I must admit that damn towel had me harboring all sorts of absurd and inappropriate thoughts about a certain blue-eyed boy reaching for it as he emerged dripping wet from the bath. I’ve got it bad, V. For a tiny little Icelandic man. He’s so scrawny-cute, though. Like a toy dog breed. A teacup Viking, if you will.
“Give me the ‘Icelandic Male Under Forty,’ please. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know damn good and well all the men here have the same haircut.” They do. They totally do. All the guys under forty have that hipster haircut that is long on the top and buzzed short on the side. It’s very European and chic.
The men over forty have THE WORST haircuts, by the way. They look like Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men. Ugh.
Björk scoffed at me, but needed no further instructions. She grabbed her clippers and went to work. The haircut made me feel as bright and shiny as my new wardrobe. I gave Björk a quick goodbye hug and skipped on out of there.
And, now, just like that, I have this other thing. A mission. A new purpose. I want to convince Óskar to break up with Jack. I want to kiss him and wrap my arms around him, and, uhhh, more stuff than that.
Will it end badly? Yeah, probably. But I like the way I feel right now. And right now is all I have.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 14 5:57 PM
Lazy Sunday. Today I’ve been anxious and jittery, full of energy. I *almost* went for a run, but, let’s face it . . . that’s just not going to happen. But I did go down to the spa and swim a few laps in the big pool, which gave me the illusion that I was getting in shape. I even faced the group showers, because it’s Icelandic LAW that you get nude and scrub your bits before entering a public pool or hot spring. I actually managed to keep myself from jerking it this time. Haha.
I shaved. I ironed my good gray shirt. And then I figured I should probably Skype my mommies.
“Hello, darling. Did you get your hair cut? You look so grown up.”
“Uh-huh. Looks like someone gave you a makeover as well.”
Mamochka had on way too much blue eye shadow, and her hair was pulled to the side in a fishtail braid. “Yes, but they made me the wrong princess—”
“You should be Anastasia.”
“Exactly!” She grinned, resting her chin on her hand as she looked into the camera. “But those kiddos wouldn’t listen.”
“I have to admit, I always kind of liked those impromptu makeover sessions the campers throw. I mean, let’s face it, I look pretty damn good in eyeliner.”
Mamochka threw her head back and laughed. Then we went on for a while, listing all the great costumes the campers had thrown together over the years. Jade’s Bettie Page look and Johnny’s perfect Vincent Price impersonations. And, of course, that time you dressed up like Jem from the Holograms. Somehow, the subject shifted to my art, and I told her about the miles.in.her.shoes Instagram and how I’d started photographing your boots.
“That’s a wonderful idea.”
“But that’s it. An idea. It’s just an abstract idea at this point. I think . . . I don’t know. I want to do something, and I want it to be meaningful, but I’m having trouble grasping what the focus should be. All I can think of is posting these photos and maybe asking other people to submit. Like some sort of solidarity thing. I mean, if V were here, she’d know where to go with it.”
“Well, what do you think she’d do if she were in YOUR shoes, Miles? What would she have done with the project?”
I stared past my iPad to the forest mural on the wall behind my bed. “She was always looking for kindred spirits. I think she’d use it to start a conversation with them.”
“Yes. That does sound like her,” Mamochka said. “So, what about you? Who do you need to start a conversation with?”
“Her followers, for one. I want them to know that she still really means a lot to me. She will always . . .” I sighed and sniffled a little bit.
“I think that’s important. But who else?”
“I dunno.”
“Maybe other people who’ve lost someone to suicide?”
“Yeah . . .”
“What are you thinking?”
“I guess I’m pretty pissed about the fact that we still live in a world where people are shamed and ridiculed for loving a transgender person. That sounds selfish, though. I don’t want to make this about me.”
“I don’t think that’s selfish at all, Miles. I think it’s a very good conversation for you to begin.”
So, after I got off the call, I logged into the new account Óskar had made for me, and I posted that first photo of your empty boots in the corner of my hotel room.
5 years ago, a beautiful transgender girl named Vivian came into my life.
3 years ago, we fell in love.
18 months ago, Vivian lapsed into a coma after an attempted suicide.
Today, I am trying to figure out how the hell to move forward now that my whole world seems gone. I’m an ocean away from her, my first solo trip. And I really need to know I’m not alone.
So, if you loved Vivian,
If you’re trans or love someone who’s trans,
Or if you know what it feels like to lose someone to suicide,
Snap a photo. Paint a picture. Write a poem. Do that thing you do better than anything else and share it. Seriously, guys, show me your shoes (especially if they’re red—V’s favorite color). #inhershoes
I need to know we’re all still standing on solid ground.
It’s been a few hours since I posted that, and I already have three replies. The first was a snapshot of two pairs of bare feet on a wooden boat dock. Both had red-painted toenails.
Sorry, Miles, but we’re not wearing any shoes! xoxo, Mamochka and Mom.
The next was a drawing of a pair of red studded Mary Janes on a cracked sidewalk:
My boyfriend Max is the cutest transboy in the world. These used to be his!
And the last one, well . . . it’s a blank, black video with a sound clip from someone called Converse_ly. There aren’t any vocals, just an electric guitar and what sounds like a plinky toy piano. It’s messy, but I think it’s supposed to sound that way. First the guitar is too loud and fast, and the piano kind of slow, buried in the background. But as the music builds, the instruments kind of trade places, and at the end, the piano is the overpowering part. But for a moment, right in the middle, both parts play perfectly together.
There’s no caption, and no other photos have been posted under the username. Hmm.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 15 9:03 AM
I just woke up. The phone woke me up!
“Hello?”
“Halló.”
“Oscar? Shit. Sorry. I’m never going to remember to say your name right. But, it’s you, isn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Hi.” GOD MILES SHUT UP!
“You have some mail. Would you like me to bring it up?”
“Uh, no. I’ll be down for breakfast in a few minutes.”
Yes! He’s here! Of course, this probably means that he hasn’t ditched Jack yet. But it also means that I get to go see him. Right now.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 15 10:14 AM
Well. I got my debit card. That’s good, right? I also got a package from Mamochka, which I opened at breakfast. There’s a mushy little note and a T-shirt from Camp. Some candy. The front of the T-shirt says HAPPY CAMPER, and it has a little stylized campfire emblem.
Another ironic T-shirt for Miles. Yay.
Because right now I am NOT a Happy Camper. I’m an Idiotic Camper. A Homesick Camper. A Delusional Camper.
On the elevator ride, I pictured myself walking into the lobby, and I’d see Óskar and, like, fucking . . . I dunno . . . “It’s Oh So Quiet” would play on the soundtrack to my life. He’d be Weekend Óskar with disheveled hair and bad boy clothes, but ACTUALLY I get down there, and it’s Óskar with his hair up and That Asshole Jack with his arm around Óskar’
s chair. I look at them and they’re both so perfect and fashionably European and I could never . . . I mean, why bother?
Fuck. I’m such an idiot. Fuck.
Chapter Sixteen
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
June 15 10:03 PM
The thing about crushes, though, is that just when you’ve written them off—too much trouble, a disaster waiting to happen—they show up all cute at your door, five thirty in the Icelandic afternoon. Don’t you hate when that happens?
“Have you been to the penis museum?” he asked as he stepped past me into the room and plopped down on the corner of my unmade bed. He had a toolbox, one of those little red metal ones that everyone and their mom has.
“Are you coming on to me?” I stood in the doorway with my arms across my chest. Still a little mad at him for . . . being unavailable, I guess?
He turned his face and laughed with his hand over his mouth. Trying to hide that goofy-ass grin of his, probably.
Óskar laughing on my bed was probably the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while.
“What’s with the toolbox?”
“I told Yak I was fixing your shower. I hate when he comes to work. Been trying to escape him all day. You didn’t take the hint when I offered to bring your mail this morning.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“You have plans right now? Let’s escape.” He rubbed his fingertips along his jawline, looking all thoughtful and mischievous. Cute.
So we snuck out a side door and booked it to the bus stop, Óskar’s toolbox clanging as he ran. He sat close to me on the bus, with his knee pressed against mine. I stared at it most of the trip to Laugavegur, thinking, I am NOT imagining this.
So, the penis museum (or the Icelandic Phallological Museum, as it is properly called) is . . . just like it sounds. Just . . . blehhh. Jars and jars of formaldehyde-pickled dicks from all the animals in the kingdom. Oh, and some are mounted on the wall, like prize fish.
“I don’t know why you brought me here,” I said. “As a male and a vegetarian, I am deeply, deeply appalled.”
“Look. Sperm whale. The biggest one.” Óskar ran his fingers down a massive glass tube with this huge blubbery . . . BLEHHH!
“Ghhhhuh.” I shuddered.
“Now I’m hungry for hot dogs.” And after we left the museum, we did, in fact stroll down the street to the hot dog stand, where Óskar bought two dogs and a Coke. There’s a little wooden picnic table next to the stand, with slats built in the top for holding your spare hot dog while you wolf down the first.
“Literally the best food in Iceland,” Óskar said. “You should try it. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Actually, I was starving.
“It’s already dead and paid for. If you don’t eat it, then I will, so there’s no loss. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah . . . but I’m still not eating that.”
He finished the first one and reached for the second. “I should joke about how you refused my wiener.”
“You really are a dirty old man.” I was blushing again. That’s saying something, right? There’s enough sexual tension between us that he could get me, the perpetual potty mouth, all bothered by a dick joke.
“Charming, isn’t it?” He got up from the table and tossed his wrappers. “Where now? Where haven’t you been?”
I thought about his mysterious other job that Björk had told me about. I raised my eyebrows and said, “I haven’t been to . . . uh . . . a recording studio.”
“Ah, I know where we should go next.” Then he bolted down the street. Like, full-on ran. It was seven thirty on a Monday, so there weren’t a ton of people out and about. I chased after him, trying my best to keep up, but when the gap between us grew to two blocks, he finally slowed down and let me catch up. He teased me about being out of shape, and I wheezed out something about how I used to be a fat kid.
The next stop on Óskar’s Impromptu Tour of Reykjavik was 12 Tónar. It’s a little green and white house-like building with two big picture windows on the front. I’ve been meaning to go there, as I’ve read it’s one of the best record stores in the world. Like Iceland itself, it’s a little underwhelming upon your arrival. It’s tiny and rundown, nothing too impressive. The guy at the counter seemed to know Óskar, but I’ve read that everyone in Iceland knows one another. Only three hundred thousand people. They have an app that lets them check and make sure their Friday night hookup isn’t related to them, because I guess that’s a problem. While Óskar and the shop guy chatted, I browsed around trying to decipher their Icelandic. Nope, nothing. The guy made Óskar a cup of coffee and asked if I wanted some, but I declined.
“He doesn’t like it,” Óskar explained. Coffee in one hand, stack of CDs in the other, he led me down a rickety spiral staircase to a little basement room. There were more CDs in displays and cardboard boxes everywhere and some old-fashioned furniture. We sat side by side on a blue velvet couch with carved wooden trim. Knees touching again . . .
I smiled to myself about that. And about how Óskar remembered me saying I don’t like coffee. That’s such a small, random detail.
I picked at a loose thread on my jeans while Óskar sorted through the CDs in his lap. The cool thing about 12 Tónar, the reason everyone says it’s the best, is because you can literally listen to any CD you want—open it up, fondle the liner notes, stare at your reflection in the silvery rainbow disc. On the coffee table in front of the couch, there were a couple of little boom boxes. Óskar popped in a disc and passed me the headphones. It was a trashy pop song, a girl singing about dance floors and booty shorts.
“This is awful,” I said, probably too loudly because of the headphones.
He unrolled the album booklet and pointed to a line of text—lyrics by Óskar Franz Magnússon.
“What, no! That’s you? You wrote these atrocious lyrics?” I cackled. “And your middle name is Franz?”
He pulled the headphones away, and his mouth was close to my ear. “I whore myself out. Here, let me play you something better.”
We moved through a stack of discs—fast guitar rhythms that were so mathematically perfect they made my head spin, bluesy R & B, oddly cheerful Icelandic hip-hop, dark heavy metal, and folksy rock with swooning vocals. Óskar’s name was on all of it somewhere—lyrics, guitars, synths, even violin.
“Dude, you are super talented. I’m always so jealous of people who can do music. I couldn’t even play my recorder.”
“What’s a recorder?”
“Oh, this little plastic instrument that American elementary school kids are forced to learn. So how’d you get on all these albums?”
“The studio hires me when they need extra musicians. It’s my backup job.”
“THIS is your backup job?”
He shrugged and checked his watch and he rose from the sofa. “One more stop, and then maybe I’ll let you see me play.”
The next place he took me was Harpa, the concert hall.
“Goddamn, I wish I had my camera.” Like the airport, this place was all glass and light and angles. It was like being inside a Christmas ornament. Or, no, a kaleidoscope.
“What about your mobile?”
“Screen’s busted. Guess I’ll have to come back.”
“Orrr, just look. Keep it in here.” He pointed to his chest.
“Right. Damn the megapixels.” I looked at him, and he looked past me, like he always does.
We walked along the high side wall that’s constructed from thousands of elongated hexagons of glass. There were lots of tourists around us, snapping pictures and chasing their children in circles. But the place was so big, the ceiling so tall, that there was space enough for us to feel alone together. Me and Óskar. And my heart was kind of convulsing from all the information I was trying to pack in—but mainly because I wanted to kiss him. I sooo wanted to kiss him.
I like Óskar so much because when he’s around, I stop thinking of you. Or, if I do, it’s distant and fuzzy, like I really
am doing what Mom said I should. Like, I really am learning to let you go.
When we got to the corner, I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him in. I put a finger under his chin and tilted his face toward me. Close enough that we could kiss, but I let him be the one to choose whether or not he wanted to bridge that tiny gap between my mouth and his.
My heart was drumming out Óskaresque mathematical rhythms, and maybe I was hearing his beats mingled with mine. My fingertips digging into his tightly wound hair.
We stayed like that for three eternal seconds. I bet we looked like weirdoes to the tourists. Or maybe they were disgusted by the two men almost kissing. Or maybe someone saw us silhouetted by multicolored glass and light and thought we looked like a painting, so they snapped a picture and now this almost-kiss will forever be in their Icelandic memories.
Then Óskar took a step back. And I took a step back. He smoothed his shirt, even though it was flawless, and raised a hand like I was a threat he needed to subdue.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We retraced our steps out of the building, and back on the street, Óskar said, “The funny thing is that Yak isn’t normally around. He lives in Wales. I see him only a few times a year. He doesn’t mind if I sleep with other men. I do sometimes, and I’m sure he has other lovers than me. But the rule is that when we’re together, we’re together. Nobody else.”
“Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I want to—the first weekend you were here, I thought I’d take you on the rúntur and maybe we’d hook up. But you already had plans.”
My night with Shannon. I couldn’t believe Óskar’d been into me for that long. “Well, shit.”
He shrugged. “And then Yak showed up unannounced. I don’t know what to do with him. I adore him when he isn’t next to me. But when he is, I feel so trapped.”
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