Chapter 3

Dear God: Fuck You

 

 

THE next day, Sunday, I awoke in my own bed. Alone, of course.

Well, not completely alone. When I first got Wheels, I’d built this ramp thing that led up to the bed from the floor so Wheels could get up whenever he wanted to. It took him a while to get used to it, and his wheels squeaked when he was climbing up the ramp, but it was better than waking up in the middle of the night because he was trying to jump on his wheels to get onto the bed.

So I opened my eyes, not even remotely hungover, remembering I was now thirty, in a fight with my best friend, and had probably missed meeting the man who would undoubtedly be the love my life but was now probably waking up in Bear Dude’s bed, all because I was a gigantic vagina. Not that he’d actually been looking at me seriously.

Blargh.

“You still love me?” I asked Wheels, reaching up to scratch behind his ears, his tongue lolling out in that way he does when he knows he’s going to get his scratch on.

In books and movies, when asked a question by his lonely owner, a dog would most likely reach up and lick his master’s face in a way that let the master know that the world might be scary sometimes, but it would all be okay eventually. But my life is not a book or a movie and instead of licking my face, Wheels farted and then barfed up the section of carpet he’d been gnawing on when I’d gotten home last night.

“Augh!” I cried, trying to roll away. Of course, Wheels thought we were playing a game and tried to crawl after me, running his cart through his own vomit, spreading it over my sheets as he rolled. “No, you gross two-legged monster!” I shouted at him, but he was already distracted by his own vomit and started to eat it and I gave serious thought to urking up a bit myself, but then I realized I would just be feeding him even more, and I had to turn away. As soon as I got myself under control, I heard my phone ring.

“Hello,” I said, running to the bathroom to get a towel.

“Hi, baby!” my mom said.

“Hi, Mom,” I sighed. “Listen, now’s not the best—”

“Your father is on the line as well,” she said, interrupting me.

“Dad.”

“Hello, son,” Dad said.

Ah, Matilda (Matty) and Lawrence (Larry) Auster. My parents. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.

“How did last night go?” Mom asked. “Did you get any play?”

“It is way too fucking early for this,” I muttered, grabbing my bath towel and warming it under the water.

“Language,” my father warned.

“Sorry.”

“Well?” my mother demanded.

“Sandy called you, didn’t he?”

“Oh yes,” she gushed. “He asked me how much I thought you would try to murder him if he pulled you down on stage with him.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That you’d probably crap yourself on stage,” she said.

“Language,” my father snapped.

“It was fine,” I said through gritted teeth, walking back to the bedroom. Wheels had the decency to look at least a bit contrite as I walked over to him. He hung his head a little bit, and I started to feel bad for the way I had glared at him, but then he farted again and I didn’t feel so bad anymore.

“It was fine,” I said. “Not that big of a deal.”

“You did it?” my mother squealed. “I am so proud of you!” And she was, in her weird, weird way. Both of them were. I hear horror stories all the time of people coming out only to be rejected by their families and kicked out onto the streets and told never to return. I was scared, yes, when I was seventeen and trying to work up the courage to out myself to my family. Sandy had already come out to his family and received indifference, so we figured we could expect the same from mine. Boy, were we wrong. Being their only child, of course they were upset. For, like, two seconds. Once my mom got over her tears and my father stopped frowning, they went online to look up two things: where the closest chapter of PFLAG was, and the proper way to use a dental dam. “For all we know,” my mother had said, “you may be into rimming now. We just want to make sure you are safe.”

I love them completely, don’t get me wrong. But they like to meddle just as much as Sandy does. They keep asking when I’m going to give them grandbabies. “We’re not getting any younger,” my father once growled at me.

“Well, I’m not quite fertile enough yet,” I had growled right back.

I don’t have the heart to tell them that I don’t have ovaries like they seem to think I do.

“You got up on the stage?” Dad said now, sounding surprised. “Did you take off your shirt?”

“It’s not that kind of a club,” my mother scolded him. “He wasn’t being auctioned off like some piece of meat. This isn’t Phoenix.”

Apparently I went to the wrong kind of clubs. When you’re auctioned off, does that still make you a prostitute? Money is still exchanging hands, so it sounded kind of whorish to me. I decided right then and there that I would not want to be a prostitute. Besides, I still had all my teeth and I didn’t look good in fishnets.

“Phoenix,” my father grumbled. “Such a blight on the world.”

“Did you shake your groove thing?” Mom asked me.

“No,” I said, picking up Wheels and wiping off his paws. He just grinned up at me adoringly, shaking his butt where his tail used to be. “You’re gross,” I told him.

“I don’t think shaking your groove thing is gross,” my mother said, sounding baffled.

“Maybe that means something different than it did years ago,” Dad said. “Like maybe now it has to do with unseemly things, like fisting or nipple clamps. Which,” he said, directing his stern words at me, “you better not have been doing in public. You could get arrested for that kind of thing, even if it was in a sex club.”

“It wasn’t a sex club,” I said, trying to scoop up leftover doggie discharge. “You’ve been there before, remember? For pride? You thought that leather bear had a neat vest and you asked him where you could buy one and he told you that he’d take you for a ride on his motorcycle?”

“Oh yeah,” Dad said thoughtfully. “The floor was sticky there.”

“From drinks,” Mom said. “Not semen.”

“Well, that you know of,” Dad replied.

“How does it feel to be thirty?” Mom asked me as I scooped up the sheets from my bed and headed to the washroom. “Hungover from any… whiskey?”

“I didn’t drink that much last night,” I grumbled and then I froze.

“Did you meet anyone last night?” Dad asked casually. Too casually.

“What?” I asked, trying to buy time. “No.” Then it hit me. “You already spoke to Sandy, didn’t you,” I accused them both.

“Matty,” Dad sighed, “I think we need to work on our subtlety.”

“Of course not, dear,” she sniffed. “We’re as subtle as the day is long.”

“Yeah, if the day is in Antarctica during the winter,” I muttered.

“What?” Mom asked.

“What?” Dad asked.

“She said you guys were subtle as the day is long. And I said only if the day was in Antarctica in winter.”

“We heard that, sweetheart,” Mom said. “We’re not deaf.”

“Days are really short in Antarctica during the winter,” I ground out, shoving the sheets into the washing machine.

“That’s nice, dear. Did you want to go there or something? That seems really far away. Consider going somewhere closer first, like Iowa. I hear the people there are very… Iowan.”

“Maybe it’s on his bucket list,” Dad said. “You know, now that he’s thirty, he’s trying to figure out all the things he wants to do before he dies.”

“Like have grandbabies?” my mom asked hopefully.

“That’s why I got a dog,” I said, hearing Wheels rolling his way to his dish in the kitchen.

“Granddogs?” my mother said, perplexed. “Not quite the same. Now, who was he?”

“Who?”

“Don’t do that, Paul. It’s annoying.”

“Yes, Paul. Don’t annoy your mother because then she annoys me.”

“Really, Lawrence, try to be a bit more sensitive.”

“I’m the most sensitive man you know.”

“No, Paul is. He always has been, ever since he was a little boy. I don’t know why we were so surprised when he came out. We should have seen it coming.”

“Like the time he wanted to be Cinderella for Halloween when he was ten?”

My mother sighed. “Though, now that I think about it, he should have been the fairy godmother.”

“Mom!” I choked out, as my dad started to crack up. “That’s not funny!”

“Oh course it is, sweetheart. I’m the funniest person in the world.”

“That makes me so sad,” I told her.

“What was his name?” she demanded.

“If you talked to Sandy then you know I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Dad asked. “I don’t understand why you’re so quiet. Or so shy, for that matter. You’re just as good as any of the other homosexuals in there. Better, even.”

“The best,” my mom said fondly.

I tried not to let them know how their words affected me, only because I realized that this is why they had called to begin with. We didn’t speak on the phone that often, and if we did, the conversations were short and sweet. But Sandy must have told them I was upset and this was them trying to make me feel better, and I’ll admit, my eyes were burning a bit. All my anger fled at that moment, and what I really wanted was my mom and dad.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice a bit rough. “You guys are just biased.”

“Well, even if we weren’t, we’d still love you to pieces,” Mom said. “We know you’re shy, Paul, and maybe you’ll always be like that. But one day, someone is going to come along and sweep you off your feet and it will be like magic. You’ll open up like a blushing, virgin flower filled with rainbows and sprinkles”

“Rainbows and sprinkles,” my father agreed. “The most sprinkliest virgin flower ever.”

“I love you guys,” I told them honestly, even if they were batshit insane.

“We know, sweetheart,” Mom said. “Feel better?”

“Yeah. A bit.” And I did. Dog-vomit eating and all.

“Good, because Sandy is sitting in your driveway, waiting for us to make you not mad at him anymore.”

I groaned. “You set me up!”

“And it was surprisingly easy.” Dad laughed. “Geez. I don’t know how you weren’t kidnapped as a child by a stranger who offered you candy. You’re so gullible.”

“Lawrence,” my mother admonished. “What terrible thing to say. Accurate, but terrible. Now, Paul, are you done being mad at Sandy?”

“I guess,” I allowed.

“Why don’t you ask him out?” my dad asked. “He’s already like one of the family. It’d just be so perfect! And then you two would be married and your mother could borrow that one outfit he wears that has the tail….”

“Larry!” my mother shouted, but even I could hear the smile in her voice.

I tried to scrub that image from my head, but it worked its way in. It’s a weird kinky pony-play outfit he found at some sex shop that he wears when he does Marilyn Manson at the club. It’s scary, but a little hot. “We’re not like that,” I told them. “Sandy and I are best friends. Like brothers. We tried it once, but it was just too weird. Not our thing. I love him, but not that way.”

“It’d be easy, though, right?” Dad asked.

“Oh, Larry,” my mother sighed. “Love is never easy.”

Oh gross. Not this kind of conversation again. You’d swear there were three people on the phone with a uterus instead of one. “And on that note, I gotta go. Sandy, and all.”

“Okay,” Mom said. “Don’t forget next weekend going to Nana’s for your birthday.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “There’s nothing greater for my self-esteem than to hear Johnny Depp call me a fanny-bandit.”

“That bird,” Mom said. I could hear the frown in her voice. “It needs therapy.”

“Is there bird therapy?” Dad asked, and I hung up gently, knowing that conversation would go on forever.

I thought I’d let Sandy suffer for a bit longer, but it was May, and it gets very hot very quickly in the desert. Part of me was vindictively gleeful at the thought of him sweating horribly, but then I realized he had air-conditioning in his car and he hates to sweat. “Guess who’s here,” I said to Wheels in a happy voice, getting him all riled up. “Guess who’s here! Is it your Uncle Sandy? Is it?” Wheels about shat himself when he heard the name Sandy. They’d bonded over a Milk-Bone and been soul mates ever since. The mutt pretty much hates everyone else. He’s very… picky about who he loves. Which, to be honest, was just a nice way of saying my dog is a jerk.

I opened the door, a little startled to see Sandy standing in the entryway. He eyed me warily. “You still mad?” he asked. “Because if you are, I brought you a breakfast burrito from Los Betos, which is your most favorite thing in the world.”

It was, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easy. I stared at him.

He sighed and went a bit further. “And I also brought Transformers on Blu-ray, because you don’t seem to own it for some reason.” He dangled it in front of me.

The man knew his way to forgiveness, especially through Michael Bay and burritos. I stood aside and let him through the door. He looked instantly relieved, and only then did I notice the bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept well. I wondered if it had to do with our fight, and I immediately felt like an ass. I placed a swift kiss on his cheek as he passed me by. I caught his small smile as I closed the door behind him.

 

 

“DO YOU even want to know his name?” he asked me an hour later, tucked into my arms on the couch, lying with his head on my chest.

“Who?” I asked, watching as Optimus Prime kicked some major digital ass.

“The guy from last night.”

I took a deep breath and let it out, trying to remain calm. I paused the movie and the house got eerily quiet. “You talked to him?”

He shook his head, a little tense against me. “I asked around. Tried to get some info.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, you big idiot,” he said softly. “More than anything in the world.”

Asshole. Going straight for the heart is so unfair. I just grunted at him, unable to use my words.

He took this as a go-ahead. “Apparently he’s from here. Went to the U of A before moving to Phoenix. Then he moved back here a couple of weeks ago.”

I shuddered. “Thank God he moved back. Do you think he still has his soul or did Phoenix steal it away?” There’s a strange rivalry between Tucson and Phoenix, one that probably goes back to the dawn of time when people from Phoenix crawled up out of the pits of hell and tried to destroy the paradise that was Tucson. It’s not something you’re supposed to question. If you live in one place, you automatically despise the other city. It’s a desert thing.

Sandy laughed quietly to himself. “He’s twenty-eight. Apparently not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s supposed to be sweet as all get-out, not to mention he looks as he does. Single, doesn’t appear to be too much of a slut. Couldn’t quite nail down his type, but I don’t think you’ll need to worry about twinks like Eric. Besides, even if you did, did you see his arms? I’d kick anyone’s ass for that. I think he could probably bench press a moose if asked.”

I snorted. “We’ll be sure to test that theory out,” I said before I could stop myself.

Sandy sat up, eyes wide, that familiar smirk forming. “Does that mean…?”

I blushed as I shook my head. “Doesn’t mean anything. I’ll probably never see him again.” I tried to ignore how my heart thumped a dance beat in my chest. And I didn’t want to know his name. Not at all. To hear it would make him real, and to make him real would make it hurt all the more because nothing would happen. I didn’t stand a chance in hell, especially with what all his friends looked like. I’m pretty sure you have to be a shallow jerk to look like they do. It’s part of the “I’m So Pretty” contract God makes all the beautiful people sign. I groaned as I realized I was going to ask anyway.

“What’s his name?” I asked, avoiding eye contact.

Sandy grinned and I saw a bit of Helena spark behind his eyes. And then, in a low and throaty purr, he spoke the name that would change everything. “Vincent Taylor,” he (or was it she?) said. “Goes by Vince.”

Vince Taylor. “God,” I groaned, unable to stop myself. “That’s so fucking hot. It’s so not fair. The least he could do by looking the way he does is be named something horrible like Leslie Poofington or George Bush. God hates me.”

“It does sound very sexy,” Sandy agreed, laying his head back down on me, snuggling closer.

We stayed like that for a time, in the quiet, me rubbing his shoulders slowly, him humming softly to himself in that way he does when he’s content. Then something bugged me (as usual) and I had to ask. “Sandy?”

“Yes, baby doll?”

“How come you didn’t go talk to him?”

He turned his head, his chin on my chest, staring up at me with his pretty blue eyes. “Should I have?”

I thought for a moment and then shrugged.

He nodded. “I didn’t, because I knew that’d piss you off. And I don’t like it when you’re mad at me. Makes me feel all funny inside, and not in a good way. Ever since my parents… you know….” He sighed and looked away, biting his bottom lip.

I did know. His parents were killed in a car wreck when we were sixteen. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I was called into the principal’s office, the way he shook, his hand squeezing mine so hard that I had bruises for a week afterward. The look he’d given me was one of heartbreak, yes, but it was also of a boy who was completely lost. I promised myself right then and there (as I had over and over again for years) that I would always take care of him, for the rest of our days. And I liked to think I’d kept my promise, at least as best as I could.

“I know,” I said softly, rubbing his shoulder.

“There’s not so very many people I trust, and even fewer that I say I can trust completely,” he said. “But you’re number one, you always have been. And I push because I want everyone to see you as I do, this bright and shining star that would take their breath away. But I get scared one day I’m going to push too hard and you’ll leave me too. I don’t know where the line is and I don’t think I ever want to find out.”

“Hey,” I said, grabbing his chin, bringing his bright eyes to mine.

It’d be easy though, right? my dad had said.

Maybe. Maybe not.

I leaned forward and he sighed, and his lips brushed mine and…

… we both burst out laughing.

Definitely not.

“No spark,” he said as he giggled.

“None whatsoever.” I laughed. “It’s like incest.”

“If only, right?”

I nodded, brushing his hair out of his face. “No one’s gonna love me as much as you do.”

He stopped laughing then, suddenly serious. “You just wait,” he said quietly. “I promise. You’ll see.” He kissed the tip of my nose and sank back down onto my chest. “Besides, we’re both bottoms. What would we have done? Bumped boy pussies?”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Shut up and watch the movie.”

And he did exactly that, right where he belonged.

Vince Taylor.

I sighed like a forlorn school girl waiting on her sparkling vampire boyfriend.

Oh sweat balls.

 

 

MONDAYS suck.

“Mrs. Jackson,” I tried for the sixth time. “Mrs. Jackson.” I lowered the volume on my headset, waiting for Mrs. Jackson to finish.

“Do you know who I am?” she screamed into the phone. “Do you know who the fuck I am? You better do what I say!”

I bit back every single sarcastic remark I could have possibly said and took a deep breath. “Mrs. Jackson, this is the tenth time we’ve had this conversation. There is no coverage for your accident because you let your insurance policy lapse. When you don’t pay your insurance bill, you don’t have insurance.”

“Are you being condescending?” she shouted. “I know my rights. I am an American citizen.”

“I’m sure you are,” I said. “But I don’t know what that has to do with this conversation. You could be from Botswana and we’d still be having this conversation.”

“You better hope I never see you on the streets,” she growled. “Because if I did, I would cut you.”

Gee, another threat. “Mrs. Jackson,” I said, trying to keep the boredom out of my voice, “it seems I have to remind you again that these phone calls are monitored and we take threats very seriously.” Well, we didn’t, actually. I don’t think I know of anyone that has been murdered doing my job. Plus, she lived like three states away, so she would have had to take a bit of a road trip if she was going to really cut me.

“You gonna fix my car?” she snapped at me, ignoring me completely.

“No, ma’am. We can’t give you something you haven’t paid for.”

“You mother is a whore!” she screamed at me before she hung up.

“Yeesh,” I muttered, hanging up the phone and taking off my headset.

“What’d she threaten you with this time?” Sandy asked, looking over at me from his jail cell… er, cubicle, across the way.

“She’s going to cut me,” I sighed.

He grinned. “How wonderfully ghetto. You’re the only person I know of who works here that gets people to threaten you with physical violence.”

I rolled my eyes. “What can I say? The melodious sound of my voice obviously brings out the best in people. When are we going to quit and open up our surf shop?”

Sandy laughed. “Well, first we have to move to a place that has water. Then we have to learn how to surf. Then we need to learn how to operate a small business. Then we need to find the capital to open such a business. And then we can open our surf shop.”

“So… tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “But, on the bright side, it’s now 8:32 in the morning, and we only have eight hours until we get to leave.”

“So much time,” I moaned, banging my head on my desk. “This place is sucking out my soul. I should have been a romance novelist by now. Or, at the very least, had my own reality TV show where cameras follow me around as I get into all kinds of shenanigans.”

“What would your reality show be called?” Sandy asked.

“Paul’s Hour of Power.”

He grimaced. “That sounds like you’d spend your whole time getting fisted.”

I threw a paper clip at his head. It didn’t even make it halfway across the aisle. It was a good thing I never wanted to play baseball, because I threw like a girl. Who didn’t have arms.

“What time’s the new guy getting here?” Sandy asked, not even bothering to make fun of me for the paper clip.

“Nine. I don’t know why I have to be the one to show him how to do crap. He’s coming from the Phoenix office. It’s not like they do things differently up there in Hell.”

“Maybe he’ll be way hot,” Sandy said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Have you seen where we work? Knowing my luck, he’ll be straight, won’t have any teeth, and will spend the entire day telling me how pretty and perky he thinks his stepdaughter is.”

“Oh, Paul,” Sandy said sympathetically. “You are brain-damaged.”

“I love you too.”

I didn’t even notice the next twenty minutes going by. Time supposedly flies when you are having fun, but time also jumps around weirdly when you’re trapped in the limbo that is an office job. Some days, I’d look at the clock and be surprised about how quickly the time had passed. Other days, time slowed down so much that it moved backward and I could feel myself breaking piece by piece until I was nothing but a pile of corporate American sadness.

Paul’s Hour of Power: speaking the truth, doing it fabulously.

So I wasn’t really paying attention when I heard my boss call my name. I said, “Yeah,” but I didn’t look up from my computer while I tried to pretend the new system that they’d made us start using weeks before made sense and wasn’t a train wreck like the rest of us knew it was (“This will make your jobs so much easier” turned out to be code for “We may not have known exactly what we were doing, but we put too much money into it, so you’ll kind of have to suck it up and work with it, even though it’s so broken that it makes your jobs ten times harder.” I thought about writing to the ACLU to complain and have them intervene, but then Sandy reminded me that it wasn’t civil rights related. We tried to think of a way to spin it that the new computer program was homophobic, but then we got distracted by the UPS guy, who happened to have a different kind of package we wanted to sign for, and the ACLU was forgotten. Cock tends to make things bearable).

So I was distracted. I kept getting a stupid error message on my screen, and I was about to chuck the keyboard across the room when I heard Sandy begin to choke. I looked over at him, ignoring the two people standing in front of me. Sandy’s eyes were bulging from his head as he stared up at our boss and the other dude. I frowned at him. “Are you okay?” I asked.

He nodded as he started coughing, his face turning read. I didn’t know what the hell his problem was, but he didn’t seem to be dying, so I figured he was okay. I swiveled in my chair to face my boss and my nine o’clock distraction.

My boss, Chris, smiled at me. “All right. This is—”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I almost shouted.

Chris took a step back. “Pardon me?”

But I wasn’t even listening to him. He ceased to exist. All I was aware of was the sharp buzzing in my ears, how my palms became instantly sweaty. I knew I was turning red and I was fighting a losing battle to curl up in on myself. I knew when (if) I spoke next, my voice would be soft, so much so that my words would be unintelligible. My shyness and awkwardness were trying very, very hard to take over, and I was fighting against them in a losing battle.

Because, oh because, standing in front of me, dressed in expensive-looking slacks, a crisp white shirt adorned with a silk tie and suspenders (really? Really? Suspenders?), looking like he just walked out of a photo shoot for a magazine called I Look Better Than Anyone Ever, stood the man I’d spent the last two nights fantasizing about. Mr. Yes Please. Dimples, of course, on full display.

“Paul,” Vince Taylor said, his voice deep and looking inordinately pleased about something. “How nice to see you again.” He grinned at me like we shared a great big secret.

My boss looked confused.

Sandy continued to sound like he was dying.

“Fuck,” I whispered.