One Life to Lose

by Kris Ripper

  Both of them shook my hand as I headed out, though I had the distinct impression they wanted to hug me instead.

  I would have accepted the hugs.

  If I’d been able to plan the movie we were showing Tuesday, I would have picked a film with some relevance. Perhaps coming-of-age, or a story about redemption.

  What we were actually showing: The Big Lebowski. You might be able to make the argument that The Big Lebowski was about something (though I wouldn’t), but it was certainly not a film I associated with bringing hope to anyone who wasn’t incredibly stoned at the time.

  On a normal night we’d still have made a little money. It was considered a cult classic by a lot of people with disposable income, and we did well on films like that.

  On National Coming Out Day, momentum gathered, slowly, and by that evening we were having a very good day. More surprising than a sudden wave of Coen brothers fans was the fact that so many of them seemed pleased to hear about QYP.

  I’d set up little folded cardboard signs along the outside shelf of the ticket booth, along with posting a few more flyers in the window so that people waiting in line could read them. I expected it to end there, but every third person or so wanted to ask questions about the center, and even more miraculously, very few people seemed impatient with the explanations.

  As a general rule I like to process the line quickly and get everyone into the theater, where they can pick up their food. We serve salads and sandwiches and a few basic hot foods, like nachos and hot dogs and soup. Because it takes a little while longer than the popcorn and candy (which has its own line), I don’t want to hold up the ticket sales. And I have no reason to; unlike both of my parents, I do not treat the booth like an ongoing social hour.

  Yet on that Tuesday I enjoyed talking about QYP and the plans Josh and Keith had for it. Once or twice I mentioned that I would have liked such a place when I was younger, and I got a few knowing nods.

  The 7 p.m. show attracted some familiar faces. It took me about five minutes to realize the group buying could have all been at home at Club Fred’s, which was right around the time I noticed Ed and Alisha approaching the window.

  “I didn’t realize you were coming tonight.”

  “We weren’t, until Tom told us about the fundraiser.”

  It was a fundraiser, I supposed. I hadn’t thought of it like that. “Happy National Coming Out Day.” I passed them their tickets.

  Alisha pushed a little cellophane-wrapped pile of cookies through the small gap in the window. “You too. I made more, but these were the, um, edible ones.”

  Ed smirked; she hit him; he claimed he hadn’t said anything. I thanked her and waved them along.

  More people showed up for the ten o’clock show, as if Fredi had handed out five-dollar bills and bussed them across town. This time the explanations were greeted with less politeness and far more enthusiasm.

  “What a great idea. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of them,” a gorgeous, statuesque woman I vaguely knew from roller derby posters said, handing me a twenty. “Can I give this to you to give to them?”

  I started to explain how donations worked, when I saw someone wave from farther back in the line.

  Josh. Grinning.

  “But,” I continued, “you can feel free to trust it to Josh and Keith for safe keeping. They’re right—there.”

  She giggled, taking her ticket and rejoining the line alongside them, seeming somewhat delighted to have the opportunity to meet the men behind QYP. What had Obie called them? The QYP guys. Yes.

  I could hardly control the pull of a smile when they made it to the window. “Two?”

  “Four, actually. My folks wanted to come, but this is too late. And Keith told them they’d hate the movie.”

  “They would!”

  I took their money—and Josh’s parents’ money—and passed four tickets back. “But with the cut I have to take, it would have made more sense to just give you a donation.”

  “Nah. They’re supporting the theater and the center at the same time. Thanks, Cameron.”

  “Of course.”

  They moved out of the way, and I wrapped up sales for the night, vaguely planning what I’d do to keep myself busy until the movie let out. If I wanted to really stay busy, I could send most of the staff home. More to do, good for payroll. I wasn’t tired, after all.

  And I wanted to see them. Even if only for a moment. I had a small, unobtrusive crush on Josh and Keith. Harmless. The kind of crush you got on people who embodied qualities you admired. They were both so focused, so driven, so hardworking. It wasn’t sexual, I told myself, as I puttered in the booth. It was . . . intellectual. An intellectual crush.

  A tap on my door. I looked up—the booth, of course, was nearly all window, with no place to hide—surprised to see them standing there. The jolt of heat I felt at the sight of them somewhat betrayed that my crush wasn’t entirely intellectual.

  I fumbled the doorknob. “Are you— The movie already began—” It was exactly thirteen minutes in, my monitor informed me.

  “We aren’t really here for the movie,” Josh said.

  Recognition dawned. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I won’t have a check for you until—”

  “We aren’t here for a check, either.” This grin was crooked, lifting higher on the left side. Josh had a strong jaw, which made his mischievous, playful smile even more attractive. “Thank you so much for doing this, Cameron. We appreciate it.”

  “You two are doing all the hard work.” I stepped out of the booth, which seemed less awkward than staying inside it and speaking to them through the doorway. “It’s only a small thing, and next time I’ll get publicity out well in advance, but I think it went well for a spontaneous attempt. How was your barbecue?”

  Keith shrugged. “We managed to give away most of the food, and make some good connections. Not entirely with our target groups, but then again, not necessarily outside them, either. We can’t always know who we’re talking to.”

  “And what they’re getting out of engaging with QYP,” Josh added.

  “I can see that.”

  We stood there, not quite awkwardly. A pause that would, should it become a silence, be awkward, but wasn’t quite yet.

  “I can get you a check later in the week,” I said. “If that’s all right.”

  Josh cleared his throat and glanced at Keith before looking back at me. “We’d like to take you to dinner. Whenever is convenient for you, though it will have to be around this time of day, after we close.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to. I figured I’d just drop the check by the center.” I’d counted on using it as an excuse to visit again.

  “Or on Sunday,” he continued, ignoring my equivocation. “If ten is too late. But we’d . . . really like to take you to dinner, Cameron.”

  Keith shifted, not quite nudging him. “Unless you aren’t interested.”

  Interested? I swallowed, resisting the gentle pressure at the edges of my vision to extract all color. No. I didn’t want to lose their eyes. Especially not right now, when both of them seemed slightly nervous. As if they were asking me out on a date, not a thank-you dinner.

  “Oh, no, ten is—ten is fine.” I pictured the schedule. “I really only have Thursday this week, but next week I’ll be free Monday through Wednesday.”

  “Monday would be great,” Keith said. A tentative smile in my direction. “It’s a date, then. Do you want to meet up at the Grill?”

  The San Marcos Grill was a seafood restaurant perched at the edge of the Harbor District, overlooking the bay. It had been renovated about five years before, earning a title as the fanciest restaurant in La Vista. Top of the list for romantic dinners.

  I swallowed so loudly that even over the ambient sounds of the theater around us, they must have heard it. “I— That would be— Of course, that sounds fine. At ten?”

  “Let’s plan on ten, but I’ll confirm it once I make the reservation.”

  Reservation. I’d
gone on exactly three dates requiring reservations, and two were in high school, with young women I’d playfully courted. Young women who’d known that it was all in fun.

  Surely this must be as well. My pounding heart—indicating excitement more than anxiety—notwithstanding.

  “Thank you.” My voice sounded bizarrely formal to my ears. “I look forward to it. But you’re missing the movie.”

  Josh laughed. “Keith hates this movie. With a passion.”

  “Because it’s ridiculous and I don’t care about any of the characters. I understand watching it the first time, but how can so many people continue to enjoy it? The crime plot is a joke. And the rest of it is absurd.”

  Josh allowed his knuckles to brush across Keith’s. I shouldn’t watch such things when we were this close together.

  “I think it’s cute how much you hate The Big Lebowski.”

  Keith shot an unimpressed glare at him. “Glad I could entertain you. Anyway, Cameron, thanks again. And we’ll see you on Saturday for His Girl Friday.”

  “And Monday for dinner.”

  Their habit of finishing one another’s sentences and adding thoughts on the end should have been annoying, except that somehow they did it without seeming codependent. Each of them embellished on the other’s ideas without highlighting any previous gaps or flaws, additions without any notion of absence being compensated for.

  Or maybe I was inclined to find it charming because they charmed me.

  “I look forward to Saturday,” I said, still too stiffly.

  “So do we. Bye, Cameron.” Both of them smiled and backed toward the door.

  I waved, uncertainly. I disliked feeling so off-footed around them, but on the other hand there was something refreshing about it, something surprising. I spoke to people all day long and rarely felt that stirring of newness that theoretically accompanied such frequent interactions with strangers. When I wanted to be intrigued, or challenged, I turned to films, books, art, poetry. Those were the spaces in my life that made me consider new angles, or inspired me to form new thoughts.

  I felt a nagging sort of hunger to spend more time with Keith and Josh, and despite how little I cared to admit it, part of me wished that this playful date was something else.

  Far more in need of a distraction than I had been before, I offered early offs to the two teenagers who were running concessions, and they eagerly accepted.

  Good. Closing concessions entirely on my own would give me something to focus on so I would think less about Monday and the date that wasn’t.

  Text messaging was a medium I hadn’t had much cause to explore. Ed liked to text me, generally if he had a question I could answer, or if he wanted to stop by and was making sure I’d be around. I’d had a boyfriend, early in the texting age, who’d loved it, though I’d found the practice tedious. That was before touch screens or QWERTY keyboards.

  Still, it wasn’t something I did daily. Or initiated.

  At nine thirty Friday night my phone made its odd little sound to indicate a message had arrived. Since it was rare, the sound startled me, registering below the consistent tide of ticket-purchasers requesting tickets and myself citing prices. (The magic of the five-dollar ticket is in its simplicity: my cash customers never needed me to do the math.)

  When I had a spare moment, I woke my phone from its usually peaceful slumber.

  Unknown number: Reservation set for 10:30 Monday. Still okay?

  As I stared at it, a second message came through.

  Unknown number: This is Keith. Is that obvious?

  Unknown number: I probably should have led with that.

  Unknown number: Do you text? I guess I’ll call if I don’t hear from you.

  Right, yes, I should reply. I hit Reply and stared for a long moment at the fresh message.

  Cameron: I text. And yes, that works perfectly.

  There. Very straightforward. The message ding went off again as I was saving his phone number in my contacts.

  Keith: Cool.

  Keith: We’re at Club Fred’s. Josh is locked in a weird debate about gun control with a straight couple. (?)

  Keith: I shouldn’t say that. One or both of them might be queer and just dating straight.

  Keith: Or trans.

  Keith: I might be prejudiced against straight people.

  Keith: Not prejudiced. But it’s weird to see them in “our” space, if that makes sense.

  Keith: Oh my god, are you staring at your phone totally horrified right now? Sorry, I’ll shut up.

  Cameron: Not at all. Your fingers are much faster than mine.

  Well. That sounded dirty, when I read it aloud in my head.

  Keith: :-) I text kind of a lot.

  Keith: Sometimes I text Josh from the office at the center. When he’s like thirty feet away.

  Keith: Just for fun.

  I wanted to say something else, to keep the conversation going, but I couldn’t think of anything, and my grasp of emojis didn’t leave me confident enough to use one.

  Keith: What are you doing right now?

  Keith: That wasn’t a come-on. Even though it sort of sounded like it was.

  Keith: Or maybe it didn’t and I made it weird.

  Cameron: Not at all. I just wrapped up sales for the final show of the night. Now I’ll go clean the arcade and help out with concessions.

  Keith: When I was a kid I wanted to work at the Rhein. I thought it’d be fun to see movies all the time. I didn’t think that much about the actual work that went into it. ;-)

  Cameron: It’s not hard. Sometimes I miss the days when I was more of an employee and less of an owner.

  Of course, had I been an employee, I likely wouldn’t have been able to justify sitting in the booth texting.

  Keith: Was it hard to take over? Or did you feel like you’d kind of been groomed all your life to do it?

  I pondered that one, tapping the desk. It wasn’t nearly that simple, that dialectical, but texting did not seem like a format conducive to conversational nuance.

  Cameron: Both. I’d certainly been groomed. But the circumstances were sudden, and unexpected.

  Keith: I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t completely think it out before hitting Send.

  Cameron: No need to apologize.

  After a moment, and because that felt incomplete, I tried again.

  Cameron: I feel fortunate to have had two incredible, happy, beautiful parents for twenty-four years. I miss them, of course, but I count myself blessed to have known them in the first place.

  All true. No need to mention that sometimes I still cried, bitterly, because they’d been taken from me before I was ready.

  Keith: Stop making me teary at Club Fred’s.

  Keith: I really like you.

  Keith: That’s the beer talking.

  Keith: No, it’s not.

  Keith: Josh is mocking me so hard right now.

  I reread the messages, not sure what to make of them.

  Cameron: Did he win the gun-control argument?

  Keith: No, but he did solve the mystery of the straight people at CF’s.

  Keith: Bachelor party for a gay friend.

  Keith: Whew. Not that straight people aren’t allowed, or anything. Just that they were . . . so straight. He looked nervous, and she gawked around at everyone like she was hoping a couple of guys would drop their pants and start humping right there in front of her.

  Keith: That’s . . . really not charitable.

  Keith: It’s the beer talking.

  Keith: Josh says it really isn’t. Stop reading over my shoulder!

  Keith: I mean, I have straight friends who come in here and have a really good time and don’t act like they’re at a zoo, interacting with wild beasts.

  Keith: Now he says actually that’s a good description.

  I could practically hear their banter, practically see Josh’s teasing smirk, and Keith’s answering blush.

  Cameron: Sounds like you’re having a good
night.

  Keith: Fridays are good. One more day of work, capped off with the film series tomorrow night, and a day off on Sunday.

  And Monday. Our dinner. Date. Thank-you date? Whatever it was sent my pulse a notch quicker.

  Cameron: I look forward to His Girl Friday. I can’t do italics?

  Keith: :-P No italics. But I knew you meant them.

  Keith: I haven’t seen it. Josh said I’ll love it, though.

  Cameron: I read once that the script was 180 pages long, which meant they shot roughly one page for every thirty seconds of the film. I can’t even imagine how much they had to memorize to pull that off.

  Keith: How long are normal scripts?

  Cameron: Right around a hundred pages.

  Keith: Wow. So like . . . eighty extra pages of talking?

  Cameron: Talking very quickly, and talking over one another. It will make more sense to you once you watch it.

  Keith: I’m excited.

  It seemed like our conversation had reached a natural conclusion. When he didn’t text again, I finished closing down the booth, then went on with the rest of my evening. Texting wasn’t so bad, providing I was interested enough in the other person to overcome the inconvenience of the medium. I was actually happy he’d initiated it. He might again, and I wouldn’t dread it, because it had been fun.

  The movie let out, I locked up, and went next door and upstairs to the blissful quiet of my apartment.

  The light on my phone was flashing. I’d received messages without hearing the sound.

  Keith: Fun talking to you, Cameron. You’re a good text buddy.

  Keith: Josh is mocking me again, but text buddies are totally a thing.

  Keith: Not everyone is a good text buddy.

  Keith: Are you going on the Ghost Tour? We go every year.

  Keith: Oh my god, you’re probably super busy and I’m like spamming your phone.

  Keith: I’ll shut up now, future you, who’ll get all these messages at once and worry that you’ve opened a can of crazy and I can’t be contained!

  There was a pause in the messages long enough for my phone to have registered a time stamp that was about twenty minutes later.