Read Online With or Without You by Brian Farrey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Farrey
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absolute zero.
I know that if I keep us here, our foreheads touching and dancing to internal syncopation, there will be more brooding and reflection. “When I’m like that,” he told me once, “don’t let me go there.” So I reach over and tap the pause button on the boom box.
Then I poke him in the ribs. “So, uh, you know, not to be rude, because I’m all about the slow dancing with my topless boyfriend, but didn’t someone mention something about presents? Evan needs presents.”
Brooding Boyfriend evaporates. Erik slaps his forehead. “Presents! I forgot about the presents! Yes, we must have presents!”
He takes my hand and yanks. We exaggerate giant steps over mounds of broken pails and make contorted turns around dilapidated wagon wheels toward the back of the garage. A tall something, hidden beneath a rumpled blue tarpaulin, waits in the corner, the end of our trek. He positions me in front of the mystery object, stands to one side like a magician’s assistant, and snaps off the tarp with a flourish.
I’m facing a tall, U-shaped frame made of dark finishedoak. I’m reminded of this antique standing mirror I saw in a second-hand shop over on Monroe Street, only here the mirror is missing. The thick poles on the sides are hand-carved, with grooves that spiral down. Up and down the vertical poles, reaching out into the empty space where the mirror should be, is a series of polished steel clamps in various sizes. The poles connect near my feet to a thin horizontal base that anchors the whole contraption firmly to the ground.
Erik throws his forearm over my shoulder and leans in to me. “Now, I haven’t taken this for a spin yet—I thought I’d leave that up to you—but I’m hoping this will be less cumbersome than THE CLAW.”
And then I recognize it. I once sketched something very similar to this for him, on a napkin. I had been agonizing over how clumsy, heavy, and awkward THE CLAW is and told him about my dream to build something more versatile. That same day, we’d passed that second-hand shop on Monroe Street and I held the napkin design up to the display window, comparing it to the antique mirror, asking him to imagine the frame without the mirror. Only Erik did more than that. He made it for me. It’s beautiful and thoughtful and I don’t know how to tell him that it looks even more awkward than THE CLAW.
“And you haven’t seen the best part!” he exclaims ashe points out a series of hinges that he’s installed strategically around the frame. Like Houdini, he begins to twist and pivot the frame so it folds into itself until it’s a thick beam nearly as tall as I am. Small knobs are at the top and bottom of the beam. Erik takes a leather strap, loops each end to a knob, and slings it over his shoulder.
“Totally portable!” he proclaims, beaming. “I’ve tried the clamps on windows of all shapes and sizes and I think you’ll find it pretty flexible. It might take some getting used to—”
“It’s perfect.” I cut him off, transferring the new easel onto my own shoulder.
A cream-colored envelope dangles from my gift. I squint at him and he looks away, whistling innocently as he tosses on a T-shirt and flip-flops. I open the envelope and find another pink notecard. I read aloud:
“Go to State Street Brats.”
Erik smiles. “Well, if you insist!”
He snatches my hand and we’re out of the garage. He quickly locks up and, hand in hand, we run back to his Jeep. A second later, we’re driving back toward State Street.
“I always sucked at scavenger hunts,” I warn him.
“No worries,” he assures me. “You got da master scavenger hunter on your team.”
A team. We’re a team. Damn straight.
We park in an alley off State and make our way to thesite of our first date. Jimmy, our favorite server, greets us at the door. We get a patio table, down a couple red and white brats each, and when the bill comes, Jimmy brandishes another cream-colored envelope, this one
I know that if I keep us here, our foreheads touching and dancing to internal syncopation, there will be more brooding and reflection. “When I’m like that,” he told me once, “don’t let me go there.” So I reach over and tap the pause button on the boom box.
Then I poke him in the ribs. “So, uh, you know, not to be rude, because I’m all about the slow dancing with my topless boyfriend, but didn’t someone mention something about presents? Evan needs presents.”
Brooding Boyfriend evaporates. Erik slaps his forehead. “Presents! I forgot about the presents! Yes, we must have presents!”
He takes my hand and yanks. We exaggerate giant steps over mounds of broken pails and make contorted turns around dilapidated wagon wheels toward the back of the garage. A tall something, hidden beneath a rumpled blue tarpaulin, waits in the corner, the end of our trek. He positions me in front of the mystery object, stands to one side like a magician’s assistant, and snaps off the tarp with a flourish.
I’m facing a tall, U-shaped frame made of dark finishedoak. I’m reminded of this antique standing mirror I saw in a second-hand shop over on Monroe Street, only here the mirror is missing. The thick poles on the sides are hand-carved, with grooves that spiral down. Up and down the vertical poles, reaching out into the empty space where the mirror should be, is a series of polished steel clamps in various sizes. The poles connect near my feet to a thin horizontal base that anchors the whole contraption firmly to the ground.
Erik throws his forearm over my shoulder and leans in to me. “Now, I haven’t taken this for a spin yet—I thought I’d leave that up to you—but I’m hoping this will be less cumbersome than THE CLAW.”
And then I recognize it. I once sketched something very similar to this for him, on a napkin. I had been agonizing over how clumsy, heavy, and awkward THE CLAW is and told him about my dream to build something more versatile. That same day, we’d passed that second-hand shop on Monroe Street and I held the napkin design up to the display window, comparing it to the antique mirror, asking him to imagine the frame without the mirror. Only Erik did more than that. He made it for me. It’s beautiful and thoughtful and I don’t know how to tell him that it looks even more awkward than THE CLAW.
“And you haven’t seen the best part!” he exclaims ashe points out a series of hinges that he’s installed strategically around the frame. Like Houdini, he begins to twist and pivot the frame so it folds into itself until it’s a thick beam nearly as tall as I am. Small knobs are at the top and bottom of the beam. Erik takes a leather strap, loops each end to a knob, and slings it over his shoulder.
“Totally portable!” he proclaims, beaming. “I’ve tried the clamps on windows of all shapes and sizes and I think you’ll find it pretty flexible. It might take some getting used to—”
“It’s perfect.” I cut him off, transferring the new easel onto my own shoulder.
A cream-colored envelope dangles from my gift. I squint at him and he looks away, whistling innocently as he tosses on a T-shirt and flip-flops. I open the envelope and find another pink notecard. I read aloud:
“Go to State Street Brats.”
Erik smiles. “Well, if you insist!”
He snatches my hand and we’re out of the garage. He quickly locks up and, hand in hand, we run back to his Jeep. A second later, we’re driving back toward State Street.
“I always sucked at scavenger hunts,” I warn him.
“No worries,” he assures me. “You got da master scavenger hunter on your team.”
A team. We’re a team. Damn straight.
We park in an alley off State and make our way to thesite of our first date. Jimmy, our favorite server, greets us at the door. We get a patio table, down a couple red and white brats each, and when the bill comes, Jimmy brandishes another cream-colored envelope, this one
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