by Homes, A. M.
I smile. “He’s a good kid.”
And then the man bends and pointedly asks Ricardo, “Where’s your other daddy?”
Ricardo looks confused.
“What are you doing?” I ask the guy, immediately protective of Ricardo.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend, I just assumed you were from a two-daddy family; usually straight families get the white kids and they give the leftovers to the queers.”
I pin the guy to a shelf. “You have no idea what you’re talking about; you don’t even have a clue.” I’ve got a fiery knot in my gut, and what I really want to do is punch the guy in the nose. All my life I’ve never punched anyone in the nose, but now would be the perfect moment.
“My father’s dead,” Ricardo says, frightened.
Realizing my behavior is actually freaking Ricardo out, I let go of the guy.
“Cocksucker,” the guy says, shaking me off.
I flip him the bird—another thing I haven’t done in years. Disgusted, the guy walks away.
“What does that mean?” Ricardo asks, mimicking the gesture.
“Please don’t do that,” I say quickly.
“You just did it,” he says.
“I know, but I shouldn’t have. It’s the kind of thing that can get a fella in a lot of trouble.” We go to the register, and while the clerk rings things up, I grab a couple of glow sticks from the bin at the counter, the kind you keep in your glove compartment for emergencies. I buy one for myself and one for the kid—spending nervous energy.
“So what does it really mean?” Ricardo asks as we’re leaving the store.
“What does what mean?”
“That thing I’m not supposed to do again.”
“It just means a person is very frustrated.…”
“I was hoping it was like sign language or like an ancient Indian gesture,” Ricardo says.
When we’re outside, I snap the light sticks; they spring to life, glowing like alien sabers against the waning afternoon light.
“Cool,” Ricardo says.
I hand him one. We pretend to duel—it’s fun. I haven’t played like that in…forever.
And later, when I drop him off at his aunt’s house, I say, “Hey, I’m sorry about what happened in the hardware store.”
Ricardo shrugs. “It’s cool,” he says. “You protected me.” And then he gives me a kind of a hug, like how maybe he once saw a kid on a TV show hug a grown-up, or like something from Two and a Half Men that would be punctuated by a guffaw from the laugh track. “Let’s do it again soon,” he says, exiting.
That evening, while looking for something, I find myself in the basement. It’s like a multigenerational storehouse of stuff, skis, golf clubs, tennis racquets, sprinklers, old garden hoses, boxes of glass Mason jars, a good amount of which I suspect was left here by the previous owners and somehow memorialized by George and Jane as ephemera from another era.
I decide to get rid of it all.
Four hours later, with a dozen giant green plastic bags dragged to the curb and an overflowing blue recycle bin, I feel as though I’ve mucked out a stall. Someone had to do it.
Why did George have four sets of golf clubs? Why were there tennis racquets galore and skis so long, bindings and boots so old, all of it caked with a kind of crusty residue, perhaps toxic?
Finished and filled with a master’s sense of virtue, I microwave myself a late dinner and call Nate.
“How was Ricardo?” he asks.
“Good. I accidentally taught him to flip the bird.”
“Accidentally?”
I explain, and Nate says, “Sounds like you’re off to a good start.”
“In the long run I like to think it’s a minor offense.” I pause. “I never know what to tell you or not—about your father.”
“Yeah,” Nate says, not exactly giving me a clue, “it’s hard to know.”
“The place where he’s been is closing.”
“What kind of a place is it?”
“Therapeutic,” I say, for lack of a better word.
“Do you know what he used to do with me?” Nate asks. “He’d turn me upside down and swing me around. It was half fun, half terrifying; sometimes he would crash me into things, like a table, chairs, or a wall. I didn’t know if he just got so distracted or if he really had no idea, but it was a fine line. It might have been different if I was another kid—another kid might have liked it more.”
“Or less,” I say. “It sounds like you were a pretty good sport about it. Why take on what some other kids would have tolerated? It’s okay to say it scared you, or that you just hated it for whatever reason.”
“I always thought he wanted me to be another kid, he thought I was a wuss.” Nate pauses. “Are you eating while we’re talking?”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m starving; somehow I didn’t eat with Ricardo. I was setting an example about moderation, and then, when I got home, I went on a tear and cleaned out the whole basement. There was so much shit down there.”
Nate gets very quiet. Worse than quiet—serious. “Like what?”
“Skis, tennis racquets, boxes of old glass jars…”
“My award-winning science experiment on remaking antibiotics from home-grown sources such as ginger, horseradish, mustard, and nasturtiums?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, worriedly remembering that some of the jars did in fact have dirt and something growing inside—I thought it was simply mold…. “It was just a lot of junk, your dad’s old golf clubs.”
“And my clubs?” Nate asks.
“Which ones are yours?” I quiz, likely sounding as nervous as I am.
“Mine were in a wheely plaid bag, and I have a second set as well with blue knit toppers.”
“You know what,” I say, stumbling, knowing full well they’re in a bag at the curb, “I’ll take a look, I’ll double-check on that, just to be sure.”
“Damn it,” Nate says, “can’t you leave anything alone? Do you have to put your mark on everything? It’s not your stuff. It’s my house—that’s where I live…. Are you going to make it so I don’t have a home, so there’s no place left to go?”
“Nate,” I venture, trying to repair what’s been done. “Nate…”
“No. I have been so fucking calm, so goddamned decent through this whole thing—I think I gave you the wrong impression. You fucked my mother, my father killed my mother, and now you’re in charge of me? I am not going down this road—I am not going to be another one of you. I will not let you drag me down.” And he hangs up.
I am taken aback—not only is he right, but it’s surprising that this moment hasn’t come sooner. I run down to the curb and reclaim his golf clubs along with any other equipment that looks reasonably current, and “reinstall” the goods in the basement in what I hope is a user-friendly sort of way.
A couple of hours later, Nate sends me an e-mail.
“Apologies—one of the guys gave me some of his medication telling me it would help me concentrate and I think I had a bad reaction. P.S. My school may call you about the broken desk but I can assure you that was really an accident—it had been in precarious condition from the year before when Billy butthead landed on it during an attempt to fly.”
I write back: “No worries, your point well taken. Your clubs and all else—safe and sound.”
Tuesday morning, just after eight, the phone rings.
“There’s someplace I need you to go with me,” Cheryl says.
“What happened to ‘hi, hello, how are you’?”
“Is that necessary?” she says. “I’m trying to ask you for a favor.”
“It’s customary,” I say. “It’s the way most things begin. Where is it you’d like to go?”
“Is that important? Isn’t it enough just that I’m asking you to go?”
I wait.
“A club,” she says.
“What about your husband, can’t you get him to take you?”
“I can’t even get him to go to a movie. So—will
you go?”
“What is it?”
“Like-minded people?” she suggests.
“A political group?”
“Not exactly, more like a social gathering.”
“When is it?”
“Tonight.”
“This evening?”
“Like you’re so busy? It’s eight to eleven—I figure to go around nine.”
“Does it have a name?”
She sighs. “It’s a friends-and-neighbors party. Do you want me to pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you there. Have you got an address?”
“It’s at the laser-tag place called Night Vision, in the mini-mall.…”
“The one with the CVS?”
“That’s the one. Can we meet in the parking lot?”
“Sure,” I say. “What’s the dress code?”
“Casual,” she says.
Sitting in the car outside of CVS, waiting, I consider telling Cheryl about the woman from the A&P. I’m not sure why I feel guilty about letting the grocery-store woman “service” me—like I’m somehow cheating on a woman who is cheating on her husband—or why I feel compelled to tell all to a woman who I have absolutely no relationship or commitment to, and yet I am equally or more uncomfortable keeping it to myself. I am lost in this peculiar reverie about confession when she taps on my car window—scaring the hell out of me.
I get out. “I’m not usually up and out at this hour,” I say, half kidding—I used to like to go and listen to jazz in the evenings when I lived in New York.
“I went to the grocery store to kill time,” she says, somewhat nervous. “I spent a hundred seventy-eight dollars. I’m assuming the perishables will be fine for a couple of hours.”
“As long as you didn’t buy anything melty.”
“Meat and milk,” she says.
“You changed your hair,” I say, realizing that every time I see her she looks different. Today it’s in more of a wedge, like Dorothy Hamill, the ice-skater.
“It’s a wig,” she says.
As we’re crossing the parking lot, I begin, “In the interest of full disclosure.…”
“Don’t,” she says, and I stop. “Is it really important?” she then asks.
“Not really,” I say.
“It can wait,” she says, half a question.
I nod—it can.
“I’m a little nervous,” she says.
“What about?”
“I’ve never been to one of these things before.” She pauses. “In the interest of full disclosure,” she says, almost mocking me, “I probably should have told you over the phone, but…”
“What?”
“I’m not sure if everyone will be clothed,” she says, not missing a beat.
“What?” I stop; a car pulling in brushes past me, nearly taking me down.
“I’m just saying…”
“That it’s, like, a nudist party? And somehow you didn’t want to tell me until now?”
“I didn’t want you to be nervous,” she lies.
“You didn’t want me to say no.”
She says nothing.
“Is nudity required?” I ask.
“Optional.”
“Are you going to get naked?” I ask.
She shrugs. “First I want to see what it’s like.”
There’s a handwritten sign taped to the door—“Closed for Private Party.” A table in front of the ticket booth is decorated with a banner that reads “Welcome OurFriendsandNeighbors.org.”
“May I help you?” a guy in polo shirt and khakis asks.
“I signed up for the event,” Cheryl says.
“May I have your name?”
“Cheryl Stevens.”
He finds her name on the list, smiles, and says, “And I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“Is that all right?”
“Of course, the more the merrier,” he says, handing me forms to fill out.
“We are a private membership club—ten dollars to join and thirty for tonight’s event.” I take the papers.
“While you’re working on those, I’ll go over the parameters and give you some information on our upcoming potluck.”
Working on the form, I initially skip the name and address parts and fill out my e-mail and cell-phone number.
The man in the polo shirt notices the blanks.
“Not sure who you want to be tonight?” he asks.
I say nothing.
“Come as yourself,” he says, “it keeps things simple. Once, we had a guy who bumped his head at a roller rink, and it took three days to figure out who he was.”
I leave the blanks open.
“Okay, the parameters…As you know, this is a public facility that we’ve rented for the occasion, so we want to reiterate that, while we are a clothing-optional gathering, it’s not a free-for-all,” he says, winking. “And…” He pauses. “This one we take seriously: no means no. We’re rigorous about that. We may be a private club, but there’s basic mutual respect—take your lead from the ladies.” And then he looks up at me. “Our privacy statement—we are highly confidential—I urge you to use first names only. We do not sell, give, or tell any of our membership list or use it for anything other than to provide discreet invitations to our events.”
I nod.
“Have you ever played laser tag before?”
“Nope,” we both say.
“There are small lockers just inside the entryway for any personal items, and referees who will review the rules of the game and instruct you on use of the vests and the guns. It’s open bar—your thirty dollars covers that—and if you need to take a rest, there are a few private rooms to the back of the facility: make a left in front of the mirrored mountain. We also have private parties every other week—that’s when the fun stuff happens, but it’s behind closed doors, private houses, invitation only. Tonight is more of a meet-and-greet, a good opportunity to get to know us and have us get to know you.” He smiles. “How did you hear of us?”
“A woman in my Pilates class kept saying she thought I was ripe for adventure and hinting at something.”
“Was it Doreen?”
“It was. How did you know?”
“My wife,” the guy says happily. “She’s not here tonight—the little one had an ear infection. I’ll tell her you were here; she’ll be thrilled. We always need more women. Lots of guys, never enough girls.” He laughs. “But that’s just my perspective.”
As we’re walking down the black-lit hallway into the “chamber,” Cheryl says, “I took my son here for a couple of birthday parties—he liked it.”
“You brought him here?”
“Not this event,” she says, “this place. What Doreen told me is that once a month they rent it out—they pay double the asking rate and provide their own staff. The volunteer decorating team comes in midafternoon and makes some special changes.
“I think we should suit up in laser gear,” she says. “It’ll help us relax and blend in.”
We don the outfit—a chest pack with gun attached on a kind of stretchy leash. One of the referees explains, “Your gun won’t fire for fifteen seconds after you’ve been hit—a hit in effect turns you off. Twenty-five hits and you’re off for five minutes.” He goes on to illustrate how you can use the mirrors to ricochet a shot towards someone—so you don’t always have to stalk your prey. “You guys are good to go. Just remember, no running, no pushing.”
As we’re heading in, we pass the bar, where a woman in a yellow sports bra with laser gear on top is drinking white wine from a paper cup while two shirtless men, one with a shaved chest, chug an assortment of hard and soft beverages.
I am expecting both more and less. I have in my mind’s eye images from 1970s sex clubs where half-bald or toupeed men fondle sexually liberated women right, left, and center. By comparison, this seems hairier, fleshier, and more juvenile—it may be the laser tag that brings it down. Here sweaty men run around in BVDs with toy guns, in a cracked reenact
ment of games played at home when they were nine, ten, and eleven, but now the games have been pushed to a newly awkward edge. The men range from late thirties to mid-fifties, and their behavior is made creepier by a plethora of body hair, fat, and the occasional tattoo. Not that I came here as a critic, but I am amazed at how unattractive the people are, and how unashamed—one somehow thinks of only those who have the body to do it as exposing themselves like this. And, further, it would seem as though the men gave no forethought to the idea that they’d be running around half naked—they’ve made no effort in the fashion department and are wearing the most standard white BVDs and semi-saggy boxers, their plump junk visibly flipping from side to side as they scurry around shooting at each other. The women have tried a little harder. Some of them wear arty lingerie or some version of hooker-hostess costumes; others look like they’re about to take off on a bike ride—sports bras and tight shorts, one with the ass cheeks cut away. All of it reads like porn gone wrong and gives me a new appreciation for the professionals versus the amateurs.
“I see someone I know,” Cheryl says.
“Where?”
“Over there, at the three o’clock position, the guy and his wife.”
I look. At the two-thirty spot I see a group of men watching two women kiss. I’ve never entirely understood why men like watching two women, or having two women at once. To me it just seems potentially confusing: four breasts, two whoosits, a lot of work to do…. I imagine blacking out from overload.
“I remember hearing about them,” Cheryl says.
“Hearing what?”
“Something like this—that they did things like this—but I didn’t think it was true. I thought I was the only one.”
“Clearly there’s never just one—there’s always some sort of a need.”
At nine-thirty the referees announce a five-minute break, to be followed by a round of strip tag—every time you’re hit you have to take something off. Whoopee!
I head for the bar, stopping en route to peek into the private rooms. It’s a lot of what we used to call dry humping—but would I do it in a mini-mall with people from the “neighborhood”?
I hug the bar, drinking more than usual. Topless women with laser packs make themselves wine spritzers while men run around with semi-stiffies—and I can’t tell what’s got them more jazzed, the naked girls or the thrill of the game.