Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
The last couple of Thanksgivings, a bunch of my poet friends and I have gotten together to have a family-free holiday. We have lots of alcohol, tell lots of raunchy stories, and eat a lot of amazing food. This year, my former roommate, and former romantic foil, Ben joined in. The favorite story of the day was about the Mr. Hot Positive Load. We, in fact, referred to Thanksgiving as Hot Positive Loads Of Food Day. I was almost thankful that I had fucked Mr. Hot Positive, as he'd given me a great story. He had also, however, bruised my ribs while riding me. I thought that was his final gift to me. I was wrong.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was preparing to take a piss when I saw a thick yellowish liquid on the head of my cock. Now, after nearly a decade of very carefully protected sex with many, many people, I've never had an STD, but I knew immediately that I had one then. So I entered my symptom online and took an educated guess that I had gonorrhea. I made an appointment at an STD clinic, and sent off an e-mail to Mr. Hot Positive's Myspace Profile. It said "Hey. You should e-mail me. There's something we need to talk about before you sleep with anyone else." He responded by defriending me. So I left a comment for him. "Thanks for the STD, jerkface. Get tested before you give it to someone else." How was I supposed to know his mom and his sister read his MySpace page? Oh, right, he'd told me before we met. Whoops. He replied with "I don't have any STDs. Why are you being such an asshole?" Now, I had only had sex with two people during a two week stretch. Mr. Breedme and Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I had inserted my penis (fully condomed) into Mr. Breedme for a couple of minutes, and then made him leave. Also, Mr. Breedme said he hadn't gotten laid in years, and given his appearance and self-esteem, I believe him. Mr. HotPositiveLoad is a big slut (I realize this is the proverbial pot calling the proverbial kettle Cookware American) who likes to have men pee in him. We had fucked and whatnot for hours, and while I had been very careful with condoms, there had been some non-latexed oral that would lead me to believe he, and not Mr. Breedme was the one that gave me The Applause. But if I'm wrong, then Mr. Breedme gave me The Applause, and I probably passed it along to Mr. HotPositiveLoad. Either way, he had gonorrhea. By the time I write out my kindlier than it should be e-mail, I discovered he had me blocked, changed his MySpace profile to private, changed his name, gotten rid of his picture, and changed his age and location. I'm pretty sure that doesn't change the fact that he had The Applause. Around about this time, my penis started to hurt. I already had an appointment at the clinic for the next day, so I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing I could do. I made it a point to not pee very much, as the idea of having hot lava shoot out of my cock has never been very appealing to me. Ben called. He was running a show at his college, and his host had bailed. He wondered if I could come host the event. Seeing as I had a show there myself the next week, I agreed. I wrapped some Kleenex around my cock, and shuffled off to the train. An hour and a half later, I reached my destination (late), and Ben picked me up. We drove about 100 MPH all the way to the show (about another hour of travel), where I waddled into the lecture room. In order to host, I had to walk up and down the stairs of the lecture hall every five minutes or so. My ribs were bruised. My cock was ON FIRE. The Kleenex had shifted to somewhere around my kneecaps, and my penis, dripping hot lava out of it, was now scraping against my jeans. The show lasted about two hours. So I missed the last train home. Meaning, I would not be able to make it back to the city in time for my appointment. I was not very happy. Ben got on the phone to his sister, who is a doctor. The conversation that I heard went something like, "Well, it's my friend Safey. He's got The Applause. Uh huh. Well, he's not going to make it in for his appointment at the clinic, which means he's not going to get any medication for at least another couple of days, and I was wondering if you could prescribe me the drugs, and I could pick them up first thing tomorrow, and give them to him. Well, it's kind of my fault he isn't going to make it to the clinic. I know I'm not supposed to ask you about drugs, and I normally wouldn't, but do they really think someone is going to recreationally take antibiotics? Thanks. Thanks. No, really. I'm sure he appreciates it." Ben went to sleep a bit later, while I kept waddling back and forth to the bathroom to survey the damage. I may First thing the next morning, we took a trip to the pharmacy, where Ben picked up the prescription, while I waited in the car. "You know that the lady inside totally thinks I'm the one with The Applause." He said, fluffing his hair at me. I did. And it amused me. I took the pills immediately, thanking any deity in the vicinity that, if I had to have an STD, it, at least, was one that you can knock out with one dose of pills, and not have any sort of recurring rash or quickened death. Ben then drove me, and a few of his friends to the restaurant/poetry venue where I work. I was dreading going up and down the stairs all night, carrying plates of food; and was overjoyed to discover that the kitchen was closed, and I would still get paid, even though all I would have to do was deliver the occasional drink from the bar to one of the nearby tables. I still decided that this was a sign that I shouldn't be meeting strangers for sex via The Internet anymore. So I was pleased to receive an e-mail from Duke, a couple of days after a doctor confirmed I was "cleared up". After all, I'd fucked Duke once already, so he was hardly a stranger. Also, I hadn't even been able to masturbate while I had The Applause, as even brushing the tip of my ON FIRE cock against a sheet caused incredible pain. I could tell by the way he kissed me when I got to his house that we were going to have loads of sex to make up for the last couple of weeks. But while they would certainly be hot loads, and I hoped they'd be positive loads, I was hoping they wouldn't be hot positive loads. Near as I can tell, they weren't. Also, the next week I had my show at the college, and it went very well. My ribs felt a lot better, and I was definitely Applause free (though many people clapped during my show). I had Ben call his sister and let her know how much I appreciated what she did, and that I think of her every time I pee, and it doesn't hurt. I hope she understands that's supposed to be a compliment. also have put a voodoo hex or two on Mr. HotPositiveLoad. I barely got any sleep, as the pain was...and the gross was...and ewww.
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When Ben and I were living together, we formulated the ultimate revenge plan. We would steal someone's iPod, write down all the tracks on it, delete the iPod and then refill the iPod with nothing but Cher's "Walking in Memphis", but give each track a title from the original iPod playlist. We decided this was one of the cruelest punishments imaginable (The worst punishment being a friend of mine's idea. Every year, she and her best friend would try and give each other the worst possible birthday present, and the receiver of the gift HAD to use it. One year, her friend gave her ONE Celine Dion ticket, so she would have to go see that trainwreck, but wouldn't have anyone to share the horrific experience with).
Having driven from somewhere around Waco, TX to Arkansas, I was tired. So I slept through most of Ben's drive through Arkansas. And when I saw we were hitting the border of Tennessee, naturally, I grabbed the iPod and turned on some Arrested Development. When the song was over, Ben grabbed the iPod and began singing Cher's "Walking in Memphis" just like Cher. Creepily like Cher. Exactly like Cher. I'm not sure that's a talent, but if it is, he is very talented. This was not as creepy as when he sings old Fleetwood Mac songs exactly like Stevie Nicks, but it's close. Creepier was when he started singing Notorious BIG songs in the Cher voice, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Ben and I drove around Memphis for hours. There is no free parking in Memphis, and the hotels are spread out. Sadly, there weren't any hotel rooms available in Memphis because it was Elvis week. When we decided to get back on the highway, Ben suggested we go to Nashville, and hang out there. "I don't know why you think we'll have any better luck there." I said. "It's also Dolly Parton week." It wasn't. We found a hotel, ordered a pizza, made plans to hit up a gay bar, and promptly fell asleep. The next day's plan? Knoxville. Ben would hit up a gay bar (he's opposed to clubs because of the loud music and the fact that most people in clubs are...well, club people), and I would catch a bus home to Boston, so I could be to work on Wednesday night. It was a good plan, so I knew it was going to go awry. We arrived in Knoxville in the early afternoon, we circled Knoxville over and over looking for hotels, but we only saw a too expensive Raddison that overlooked the Woman's Basketball Hall of Fame. There is almost no parking in Tennessee, apparently, so we parked roughly back in Nashville, and walked to the information center of Knoxville. The really nice woman behind the counter suggested we stay out of town, or at a place called St. Oliver's. We couldn't find St. Oliver's for a long time, due to construction in the area, and our general inability to read maps. When we did find out, Ben went in to ask how much rooms were. "We have $55 rooms, $75 rooms, and $200 suites." Said the concierge. "But all of our $55 rooms are full." "Well, I'm a videoblogger recording a road trip of some of the nicest hotels in the country." Lied Ben, in a stroke of utter brilliance. "If I give your hotel a good review, could we get a $75 room for $55." When the concierge immediately agreed, I thought he might be really stupid. But when his hot young boyfriend picked him up from work a few hours later, I realized he was just looking out for some fellow queers. God Bless Tennessee. Hotel St. Oliver is filled with beautiful French furniture, a piano that doesn't quite work, and every cool amenity you can expect in an old hotel, with the exception of a wireless connection. The concierge gayve (no, it ain't a typo) us a tour of the hotel, showing us plans to build lofts into certain rooms, different wallpapers they were considering during renovations, etc. At some point during our tour, Ben realized that our room keys opened every door on our floor. Stroke of Ben's brilliance #2. After the tour, we went out in search of food. But it was after seven, when they roll up the streets of Knoxville. We found only one food place open. A brand new bar/restaurant/music venue/art gallery/hair salon/spa called World Grotto that had just opened. The owner made a killer salmon sandwich for Ben, while I scoured the place for inspiration. At around tennish we headed to the bus station, where I was to pick up my travel stipend to go home, and then...well I was to go home. A 24 hour bus trip. Not nearly as fun as the two day Boston to Dallas trip, I was sure, but close. Now, the stipend was sent at 9:30. It was a check for $150. The ticket home would be about a hundred, giving me plenty of food spending money for the trip. The money was in the computer at the bus station's Western Union "but there's a password on it. You got the password?" I did not. So I called the person who sent the money, who, naturally, did not answer his phone. He called back at 11:55. Ben was understandably antsy. He had plans to go to a gay karaoke night and go hotel with a nice little TN guy. Being the good friend, he decided to stay with me until I had the money. While we waited, he played video games, and I fretted. There wasn't supposed to be a password on the account, but after I handed Ben's phone (my phone doesn't work in eastern TN or western Virginia, or the Carolinas) to the Western Union lady, she smiled and printed out my ticket. I thanked the sender, and gave the phone to Ben. "You good?" He asked. "Yeup." I said, without betraying my sense of impending doom. "Thanks for waiting with me." And I hugged Ben goodbye. I was not good. The lady behind the counter frowned at me. "So, I just emptied the cash drawer a couple of minutes ago." I smiled and nodded. "So I won't have enough money to cash your check for a while." "A while?" I asked. "Check back in a half an hour." I did. They hadn't sold a single ticket. "What time does the next bus that you sell tickets to leave?" She smiled and said, "Eight thirty tomorrow morning." The bitch smiled. Fucken August. I called Ben. Collect because my fucken phone still didn't work. He had already met someone, but was going to drive back to the station and pick me up. "No, don't worry about it." I told him. "I'll just walk back to the hotel, and wait for you there, it should take me about an hour. And I can wait. Don't rush back." It was a fifteen minute walk. So I decided to kill some time at The World Grotto, where the owner made me a free chicken sandwich and a few Captain and Cokes. I told him I would plug The World Grotto in my blog. Plug, plug. At around two-thirty Ben and a very cute guy in glasses stumbled toward the hotel. Ben apologized profusely for making me wait, despite the fact that I told him to take his time. The cute boy introduced himself to me and asked "How old are you?" "Thirty." I said. "Cool. My last boyfriend was thirty-two, but he told me he was twenty-six." "Ah ha." I said. Unsure why he was telling me this. "So I aspreschiate your honesty." And we entered the hotel like the scarecrow, the tin man, and Dorothy. I won't say who was who. Ben's flash of brilliance #3: our key opened all the rooms on our floor. One of the $200 suites was being renovated, but the bedroom was fine. So he and the boy would take the suite, I would sleep in the room, making sure to wake them up at eight, so they wouldn't get caught by the concierge when his shift started at nine. Ben went into the bathroom for a few minutes, leaving Boy and I to small talk in the room. "So...I never do this sort of thing." Boy said. "I'm kinda drunk. I never. I mean. How old is Ben." "Twenty-three." "Cool. I'm twenty. So...I...uh...this...are gonna have a threesome?" No. No. No. No no no. Or as Ben would undoubtedly say "Nooooooooooooo." For the record, I don't think Boy was hitting on me, he was just drunk and confused. And incredibly lucky he ended up with Ben and not some asshole who was going to take advantage of his drunkenness. Well, I mean, Ben was taking advantage of his drunkenness, but in a way that had been agreed upon before drunkenness ensued. The next morning, I woke up as Ben and Boy were entering the room. They had not been discovered. And while they crashed in the bed, I made my way to the bus station, blasting a prereleased Jared Paul CD (amazing, amazing, amazing). I took off my headphones when I got to the ticket counter. The station was empty save me, two people chatting on the far side of the station, and the lady behind the counter. I put my discman down. While the lady and I were talking, apparently, a tribe of Knoxville Ninjas entered the bus station and stole my discman. Seriously, there was no one within range to steal it, but during the minute and a half it was on the counter, it disappeared. Poof. Fucken August. So, Steggy, the poet I toured with in 2003 is here in Austin. He is dressed in his blue footy pajamas and his rabbit ears hat on a near full time basis. I haven't seen him since he moved out of Boston in 2004. So I called him to see where he was hanging out after our bout. Turns out, he was with Mr. Drunk Bisexual from the previous post, as well as with my friend Asterisk. So I go to their hotel room, knock on the door, and go in. And there, leaning against the dresser, is Ben. Just after I say hello, my phone rings.
"Hey Safey, it's Sora. Are you okay? I just got this feeling that something really terrible is happening to you right now." Sora wins at life. I must still look like a poet. Or a drug addict. The two aren't necessarily indistinguishable. But while I'm waiting for the train home from Sora's, a guy offers me some trees for some haze, and I don't think he's trying to solve global warming.
I have no trees. The only haze is in my mind, because I didn't sleep much last night. It was my turn to sleep on the floor, and my body clock is more of a blinking digital 12:00 VCR flash (which I suspect is the real reason DVDs were invented). I get on the train and am surprised to see an old friend back from Africa who shares smacknothing talk with me between Providence and Boston, where I pack, and go to meet another bus. The beginning of my trek to Dallas. I noted several years ago that Cerberus is actually a Greyhound. I think if Americans were serious about rehabilitating criminals, instead of sending them to jail, they'd put them on a bus for a week. This theory is shot to hell when I discover my first seatmate is fresh from jail and headed to rehab I said no, no, no. He entertains me with the level of lies I haven't heard since I deported Elvis almost a decade ago. And then I fall asleep. Wake up in New York. Grand Central Fuck Yourself Port Afuckenkillyourselfthority. The 9:15 bus I'm supposed to take doesn't exist. The next one is, of course, 11:45, and it will be pack packed. And, of course, the really obese woman in front of me clicks her seat back against my knees, and a woman and her toddler squeeze in next to me. And the baby rarely cries but she kicks and grabs my arm. And the mother's knee is in my hip, and it's like this all the way to fucken Richmond Virginia. Richmond to Roanoake to everywhichwhere Caroliginiasee, the bus is a hive of crackheads and loud women and crying oh my god kids. And somewhere in Tennessee Nate gets on. Nate. Nnnnnnnnnnate. If I wasn't stupidly Sorafied (he is not stupid, I am not stupid, I am using it as in wicked, as in hella, as in completely), I'd have noticed sooner how unnervingly sexy he is. Not beautiful like Sora. Not hot like...hot people. He looks like what would happen if Gary Sinese got Tobey Maguire pregnant. And he's of course Irish, and is reading The Hitchhiker's Guide, and I am reading The World According To Garp, which makes us best buddies because obviously we're both nerds who are Irish who listen to The Dropkick Murphys and The Pogues. And everything is a racist joke to him, except the religious ones. And hours pass. He is showing me pictures of his fiancee, asking if I approve. And she's obviously also Irish, and pretty, and, sure I approve of why not her? "It's just..." and he stares at me, "I've always had a thing for redheads..." And the stare keeps lingering there, like someone sprayed Axe bodyspray in a microwave. "O...k. I don't really have a type, in that way. But. Good for you." And he is a kicked puppy that I keep feeding and at my god every stop he wants to know what I'm buying and oh man I'm tired but the conversation and the sleep can't coincide and he has so much to say and instead of a knee in my hip, it's a tongue in my ear, and not in the cool way that Sora does it. "And I'm a soldier." He says. "So when I say Fuck Bush, I know what I'm talking about and" yip yip bubbledy bloo. And he keeps touching my leg, which is not his beautiful fiancee. And all I want to do is sleep, and I don't think I've eaten anything since my God Boston. When he switches buses in Texarcana, he takes down all my info so that we can keep in touch. I can't imagine what I'll say if he ever actually calls or writes. And blissful then sleep until Dallllllllldallllllldalllas. Where poets and old friends and a camera await me. While the national poetry slam starts in Austin on Tuesday, there is a pre-nationals invitational tournament in Dallas on Sunday night. So I left Boston a little oh god too early. And the rest of my team doesn't arrive until Monday, so instead of competing, I volunteer to record the event. Put down poetry book, pick up tripod and video and lay down on weird angle floor. And so many people I've not maybe purposefully maybe not seen for a while. I am called by hot_rod_poet's name no less than a dozen times (mostly by the same person). This is because all white people from Boston look alike. Even though, according to my last show in Boston, I am actually a 6'2 black man named Wiz. After the show and some requisite drinks and food, I hang out with my not teammates (another team from Boston comprised of people I have previously been on teams with), and then there is...then there is drunkoolery. And beer? "I want a beer." Someone drunk drunk tipsily tells me. "I" of course "don't have any beer." I look around for support. There is drunk boy, drunk boy's nearly as drunk friend, Asterisk, and Insaferubenmode, a friend of mine who (obviously) has nearly the same name. Drunk Boy invites all to get beer with him at the gas station across the street. When Asterisk, Insaferubenmode, and I decline, he says "Anyone who doesn't get beer with me is gay." He is, in fact, two thirds correct. But Asterisk looks mock horrified and Drunk Boy says, "Oh, you know I'm kidding. I'm as bisexual as they come." And his friend says "On your face." And Asterisk and I are of course obliged along with Insaferubenmode to begin BeerQuest. Which fails. But I do get to see Drunk Boy climb a pole and run super speedy across the street and then Asterisk says "I couldn't fuck him. When he gets drunk his eyes go crazy, and I can't tell if he's looking for me or looking at me." And there is much laughter, and you know, I hardly ever spend time with just Asterisk, and we amuse ourselves muchly. Then Asterisk goes to sleep, and I grab my bathing suit and head to the pool where Drunk Boy, Drunk Boy's friend, pageloads of LJ friend/poets and some sort of family reunion that has nothing to do with poetry but who have decided to record some video of performing poets who are swimming and making, according to the management, too much noise, since the pool is supposed to have been closed for three hours so be quiet anyway. And it's not that I was looking to see Drunk Boy naked, it just sort of happened, and good for him and good for whichever sex and whichever person he ends up with because well, yea, good for him and everyone involved. And I am involved, but not with him, with Sora and. And. Well, you know. He's no but who is Sora. And it occurs to me I should have been sleeping hours ago. But the pool. And the computer. And Dallas. And LJ poet friends. And the maniac from Albuquerque (not a slam poet) who is in town for American Idol with his band, a novel he's working on, his website, a team of flying reindeer, the blueprints to Fort Knox, and a whole other wagon full of bullshit if anyone believes the first few piles he shovels at you. And, you know, naked on your face. And in a few couple maybe less than one hours I'm off to Austin and don't ask me how but you know it will happen and more poetry and dizzy and blur and more naked would be great and I wish Sora were here (though he needn't be but I wouldn't mind naked), but rumor has it Ben is coming in how did this happen stead. This is meanfunny I guess but I don't know where Ben is planning on staying. But I have an idea. I brought some masking tape. I'm thinking of taping off a section of the hotel room I'm sharing with Wiz, fifteen inches by four feet, and labeling it "Van Seat" in honor of the "bed" I slept on in his house. It was more comfortable than Sora's floor (but that's not my usual place when I stay over), and didn't smell as badly as the Greyhound seats, but it was still you know a too small van seat for my long legs, and really I just always need an excuse for something to do. Socialist Steve, the guitarist in Celeste's band, has dreadlocks the way Allston has bedbugs. Ben has decided that the dreadlocks are a separate, sentient life form. He firmly believes that the reason Steve is always late for rehearsals is because of his hair. Oh, he's not grooming it. It's just that while Steve is tuning his guitar, and getting ready to leave, his dreadlocks are playing XBox. When he says "Hey...guys? I've got to go, or I"m going to be late." They reply "ssssssss ssssssssss ssssssss" which is Dreadlock for "Fuck off, if I don't help Ryder shoot the guards, I'm never gonna get past this mission."
Tonight, Steve is on time, which is good, because this will be one of the last shows the band has before Celeste moves to LA. The show is in a huge house in Jamaica Plain. The kind of house with constant parties, a sweat lodge, and a stripper pole. I am sitting on a couch with Sora and Lola, who are discussing how cool it is that they're both Puerto Rican, when Ben walks in the room and announces that he's high. This is glaringly obvious. Shortly after Ben's arrival, a band begins to play. I whisper back and forth with Sora and Celeste. Ben stands in front of us, swaying, but not to the music. At one point, he walks over to the couch, says something to Sora and walks away. "That, DOUCHETRUCK!" Sora says, gets up, and leaves the room. I put my head in my hands. Celeste rubs my shoulders. I count to ten, and prepare to go after Sora. But before I can get up, Sora is back. He grabs my right hand, opens up the palm, and places a tiny orange squirtgun in my hand. I shoot him the Velociraptor look. He takes the gun, and fires it at the back of Ben's head, then quickly, moves it into his pocket. Ben touches the back of his head, looks to his left, sees Socialist Steve, makes a disgusted face, then turns back to watch the band. Sora squirts him again. Ben glares at Steve, then stumbles over to us and says "His hair is PEEING on me." Sora says "ssssssssssssss." This goes on for about ten minutes, at which point Ben leaves the room. Sora and I follow. The three of us end up on the porch, where someone is passing around a hookah. While I am inhaling, Ben begins a rant on Socialist Steve's hair, which somehow ends with him talking about how I'm dating a toddler. Sora pulls the squirtgun out of his pocket, and says "Bad Ben! Bad!" and squirts him like a cat. "Oh. You. You little. I thought." and at one point a noun comes out of his mouth, but it is entirely unmemorable. A short while later, we go back upstairs, watch Celeste's band, and drink. When the show starts to die down, Sora, Celeste, Steve, and I head into the kitchen to get more beer, and make snide comments. Ben is already in the kitchen talking to someone "...and I totally shouldn't be eating chips because they're not on my 700 calorie a day plan, but I can't seem to stop myself, they're just so good, of course, I'm a little high right now, but, you know. Did I mention I'm in a band? We just had a show a couple of months ago, and" "We?" I interject. "You're the only member of your band. Remember? No one else in Boston is talented enough to work with you." "You just. You shut up. Why don't you take your little THING there, and." Sora takes out the squirtgun again. "Bad Ben. Bad!" And he squirts him. Ben's eyes explode. "STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!! I'M NOT FAT!!! WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME FAT???" And the room goes completely silent. "Ummmm." Steve says. "No one called you fat." "YES HE DID!" Ben screams, then takes a deep breath. "All night long, he's been following me around, squirting me with that ridiculous little gun, and calling me fat." "Actually," Celeste says "he's been calling you bad. And then squirting you. Like a cat. Like a BAD cat." Ben turns red. Steve shakes his head. Ssssssssssssssssssssssss. There is no rock, no hard place. I am between a buffet and a comfortable bed. Everything but my clothes is packed up and waiting by Ben's door. I spent Tuesday night sleeping on my new bed. Spent last night in the familiar position slightly to the right of Ben. I want these two worlds to converge. I want the ability to spend all night talking with Ben, while still having my own space. I want my apartment with Celeste and Trick to be in Allston, so I can be closer to the places I have grown accustomed to being.
In the year that I lived in Mission Hill, I never had a regular place I went to. Likewise when I lived in Cambridge for nine months, and the almost year I lived in Slummerville. I've only been here for three months, and there's a breakfast place where the only waitress worth tipping knows my order as soon as I go in; and there's a comic book store where they know, in advance, what I'm going to buy, and they ask me vague questions in an attempt to figure out whether or not I'm schtupping Ben. I have to stop writing his name. It's been almost two weeks since I've had a night where he hasn't had a significant role in a dream I've had. I can barely make it through a conversation at work without his name coming up, either by me mentioning him, or a coworker asking about him. I hereby pledge to go one week without speaking his name to anyone. There will be no "Ben" in my world. Nothing will be beneficial or benevolent or bent. Cincinnati's football team will be The Tigers. I won't say I've been thinking about something, I will say I was thinking about something. I will not be "on a bender", I will be drunk. When I give advice to Celeste as to how she can feel better, I will not suggest Benadryl, but, rather, an anti-histamine tablet. I'll even refrain from mentioning benign harmless things that sound like they might have Ben in them. I'll pass up bananas for plantains, bandannas for doo rags, banter for rambling. No more conversations about Bangladesh. I swear, I'll quit talking about him cold turkey. And that's a promise you can take to the place where money transactions take place. “You’re moving?” Ben asks when we get back to his apartment.
I’ve been thinking about it since he got back from New York. And the phone call I made at work was to Celeste. Her roommate is moving to North Carolina on December first. He’s leaving behind his old computer, his bed, a few shelves, and most importantly, a room of my own. No van seat perpendicular to Ben’s bed. “Is that why you’ve been so happy? Because you’re leaving me?” “Leaving you? Since when are we together?” He fluffs his hair. “You know what I mean. Good for you, though. You do need to get your own place. But now where will I get my crab cakes and coconut shrimp from?” And I reassure him that I’m not disappearing out of his life. Celeste’s house is a half-hour walk or ten minute bus ride away. “Oh, good.” He says. And we don’t discuss it again until December first, when I throw all my stuff into my backpack, and one of his suitcases, and tell him I’ll be back in an hour. “And the next time you see me, I won’t be your roommate, I’ll be a guest, so you’ll have to start treating me better." Though I know he doesn’t treat his guests any differently than he's treated me for the last three months. “So, what now? Am I supposed to hug you goodbye or something?” I wrap my arms around him. There is a split second where I debate kissing him, notbecause I’m still in love with him (I’m not sure I am), but because I know it will infuriate him. Instead, I smile, pick up my bags, and walk to the elevator. Fucker didn’t even offer to help carry my bags. My head is pounding. I finally remembered to pick up my new phone, so, naturally, I've forgotten where I left my charger, and I'm all out of battery power. I'm also out of batteries for my discman. My head is pounding too much for me to be able to finish the James Kochalka comic I'm supposed to be reading. At least I'm only two stops away from work, where I have been assured by my boss I will "make bank." This is why I dragged myself out of the house two hours early. "It's the day after Thanksgiving, we're going to be balls to the wall, come early, and you'll make bank." I later decide that he must have meant "bunk", but I'm getting ahead of myself. Right now, my head is pounding, and the bagel I had for breakfast has decided to use my stomach as a trampoline. I put my head in my hands, and all is normal on the severely crowded red line train. When I look up, there's a marching band.
Thirty or so sweaty, mostly overweight men in kilts and afghans of various shades of green have been known to incite motion sickness, even without moving or producing sound. This stumble of marchers, however, were not content to sit or stand on the crowded T and bask in the lurchiness of public transportation. Oh, no. They had decided that a crowded T on a Friday afternoon is the perfect place to play Christmas carols. Somewhere around the seventh day of Christmas, I start to fashion my keychain into a shiv. I know I'm not stealthy or powerful enough to take them all down, but if I at least take a couple of these unfuckers with me before I'm wrestled to the ground beneath their kilts, I'll have done the world an incredible service. By the time my stop comes, they have moved on to the most inaccurately named version of "Silent Night" ever conceived. I mean, bagpipes? Work is so dead that even vampires pass by its corpse and go "Ehhh, it had a good life, I'll let it sleep." I'm so bored that I can feel my eyes rot away, as I watch The Naked Gun on the TV in the kitchen. The safe sex scene starts when my favorite Hungarian bartender says "What was the score of the Bears game?" Which leads me to believe he's never met me before. How the fuck would I know the score of a football game that doesn't even contain The Patriots? "Tampa Bay won thirteen to ten." I was bored, okay, and the game was on the bar's TV. Then he begins asking me about other games, and how many interceptions some person I've never heard of threw, and wasn't that onside kick a weird choice? I place my index finger to his lips and whisper. "Shhhh. You're only allowed to speak to me in Hungarian. Oh, the language of love." His eyes flit from me to anyone who might be watching my bizarre behavior, and says "Uhhhh, ok." Then he walks away. "I didn't know you liked the Hungarian." David gives me a cool, hurt look. The kind an ex would be allowed to shoot at someone who'd hurt them in a relationship. But if David wasn't such a pussy closet case we'd be dating, so I don't allow the look to register. Much. "Sure," I say, "I'd like him...naked and chained to my couch." That look again. Bastard. What is it with me and unworkable relationships? What is it with me and having the same stupid epiphanies over and over? I've got to stop getting myself in these situations. Closet cases, roommates, future suicides. I've got to get over this kind of shit and move on. I've got to move. Of course. But first I have to make a phone call. An hour or so later, when both David and the Hungarian have gone to their respective homes, and most of the staff has begun cleaning, Ben and his Dad arrive in the restaurant. Because I'm already done for the night, they sit in someone else's section. I do my paperwork, sweep my tables, and do about 90% of my kitchen sidework before I'm asked to clock out. I do so. I then go to Ben's table and drink and socialize. We're there for about a half hour when I remember that I have to bring one more box of bread into the kitchen before I'm actually done done. "What the fuck?!" says a steamy eyed server, as I walk into the kitchen. "Who the fuck are you, that you think you can fucken clock out and sit at a goddamned table without finishing all the fucken bread work." I cock the Spock eyebrow. "I was told to clock out. I came back in to get the last box of bread, but―" "This is such fucken bullshit. All I want to do is go the fuck home, and you never do any work, and―" At this point, Hill comes to my rescue, "Well, since you're a closer, and the restaurant isn't closed, you can't go home for another hour, anyway. Why don't you step off him?" "No no no no no. I want to be able to fucken clock out whenever I feel like it..." "I was told to clock out." I say. "I was cut. My tables had left. And I'm almost on overtime, so they asked me to clock out." "Whatever. Where's the last fucken box of bread, huh? And knives. The knife container isn't full." "That's because I filled it before I cl― You know what? Unfuck you. Unless you just got a phone call that your mother got run over by a bread truck, and the managers won't let you leave to identify her body, you're being fucken ridiculous. This is a fucken restaurant job. It takes five seconds to get a box of bread, and it would already be done, if you hadn't attacked me the second I walked into the kitchen, but now you can do it your fucken self." And I walked out of the kitchen, put on my best customer service smile, and sat back down next to Ben. "I think we should probably go now." "Hey, where's that cute Hungarian bartender?" Ben asks, unaware of my impending sexual harassment indictment. "Chained to the bed." I whisper, while his dad talks to our server. "What?" he asks. I place my index finger to his lips. "Shhhhh. You're only allowed to speak to me in Hungarian." "Right." He says, and pushes my finger away. "What the hell is wrong with you?" "Nothing, I just feel all smirky right now." "Oh, because you have something worth smiling about?" And I do, actually. I'm sitting next to someone I dearly despise in a restaurant where, any second now, an angry little white girl is going to come around the corner screaming obscenities about bread. The satellite station is playing Aaron Neville's version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, and my head is pounding. I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. My inability to hold boring small talk with strangers is proof of nature over nurture. Friday night, my father, my stepmother, Ben and I managed to have a ten minute discussion on how cold it was. It was really fucken cold. That could have summed the whole discussion up.
To rectify the coldness, my father and his wife are headed to Cancun. My mother is in Florida. I have been walking around the streets of Boston with Ben at two o'fucken clock in the morning to get milkshakes, because really, what warms a frigid body more than cold milk blended with ice cream? "You should use some of the family's timeshare in Florida." My father says. "It only costs about $400, and you could take like eight people down there with you. That's fifty bucks a piece." My father, the human abacus. Maybe I should. I haven't taken a vacation since...I don't know. I went on tour with Steggy in 2003, I moved to Arifuckenzona a few months later. Since then, the furthest I've ventured is to my grandparents in Connecticut. "My mother's pissed at me." My father says. "You've seen that commercial with the old guy who shuffles, and can't remember things? Your grandfather has that, and I'm trying to tell Ma she should tell the doctor to have him checked for it but" and small talk and small talk and small talk. I should go to Florida. Or California. Or go to Vegas with Ben. My father says, "Last time I went to Vegas, I learned to only take $200 with me. That way I won't spend more than I can afford. And if I make money, great. I've been doing really well at the dog track lately." and small talk and small talk and small talk about medium money. "Your parents are remarkable." Ben says, on our way back to his house. "I've never seen someone be so interestingly boring. And they're so...nice. What happened to you?" Nature over nurture. "I don't know." But I remember my father's temper when he was still with my mother. The way she taught me to work him into a rage. He was never the violent asshole father depicted in movies of the week or cop shows, but he had his moments of my body slammed to the wall head first into wheelbarrow the coffee table splintered my grandmother standing between us. But he didn't mellow with age. He didn't have a revelation or therapy or karma. He just got away from us. A small island with a woman who loved him more than power, kids who would offer him grandchildren. "She's so smart." My father says of my stepniece. "She's fifteen months old and when her parents watch television too long, she climbs on to the table in front of them and dances. And sometimes" small talk small talk small talk "and we gave her one of your old Raggedy Andy dolls?" "One of?" Ben asks. "Yea, I had a big one from my grandparents, and a small one that we got from this place on the Cape, years before we moved there. It's weird, Jennifer had one too, and she got it around the same time. It's possible that we actually met when we were―" "Wait." Ben says. "You had two Raggedy Andys but no Raggedy Ann?" I know where this is going. "Yea." "Well that explains a lot." "It was because of my red hair that people got them for me." "Oh, I'm not judging you. I just think it's funny. When I was a little kid I had My Little Ponys because my best friends were girls and they had them. I just didn't know any better." He laughs. And under his breath I hear "Two raggedy Andys. Homo." I'd kick him under the table, but it's a small table and the angles are all wrong. "Sorry about the gay jokes." Ben says on the T ride home. "But, really, two Raggedy Andys but no Ann? Gaaaaaay," Before Ben, the only gay person my father met through me was Elvis. It was after things had started to go horribly horribly wrong, so Elvis wasn't terribly talky, just terrible. He mostly moped that he was on an expensive resort island and no one was buying him anything. He had a bus ticket home in his not so distant future. My father, like my mother and all my friends, hated him. But unlike my mother and all my friends, he didn't say a word about it. To this day, he's never asked how Elvis was doing or what happened to him. Elvis was there, then he was gone. He probably doesn't even remember the false name Elvis gave him (because if he'd given his real name, who could forget it?). My dad likes Ben. I know because he called me from Cancun (and my dad NEVER calls me) to small talk and mention that "that Ben kid seemed really nice. Anytime you want to come down to the island together, let me know." "It's tough to get him out of Boston." Ben says. "But I'll try." So there is balance to the universe. Ben's dad likes me. My dad likes Ben. "How come I didn't get to meet him when I came to visit?" My mother asks. "He was in New York, remember? I had you drop me off at his house so I could feed his cat." "Well, next week I want you to come down and get all the stuff you want out of the old house so we can put it on the market. You should bring him with you." Um. Um. Um. Um. In an IM conversation with Dmitri, I mention that I am catsitting for Ben while he's away, and that I'm in the midst of reorganizing the apartment. Dmitri says "You make such a good wife." Me? A wife? I have a beard, and it's not a woman with self-esteem issues, it's facial hair. Ben is the one who wears eyeliner.
And so it is that I spend the last day of my Ben free time, cataloging a list of my exes in my head. *** Before Jennifer dumped me for my supposed best friend, Scott, she listened to Billy Joel, Phantom of the Opera, Milli Vanilli, Roxette; the music that all the cool kids were listening to in 1989. Before Jennifer admitted that the first time we dated, it had been exclusively to get closer to the little greaseball bastard who played the role of friend when it suited his snobby, rich, not very well-shaped ass, she wore cute white sweaters, was a straight A student, and really wanted to be a writer. After Jennifer dumped me for that whiny little reminder of why the pull out method doesn't work, she abandoned English for Science, starting listening to Sir Mix-A-Lot, Young MC, LL Cool J, and other artists that I would grow to like once the nineties started, but we were twelve and not supposed to be listening to cool music, yet. Sure, she continued to take violin lessons, but everything else changed. After Jennifer crushed my heterosexuality between her fingers in order to date someone that I know for a fact had a smaller dick and intellect, she switched from glasses to contacts, from modest clothes to garish pink sweaters and other Debbie Gibsonesque fashion that caused an entire generation of women to "lose" any photos taken of them from, say 1987-1990. Her beautiful straight hair had teased bangs and clumsy curls. I hated the new Jennifer. Once Jennifer dumped Scott for someone way hotter, way gayer, someone I ended up trysting with nine years later, she put her glasses back on, she kept her interest in science, restraightened her hair, found a moderate stance for her clothes. Once Jennifer realized what a little douche-trucker-hat Scott was, and started dating someone with way more style, and a body that convinced me that male artists tend to be homosexual because, fuck, men are works of art, she started listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sonic Youth, Soul Asylum, bands that wouldn't break on MTV until 1992. Once Jennifer and Scott went the way of Brandon and Dylan, we decided to be friends again. Actually, I never told her we'd stopped being friends, because then I wouldn't have had anyone who wasn't a complete loser to hang out with at lunch. When Jennifer abandoned her poor, soon to be oversexed, tan skinned, boat owning boyfriend for a much older (seventeen!!!) AV geek with bad teeth and halitosis, she got rid of the glasses again, started wearing mostly black, listened to prog rock bands like Dream Theatre, Queensryche, Rush, and early Genesis, and picked up an unplaceable accent that hurt my ears so much that, not only did I stop hanging out with her, I told my parents I wanted to go back to public school. I couldn't be friends with someone who didn't have their own personality. All she ever did was assimilate her taste to her boyfriend's. She would take one, and only one of his traits when they broke off, and reinvent the rest of herself. She kept the complicated love of Jesus that she learned from Chris the Old. Her compassion, and willing to listen to people came from Ryan the Perfect. Her sarcasm and since of humor, I wish I could claim, but actually came from Scott. It wasn't until I started not dating Ben that I realized what she got from me. *** "Did you hear that they're getting rid of Vanilla Coke?" Ben asks, as we wander around the CVS in search of light bulbs. "Yea." I say. "They're gonna replace it with Cherry Vanilla Coke, which is way awesomer, anyway."" "Ewww, dude. Anything with that fake vanilla is so nauseatingly sweet." "I like sweet things." I say. "Like me." I shoot him the You Have Got To Be Fucken Kidding Me Look. He stops looking at the Christmas lights display, shoots me a hurt look. "I'm sweet." "Sometimes." I say. "But you also have that tang of bitterness that I find so hot." "Oh, sweet Christ, you like your men like you like your alcohol. Booooo." He picks up a box of lights. "They don't have any blue lights, ugh." "Are we all set, then?" He frowns as he picks up another box of not blue lights. "Mmmmmm. No. Don't forget to get some sort of munchy thing. We're going to be completely...yea." "At a CVS? I want something substantial." "So get one of those microwavable meals." He says. "Bleurgh. They're so...unnatural." And since when do I give a fuck about something being natural or not? When do I care what type of food goes into my body? Since Ben. I got my occasional nicotine habit from Elvis. From Liam, I learned my appreciation of how absurd sex really is. From Ryan, I got my compassion, and ability to listen to other people's problems. Beckee taught me to be devious. And Jennifer? This is what I'm not sure, did I absorb my habit of adapting my image to fit the people I love from her, or did she get it from me, or was it the one product of our love that survived? |
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