The U-Haul Diary

by K. B. Draper

  “You know, amazingly I don’t have to go anymore. Go ahead,” I said.

  Loren stepped closer. Well, more like leaned closer since we were already practically standing on top of each other.

  “What? You don’t feel close enough to me to go to the bathroom in front of me?” she asked as she unbuttoned my jeans and slid her hand down the inside of my underwear.

  “I, I, I’mmm actually feeling really close to you right now,” I managed to say.

  Three minutes later, I was hovering over the toilet having followed Loren’s lead and silently chanting to my pee stream, please miss my underwear. Please miss my underwear. I exited the stall dry and on a sex high until I met the leering eyes of the drunk football women still waiting in line. I shot them an “I’m sorry” look, lowered my head, and moved to the sink. As I passed, I heard one of the women mumble, “About fucking time.” Loren was bouncing behind me and must have heard the comment too because as I turned on the water I heard her proclaim in her typical “I don’t care what you think” style, “That’s right, bit-ch-es, at least someone’s scoring in this stadium today!”

  Even though I’d only completed two seconds out of the sixty-second rule of hand washing, I shut off the water, grabbed a paper towel, and bolted out of the restroom. I looked right, then left, for the concession stand, needing to drown my embarrassment with the biggest beer they serve. Ten minutes later, my loan application was approved for the stupidly expensive beer. I was halfway through it when I realized I’d lost Loren during my haste to exit the bathroom. I looked around and saw her on the phone with her back to me. I downed the rest of my beer and went back for two more. While waiting in line, my buzz and the realization hit me. I just had sex in the ASTRODOME!

  Loren was still talking on the phone when I walked up behind her and heard, “I’m just on a short trip with a friend …” pause, “No one important …” pause, “ …of course I miss you. I love you …” pause, “ … I’ll get back and see you as quick as I can …” pause, “… I’ve got to go. I love you, baby. I’ll call you later.” Since I knew she didn’t have a baby and I was sure it wasn’t her mother or her dog on the phone, that left only one option, Whitney. So much for the buzz. I was instantly sober. She turned, saw me, and her smile faltered for just a second while she tried to read my expression to determine whether I heard her conversation or not. I let her suffer for a second then simply said, “Got you a beer. You want to go back down to our seats?” Thinking she had gotten away with it, she grabbed her beer and gave me a big smile and a quick kiss.

  With only one day left until we went home, I remained seemingly affectionate and oblivious to her little indiscretion while simultaneously attempting to avoid her as much as possible. At one point, I saw her heading toward the front door so I quickly U-turned and went toward the back door. I cut through the living room and was just reaching for the doorknob when my grandfather’s voice came from the corner, “Your soul mate is looking for you.”

  I stopped in my tracks and replayed what I thought I heard. “Your soul mate is looking for you.” Nah, there was no way my grandfather just called Loren my “soul mate.” He probably said a word that sounded like soul mate like ... mulmate, towel gate … foul date … COLGATE. That’s it, Colgate. My toothpaste is looking for me. I have been neglecting my gums lately ... I haven’t flossed in like forever. Great, besides my new gum disease fears, I started to panic on two completely different levels: One, my grandfather knows I sleep with women and two, he thinks LOREN IS MY SOUL MATE. My soul mate. What the hell am I doing with her? Obvious answer to that question: See previous reason for the new soap holder in the bathroom. But that wasn’t a good reason. Hmm, maybe good wasn’t the right word … a fulfilling reason? I turned to my grandfather. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

  The next day, Loren and I made the drive back in record time. I pulled in the drive, and no sooner had I put the car in park than she started setting up her exit strategy and making excuses why she needed to get home as soon as possible so she could unpack, do laundry, pick up her dogs—conveniently leaving out the get-home-and-see-Whitney part.

  I didn’t protest because this time I knew she wouldn’t be back, at least not until she needed me again.

  I kissed her good-bye and stole a glance at the compass around her neck. I knew I would never be her magnetic north or even her North Pole kind of north but not really north, probably not even her 40 degrees off like Iceland kind of north.

  I unlocked the house and carried in my bags, saw the light blinking on the answering machine, and remembered Stacy’s message that I had shut the door on days earlier. I walked over and hit the playback button. “Hey, I need to talk to you … pick up. Fine. I just wanted to tell you that when I got home this morning, Loren was here and she was coming out of Alexis’s bedroom. Apparently, they went to the State Fair together yesterday and came home and fucked each other all night. Just thought you should know. Call me back.”

  I deleted the message and sank into the couch while I let Stacy’s words play back slowly in my head. Loren had slept with my nemesis the night before she left with me to see my grandparents. My nemesis had now slept with another one of my girlfriends.

  I took a long, deep, steadying breath. “Yeah, well, we did it at the Astrodome.”

  Young love is innocent and kind.

  Or sometimes it’s just them.

  Jordyn August 1997–April 1998

  “Jesus Christ is gay!” Or at least that’s what his boyfriend just declared as I escorted him out of the bar. This little bit of information couldn’t have come at a better time because I was in a rather dejected state of mind.

  “Oh, really?” I responded to the overly friendly and overly intoxicated gay man who was proclaiming this little revelation at the top of his lungs. “If that’s the case, do you think your boyfriend could stop with the miracles for a minute or two and come give you a ride home so I don’t have to take you to jail?”

  He pondered the question only momentarily and decided he would ask. I thought that was a good decision and I thought it would be rather convenient to have Jesus’s phone number so I asked him for the number and made the phone call myself. I found it suspicious that Jesus’s phone number was local, but I called it anyway. I mean, I guess he is supposed to be “everywhere.”

  “Hello?” Jesus answered in a rather high-pitched yet still human-y kind of voice. I thought for sure it would’ve been more booming and echo-y but maybe that’s just what God’s voice sounds like. I mean, Jesus is gay.

  “Hello. I have your boyfriend down here and apparently he’s had one too many Bloody Marys. You think you can come pick him up?” I asked.

  “Oh shit. Where is he? That bitch was supposed to be at PetSmart! Oh, I’m going to kill him.” Is Jesus supposed to cuss? Or break the sixth commandment? Oh well, thou shalt not judge. I gave him directions, even though I thought he should have already known.

  Twenty minutes later, I shut the door to Jesus’s car, which for some reason, I had expected to be a big white Cadillac but instead was a navy ’92 Honda Accord.

  “Okay, be safe. I’d stick to Virgin Marys next time!” I yelled as they pulled off. My mood lifted a little, knowing that if my life continued in its current suck-ish fashion at least I knew that when I die, Heaven will be “fab-u-lous.” Snap.

  I cleared the scene and went back to contemplating whether my recent life-changing decision of quitting my job as a detective to move to the “big city” for a security job was potentially the biggest mistake of my life. There was a lot of big mistake competition; it was currently going head-to-head with the time I decided to wear a maxi-pad, thinking it would stay in the confines of my bathing suit while sliding repeatedly down a Slip-N-Slide. It hadn’t.

  I briefly considered calling Jesus again and asking for some insight. Surely not arresting his boyfriend for Drunk and Disorderly would earn me some heavenly advice. But I also thought I might save the favor just in case I needed it to blackmail my way i
nto heaven if they weighed that “coveting another man’s wife” thing too heavily.

  The rest of my shift was uneventful. I headed home, well actually to Jenny’s house, okay technically to her basement where I was staying, temporarily, after prematurely renting out my house since I hadn’t actually moved to the “big city” yet; I’d only taken employment there. Jenny wasn’t home and I was dying to tell someone that rainbows weren’t just raindrops acting as prisms absorbing white light and reflecting it into a spectrum of colors, but that it was Heaven’s “A gay lives here” notification flag. I went through my lesbian Rolodex. Dawn answered her phone and stated that they were going over to Jordyn’s house and that I should come with them. I considered the invite for half a millisecond because I think Jordyn is sweet, cute, and gay (even though she doesn’t know it yet). I thought I’d be the perfect person to introduce her to her inner lesbian. Since Maggie had gone back to the straight life, I figured I was falling behind on my lesbian recruiting requirement.

  Thirty minutes later, I was at Jordyn’s, freshly showered, with a splash of sexually ambiguous cologne, a cute outfit, and a six-pack of beer—all key components in the recruiting plan. We had a good time. Dawn and Carla both had one of the beers. Jordyn drank two, not enough to let down her straight walls, but I drank the remaining two, just enough for me to chip away at them. Unlike a straight date or when you know someone is gay, asking out someone whose sexual preference is questionable requires a little more tact, strategy, and a clever date disguise. That means a date that doesn’t look like a date, yet would be fun, and gives you the opportunity to get to know each other without the date really knowing you’re getting to know each other.

  My opportunity revealed itself after a few hours when Dawn and Carla began talking about tennis, not one of my better sports but one that could be perfect for my strategy. A casual, fun game of tennis would be great, and if Jordyn needed to correct my stance, my swing, or my grip, that would be all the better for the potential of first physical contact.

  “I like tennis. I’d be game for a round or two, but I’ll warn you, I’m not very good,” I interjected into the conversation.

  Jordyn didn’t bite but Dawn and Carla did, being the physical education majors. The next weekend I found myself sweaty, tired, and going home with a 0 for 15 losing record and a bent racket.

  Two days later, Jordyn and I found ourselves at the same party and we began talking. She was funny and sweet, and I knew she was exactly what anyone would want in a girlfriend. Well, besides the little fact she wasn’t a lesbian. Yet. Undeterred, I began to flirt shamelessly and she responded. We started to hang out, doing casual things at first, and then going to movies and dinners. After about two weeks and feeling comfortable that she was sending a more than “just friends” vibe, I moved in for the first kiss. Our relationship was soon established and, like the first kiss, it was comfortable and familiar, what I’d always believed a relationship should feel like. I trusted her. The fears of my past relationships, the craziness, the cheating, and the lying were nonexistent with her. I began to wonder if I’d found the one I could build a life with and the one that would stick around to live it with me.

  Driving Jordyn home from dinner one night, I asked, “How about we go to the city this weekend? Go to the bar? Spend the night?”

  I wanted to get away for two reasons: I wanted to go to the bar, dance, and really be out and about with Jordyn. And two, Stacy, who was now living in the city, and I had begun to rekindle the friendship part of our relationship after my lesbian nemesis had cheated on her.

  “The bar? What bar?” Jordyn asked.

  “The lesbian bar. We can dance, have fun …” I trailed off as a look of concern came over her face. “What?”

  “I don’t know if I can go to a lesbian bar. What if I run into someone I know?”

  I tried to ignore the warning sirens that began going off in my head. “If they’re in a lesbian bar, then they’re probably lesbians too, or at least accepting of the fact.” Or a swinger and since they scare me too, I didn’t mention that possibility.

  “I don’t think I’m comfortable with the idea.”

  Flashbacks, warning sirens, and Dolly came flooding into my head. “Sugar, if you plant a tater, you’re going to get a tater.” What did that even mean? Little Richard answered for her. “Means girlfriend, you date a straight girl, you’re gonna wake up with a straight girl. ... oooOOOO.”

  “Are you comfortable with us?”

  “Yes, of course. I like being with you. I’m just not really comfortable with everyone knowing just yet.”

  “Not comfortable with a bunch of strangers in a bar knowing? Our friends know …”

  “I know, I know. I just need a little more time to get used to it.”

  We compromised and decided to go to the city for the weekend but skip the bar. I was a little distant, having flashbacks of Maggie and knowing I really didn’t want to replay the gay-today, straight-tomorrow scenario again. Though I really liked Jordyn, this little development made me cautious of feeling too much for her since my heart was already just a bit battered and bruised. Dolly interrupted, “Peachfuzz, remember, you plant—”

  “A tater, you get a tater. I got it!” I said, apparently out loud.

  “What?” Jordyn asked.

  I looked at her. She was smiling at me. Damn it, why does she have to be so cute? Screw my heart. I guess if she breaks it, doctors have made good strides with the whole pacemaker and transplanting thing. “Nothing.”

  I reached over the console of the car to hold her hand as we drove. She leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. Yep, I can definitely do this.

  Two miles later, Jordyn suddenly released my hand. She watched as I passed a diesel truck then reheld my hand. Ahhh, did she just drop my hand so a trucker wouldn’t see her holding my hand?

  “Did you just stop holding my hand as the diesel went by?” I asked.

  “They can see in the windows,” she replied as if that explained her actions.

  “And? The guy eats gas station burritos, has naked lady mud flaps, and showers at truck stops.”

  “I just didn’t think he needed to see us.”

  “Why? You afraid he’s going to call your parents, your preacher, or your first-grade teacher?”

  “I’m just not ready for people to see us holding hands and stuff yet.”

  My heart crashed to the bottom of my stomach. I’d dated an overly attached crazy woman, I’d had my girlfriend leave me for my friend, I’d dated a married lady, I’d dated a big-breasted chia pet, I’d dated an emotionally flippant woman, and now I was dating a baby lesbian.

  What was I going to do? I can’t raise a baby lesbian. I can’t even keep a plant alive. My thoughts went crazy with the possibilities! What if I forgot to feed her? Or I left her on her back too long and she got a flat head? And I’d so be the type of person that would leave her in a hot car with the windows rolled up while I ran in to the convenience store to get a Slurpee. And what could I possibly teach her? I wasn’t good at mentally stimulating activities. I’d be okay with the physically stimulating ones, but what else? Crafts? I especially didn’t know any lesbian crafts. I mean, I guess we could finger paint some rainbows or build a deck, but still. And what kind of worldly advice could I give her? Hmm … don’t date someone that has a boyfriend. Or a husband. Or a girlfriend. Or someone who would fail an inkblot test. Always check a potential partner’s grooming habits. Okay, I guess that’s all solid advice, but what kind of role model could I be? I’m living in Jenny’s basement, seriously doubting my career change and my decision to move to the city. I’m financially wiped out and my life is a mess. And now that I just realized all of that, there’s a good possibility I’m going to end up addicted to anti-depression medication.

  Sigh. I have to break up with her …

  If you love someone, let them go. If they return, they are yours forever.

  If you let them return for a third time, you need to up
your therapy visits and ask for medication ...

  Loren May 1998–June 1998

  It had been ten months since I had left the sheriff’s department and made the transition from detective to private security. It wasn’t getting any easier on my ego, but I was starting to enjoy the benefits of a bigger city. I’d visited the museums, art shows, and plays. And judging by the way my pants fit, I was enjoying the more diverse selection of restaurants, appreciating all the places with more to offer than just drive-thru service or a $6.99 Friday night steak special. I was, however, experiencing these newfound adventures alone, and I missed Jordyn’s big, innocent, always welcoming smile. I stared at the phone, willing my fingers to dial Jordyn’s number so I could tell her I made a huge mistake, I was an idiot for letting her go, and I wanted her to come and see me for the weekend to see if we could repair what I had done. But like the other hundred times before, I hung up before punching in the last digit.

  I headed to work instead, deciding that completing another long and boring day at work would be self-punishing enough. I was in the middle of completing mindless task after mindless task when my boss called me into his office. I figured I wasn’t in trouble because there was nothing going on in the world of security; therefore, there was a significant lack of opportunity for me to screw up. The more likely possibility was that he needed me to be his errand-girl. Inevitably, I’d end up running him to the coffee shop or the shoeshine shop, or to a convenience store for a pack of cigarettes. I did a mental groan before I put on my best ass-kissing smile and entered his office.