I Hate Everyone, Except You

by Clinton Kelly

  “In Port Jefferson,” he said. “Out on Long Island.”

  “Yeah, that’s where I grew up. Do you know it?”

  Smiling, he said, “Well, yeah, that’s my family’s dock. Well, it was. In the 1800s they used to build ships there.”

  “Get out!”

  “I swear.” He seemed very serious all of a sudden.

  “I worked there all through high school as a busboy,” I said, “and as a waiter during summer breaks in college. There was this yacht the restaurant would charter, usually for corporate groups, and I’d have to lug all this food and ice and alcohol across that dock when it was ninety degrees outside. Man, it sucked. How crazy is that? I toiled away for years, sweating my ass off, on your family’s dock.”

  “That is pretty wild,” he admitted. “I’ve been meaning to go out there some time.”

  “You should,” I said. “I could meet you out there for lunch or something.”

  He smiled a polite smile. “That would be lovely,” he said. “Anyway, it seems like you’ve got everything you need here. I’m going to head back to my desk.”

  “Gotcha,” I said. “Thanks for helping me out with this.”

  “That’s my job!”

  When I got back to my office, I decided that I was going to ask Damon out on a date. I just couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was smart, funny, athletic, gorgeous, and not an asshole—a breed so rare in New York many assume it’s extinct. But I didn’t want to ask him out over the phone or e-mail. Too pedestrian. So, I decided to handwrite him a note on my nicest stationery. Maybe that would make me stand out, I hoped, from the mob of homosexuals most certainly clawing at him daily.

  I pulled out a note card with my name embossed across the top and wrote: “Can I take you out for coffee sometime?”

  It was the me I wanted to be, strong and decisive. A real man’s man. But then I decided it was too straightforward, and part of my charm, I hoped, was being kind of a spaz, so I took another note card out of the box and wrote: “I was thinking, maybe, if you had nothing better to do, I could, like, take you out for a coffee, or a tea, or some kind of other beverage if you don’t do caffeine. Or not. I mean, I wouldn’t want to bother you so . . . ummm . . . give me a call if you feel like it. Or if you’re busy I totally understand. Have a nice day. Or a nice life. Or I’ll see you soon. Whatever.”

  I set both note cards down on my desk and tried to decide which one to send. Rambling or direct? Direct or rambling? I must have looked at them for five minutes before I choked. I crammed both into a blue-metallic-lined envelope, along with my business card, addressed it to Damon Bayles at Chelsea Piers, and threw it in the company mail bin.

  Four days later I received an e-mail—an e-mail!—that read: “Dear Clinton, I really enjoyed speaking with you. Thank you for your invitation(s), but I’m seeing someone right now. I hope you understand. Maybe we’ll bump into each other one of these days. I’ll look forward to that. Sincerely, Damon Bayles.”

  And I thought, He’s lying. I’m not his type, but he’s telling me he’s in a relationship because he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. Because I’ve never been the type to think about what I can’t have, I put Damon out of my mind, quite successfully.

  The next day I received another significant e-mail, this one from a casting agent asking if I would like to audition for a television makeover show called What Not to Wear.

  Switch.

  * * *

  Now, where were we again? Oh, that’s right. We were in that crowded bar, two years later.

  The friend dragging the handsome guy in the orange-striped shirt asked me, “Are you Clinton Kelly?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “I think you know my friend . . .”

  “Damon!” I said. “Damon Bayles. How the hell are you?”

  When I said that I had put Damon out of my mind, I meant that I had forgotten he existed, forgot what he looked like, everything about him, until that exact moment when it all came flooding back into my brain, my whole being. A switch had been flipped, but not just a switch that triggers memories of platonic encounters of years past. It was a track change. And I felt it. It’s like being sprayed with a superfine mist of ice-cold water on an excruciatingly hot day, all over your body, all at once. Or standing in a room in which the atmospheric pressure changes so suddenly that you have to take a little breath. Or, I would imagine, watching your baby walk clear across the room, out of the blue, smiling his face off.

  “I’m great,” he said. “How are you?”

  “You know, I’m a big TV star now,” I said with a laugh.

  “I don’t own a television.”

  He really didn’t. That was 2005, and today Damon and I have decided that this story, at least insomuch as it concerns you, is best ended here. I hope you’re not offended, but the complete story of “us” just isn’t one we want publicly consumed. I will, however, tidy up a few loose ends because I’d hate to leave you hanging. I’m no tease.

  Damon was being truthful when he said he was seeing someone. When he called it off with whomever that was (I’ve never asked), he e-mailed me again to ask me out, but the e-mail bounced back because I had quit my job to embark upon my television journey. He called too, but no one answered. He only had my work information from my business card. And those two note cards I sent him: He kept them. I didn’t believe him, but he showed them to me once. I could have died of embarrassment—how ridiculous I was—and yet I wanted to cry from the chest-crushing happiness.

  We’ve been together for eleven years. Sometimes I think about how, if I hadn’t accepted the job on What Not to Wear, Damon and I would have gotten together much sooner. But would I have been ready? Would he have been ready? Would I have felt the switch—click!—the same way I did that night? I’ll never know, of course. Unless when I die, some godlike being shows me a map, perhaps an incredibly detailed decision tree of my life, in which all paths lead to Damon. But in this reality, I’m happy with the track I’m on.

  CLINTON FOR PRESIDENT!

  Joan Rivers released a comedy album in 1983 called What Becomes a Semi-Legend Most? I literally have no idea how an 8-track of it found its way into my first car a few years later, but I listened to it constantly for a month or so, until I stopped laughing at the jokes out of familiarity. Today, I remember little about her routine, except one short bit that still resonates with me:

  “Drugs,” Joan says. “I don’t do drugs. But every once in a while I sprinkle a little Fresca on a panty shield. Perks me right up.”

  For thirty years I used a variation of that line at countless parties when offered a toke of this or a snort of that. “Nah, I don’t feel like doing a bong hit right now, I just reapplied Fresca to my panty shield and, dude, I am trippin’ balls.” I don’t think anyone ever laughed, just gave me that aloof, slightly confused look I usually reserve for people with really short bangs or novelty hosiery.

  I’m just not that into drugs, despite the fact that I’ve done my fair share of them. It’s a control thing, really. I know exactly what I’m going to feel like after two margaritas (horny and bitchy) or three gin and tonics (horny and exhibitionistic), but with drugs you never know what kind of high—or low—you’re going to have. The last time I chased half a joint with a Vicodin I ended up screaming obscenities at a leprechaun because he was shitting pennies all over my living room. The next day the woman who lived across the hall told me she thought I had been babysitting until she heard me yell, “If I see one more coin come out of your ass, so help me God!” at which point she assumed I had a “special friend” over.

  That was 2004 and I haven’t done recreational drugs since, yet I’m kind of intrigued by people who do. Do they use because they want to get out of their own heads, or do they need to? And where are these people going that’s so great, because I never got there. I did have a fantasy for a while about composing a series of mystical essays after ingesting different substances. You know, one Saturday chew a few ’shrooms an
d write about the meaning of life; the next, take some LSD and see if I can channel Buddha. And so on and so on, until the only drugs I haven’t done are crank and bath salts. I chickened out, mostly because I don’t want to die, but on some level I think it would be fun.

  So, recently I tried a much safer, somewhat legal version.

  I was in San Francisco after a trip to Los Angeles for work and I asked a friend of mine—Renée—with a medicinal marijuana prescription for her “anxiety” to buy me one dose of an edible, because I was conducting an experiment. She asked what the experiment entailed and I told her: “I just want to try writing while high to see if it’s any better or worse than what I come up with when I’m sober.” Renée, who was also writing a book at the time, said she had attempted the same thing to no avail. Every time she tried to write while high, she got a case of the fuck-its, closed her computer, and watched TV or ate cookie dough. She suggested that I take a marijuana gummy, and she would stay with me, sober, and interview me, while recording the whole thing on her phone. I said it sounded like a plan.

  On a Sunday night in mid-May, Renée came to my hotel room. I chewed and swallowed one THC-infused gummy bear and this is what transpired:

  RENÉE: So, what do you want to talk about?

  ME: I’m not sure this thing is working. Are you sure you didn’t give me a regular gummy bear?

  RENÉE: I’m sure.

  ME: In Germany they call them GOO-me bears.

  RENÉE: Ya.

  ME: Shit. I forgot to tell Damon we were doing this.

  RENÉE: Do you want to call him now?

  ME: No. What if he gets mad at me?

  RENÉE: Do you think he would?

  ME: He doesn’t like los drugas.

  RENÉE: Las drogas.

  ME: I took French. Is my forehead shining? I feel like my forehead is shining.

  RENÉE: A little.

  ME: [Looking in mirror] I look like shit. You know, once you start wearing makeup, it’s hard to get used to seeing your own face without it. Don’t tell anybody, but sometimes—well, always, actually—I fill in my eyebrows just a bit, with a MAC pencil. They’ve gotten sparse with age. You know Tony Goldwyn?

  RENÉE: The actor?

  ME: Yeah, he looks good without eyebrows. He’s got strong features to carry the rest of his face. I don’t. My face is so oval.

  RENÉE: Isn’t that supposed to be the ideal face shape?

  ME: For women! When was the last time you saw a guy and were like, “I just wanna hop on that sexy oval face, ya big stud.”

  RENÉE: You may have a point. But I still like your face.

  ME: Thanks. You know, sometimes I think I may be invisible to birds.

  RENÉE: What makes you say that?

  ME: They’ve been flying at me, like I’m not there. But then at the last minute, they dart away. It’s like my bird force field has gotten thinner or something. I should Google that. What if my fucking aura is fizzling out? Birds can see things we can’t see, you know. The birds used to be able to see my aura and they could steer clear of it. Now, it’s barely there. Can’t see it until you’re right up in it.

  RENÉE: Do you feel like your aura is fizzling out?

  ME: Sometimes.

  RENÉE: Why?

  ME: Old age. I don’t know. Stacy [London] and I had our aura photographed once a long time ago. We were in a New Age shop shooting part of the show in our first season. We were in Nashville. We had matching gold auras. The guy who owned the shop said we were practically angels or some shit.

  RENÉE: Well, you were helping people.

  ME: When was the last time an angel helped you by suggesting you wear dark-wash jeans and ballet flats?

  RENÉE: Do you ever miss that show?

  ME: Next question.

  RENÉE: When did—

  ME: I should have another gummy because I don’t think this one is on.

  RENÉE: You’re OK with the one.

  ME: Prolly. You know what this country needs?

  RENÉE: What?

  ME: A makeover. I think we’d all be happier if we looked cuter. [laughs] And had some GOO-me bears. When I’m president, I will make America fabulous again.

  RENÉE: Ah, you want to be president.

  ME: Well, it’s obvious I’m the most qualified. To make people fabulous. The dream is real.

  RENÉE: And what exactly does being fabulous mean in this context, Candidate Kelly?

  ME: A chicken in every pot and—what’s that expression?—a car in every garage. A pasture-raised, organic chicken. And an electric car. I’d like it if the chickens were killed really fast and didn’t see it coming, and if the cars were colorful, like in the old days. Just a rainbow of cars, plus pink ones. Pink isn’t in the rainbow, but pink cars are cute. Now all the cars are black and white. Some are red. Did you ever notice that everyone driving a Nissan Maxima is an asshole?

  RENÉE: Will you mention that on the campaign trail?

  ME: I’m not going on the campaign trail. That seems exhausting. And all that food they make you eat. Gross. Do you want to order room service? They do a nice cheese platter here. It comes with quince jelly.

  RENÉE: Maybe later. We’re on a roll here. Let’s discuss some of your specific policies.

  ME: If you insist.

  RENÉE: Transgendered individuals in restrooms. What are your thoughts on that topic?

  ME: To be honest, I don’t know what all the hubbub is about. Does it really matter who’s peeing in the next stall, and whether they’re wearing a ball gown or overalls? I find the whole process so revolting, I just want to get in and out with as little fanfare as possible.

  RENÉE: But people are concerned about the children. Specifically, little girls using a public restroom with a man.

  ME: Why the fuck are you letting your little girl enter a public restroom alone anyway? That’s neglect. Your kids should be interacting with absolutely no one in a public toilet, whether they have a penis, a vagina, both, or neither. Quite frankly, I think we need sweeping change in the way we publicly relieve ourselves. I dream of a future in which public restrooms are gender neutral. Hear me out on this. You enter the restroom, which would have a series of completely private rooms with a hole on the floor. You do your business, a onesie or a twosie into the hole, wipe as necessary, and leave. When you exit, the door closes behind you and the entire room is sprayed down with warm water and a biodegradable disinfectant. So the next person who enters gets a completely clean, odor-free toilet experience. That can happen. If there are people smart enough to make all these goddamn Snapchat filters, someone can figure out a new toilet system.

  RENÉE: Wouldn’t it be expensive to convert all existing bathrooms to the kind you’ve described?

  ME: It’s a jobs program! Someone has to make and install these toilets. Pronounced “toilette,” by the way. And we’ll start with the unemployed. Oh, and I’ll raise taxes. Imagine, for an extra twenty dollars a year, you could be guaranteed a safe, hygienic pee whenever you wanted one.

  RENÉE: What about your stance on abortion?

  ME: This is another thing that’s pissing me off. Nobody wants an abortion. Kind of the way nobody wants to use a public restroom, but multiply that by about a thousand. There would be a shit-ton less abortion if we made it easier to get contraception in this country. I don’t know why there aren’t buckets of free condoms in every classroom in America. Oh, when I’m president, I will institute a Contraception On-Demand program the second I am sworn in.

  RENÉE: Can you explain what you mean by Contraception On-Demand?

  ME: Drones. Contraception is delivered to your front door whenever you want it. Have a hot date? Tap a button on your phone, and—bam—a box of condoms, spermicidal jelly, sponges, whatever you want. It’s at your front door. And if you made a mistake last night, tap an icon on the screen of your phone—I guess you’d need the geo-location function turned on—and in five minutes you could literally be showered with morning-after pills, like Skittles.
Taste the rainbow and flush out that zygote you created six hours ago before it turns into anything.

  RENÉE: That seems like a lot of pills just lying around on the sidewalk.

  ME: Well, maybe we could use small drones, like the size of hummingbirds, that drop a single pill right into your hand. Or we could train actual hummingbirds. Wouldn’t that be cute?

  RENÉE: What about men? It seems like the onus is on women here.

  ME: Oh, hell, no. I want to incentivize men to have vasectomies. Reversible ones, of course. You come to the local hospital. Snip snip, no charge. When you’re ready to responsibly procreate, we sew your vas deferens right back up again. Nobody’s inconvenienced.

  RENÉE: What’s the incentive?

  ME: A guarantee of no child support payments. And we can throw in a free pizza with all the toppings. Oh my God, how awesome would pizza be right now?

  RENÉE: I can’t see a male-dominated Congress passing any of these laws.

  ME: Me either. That’s why my second slogan is, “Don’t be a dick, Vote with your vagina.” I don’t know why women aren’t furious that they’re not at least 50 percent of the House and Senate. And there should be more gays in there, too, now that I think about it. Let’s put more homos in da House! The parties will be much better. And slim-leg pants. What is with the old dudes still shopping at Men’s Wearhouse? Even Paul Ryan. I don’t like him, but he’s kind of good-looking. The jackets are too long. The pants are all big and baggy. I don’t like it. I did like his beard, when he had it.

  RENÉE: How does it feel to be the first gay man running for president?

  ME: I’m pretty sure a couple of gays have run or maybe even been president. I’m just the first to admit it. That being said, it feels fine. I could do without the e-mails telling me God hates me.

  RENÉE: Does that happen?

  ME: I’ll get one tweet a month or one Facebook message where some asshole is quoting Leviticus to me and telling me I’m going to burn in hell. I don’t believe in hell, so I’m not too worried about it. It’s like someone saying to me, “You’re gonna go to Wally World.” Um, no, that’s from a movie, dipshit.