The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  My drink was getting a little low—for some perplexing reason. Wink. So, I decided to make myself another. As I got up off the couch, probably a little too fast, I glanced out the window and saw Mrs. Wallace walking down the street. I withdrew a little and continued on to the kitchen.

  “I thought we were friends,” Mrs. Wallace—who by now I was calling Edith—had said the first time I had bumped into her after our party. It made me feel bad. She was my neighbor, and we had gotten friendly, but obviously there would have been no way I could have invited her to the party. Not that one. I had explained that it was actually supposed to be exclusively family and not a big gathering at all, but things just got out of hand. She seemed to buy it at the time, but after a few weeks, things still seemed a little queer between us. I could not help wondering if the Kenworths had opened their big mouths about what they had seen in our backyard that night. That was the second snag in our party. I hoped Edith and I could still be friends. It is nice to have neighbors you are friendly with, but I also realized that given our situation, we could only be so friendly.

  This made me wonder about something else—our future here in our little duplex. This is what I mean: there are certain phenomena happening now that are fine, given our current state of affairs. However, I am wondering, when these trends continue, will they be problematic down the line? Take children, for example. Right now, the four of us are “newlyweds” and neither of the couples—the Ripleys or the Lonigans—have kids. Nothing too astounding here.

  But get out our crystal ball, and in ten years from now, we still will not have children. Kind of strange that two married women who live next door to each other are both childless. What are the odds on that? But then again, who cares? It is certainly no one’s business, but neither is anything else homosexuals do with one another, from my point of view. That does not stop the government from trying to tell people what to do, of course. But we do not have to have children. And as long as we are not breaking any laws—that anyone knows of—no one can touch us.

  On the other hand, blending in for the sake of keeping things comfortable for everyone, making it possible to relax in our own homes, is also extremely important. It is safe to say, if I can speak for everyone here, and I think I can, that we do not want to be waging battles with neighbors and the police, even if we are right, which we are. Who needs the strain? Isn’t that why we moved here in the first place? So, I guess there is a certain irony here. We pretend to be something we are not, so we can be who we are.

  “Sweetheart, I’m home!” It was Dot coming out of the closet. Music to my ears. I still get excited to see her. Every time. I ran into her arms and kissed her hello. I felt like smiling, and I was. She smiled back and we let our foreheads meet, still looking into each other’s eyes.

  “The boys are right behind me. I ran into Jerry at The Farmers Market, and Cliff was just pulling in when we arrived home. Jerry and I bought a ton of food. We thought we might all eat together tonight. The boys offered to barbeque.”

  “Fine. Sounds great,” I answered.

  “Knock, knock.” It was Cliff.

  A moment later Jerry arrived, entering from the back door of “our” side after having parked near the garage.

  We greeted each other, and we all began talking a mile a minute. We all seemed to have something to say. I do not remember the specifics. I just remember a lot of grins and general joy all around.

  I also remember that Cliff was picking at his teeth with his fingers. Just awful. It is not the way to act in public, and he was really digging as if he had forgotten we were there. I guess it is a testament to his level of comfort with all of us. So, I said in what I remember being a really sweet, helpful voice, “Cliff, darling, would you like me to get you a toothpick or something? So, you can stop, you know, making everyone sick?”

  Cliff muttered something about how he was trying to make a little extra room in his mouth for tonight’s meal. He always has to get the last word.

  And then it hit me. This is why we do it. Why we live together. We are a family. We fight. We laugh. We disagree. We make up. And then we do it all over again. As the chatter went on, I made a point of looking at everyone. And I smiled.

  Jerry Ripley

  I felt pretty happy when we made it to the house last night. As always, I love to see Cliff when I get home. I guess it’s cliché, but my heart really does beat faster, and my stomach gets almost ticklish on the inside. I was also thinking about how I can feel down sometimes, as I entered the back door of Barbara’s and my half of the duplex. I looked around. It really was something. This whole thing that we’ve built for ourselves. It’s so special. And so are the people involved. Then I thought about my kiss with Dot.

  It was at The Farmers Market. We just happened to run into each other—no, not with our lips—and it had just happened. And it was wrong. And I’ve really been feeling guilty about it. How could I do that to Cliff? I’ve been asking myself over and over why it happened. The best I’ve been able to come up with is that I was just caught up, overwhelmed. Dot was really there for me. Really, really listening, and I just felt overcome with such incredible appreciation. And I think the kiss was just supposed to be an innocent, uh, extension, of our hug. Then she kissed me back—as a friend, just as a friend. She probably just felt sorry for me. And I leaned in, and she mirrored me, probably instinctually, and then I just, I don’t know, wanted to extend, express, our friendship.

  I guess that was probably it. Or maybe I just needed to kiss a girl. See what it was like to feel normal.

  In any event, it was wrong, and I’m not going to let it ever happen again. I really believe that when you are with someone, you need to remain true. I hope things don’t begin to feel strange around Dot. I value her advice so much. I wish she’d give me more of it, to tell you the truth.

  Sometimes I find myself longing for advice so much—it’s hard for me to even admit this—I’ve even toyed with the idea of possibly seeing a psychiatrist. But I don’t think I could ever do it. I’ve heard about how some people are cured of their homosexuality, but I’ve also heard horrible things about shock treatments and lobotomies. I don’t know if those things are done anymore, but I don’t want to find out the hard way. I’m also not even sure how I would find someone I could trust. And honestly, I’m also having a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea of being cured. I do long very much to be normal, but another part of me just can’t even imagine the unfathomable thought of me thinking in a completely different way and still being me. I know it sounds crazy. And who knows? Maybe that’s what makes me a prime candidate for a psychiatrist…I don’t know.

  It seemed a little bit strange, it being just the three of us. Barbara was unable to join us that night because of a big case her firm was involved in that was sucking up a lot of her time. It didn’t happen too often, but it looked like one of those times where Barbara would be working late into the night.

  “If I am not home by eleven, I am not coming home, unfortunately,” she had told Dot, indicating that she was going to work until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore, and she would no doubt just fall asleep at the office. “I love you, kid.” Dot told Barbara how much she loved her too and they stayed on the phone together, checking to see if the other had hung up yet for what seemed like a full minute until they were finally able to end the call. I know all this because Cliff and I were in the same room when Dot had picked up the phone.

  One thing I have to say that I really admire about Dot is how she almost always manages to put on a happy face no matter the situation. It’s a great quality to have, and frankly it’s also great for other people. That way you don’t bring them down, which, when you think about it is a pretty considerate thing to do.

  Anyway, the three of us decided to go to Hollywood Bowl. Not the world famous one you’ve probably heard about, but the bowling alley over on Vine.

  Cliff drove, and Dot
was up in front with him, with me in the back. As usual, we had great fun just driving in the car, joking around and talking about this and that. Without Barbara the dynamic was a little different, but we filled whatever gaps there might have been just fine. I guess you could say that I’m not too big on small talk. Oh, I can do it when I have to, but I must say that when you find the right people, the conversation just flows so naturally, it all comes pretty easily.

  Oh, and whatever worries I had about things being awkward between Dot and me because of our kiss, well, let’s just say that it was like it never happened. I don’t know exactly what she thought about the kiss, but I imagined that whatever she thought about it, she was right. It was just a silly, impulsive thing that happened between close friends. At least that’s what I imagined she thought about it. And she would be right.

  When we arrived at the bowling alley and had exited the car, I said, “Well, things are starting off pretty well tonight.”

  “Sure, kid,” said Cliff. “Why wouldn’t they be?” Then he put his arm around my neck and playfully headlocked me.

  We got pretty lucky. The alley hadn’t gotten too busy yet, and we got a lane right away. Cliff ordered a few beers for each of us.

  “Why don’t we just start with one for now, Cliff?” asked Dot.

  “What’s with the librarian bit?”

  She cocked her head and gave him a kooky look.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  Dot laughed. “Yes, that’s what I need, Clifford. Quite the incentive.”

  Cliff was lacing up his shoes. “Let me ask you a question, Dot. Do you play better drunk or sober?”

  “Sober. Why?”

  “Cause we’re playing a nickel a pin. Bartender, two more beers for my friend here!”

  As for me, I may not be the most competitive person in the world, but I do take bowling seriously when I do play. My first job back in Kansas was at Tornado Lanes. I was a pinsetter. I started working there when I was thirteen, and it was the sight of my hardest crush to that point. Dickie Phelps. I’ll never forget him. He was two years older than I was and as strong as an ox. He used to work on his father’s farm when he wasn’t in school, and nights at the bowling alley.

  Sometimes he was mean to me. Holding my head near the equipment, only to pull it away at the last minute. Stuff like that. Or maybe it wasn’t so much that he was mean, just mischievous—with bad judgement. I think he felt restless. I remember one summer he was setting pins on lane 4 for Miss Campbell, the Assistant Principal for Girls at Independence Jr. High School, and he decided to replace some of the pins with Coke bottles. He was almost fired for that, but he turned on the charm and talked his way out of it.

  Anyway, Dickie was a pretty nice guy, about two-thirds of the time, at least. Of course, he was never interested in me. And this would be far from the last time I would fall in love with a straight boy. Dickie had a very sweet girlfriend, Millie Walker. He used to tease her a lot, and their relationship was pretty up and down. I was always jealous of her and yet could never understand why I often fantasized about being her. I remember it was very confusing to me because I knew I had no interest whatsoever in actually being a girl. I used to fantasize so much, I remember one time I had a kind of Walter Mitty-esque moment when I woke up from a daydream and realized I was puckering up like a love-sick fish, my head facing in the direction of Dickie.

  I remember him having a look of pure disgust on his face. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Ripley?” I shook my head and said something ridiculous, trying to cover. I played Dickie’s words, and that whole scene, over and over in my head for years. My God, that hurt. I still remember the pain I felt in my chest, mixed with nausea in my throat and stomach. I knew at that moment I had to be more careful.

  Anyway, the best part about working at the bowling alley was that after Dickie and I and the other employees were done cleaning up for the night, Mr. Hopper, the owner, would let us bowl a few games while he was in the back, I’m assuming now, counting the night’s proceeds. Dickie and I were usually the only ones who stayed.

  Dickie provided plenty of motivation for me to get good. For the most part, I think my strategy worked. I did get good. And Dickie was somewhat impressed. The other side of the coin was, of course, his being impressed did not translate into his having any kind of romantic feelings for me whatsoever. Another adolescent pipe dream burst. I guess I should have noticed pretty early on that Millie’s complete inability to roll her ball even halfway down the lane before guttering did absolutely nothing to discourage Dickie’s interest in her sweater-stretching aptitude. Of course, if I had noticed, I guess I wouldn’t be the bowler I am today.

  Cliff stood up after tying his shoes. “Ladies first,” he said, and Dot made her approach. She guttered her first ball. Cliff covered his face like he was embarrassed. “Um, I’ll be over there if you need me.” Then he said to a woman just passing by, “I don’t know these people. We’ve never met.” The woman gave him a funny look, not having the faintest idea of what he was talking about. This made me laugh while Dot covered her face, amused but with a sense of dignity, as always.

  “Come on, boys. Help me,” Dot said, in a jokey, pouty way as she picked up her ball from the ball return.

  “I think you’re mistaking me for someone who wants to get in your pants,” said Cliff with a smirk. Dot responded with a half-amused look.

  And I told her after watching what she did on her first ball, she ought to do the opposite this time—aim for the gutter in the hopes that she might knock down a few pins. Either that or take up jump roping. This made Cliff smile. I could rarely make him laugh, but I could make him smile all the time.

  “You’re mean boys,” Dot said, stomping her foot, playing up her natural feminine virtuosity. She couldn’t look more cute, and of course I ran over to give her a few pointers.

  “That’s it. Keep stomping your foot,” Cliff called to her. “All that shaking might get a few pins to drop.”

  Cliff went next and did pretty well. Bowling wasn’t really his game, but he was a natural athlete.

  I couldn’t be rustier, but I got back into my groove very quickly after a few disastrous frames, managing two turkeys in the first game for a final score of 194.

  “Hey, you gonna finish your beer?” Cliff asked me after the third frame of the second game. He and Dot were way ahead of me at that point—I mean beer-wise. I don’t like to drink much when I bowl. Like I said, I take bowling very seriously, and I beat both of them handily, not that it really mattered. For me, it’s about beating myself.

  I snuffed out another cigarette and grabbed my ball. “You have it,” I said to Cliff, referring to the beer. And he did.

  By the third game, things got interesting. But not in the way you might expect. Dot wasn’t focused on the game at all which was too bad because she was really pretty good. By then she had discovered the children—at least five of them—who were playing with their parents on either side of our lane.

  “Dot, you’re up,” I said. When she didn’t respond, I said it louder.

  “Oh, you bowl for me, Jerry,” she said, her eyes glued to the two-year old boy she was playing patty cake with on the next lane over from ours.

  For some reason, I hate bowling for other people, but I did. I got a strike—for her.

  Meanwhile, Cliff was on his way toward becoming pretty plastered and wasn’t even putting his fingers in the holes of his ball anymore. Instead he would cradle it near his side and spin it out from the crook of his arm in an amusing way. Somehow, he still managed to put some pretty good spin on it, and his comical style seemed to be good enough to keep his game decent, and at the same time, enough to make us laugh, keeping the evening light.

  I have to say, walking out of the bowling alley seemed very different from when we had walked in. It was pretty clear by then that Cliff and Dot had
had too much to drink. It seemed to sneak up on both of them. Neither was sloppy or slurring, but it looked like one or two more might put them over the edge. This situation always makes me nervous because when someone’s had too much to drink, who knows what might come out of his mouth. Or, for that matter, what he might do, as was becoming the case with Cliff by the end of the third game. One time he was talking a little too loudly and a few times he called me sweetheart. But when he grabbed me by the rump and whispered in my ear to kiss him, I knew it was time to get out of there. I don’t think anyone noticed, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I wanted to get back home where we would be safe.

  Dot, of course, made me much less nervous. She almost looked a little numb and quiet like she knew exactly how to act after having too much to drink. Almost like she was poised on the outside but inside she was having a party. The parents of the children she was going so crazy over didn’t seem to notice a thing. I, on the other hand, did notice the change, and seeing Dot with the children reminded me that someone from L.A. High might see her. That couldn’t be good.

  I was feeling a little anxious, and in order to move things along, I went up to the counter to pay for the drinks and return the shoes. I practically had to tie Cliff’s street shoes for him and was all ready to go when Cliff decided he wanted a few last beers for the road. I talked him out of it by telling him that there was more beer at home, and I’d even have one or two with him. Then I had to get Dot to join us, which was a little difficult as she felt the need to say goodbye to each of her new little friends, even hugging one of them goodbye. The little girl’s parents watched closely with understandably concerned looks in their eyes. All in all, I felt like the director of a crazy play cast with unpaid actors, and I wondered how things would have gone if my “wife,” Barbara, had been there.