Five Months in LA
“SO, WHEN’S YOUR LADY GETTIN’ here? Or when do I gotta put a shirt on, I should say.” Jeremy laughs, sitting on the couch in our apartment living room, the apartment we’ve had for the last three and a half months, and much nicer than the shithole we called home for the first couple months.
“I have no clue, man. I told y’all that this mornin’. Two p.m., she gets in, but God knows what traffic will be like.”
Jeremy glances as the clock on the wall, and says, “Yeah, so I got time.”
I narrow my eyes at him, a finger pointing his direction. “I’m tellin’ you, fuckstick. If you still don’t have a shirt on when she gets here, I’m deleting some Entourage from the DVR again.”
Jeremy pauses the game, and turns toward me slowly, glaring. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Shit, I’ll fuckin’ delete Glee this time.”
“Hey now,” Carter pipes up from across the room. “Don’t punish me too, man.” He chuckles.
Carter continues cooking up a storm in the kitchen, and Jeremy continues mashing buttons on an Xbox remote, Madden on the TV, as his six-pack remains on full display.
“Why you so worried anyway, Bish? You scared she might see what ol’ Jeremy’s workin’ with and come sniffin’ around?”
I scoff. “Please, you wouldn’t know what to do with her even if, by some miracle straight from the Lord himself, you had the chance. She’s not the docile type like you’re used to workin’ with.”
“Jealousy is really ugly on you, man,” he says with complete sincerity, before he flashes me his pearly whites.
“One-thirty, shirt goes on, fucker,” I warn, heading back to my room to continue prepping for her arrival.
The thing is I am jealous of that fucker’s abs. He does nothing to earn them, no regulated diet or strenuous exercise, but they’re chiseled like the Statue of David himself, and shit, who wants to look at that all day? My abs are much more defined than they’ve been in a long time, thanks to a new training regimen and a strict diet, but they’ll never look like Jeremy’s. I swear the guy must ingest tapeworms or something. No other way to explain it
Me? Well, over the past four months, I’ve maintained a diet that consists of chicken breast, rabbit food, and more chicken breast, and after a few miserable months of carb withdrawal and chicken breast overdose, my body really started to respond. I’d like to take all the credit for my new training regimen, and the diet that’s borderline torture but effective as fuck, but who am I kidding? I have about as much self-control as Tony Montana with a rail of coke in front of him and a rolled up hundred in his nostril. No, my agent of four months, Baker Richmond of Richmond, Scott, and Taylor, is the man behind my lifestyle change. My buddy Jude got me hooked up with him when we first arrived, as Baker is his agent for stand-up gigs, and after an inspired meeting, he agreed to take me on too. Baker is even working with JD now, who I suggested to him after catching his act, and feeling he could be something special with a little guidance … okay, a lot of guidance. Still, the mouthy redneck’s not so bad once you get used to him. He sure is good for a laugh when you’re feeling down. No quarters required. Just hand him a beer and watch him go.
Considering Baker’s gotten me three guest appearance gigs already—CSI, Law & Order, and a small bit on Breaking Bad that I will forever grovel at his feet for getting me—I’ll do whatever the motherfucker asks of me. CSI even just signed me on for a three-episode run. And who doesn’t like to play a bad guy?
Besides the gym regimen Baker’s got me on, he also put me in acting classes with renowned acting coach Lisa Powers, which, in its own right, gives the gym schedule a run for its money in terms of the commitment and exertion required. She’s hard, but she’s good, and she’s absolutely the ying to Baker’s yang when it comes to the amount of work I’ve found so soon.
“Jesus, guys!” Carter whines, crossing the room from the kitchen to the living room. “You’re sitting right there, Jeremy, and you can’t even fix this shit. You know I hate it when it’s like this,” he continues, as he reaches the photo of Mac on the wall beside the TV, our shrine to him, of sorts. A little bag of his ashes, which his parents graciously gifted us after the funeral, kept in a Crown Royal bag (the one in which he used to keep his joints), is nailed to the wooden frame. We talk to the photo and ashes too often for any of us to comfortably admit, and it’s our thing—no, our duty—to give him knuckles every morning. We never miss a day, and if one of us forgets, the others are there to pick him up.
The photo of our brother is a favorite of ours. In it, Mac is higher than hell and wearing a tie-dyed Bob Marley t-shirt which swallows his tiny frame. His arm is wrapped around Samantha, his Latina girlfriend, who plants a kiss on his cheek. Though we never knew much about her before Mac’s death, we’ve grown close to Samantha since. Her devotion and love for Mac has never wavered. The three of us communicate with her often, and she is very close with his parents. It’s nice to know that he was truly loved, all the way to the end, not just by his friends and family, but by her as well.
Carter straightens the frame, takes a step back to eye it, adjusts it once more, and eyes it a moment longer, before he finally nods his head, satisfied.
“You know, most of the time, I fuck it up myself,” Jeremy says with a chuckle. “Just cause I know Mac would get a kick out of it.”
Carter shoots him a glare as he makes his way back to the kitchen. He’s been cooking a ton lately, and currently has lamb shanks braising in the oven, which fills the apartment with a wonderful aroma. He’s been going back and forth lately on whether to attend culinary school or just return to his normal studies. Having eaten his food for five months now, I have every bit of confidence in him finding success in that field. His paella is to die for. I just want to see him happy and I’m not sure if he really is. I worry about him often.
Motioning toward Jeremy, I bark, “Hey, shirt!”
Jeremy lets out a heavy sigh. “Fine! He hops up, heading to his room for a brief moment, and comes back in the middle of throwing a tank on. Six-pack properly stowed now, he plops back down on the couch. I notice his eyes flit nervously from the TV to the door as if he’s expecting someone. He’s been doing it since I got home from the gym an hour ago.
“Jeremy, why do you keep lookin’ at the door like that?” I ask.
“I’m not,” he says, his eyes on the screen now.
“Yes, you are. I just caught you for like, the fourth time. You expectin’ someone?”
“Bishop,” he says, looking me in the eyes. “I don’t want your girl. Get it out of your freakin’ skull.” He laughs. “Though, don’t make me try and steal her from you, because I certainly could.”
“You fuckin’ wish, Jeremy,” I respond. “I doubt you even know how to work that poor bastard in your gym shorts.” I put my hands to my mouth and feign shock. “Oh no, it’s a micropenis, isn’t it? You poor thing…”
Jeremy shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Not particularly,” I joke, chuckling for a moment, until a knock at the door startles me. I pull my phone out and look at the time.
Only one-thirty. No update from the woman.
I turn, about to answer the door, when Jeremy races past me, nearly running into the solid door as his socks slide on the tiled floor in the entryway. He steadies himself, his back against the door and both hands up to keep me back.
“So, I don’t want y’all havin’ a stroke here, alright?”
“Huh?” I scrunch my brow as another knock echoes throughout the apartment. Carter’s looking at us from the open kitchen, as intrigued as I am now. “A stroke about what?”
Jeremy opens the door, and I’m floored when I see who stands on the other side.
But not nearly as floored as I am when I see Jeremy wrapping his arms around none other than Sarge, and then they kiss passionately.
Carter and I stare, our jaws meeting the fucking floor. Our eyes seem to bulge out like some cartoon creation, as the two of them continue kissing, their hands roaming each other’s bodies, not inappropriately, or even sexually, but with a fervor reserved for two lovers when a long distance is no more. The need to touch every inch of them just to ensure that they’re real, and that the wait is truly over.
They eventually separate, staring each other in the eyes for a moment, and they exchange broad happy smiles.
Jeremy whispers to Sarge, “It’s so damn good to see your face. I’ve missed it,” and then he runs the back of his hand along Sarge’s cheek, over his deep-set dimples.
“Uhhh, can you maybe fill us in here, Jeremy? Because my brain is about to have a complete fucking meltdown right now,” Carter mutters.
I nod in agreement, my eyes still wide, the shock still overwhelming all else.
They both laugh, looking at each other first, before Jeremy takes Sarge’s hand into his and says, “So, I’ve been talkin’ to Blake for a while now. About as long as the three of us have been friends. And we recently, um”—he looks over at Sarge and smiles wide, but there’s a slight nervousness showing too—“decided to give the whole relationship thing a chance.”
“Jeremy was there for me a lot when I was going through my shit with Jonah. And honestly, I kind of fell for him then. Didn’t let him get away from me after that.” Sarge grins, the way he looks at Jeremy so obviously sincere.
“Okay, sweet, but I think we’re maybe missin’ some of the story here, guys. Jeremy, you’re gay?” I question, my mind running back over all of our experiences together. There are a few things that I could maybe question in hindsight, but nothing that I’d consider to be a red flag.
“Yes, I am,” Jeremy replies coolly.
Looking over at Carter, I ask, “Did you have any idea?”
He shakes his head.
I flit my eyes back to Jeremy and ask, “Since when?”
“Since forever.” He chuckles. “It’s not cancer, man. And it ain’t the easiest thing to talk about. I grew up in the country. You learned to stuff those attractions down real deep”—where nobody could find ‘em. Not even yourself sometimes”—Sarge nods along in complete agreement—“I’ve just now started to kind of accept who I am.” He smiles, squeezing Sarge’s hand. “Thanks to Blake.”
“Holy fuck,” Carter mutters, making an explosion gesture with his hand beside his head, adding the sound effect with his mouth. “Brain dead. Done. Over. Kaput.”
“And why are we just now findin’ out? And why like this?” I ask, and I immediately pick up on my unintended defensiveness, as if he owed me the truth about his sexuality. I add, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with us to just be yourself, that’s all I could ever want, but, holy shit, there has to be a better way.
Jeremy laughs, shrugging. “Well, when Blake and I were discussin’ him comin’ here, that’s when you and the lady started really talkin’ again. Since y’all were gettin’ hot and heavy on Skype, and talkin’ relationship and plannin’ a trip and all that happy shit, I figured Blake and me could piggyback off of that.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s kind of a two-part answer,” Jeremy responds, right when my phone’s text alert goes off.
My Baby: Just landed!! I’m so excited to see you!
Oh, my God, it’s here! It’s finally here! Hurry up, woman! I need youuuuuu, I text back, and pocket my phone, a wide smile on my face.
“She make it in?” Carter asks.
“Yeah, just landed. Hopefully, it won’t be too much longer now.” My focus returns to Sarge and Jeremy as they remain motionless in the entryway. “Wait, so, Jeremy, what does my girlfriend visiting have to do with you comin’ out to us? I don’t see the correlation.”
“Well, see,” he says, sighing, “it’s kind of like this. We figured you’d be so busy spending time with your girl and havin’ wild monkey sex, that we would have plenty of time for our own fun—for fuck’s sake, we ain’t even gotten to go all the way yet, unlike y’all—and then we also figured with y’all bein’ so busy, we wouldn’t be bombarded with questions, which, neither one of us really wants to answer at this time.”
I point toward Carter and say, “Yeah, but Carter’s still here every day, and without a romantic prospect in sight, and I’m sure he’s loaded up with enough questions to last you the whole trip.” I chuckle, but Carter doesn’t seem to hear me. He remains frozen, staring blankly at the two of them with a spatula gripped tightly in his hand.
“Shit, you see that look on his face? I’m pretty sure we broke him.” Sarge laughs.
“Anyway, like I said”—Jeremy pulls Sarge closer to him—“We got a few months of action to make up for and we don’t have a whole lot of time. So …” His eyes trail to his room and then back to me. “We’re gonna go ahead and go do that.”
Jeremy grabs Sarge’s hand and pulls him toward his bedroom. Sarge shrugs, waving goodbye with his free hand, a devilish smile taking up his face. It may be the quietest I’ve ever seen Sarge.
“Wh-wha-what th-th-the …” Carter stammers.
“I know, buddy. I know,” I say to Carter, my eyes flitting back to the two of them as they reach the bedroom. “This ain’t over, fuckers!” I call out. “You owe me a dinner while you’re here at least, Sarge. You’re treat.”
Jeremy’s bedroom door slams shut. I’m left without response.
I look over at Carter, who remains slack-jawed and in shock.
“Carter!” I yell, and his head turns slowly toward me, a dumbfounded look on his face. “The lamb shank, bro … I think it’s fuckin’ burnin’!”
The wait for her to arrive is excruciating. I’ve checked an LA traffic website about a million times, and I’ve been pacing the living room for a half hour now, at least. Meanwhile, Carter sits on the couch, resting his feet as the lamb shank sits in the oven, ready and waiting, and thankfully not burned. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll take credit for his work or not (just kidding … probably). Carter just mumbles, shaking his head periodically, as he still tries to make sense of the faint sounds of coitus currently seeping through the cracks in the door to Jeremy’s room.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the front door. My heart leaps into my throat. I rush to my feet; the excitement is so overwhelming my hands tremble.
Swinging the door open, I see her on the other side, a Louis Vuitton suitcase at her high-heeled feet, and that gorgeous smile on her face as energizing as the last day I spent admiring it.
“Baby!” she yelps, dropping her purse to the ground and jumping into my arms. She wraps her arms around me, and then her legs, and I carry her a few steps into the apartment, eventually ending up with her back against the wall beside the door with a thud. I kiss her passionately, savoring the taste of her cherry lips. Video chat and phone calls are one thing, but there is nothing like seeing her in the flesh, and remembering, to the fullest extent, why I made this woman mine. Why she is my best friend. My partner in crime. My queen.
As our lips part, a wide smile spreads across my face. “Do you have any clue how much I’ve thought about this day?” I ask.
“You and me both, Bishop. You and me both.”
I turn back to Carter, who has his eyes on us, and he finally looks to be gaining composure. “Hey Carter, look who it is!”
He waves, a tight smile on his face. “Hey Ember,” he mutters. “It’s, uh, it’s good to see you again.”
“You too, Carter,” she responds, tilting her head. She turns toward me and asks, “Is he alright? Looks like he’s seen a ghost.” She looks around the apartment with curious eyes. “And what’s that noise? It sounds like—”
“Um, yeah, that’s kind of a long story,” I respond, chuckling, and shaking my head at the nice little Sixth Sense level plot twist that was laid upon Carter and me this afternoon. “I’ll tell you all about it in a little bit. First, should we …” I motion my head toward the bedroom, waggling my brows.
Ember nods, her lips turning up into a wicked grin. “Yeah. We have some business to attend to, don’t we?”
“Yes, my dear. Some very very dirty business,” I respond.
Carter scoffs, shaking his head, and then dropping it in his hands.
I ignore him, quickly pulling Em’s bags inside the apartment before slamming the door behind them. Grabbing her hand, I lead her toward my room across the hall from Jeremy’s. We pass Carter, seated on the couch, and then scurry into the room.
Just before I close the door, Carter yells, “Don’t forget about the food I slaved over, asshole!”
His exasperated sigh is met by the thud of a slamming door.
THE FUCKIN’ END