Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  Sometimes I buy clearance shirts or boxers or flip-flops to feel less like a stalker. The employees are always nice to me, but that’s their job. Obviously, none of them are really my friend. I’d feel uncomfortable if they were. In no world do they depend on me, and I don’t rely on them.

  I give Hunter a medium roast coffee, black. He’s in the midst of a conversation with Juliet, who is playing a mindless game on her Gameboy as they talk. I regret not having anything for her, but she doesn’t usually hang out in the front. We’re in the entryway, the only place in the store with natural light.

  “Hey! Eric Loan!” he says. “What’s up?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “It’s true,” he says to Juliet. “Fiona totally has a thing for Adam.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Juliet says. “Fiona’s not the kind of girl into frat boys. Or Marines for that matter. Damn it, I died.”

  “Fiona likes his devil-may-care attitude. Haven’t you seen the way she looks at him? Adam just isn’t going to make a move because of Riley. Bro code and all that. Ask her.”

  She closes the Gameboy. “I’m not asking her. Adam is a slut. I mean, I think he’s fun, but Fiona can’t say the word penis without blushing.”

  “Fiona might not sleep around, but she’s not judgmental about sex. I know it seems impossible, but that girl has major self-esteem issues.”

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “I know she’s gorgeous.”

  “She’s just being self-deprecating. She’s a model.”

  “Confidence when it comes to modeling isn’t the same as confidence with boys, trust me. Watch her. Watch how she acts around him. She’s into Adam. She’s just too shy to make the first move.”

  “I guess.”

  Hunter takes a sip of coffee. “You know JuanCarlos, right?” he asks me.

  Juliet seems uncomfortable at the mention of JuanCarlos’s name. “I should get back to work. Tara actually yelled at me yesterday for studying on the clock. What would she do if she saw me playing Pokémon?” She goes into the women’s section and starts refolding a wall of skinny jeans.

  “What about him?” I say.

  “He came in yesterday acting nervous. Not to sound racist, but I thought he was going to shoplift something.”

  I know exactly why JuanCarlos came in here yesterday. He came in here to ask Juliet out on a formal date, but she wasn’t working. He’s been trying to muster the courage for the past week. This included Loo giving him annoying pep talks every day before his breaks. “JuanCarlos has a thing for Tara,” I lie. “He was going to ask her to dinner at this fancy restaurant, but he must have chickened out.”

  “Really? I mean, I get it, Tara can be intimidating.”

  “His new plan is to buddy up to Juliet.”

  Hunter leans in. “Seriously? Why?”

  I continue to speak at my normal volume. “Juliet and JuanCarlos have the same math class together. He thinks if he becomes friends with Juliet, he can angle it so he can get in good with Tara.” I ignore Hunter’s glances over my shoulder and act oblivious, knowing full well that Juliet can overhear us. “He’s trying to come across as this progressive guy that respects women. I heard him talking about it last night. He’s worried that it might backfire if Juliet calls dibs.”

  “As if no woman could resist!” Juliet says. “He was pretending to be a feminist yesterday. He’s so full of shit!” She stalks away into the back.

  “That’s what I keep trying to tell people.” Satisfied I’ve thrown a wrench into JuanCarlos’s seduction plans; I change the subject. “Anyway, I was wondering, do you know when the new catalog comes out?”

  “I guess they’re not doing a Christmas one this year, so I’m not sure. The current one got us boycotted when it first came out. There were protesters at the BP home office.”

  “Free publicity.” The catalogs are blatantly sexual, with strong homoerotic elements. “They must count on the catalogs offending conservatives.”

  “Religious freaks were telling us we were gonna burn in hell, reminded me of my dad. I'm gay, so you know, parents can be real dicks.”

  Hunter’s gay? He’s always checking out guys, but I thought it was more for fashion reasons. He hopes to open his own clothing store. Okay, now I realize how thick I sound.

  “Actually, my foster parents were fine with me…”--I search for the right word--“experimenting, as long as I was safe.”

  “You have no idea how lucky you are. I went to this Christian college. My dad was hoping it would fix me. Mostly I just felt alienated. Totally alone.”

  “But everyone likes you.”

  “People hated me. I had to get over it. It was either that or die. Every day I drove an hour to get to Columbus, the nearest big city. The BP there was only a few miles away from the Home Office. That’s where I wanted to work, but I just ended up stuck in the back, dealing with stock. Most of the people in the warehouse were black or Hispanic. I don’t blame Weber; he can’t control everything, I just got sick of it, you know. It was a dead end, so I transferred here and haven’t looked back. Columbus was pretty okay, I knew some cool people, but there were a lot of born-agains around those parts. A friend of mine got gay bashed.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Here you can be anything, and no one gives a shit. If anything, I feel too conservative.” He laughs. “It’s been a struggle, but if you ever want to be happy, you have to let go of what people think. You just have to. Otherwise, you end up making all these compromises that just aren’t worth it. Not if you want to be happy.”

  I nod and search for something to say. “I was looking online. Thirty-three thousand people killed themselves last year. A lot around Christmas.”

  Hunter gives me a “WTF” look.

  When I’m not planning my films in my head, I research death statistics to reassure myself that not everyone dies in accidents. My foster parents weren’t the only ones to die on me. My biological parents died when I was little (I have no memory of them) and that cute gay kid I mentioned earlier died from a cheerleading head injury at a high school pep rally in front of the whole student body. Obviously, all of it has had an effect on me. At least statistics are a better way to deal with my issues than substance abuse or fighting. I tried fist fights when I was a kid, and I’m glad I grew out of it.

  “We are in constant danger,” I add. “Accidents happen all the time.”

  Hunter doesn’t respond, still giving me that look, like he thinks I’m insane.

  I should stop myself, but I keep babbling.

  “The most likely way to die is suicide, actually. Either the quick flashy kind by gun or a fatal jump or an overdose, or the slow kind: junk food, cigarettes, drink. It’s even worse for the LGBT population. We are our own worst enemy.”

  I leave BP wanting to throw myself in front of a bus.

  5.2

  That night, walking home from work, I try to focus on the present moment and the city all around me, like Tara talks about, but I can’t stop picturing Hunter’s expression. This is the time of night when the custodians work their way through those massive office towers. Many of the lights, even when the rooms are empty for the night, never turn off.

  I’m a freak. Or at least Hunter thinks I’m a freak.

  Skulls still mar the BP advertisement near my apartment. The city feels like those skulls. Dark despite the lights, hollow, and soulless. With all those people out there, why does connection seem impossible?

  If I could just explain my interior world to Hunter. If I could get out more than a few sentences. But people don’t want to know me. They expect me to listen without getting anything in return.

  5.3

  INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

  Sitting on my workout bench, still thinking about Hunter, I tear off the shrink wrap of another BP catalog. This is my fifth copy. For this one, I have something special in mind.

  The pages smell like the store, more than that, they smell like an actual person. Sniffing the pag
es is embracing a lover. I want Hunter to hold me. Not talk. I crave his arms around me. Human contact. It doesn’t have to be sex. I’m not crazy; I’ve just been through a lot. I’m good at being alone, just not right now. If Hunter knew what I’ve been through he’d understand. I could talk to him about death, about my parents. I could confess how scared I am. God, I need someone to talk to. Is that too much to ask?

  What I really need is something to get my mind off Hunter. I mix wheat paste. Time to do something with this apartment.

  I tear out page after page from the catalog; most are more explicit than the posters in the store.

  Guys in football uniforms undress and shower communally. Everything seems spontaneous, but the models pose so there's no frontal nudity.

  Guys and girls strip down in their dorm rooms in twosomes or threesomes.

  The short I would film starts with Hunter. With sympathy instead of judgment, he would move close and look into my eyes. I’d be scared but brave too, and I’d reveal myself. My vulnerability, instead of scaring him away, would draw him to me. We would do another take from the beginning for a safety, just to make sure we captured the moment, and then move onto the next scene.

  I paste the catalog pages on my wall.

  A couple makes out on the teacher’s desk, the guy’s pants around his knees, the girl straddling him and pulling at his tie. Other pages depict college protesters holding signs that say things like, “No glove, no love!” and “Yes on Proposition 69!”

  In the film studies section, a naked guy covers his genitals with a film reel. Men lay around without shirts, and one flips off a handheld video camera. The movie being shot depicts a love triangle between a blond girl and two guys, possibly twins. I put up all the pictures from this section, even the ones where the people are fully dressed.

  After I confess to Hunter, he’d put his hand on my shoulder, or in an alternate take, gently touch my cheek, and I’d smile with tears in my eyes because he’d actually see me.

  I use my forearm to smooth out the pages against the wall, careful to force out any air bubbles.

  In the last series of pages from the catalog, three naked women play in a fountain and men play naked football in front of hedges. The advertisement near my apartment is from this last football series, only the photo for the billboard was taken before the models lost their clothes.

  I step back and admire my covered wall: my fantasy college experience. Loo said Matthew Weber, the founder of BP, had dropped out of college and that he fetishizes collegiate life. She called him pathetic, which means I’m pathetic too.

  Even if Hunter understood, I doubt I’d feel any better. My life isn’t a movie. If he touched my cheek, I’d find the intimacy awkward and uncomfortable and recoil. He’d feel rejected, and in the days to come, I’d do my best to avoid him. He’s gay, good-looking, and black. I’m a fool for thinking we have some kind of friendship. He’s been nice because that’s his job as a greeter.

  My CELLPHONE signals a received text message.

  I grab it, thinking it might be Hunter, even though he doesn’t have my number.

  The TEXT MESSAGE is from Shirin: “Passive aggressive is still aggressive. Mindy misses you. Whatever. Happy New Year’s.” I forgot. It will be New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Mindy invited me to a party, but I never responded.

  I type “F U” but don’t send it.

  I’ve talked to Shirin a few times since I moved out but not recently. What’s the point? She lives on the West Coast with her new boyfriend. Sometimes we talk movies when she’s killing time in traffic. She’s bubbly and charming, and I like her despite myself. When I hang up, I remember what she did to me and how much I still don’t like her. Why the fuck should I forgive her just so we can make small talk when she doesn’t have anything better to do?

  I want to talk to her about Hunter, the way I gushed to her about Bobby, back when I was in the residence hall, and she and I were best friends, but we’ll never be close again, and my time for crushes has long passed.

  5.4

  I spend New Year’s alone, wishing everyone would shut the hell up. This year will be different. I’ll be friends with Loo and Hunter, have a sex life, and be loved. Maybe I’ll get back into film. I have to do something other than making coffee. I want my numb depression back. This desire and longing aren't as painful as grief, not even close, but it’s still worse than melancholic apathy. It’s amazing how many ways a soul can be in pain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fun and Games Part One

  With the new fashion season, the posters at Brief Pose change to a tropical look, like the poster I had in my old room when I almost downed those pills. In the entryway, Hunter flips through the new Spring Break edition of the BP catalog and ignores the customers walking in. The place seems even busier than normal. On the front cover, a male model stands on a beach.

  I try to look at the catalog with him.

  He blocks me. “Hey! What’s up?” He usually says this to everyone walking in. It’s either that or, “Hey. How’s it going?” He holds the catalog to his chest. “Tell me, do you want to see this for the girls, or the guys?”

  I shrug.

  “Freak.” He’s teasing. Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all.

  “You think you have me pegged.”

  “Yeah, totally, you should totally change your name to Open Book. You've said like two things about yourself the whole time I've known you.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. My pulse quickens. I try to act comfortable.

  “Any more dirt on Marshall?”

  “He was wearing lipstick,” I offer. I often talk about Marshall to have something to say.

  “You're shitting me.” He tries to get a better look at Marshall through the front door.

  “It was his anniversary. He does it every year around this time.”

  “Where are the men in white when you need them?”

  I immediately feel guilty for laughing.

  “He's not that bad,” I say. “Marshall is actually... I feel like I’m giving you the wrong impression.”

  “If you say so.”

  I consciously swallow. I can make friends. I’m the one holding myself back. New year, new beginnings. I need to get out of my own way.

  “Hey, you wanna come over sometime?”

  “Really?”

  “We could watch a movie or...”

  Hunter looks over his shoulder as if someone called his name. I didn’t hear anything. “Dad?” Is he joking?

  He pulls his hand away.

  “Look,” he says to me, “I've been meaning to tell you, we can't hang out anymore.”

  “What?”

  “You come here every day. People might get the wrong idea.”

  “What?” He’s exaggerating. I don’t come here every day. “Is this about Marshall? It's just, I get where he's coming from. I lost my family too and...”

  Hunter glances over his shoulder again, not listening to me.

  He pushes me away.

  “Back off homo!”

  He smiles at the next person coming in and says, “Hey. How’s it going?”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped and go further inside. A display shows off the new catalogs by the sales counter.

  I shake my head. What did I do wrong? Something must have pissed him off, but what?

  I grab a catalog.

  The FRONT COVER:

  DAN, a sales associate from a BP somewhere in Middle America, stands on a beach in his underwear in his first fashion shoot. “Adults only!” This one can’t be as good as the college theme. It’s just some fantasy tropical getaway, but I’m still dying to see inside.

  “Attachment leads to suffering,” Tara says.

  I asked if I can use a dressing room

  She leads the way. For much of my life I imagined, once I saved enough money, I would go with Mindy and Shirin to Hawaii or some other tropical paradise.

  Tara unlocks the dressing room and puts a “#1” plast
ic card on the knob. My one item is the catalog. She must think I’m gonna jack off. Considering our first meeting, she can’t complain. At least I’ll be in a dressing room.

  The small space has a bench, a picture of a shirtless college-age guy in jeans, and a series of hooks to hang up clothing.

  I sit and rip off the shrink wrap. That catalog smell doesn’t disappoint; it’s intoxicating. It’s even better than before, or at least stronger. Fuck Hunter and his perfect smile. I don’t need him. It might be my imagination, but the scent seems to rub off on my skin.

  I’m accustomed to the old catalog, fantasizing about sex on the teacher’s desk, wrestling in the dorm rooms with the girls, showering with the guys in the locker room, etc. Now a whole new world is here to explore.

  I flip the catalog open, take my time, and savor each page. You only get one chance to see something for the first time. I run my fingertips along the paper. The pages depict models on a beach in front of a tropical bungalow. Like the first catalog, the models pose so there's no frontal male nudity.

  My aspirational paradise poster, the one I had for so long, is now trash. I’ll never be able to save up enough to take a vacation, not while living in the city. Living vicariously in these pages will have to be enough.

  I sniff the catalog again and want to rub the scent on my chest. Why not? I’m alone in here. No one will see.

  I shift my feet as I lean forward to take off my shirt, and it sounds like my shoes rub against sandpaper.

  A thin layer of sand has coated the floor.

  Sand blows in from under a door I’m sure wasn’t there before.

  I try the doorknob, expecting it to be locked.

  CLICK.

  The door opens.

  Down a short hallway is a BRIGHT RECTANGLE OF LIGHT. It’s how I imagine the light at the end of the tunnel to look during a near-death experience. I must have had a brain aneurysm.

  The light fades to reveal a tropical beach framed by a doorway. My life has turned into magical realism. In a screenplay, special effects used to be in caps. Special effects are now so common, caps aren’t necessary anymore.

  I blink, but the hallway and the light don't go away. Movies often use dream sequences to illustrate the state of mind of the characters, but this isn’t a movie. This is my life. I’m really seeing this.