Openly Straight

by Konigsberg, Bill

  He smiled. “I got that. The way you started was a bit generic, with that lame AA joke, but, otherwise, quite amusing.”

  “At my old school, they loved my sense of humor,” I said, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

  He took a sip from his orange ceramic coffee mug and leaned back in his chair. “I liked it, Rafe. To me, a B plus is what it deserves. It’s clever, but I don’t feel this piece ever really comes together the way it would need to for an A piece. You bring up some good questions without really reflecting on them.”

  He picked up the essay and leafed through it.

  “You say here that you would love to be as free as your parents. What do you think is stopping you from being that way?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, my ego still bruised, thinking, What are you, my shrink?

  “You don’t need to know the answer. But I don’t think it would hurt for you to be a bit more self-reflective about it. Anyhow, that’s actually not why I called you in here.”

  “Oh,” I said, reclining in my chair a bit.

  “I hope you’ll accept what I’m going to tell you in the manner in which I am offering it to you,” he said. “I don’t think it takes much reading between the lines to know that perhaps you are … well, you’re different. I wanted to let you know that you can be that here. Different. For instance — we have a GSA. Did you know that?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I’m the faculty adviser, actually. We have several boys this year.”

  “Oh,” I said, taking in those pieces of information.

  We stared at each other.

  “Wait. I’m different?” I asked.

  He nodded, this time with a supportive smile on his face, and I just wanted to wipe it clean off him. Who the hell was he to intrude? What if I was, like, in the closet, deep in the closet, and I didn’t want to be out? Wait. Was I in the closet? No, not exactly. But how was that his business? I gripped the handles of the chair.

  “What do you mean, ‘I’m different’? Where are you getting this from? I’ve sat in your class for a week. Are you asking me if I’m gay? Because that’s kind of inappropriate, don’t you think?”

  He pursed his lips and looked down at his desk. “Actually, I got that from your mother.”

  I raised my voice. “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Your mother called the school about a week before classes. She asked to speak to me, as the head of the GSA. She told me about her work with PFLAG, and I have to say, I was excited to have you join us. But … you haven’t joined us, have you, Rafe?”

  “My mother called you?” She was way out of line. Way out.

  “She did. Nice woman.”

  I could feel the veins pulsing in my forehead, the skin pulled tight by the angle of my neck. Why couldn’t she mind her own business, even one time? I sighed, dropped my head back, and studied the ceiling.

  “This is so extremely typical,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. I stared at the ceiling for maybe a full minute, knowing that at some point, I’d need to say more. Finally, when I was pretty sure I was calm enough that my head wouldn’t burst, I raised it again.

  “You want to hear a story?” I asked. “You’d be the first to hear it.”

  “Sure,” he said, looking a bit concerned.

  So for the first time since I’d come to Natick — the first time ever, really — I explained what I was doing. And you know what? It felt pretty good, having a confidant. Letting my secrets go. Having a secret feels exciting at first, but it seems like it always winds up being more of a weight than anything else.

  Mr. Scarborough listened intently, not taking his eyes off mine as I explained what label-free meant to me, and why I’d felt the need to try to start anew.

  “Interesting,” he said, once I was done.

  I blinked expectantly. Wasn’t he going to have any advice for me? I wouldn’t mind, I realized, some sage words from someone older and wiser and not my parents. Who, I knew, would be less than thrilled if and when they heard the details of my plan. I’d been evasive with them every time we’d spoken, and that wasn’t going so well. My folks were not fans of evasive.

  He broke into a grin when he saw that I expected him to say something.

  “Sorry, Rafe. I don’t know what to say other than I’m glad you told me. You’re on an interesting ledge, and I’m curious to hear about your explorations. So no GSA for you, I suppose?”

  “Nah,” I said.

  “What about the literary magazine? You’re obviously interested and talented.”

  “Soccer,” I said, shaking my head. “Sorry.”

  He waved off the apology. “Do what you need to do,” he said. “And as for your experiment, please feel free to write about it. Okay? In fact, that’s what I’d like you to do. Your journal. That’s your assignment this semester. Write about why you’ve done what you’ve done.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start,” I said.

  “Start at the beginning, then,” he said. “We have all semester.”

  I thought about what it would feel like to write everything out. I wasn’t sure he was going to like everything I wrote. “Sure,” I said.

  He smiled again. “I’m reminded of the ancient Chinese proverb — well, in fact, the origin is unclear: May you live in interesting times.”

  “Thanks, I think,” I said.

  He tapped his orange coffee mug and stared intently at the handle, lost in deep thought.

  “I guess we should be happy that you have the choice today,” he said. “Ten years ago? Twenty? I’m pretty sure this situation wouldn’t happen. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Up to five now!” the kid with the black do-rag yelled. His face was red, his eyes unfocused, and I felt like I might as well be looking in the mirror because I was seriously doused too.

  I picked up the shot glass, got myself set so that I didn’t fall over onto the kitchen floor, and looked around the room. Everyone was a stranger, and for a moment I wondered where the hell I was. And then I remembered. Saturday after the first week of classes. Shawn Something. A Joey Warren kid, aka a townie. Parents out of town. Whole soccer team there.

  And I was leading the way.

  It was a tradition. Every Natick School class would find a way to get in with some of the kids from Joey Warren. They didn’t exactly love us, but they tolerated us, especially if we’d bring alcohol to their parties, which we always did. Every few years, a new kid inherited the long-standing fake ID business at Natick, so getting booze was never a problem. And I’d been told the girls liked the Natick School boys. A lot. Almost every year, there was some sort of scandal in which a Natick boy got a townie girl pregnant.

  It was unlikely to be me.

  Steve was my partner for the drinking game we were playing. He’d passed four with flying colors, and now I got to do five with him as the pour man.

  They called it Spinner, which sounded like Spinnah to my ears. The interesting thing about hanging out with the townies was that I finally heard that Boston accent that everybody jokes about — Pahk yah cah at Hahvahd Yahd. The Natick School kids didn’t seem to have it. I wondered if it was a class thing.

  The rules of Spinnah were simple: teams of two, start with one guy downing one shot. Then you’d be up to two, and the other guy had to drink one, spin, and while he was spinning his teammate poured another shot. The first guy had to pick it up without slowing down from his spin, and he couldn’t miss the shot glass or even fumble it a little. Then he’d down the shot in one fluid motion. Any jerkiness and everyone would yell “Bawk!” like it was a baseball game and the guy was a pitcher making an illegal motion. And if you got a balk, your team was out. You also lost if you fell down, which happened with the other team on four. If we made this one, we’d win.

  The drink was butterscotch schnapps, which made it easier at first, because it tasted like candy. Of course, that didn’t help too much once it was in your stomach, rolling and lurching aro
und like a syrupy wave.

  I was drunked up.

  “Ready, set, go!” screamed a bald kid, and I quickly downed shot number one. It hit the back of my throat like cough syrup. I spun in a counterclockwise circle, reveling in the screaming and shouting around me. They were watching me. They were rooting me on. Me.

  I tried to make sure the spin wasn’t too fast so Steve had time to pour and make sure the shot glass was in an easy place for me to grab. When my hand hit the counter again, about three-quarters of the way through the turn, I opened my palm and tried to focus my eyes.

  The tan liquid in the shot glass was right where I wanted it. Me and Steve, we were a machine. I swiped it up and swigged it down. I felt the liquor burn my esophagus and leak into my sinuses.

  “That’s two,” someone yelled. “I say four and he’s on the floor.” Flaw-ah.

  I made a smooth spin, my eyes unfocused until I sensed it was time to swipe up the shot glass again. And there it was, and I swiped it up, and I drank it down, and the clapping was music to my ears.

  Four was tougher. My head was spinning right and my feet were spinning left and I had already had four and three shots and that was too much, and my feet forgot how to shuffle, and I slowed down in my turn, and when I was back around to the counter, I saw the shot glass, I reached out for it, but my vision, my perspective were all messed up. It clinked against my hand and spilled over, and I knew I’d lost it. I heard a major coed “Aw!” and for dramatic effect, I collapsed in a heap.

  “Rafe rocks!” a voice said, male, I didn’t know whose. The room spun and I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation. My stomach was really, really unhappy with me in a sour way, but the rest of me was all blissed out.

  I smiled. Then I felt breathing on my face, and a girl with brown hair in a ponytail was kneeling over me. She put her hand on my head and smoothed my hair.

  “You okay, cutie?” she whispered, and I looked into her eyes, which were mega-unfocused, and she leaned down and put her mouth on mine.

  Stomach, sour. Lips, on mine. I dry heaved. She sensed it moments before it happened, moments before the contents of my stomach began to rumble, and then I was a geyser, Old Faithful, spewing upchuck up and out.

  All those shots. Too much. The girl jumped out of the way, and she had this terrified, horrified expression on her face, and then all the guys started screaming with laughter, and I somehow knew that the joke wasn’t on me. And while I felt bad for the girl, I figured that was an occupational hazard when you kneel down and try to kiss a drunk guy.

  Steve took me to the upstairs bathroom and helped me get cleaned up, all the time replaying how awesome it was that I almost ralphed on this chick who was trying to kiss me.

  “Dude, that was awesome. You’re all right, Colorado.”

  I mumbled an affirmative while I leaned down to the faucet and washed the acid taste out of my mouth. My head was pounding a bit, but it still felt great to be part of this group of guys.

  “Yo, Benny!” Steve yelled, when we were back out of the bathroom and somehow in an upstairs bedroom. My spinning pupils located Ben, sitting in a rocking chair in the corner. On the other side of the room, a Joey Warren couple was having a gentle conversation, and Ben looked like he was just chilling.

  “Benny. Keep an eye on this one,” Steve said. “Way, way too much to drink. On the positive side, we won at Spinner. I did four.”

  “The folks at AA will be so proud,” Ben deadpanned. He took a swig of his Diet Coke, and Steve headed back downstairs to drink some more. Personally, I was glad to be taking a break. I sat on the floor against the bed, facing Ben’s rocking chair.

  “Urinal Guy,” he said, and I cracked up. He’d called me that in practice a couple times now.

  “Oh, my God, the urinal. That was out of control,” I said.

  “It was certainly special” was his response. “Having fun?”

  “I threw up when a girl kissed me,” I said, before I could even attempt to switch into intelligent mode. And then I realized, fuck it. There was no way, with this much alcohol in my system, that I’d be able to seem rational and intelligent.

  Ben laughed, though, like it was a totally normal thing to say. “You get her?”

  “Missed, thank God,” I said.

  He laughed again, rocked, and took a slow swig of soda.

  “What are you doing up here?” I asked.

  He rolled the Diet Coke can against his meaty left leg. “Designated driver. Anyway, I’m more an observer than a partay animal,” he said.

  I laughed and raised one eyebrow. “I think you’re only allowed to say ‘partay’ if you’re, like, wearing a lamp shade on your head.”

  Ben looked around the room. Then he stood, crossed over to the other side, and took a lamp shade off a floor lamp. He put it on his head, came back to the rocker, and sat back down.

  “Partay, partay, partay,” he said. “So there.”

  “Yep, you can say it all you want now,” I said, closing my eyes and lying down on the floor. “Why did I drink that much?”

  “Same reason I even come to these things,” he said, taking the lamp shade off and placing it on the floor next to him. “Pure stupidity.”

  “You’re a good guy,” I said. “I really like you.”

  He laughed. “Oh, good. I was afraid this was going to be awkward, like at the urinal.”

  I thought that was hilarious, for some reason, and I couldn’t stop laughing. And I think Ben liked that I thought he was funny, because then he said some other things that were equally funny that I can’t even remember because I was sloshed.

  “I wish I was more like you,” I said softly. I could hear the squeaking of the rocking chair. “You aren’t ridiculous.”

  I could hear him sighing. “You’re not ridiculous, Rafe. Just a little … I dunno.”

  “What?” I said, sitting up so quickly that my head spun and I had to drop down to the floor again.

  “Drunk,” he said, and I laughed.

  I pondered what I was a little of for what felt like a couple seconds, but the next thing I heard was: “Rafe? I think you passed out.”

  “I’m not usually like this,” I mumbled, feeling incoherent.

  “Should we get you back?”

  I felt sick to my stomach. “Yeah,” I said.

  He helped me to my feet. Ben was strong. Very.

  “I just need to check on Bryce before we go, okay?”

  “Why?” I said. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He gets sort of intense, and alcohol is not a big help,” Ben said as we left the bedroom and headed downstairs.

  We found Bryce leaning against the fireplace, beer in hand.

  “Hey, buddy,” Ben said.

  “Hey,” Bryce answered, listless.

  “You remember Rafe.”

  “I just watched him puke on a girl,” Bryce said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard tell nigh on three times in the last twenty minutes,” Ben said.

  “Nigh on,” I repeated. “You crack me up.”

  Ben ignored me. “You wanna come back?”

  “Nah. I’ll stay,” Bryce said.

  Ben hesitated. “You sure?”

  “I just don’t feel like being in that godforsaken dorm yet.”

  Ben sighed. “I’ll come back to pick you up,” he said. “Call when you’re ready, okay?”

  “Okay,” Bryce responded.

  I tried to focus on Bryce. He was a nice-looking guy, really smart. The kind of person who probably would be cool to talk to.

  “I wanna get to know you,” I blurted.

  Bryce considered this. “Okay,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if it was an okay like “Okay, this guy is a moron,” or “Okay, this guy is a fraud,” or “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I will look forward to that, Bryce Hixon.”

  And Ben laughed, and Bryce smiled a little, and I knew I’d struck the right note as the earnest drunk guy.

  Ben drove an old Chevy that smell
ed a little like vinegar inside. We listened to jazz music and watched the Natick night float by as we drove.

  “Vomit is verboten in Gretchen,” he said.

  “Gretchen?”

  “I call her Gretchen,” he explained, patting the dashboard, and I snorted. “So. No throwing up, okay?”

  “I promise,” I muttered, as the streets rolled by. “Gretchen.”

  We were silent, listening to the strange chord progressions of the trumpets and saxophones. I was never a big jazz guy.

  “I can’t quite figure you out,” I finally said.

  “Huh,” Ben said, after a short silence. “What’s to figure out?”

  “Where you fit in, in the general, um, scheme of things at Natick?” The car was spinning, and I knew I was saying stuff I wouldn’t say sober. It felt good, in a way. Less guarded. “You’re quiet like Bryce. And also Robinson is quiet. I guess it’s okay to be a jock and just not say anything. Steve and Zack talk all the time and everyone listens to them, but they’re not smart like us. Maybe I’ll be the quiet type like you and Bryce and Robinson.”

  “Why do I have to be a type?” he asked.

  I shot up in my seat. “Exactly!” I exclaimed, and then I hid my eyes, because the spinning was too much. I could hear Ben laughing.

  “You’re a mess,” he said.

  I ignored the comment. “Exactly about the types. I am not a type. I am so tired of being a type.”

  “I hear you,” he said, exhaling. “I guess at first look I’m a jock, right? Except on the inside, I’m about a million things before I’d even get to the fact that I can throw or kick a ball. Like, who in their right mind would ever label themselves because of something so meaningless?”

  “Right,” I said, working extra hard to stay with him because he was saying interesting things and I was shitfaced.

  “In New Hampshire I was labeled a nerd because I got good grades and I liked to read books. No one out there really cared if I was a good athlete. It was like, Ben Carver is a nerd because he talks about ideas. I was born in the wrong place, I guess. And then I come here, and I get labeled something else, and because it’s not negative, I buy into it, you know?”