure, expecting we’ll spend our mandatory hour chewing on my rather promising attempts at insight. But instead, the motherfucker tosses me a curveball, a complete non sequitur.
“Yeah, so what? Don’t you want to talk about my huge breakthrough on the night of the Volunteers pep rally?”
“I’m just curious. I mean, Davidson’s a good school, but what made you give up such an amazing opportunity?”
“You’re a real fucking snob, you know that?”
“I suppose it sounds like I am. But what I’m actually thinking is that it doesn’t seem likely you’d be sitting here today if you’d made different choices.”
“What makes you think I had a choice?”
“Everything’s a choice.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t always feel that way.”
The old man put me to work the summer before I was to leave for the University of Chicago. He’d done all right for himself, a big dago who came south with only his tool bag and the certification by Pennco Tech, courtesy of the G.I. Bill, of his proficiency in resolving the mysteries of the brave new world of HVAC. He took a
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