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Authors: David Gates
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and whines that it
isn’t fair
to have to choose. Over the long haul, living at this level of detail—Hegelian agonies over every fucking choice of food or garment or activity—would wear down Mother Teresa. It almost makes him feel some belated sympathy for the old man.
Heading south to pick up the Mass Pike, Billy explains that when he was a kid, the Pilgrim hats on the Mass Pike signsused to have Indian arrows sticking through them. “Cool,” Deke says. But it’s only good for a second’s interest. The fact is, the arrows aren’t there. They play I Spy, then the game where you have to spot the letters of the alphabet in order on signs and license plates; Billy lets Deke win, averting his eyes from the
X
on an exit sign lest the kid throw another shit fit. But eventually the big breakfast, Biber’s
Mystery Sonatas
and warm sunshine in his face put Deke back to sleep, and Billy’s free to think.
But all he can think about is the next time they’ll make this drive, a month from now maybe. One last HoJo’s breakfast, one last Deke-and-Billy expedition. Billy will hang with them in Boston for a while, they’ll all do something together—the Aquarium, a movie, an early dinner—and at some point he’ll ease out of the picture. And after that? A gay man, about to turn thirty-three, alone in a suburb of Albany. In his parents’ house. In his parents’ bed. What you do about
that,
of course, is you find somebody quick. (Dennis, the little prick, never called back.) There’s a couple of possibles. Older guy, status unknown, who works a couple of cubicles down. Chatty pony-tailed waiter in a restaurant on Lark Street—or he
was
there, before Deke came along. What you don’t do is get into porn on the Internet. You don’t get a cat. You could possibly get a dog, but not a small dog.
You could move to Boston.
He thinks he’ll try to do what he’s attempted so often: actually listen to a piece of music all the way through, move by move by move, without his attention wandering. He bumps the Biber back to Track 1.
Deke wakes up cranky and thirsty, so they stop at a service area. In the Roy Rogers Billy buys him a carton of milk, which Deke always chooses over soda. Does he drink so much milk because he has a calcium deficiency? (Due to Cassie’s neglect?) Did Billy drink this much milk as a kid? Can’t remember,though he does recall his father’s scolding him for bubbling it. He gets himself a coffee and finds them an empty table. He’s in no hurry to get to Boston, and he’s truly not looking forward to ferreting out and flushing his sister’s drugs. And no matter what she said, he imagines he’ll be doing some scrub-a-dub-dub. On the other hand, he can’t wait to park the nephew in front of a TV. He’s spent the last month making conversation with a seven-year-old.
“You know who Roy Rogers was?” he hears himself say.
Deke shakes his head. Bracing for more ancient history.
“He was the King of the Cowboys.”
“Cool,” Deke says, though the epithet must communicate even less to him than it does to Billy.
“His real name was Leonard Slye,” Billy says.
Deke’s making a snake by twisting up his straw wrapper. He touches a drop of milk from the end of his straw to the paper and it begins to writhe.
We don’t do that,
Billy should say—except he taught him this trick. He could tell the story of Laocoön and his sons, except all he really knows is the image of the naked man and naked boys, struggling with the serpent. The hydra, whatever. When Billy was little, he found the picture arousing—he spent lots of time looking at Greek and Roman statuary in the encyclopedia—but he hopes Deke might be spared. Basically, it’s a fucked way to live. No pun intended. Though he also hopes the Aphrodite of Cyrene and whatnot won’t do it for Deke either. Imagine a lifetime of lusting after the likes of Pamela Anderson. Wouldn’t everybody of every persuasion be less unhappy if they all simply
isn’t fair
to have to choose. Over the long haul, living at this level of detail—Hegelian agonies over every fucking choice of food or garment or activity—would wear down Mother Teresa. It almost makes him feel some belated sympathy for the old man.
Heading south to pick up the Mass Pike, Billy explains that when he was a kid, the Pilgrim hats on the Mass Pike signsused to have Indian arrows sticking through them. “Cool,” Deke says. But it’s only good for a second’s interest. The fact is, the arrows aren’t there. They play I Spy, then the game where you have to spot the letters of the alphabet in order on signs and license plates; Billy lets Deke win, averting his eyes from the
X
on an exit sign lest the kid throw another shit fit. But eventually the big breakfast, Biber’s
Mystery Sonatas
and warm sunshine in his face put Deke back to sleep, and Billy’s free to think.
But all he can think about is the next time they’ll make this drive, a month from now maybe. One last HoJo’s breakfast, one last Deke-and-Billy expedition. Billy will hang with them in Boston for a while, they’ll all do something together—the Aquarium, a movie, an early dinner—and at some point he’ll ease out of the picture. And after that? A gay man, about to turn thirty-three, alone in a suburb of Albany. In his parents’ house. In his parents’ bed. What you do about
that,
of course, is you find somebody quick. (Dennis, the little prick, never called back.) There’s a couple of possibles. Older guy, status unknown, who works a couple of cubicles down. Chatty pony-tailed waiter in a restaurant on Lark Street—or he
was
there, before Deke came along. What you don’t do is get into porn on the Internet. You don’t get a cat. You could possibly get a dog, but not a small dog.
You could move to Boston.
He thinks he’ll try to do what he’s attempted so often: actually listen to a piece of music all the way through, move by move by move, without his attention wandering. He bumps the Biber back to Track 1.
Deke wakes up cranky and thirsty, so they stop at a service area. In the Roy Rogers Billy buys him a carton of milk, which Deke always chooses over soda. Does he drink so much milk because he has a calcium deficiency? (Due to Cassie’s neglect?) Did Billy drink this much milk as a kid? Can’t remember,though he does recall his father’s scolding him for bubbling it. He gets himself a coffee and finds them an empty table. He’s in no hurry to get to Boston, and he’s truly not looking forward to ferreting out and flushing his sister’s drugs. And no matter what she said, he imagines he’ll be doing some scrub-a-dub-dub. On the other hand, he can’t wait to park the nephew in front of a TV. He’s spent the last month making conversation with a seven-year-old.
“You know who Roy Rogers was?” he hears himself say.
Deke shakes his head. Bracing for more ancient history.
“He was the King of the Cowboys.”
“Cool,” Deke says, though the epithet must communicate even less to him than it does to Billy.
“His real name was Leonard Slye,” Billy says.
Deke’s making a snake by twisting up his straw wrapper. He touches a drop of milk from the end of his straw to the paper and it begins to writhe.
We don’t do that,
Billy should say—except he taught him this trick. He could tell the story of Laocoön and his sons, except all he really knows is the image of the naked man and naked boys, struggling with the serpent. The hydra, whatever. When Billy was little, he found the picture arousing—he spent lots of time looking at Greek and Roman statuary in the encyclopedia—but he hopes Deke might be spared. Basically, it’s a fucked way to live. No pun intended. Though he also hopes the Aphrodite of Cyrene and whatnot won’t do it for Deke either. Imagine a lifetime of lusting after the likes of Pamela Anderson. Wouldn’t everybody of every persuasion be less unhappy if they all simply
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