Cupid Painted Blind

by Marcus Herzig

Nevertheless, Phil is the sweetest guy I can imagine. He keeps surreptitiously sliding little love notes into my backpack that put a smile on my face whenever I accidentally find them, and he never leaves my side during lunch at the school cafeteria. Two days ago, overcome by our lascivious desires, we spent our lunch break in a stall in the second-floor restroom, kissing and touching each other in inappropriate places. But when it comes to meeting outside of school, Phil keeps using his suspicious parents as a convenient excuse to not see me. It’s driving me insane, but I try not to be pushy. And so, with the semester in full swing and everyone being busy one way or the other, today I’m being a loner boy in search of a place where I can have a milkshake and put the finishing touches on my Romeo and Juliet term paper, which was in large parts written by Phil.

  “Why, hello there, handsome.”

  “Hi, Milo,” I say with a sigh as I climb a stool by the counter next to the cake display and drop my backpack on the stool next to me.

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh my, aren’t we cheerful today.”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Moi? Asking nosy questions? Never!” he says. “What can I get you, darling?”

  “Chocolate shake, please.”

  “Why do I even ask? Coming right up.”

  As Milo busies himself preparing my milkshake, I open my backpack and pull out my notebook, a pen, and Phil’s tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet. I’ve finished reading it a while back, but I like carrying it around with me because it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of Phil. Well, that and Greg’s video that I still have on my phone.

  I place the book on the counter, open my notebook, and start reading Phil’s draft term paper. It’s written in Phil’s very own distinct voice, including his typical spelling and grammar mistakes and his linguistic quirks. As endearing as they may be, they have to go. With Phil no longer in Mrs. Spelczik’s class, I can’t pass off his work as my own, so I pick up my pen and start editing.

  “There you are, sweetheart,” Milo says, placing my milkshake in front of me.

  “Thanks, Milo.”

  His gaze falls upon my book. “So where’s your Romeo today?”

  Absentmindedly, I say, “At home with his homophobic parents, I guess.”

  “Whaaaat?”

  I look at Milo, his jaw dropping to the floor, when I realize he was probably talking about a different Romeo.

  “Oh,” I say, “you were talking about Chris. Yeah, he’s not my Romeo. Not anymore. More like Benvolio or Mercutio or whatever, I don’t even know. I can’t tell all these people apart.”

  Covering his mouth with his hand, Milo says, “Oh dear, I’m so sorry to hear that. About you and Chris, I mean. You were such a cute couple.”

  “Yeah well, so were Mowgli and Baloo, but it wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

  “God, you’re so adorable, little man-cub,” Milo says. “So who’s the new one? He must be quite a hottie if you dump a guy like Chris for him, huh?”

  For a moment I’m tempted to tell Milo that this is none of his business, but suddenly I find myself pulling my phone out of my pocket and looking up the video of Phil and me. I show it to Milo, and I’m not even embarrassed about the lipstick. Of all the people in the world, Milo is probably the one least likely to mock me for wearing lipstick. I keep a close eye on Milo, curious to see how he’ll react when expectation meets reality. He watches the video a couple of times, smiling.

  “That is so sweet,” he finally says. “So who’s doing the filming?”

  “My little brother.”

  Milo rolls his eyes. “Urgh! Little brothers are a pest, aren’t they?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “About my brother?”

  “No, silly,” Milo says, still looking at the video. “About your sweetheart.”

  I shrug. “Nothing much to tell. His name is Philip. He’s sweet but pretty shy. Pretty weird, too. And … well, as you can see …” I awkwardly point at my lip.

  “Oh please, honey, don’t be so stereotypically superficial just because you’re gay. What use is the hottest, sexiest guy in the world if he’s dumb as a rock? Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. Hans is as ugly as they come, but I love him dearly because he’s the kindest and most caring guy you can imagine.” He hands me back my phone and turns his head toward the kitchen door. “Hans. Hans! Get your ugly face out here for a minute so we can stare at you!”

  A moment later, Hans appears in the doorway. He’s a proper Teutonic giant, tall and muscular under his white T-shirt, with slicked back platinum blond hair, an armor-piercing jawline, and super-tight jeans that don’t leave anything to the imagination.

  “Vhat you vant?” he says in a thunderous voice.

  “Hans, meet Matt. Matt, meet my punishment for whatever barbaric atrocity I must have committed in my previous life.”

  “Hi,” I say, trying not to sound too intimidated, and making sure to not leave my mouth open in awe.

  Hans nods at me. “Hallo.”

  “Little Matty here thinks his boyfriend doesn’t meet standard beauty requirements, so I wanted to show him how he could do so much worse.”

  Hans slowly walks up to Milo. Then he grabs him and forces his tongue down Milo’s throat—and I mean literally down his throat. It’s the most violent, primeval kiss I have ever seen, and it leaves Milo gasping for air.

  “Oh my,” he says, taking a few deep breaths. He slaps Hans on the butt. “Go get your ass back into the kitchen. This is a quality establishment, I can’t have you scare away my customers.”

  Hans nods at me and makes his way back into the kitchen. When he’s gone, I lean into Milo and whisper, “Milo, what are you talking about? He looks stunning!”

  “Yeah well,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, “if you’re into that brutish gladiator type. My dream guy would be a petite Latino, but I have yet to find one with a heart as big as that of Hans and a soul as kind. So what is one to do, right? Love trumps everything. Money, looks, everything.”

  Looking at the screen of my phone where the video is still looping, I say, “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Listen, why don’t you bring Phil over some time? I’m sure he’s a lovely guy, but if what you said about his parents is true, he should probably get out more.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Milo turns away to greet a new customer who comes walking through the front door, so I turn back to my term paper.

  “Why, hello there, stranger,” Milo says. “What can I get you?”

  “I think,” she says as she climbs the stool next to my backpack, “I’m gonna have a beer.”

  Milo raises an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to see some ID.”

  The woman laughs out loud, so I turn my head and look at her, and when I see her face I’m so startled that I lose my balance, toppling over my stool and crash-landing on the floor.

  As Special Agent Nicole Tesla slides off her stool and rushes toward me to inject me with some undetectable toxin to make my premature death look like a freak accident or a heart attack or something, I try to get up and run for my life, but I fell so hard on my tailbone that I collapse under excruciating pain.

  “Are you okay?” she asks sanctimoniously as she kneels down next to me, helping me to sit up, but I shy away from her poisonous touch and flee into Milo’s arms who is kneeling on my other side now.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, exasperated.

  Milo looks at me, then at her, then back at me. “You know her?”

  “She’s been following me, Milo!”

  “The other night,” Nicole says, “this kid walked right in front of my car when he was drunk and tried to cross the street without looking.”

  “She’s been following me around for weeks!”

  “Who are you, lady?” Milo asks, eying her suspiciously.

  “I’m no one. I’m in town to visit old friends, that
’s all. Our paths may have crossed a couple of times before, but honestly, Brookhurst is not that big a place.”

  “Right. Let’s get you up,” Milo says, helping me back on my feet. “You okay, darling?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, climbing back on my stool, my butt hurting as hell.

  “Now, let’s see that ID …”

  Nicole pulls her driver’s license out of her pocket and hands it to Milo. He looks at it and shakes his head. “Now that is clearly a fake. There’s no way in the world you are forty-five, darling.”

  She sighs. “I get that a lot.”

  “I bet you do,” Milo says, returning her license. He makes his way back behind the counter and grabs a bottle of Budweiser from the fridge. “Glass?”

  Sitting back down, Nicole shakes her head. “I’m a big girl.”

  As she takes a swig from her bottle, Milo asks. “So, first time in town? I’ve never seen you around here.”

  “I used to live up in Irwindale, but that was a million years ago. I moved around a lot in the last few years. I’m just passing through. As I said, visiting old friends.”

  “I see. I moved down here from the Bay Area with my husband five years ago. Compared to the Bay Area this place is Dullsville, USA, but good Lord, everything is so much cheaper down here, and when the opportunity to buy this beautiful establishment came along we simply couldn’t pass it up. Best decision we ever made, apart from getting married.”

  The woman nods. “It’s funny how life sometimes deals you a hand that you didn’t ask for, and then when you play it you realize it’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “Right on, sister,” Milo says.

  I look at her.

  I look at her for a long time until she finally turns her head and looks back at me.

  “You’re not FBI, are you,” I say.

  Frowning at me, she says, “No.”

  “CIA? NSA? Homeland Security?”

  She slowly shakes her head. “Why would you even think that?”

  “Never mind,” I say, feeling like the stupid little boy that I probably am.

  Behind the woman, whose name is very likely not Nicole, the door opens, and much to my delight I see Sandy walking in.

  “Why, hello there,” Milo says, leaning across the counter to give her a quick hug. “So nice to see you, darling. What can I get you?”

  “Diet Coke, please,” she says. Then she turns in my direction, which also happens to be Not Nicole’s direction. “Oh, hi! Good to see you again. What are you doing here?”

  Clearly, she’s not talking to me.

  “Just popped in for a drink, when I accidentally ran into your boyfriend here.”

  Sandy laughs as she takes my backpack off the stool next to me, dumps it in my lap without even acknowledging me, and sits down. “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s gay.”

  “Thanks, Sandy,” I say, putting my backpack on the floor.

  “Urgh,” Not Nicole says, “the cute ones always are, aren’t they?”

  “I know, right?” Sandy finally turns to me and gives me a hug. “Hey, I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Yeah, I have to go over my term paper with a pair of fresh eyes. My eyes aren’t fresh at home. So what are you doing here?”

  “Right, I am here,” she says, pulling a stack of fliers out of her bag, “in my official function as a member of the Brookhurst High School Sadie Hawkins Dance committee. We made fliers, and I just picked them up from the printer’s. I was on my way home when I saw you sit here, so I figured I say hi real quick. Anyway, here, look.”

  She hands me one of the fliers. It reads, Catch his eye. Catch his smile. Make him dance. Join us for the Brookhurst High School’s Sadie Hawkins Dance on November 11 at 7pm.

  “November 11?” I say. “That’s when the Schoolympics are taking place.”

  Sandy nods. “I know. But they end in the afternoon, so you guys can basically collect your medals, take a shower, change into your tuxedos, and then get all sweaty again at the dance.”

  “Awesome,” I say with little enthusiasm.

  “I know! Anyway, I was going to ask you to be my date for the dance, but then I figured—”

  “That I’m a terrible dancer?”

  “This is high school, Matt. Everyone’s a terrible dancer. No, I figured that you will probably want to ask Phil to go to the dance with you, won’t you?”

  I look at her, surprised, because that’s about the last thing that would ever occur to me, not only because Phil would in all likelihood say no, but also because, well, I’m a terrible dancer. Then again, there probably isn’t a law that says you actually have to dance at a school dance.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “The whole school has seen that video. How do you think they will react if Phil and I show up at the dance together?”

  “That probably depends on whether or not you guys choose to put on make-up.”

  “Funny,” I say with a wry smile.

  “No, seriously. Look, tomorrow is Spirit Day, and almost everyone I know is going to wear something purple to show their support. I’ve talked to a lot of people, and honestly, nobody cares about you guys being gay one way or the other. They just thought it was hilarious that you guys were wearing lipstick, that’s all. So as long as you’re not showing up to the dance in a dress …”

  “Right.”

  “There you are, sweetheart,” Milo says, placing Sandy’s Coke in front of her. He eyes the fliers in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “Sadie Hawkins Dance,” Sandy says, handing him a flier.

  “Sadie Hawkins Dance!” Milo looks at the flier, his face full of nostalgia and surprise. “Is that still a thing?”

  “Of course. Wanna come? Tickets for non-students are ten dollars.”

  “That’s okay, sweetheart,” Milo says, handing back the flyer. “Hans and I are terrible dancers. And besides …” His voice trails off.

  “Besides what?” I ask.

  He waves his hand dismissively. “I don’t want to ruin the fun for you guys, so never mind.”

  “No, come on,” Sandy insists. “Don’t be shy. We’re your friends, you can tell us.”

  “Okay then. Do you know how Sadie Hawkins Dances came about?”

  “Not exactly,” Sandy says. “All I know is that for Sadie Hawkins Dance it’s the girls asking the guys out whereas usually it’s the other way around. So I guess it’s to do with feminism and empowerment of women and equality and … such.”

  “That’s adorable,” Milo says, “and I hate to burst your bubble, but let me tell you a bit about poor old Sadie. First of all, she was not a real person. She was a character in a comic strip, back in the 1930s when men still knew how to dress. Anyway, she was so ugly, she couldn’t find herself a husband. So her father declared it Sadie Hawkins Day and ordered a race in which Sadie would chase after the town’s bachelors, and the one who got caught would have to marry her.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  Next to me, Sandy nods. “I did not know that.”

  “See?” Milo says. “I’m not sure that’s the kind of empowerment twenty-first-century women want to go for if it implies they’re too ugly to get a date otherwise.”

  “Oh please!” Not Nicole chimes in. She takes another swig from her bottle and says, “Sorry to butt in, but that kind of politically correct bullshit always riles me up.”

  “Oh is that so?” Milo says, putting his hands on his hips.

  “You bet it is, honey. The unraveling of beloved, age-old traditions in the name of political correctness is turning into an all-consuming cancer that nobody wants or needs. What are we gonna get rid of next, Thanksgiving because of how it led to the genocide of Native Americans? I mean, don’t get me wrong, the genocide of Native Americans was a terrible atrocity that we as a country should be ashamed of, but getting rid of Thanksgiving is not the solution. If anything, we should use Thanksgiving to commemorate it. You know what I mean?”

  Shaking his head
slowly, Milo says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sister.”

  “Look, nobody needs Sadie Hawkins dances anymore. In this day and age girls ask guys out all the time and it’s no longer a big deal. But holding on to old traditions is a great way to remember how things used to be different and to celebrate how far we’ve come.” She turns to Sandy and me. “So don’t you kids let this spoilsport spoil your sport for you. He’s just a grumpy old man bemoaning the loss of his innocence.”

  “Why, aren’t you feisty, Missy,” Milo says. He grabs a rag and starts wiping the counter top. “I’m nowhere near as old as you are, and one man’s innocence is another man’s ignorance.”

  “Yeah, I don’t even know what that means,” the woman says and takes another swig.

  “It means way to commemorate something if you don’t even know what you’re commemorating or that you’re commemorating something at all.”

  “Except these kids do know.” She looks at us again. “Don’t you, guys?”

  “Yup,” I say, and Sandy adds, “We sure do. You see, Milo, there once was this comic strip about a girl named Sadie Hawkins, and she was really ugly and—”

  Milo throws up his hands, exasperated. “I told you that!”

  “I know!” Sandy says. “And I’ll be sure to pass it on.” She looks at me. “You know what, we should actually make an announcement during the dance or something. You know, to let people know about Sadie Hawkins and how we have a Sadie Hawkins Dance to celebrate the fact that we don’t even need it anymore.”

  “Sounds awesome,” I say. “Go for it.”

  “Yeah, more power to you, girl,” Not Nicole says. “Making the world a better place through education, one Sadie Hawkins Dance at a time.”

  As she and Sandy fist-bump, Milo looks at me, perplexed. “I don’t even know what just happened.”

  I shrug and say, “Welcome to my world.”

  * * *

  “Would you like to go to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me?”

  “What?” Phil says, sheer terror in his eyes.

  We’re sitting on the lawn outside the school cafeteria enjoying the October sun and sharing a burrito for lunch. And by sharing I mean I let Phil have most of it because as always, he was too broke to buy his own and too proud to let me buy one for him. Just like he outright refused to let me buy him a purple T-shirt to wear on Spirit Day which is today. So I had to trick him by buying a plain purple five-dollar T-shirt for myself and giving him my purple Huntington Beach - Surf City California T-shirt to wear that I bought as a souvenir during a family trip to the beach last summer. He stuffed it in his plastic Walmart bag when I gave it to him yesterday, and that’s where it still was when he showed up for school this morning, wearing the same old frilly button-down shirt he’s wearing every day. I dragged him into the next restroom and made him change, and I think he only complied because he realized I was on the verge of getting really mad at him. So, if it took that much effort to make him wear something purple for Spirit Day, I don’t have very high hopes of convincing him to go to a dance with me, but even a tiny bit of hope is better than no hope at all, so I repeat my question.