Almost Like Being in Love

by Steve Kluger

  “Seventy-eight,” she repeated with a forced simper. “And I’m organizing a reunion that I’m sure they wouldn’t want to miss.” At which point our unwitting adversary nodded appreciatively and uttered the four ugliest words I’d ever heard in my life.

  “Oh. You mean Craig.” My insides collapsed on the spot. So much for the medley of reasonable explanations.

  “Do you sell rat poison here?” I blurted.

  FROM THE DESK OF

  Gordon Duboise

  Pop:

  I’m running into a little snag. I thought it’d be more realistic if Craig had a boyfriend—but I think I’ve written myself into a corner. How do I keep Travis from giving up?

  Also, if A.J. were to say to Gordo, “In the unlikely event I ever misplace enough of my marbles to marry you,” does it sound like she’s just yanking my chain or like she’s really hooked on him?

  Read the pages and let me know. I’m at home.

  Your Kid

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  Gordon:

  Don’t worry about realistic. It’s only a movie. Besides, if these people were actually alive, they’d have been institutionalized by now.

  Gordo and A.J. fell in love on page 7 of the outline when she called him an unappetizing pervert. Isn’t that what you intended? Even a studio nitwit ought to be able to spot it. She’s too bright to be single and he’s too extraordinary. They were made for each other.

  Before Travis throws in the towel (which doesn’t sound too likely, given how you’ve developed him), he and A.J. need to do a little investigating first. She could tail Craig to find out what his story is, and Travis could drop in on Clayton. Maybe they talk hardware. Or Travis pretends he’s building a house and needs a hammer. How the hell should I know? That’s your department.

  This is the first time you’ve asked for my advice since 1967. If you made it a habit, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  Pop

  P.S. “Does it sound like she’s just yanking my chain?” Gordon, how much of this aren’t you inventing?

  FROM THE DESK OF

  Gordon Duboise

  Pop:

  Ooops.

  Did you figure it out before you called Gordo “extraordinary” or after?

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  You’ll never know.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF

  Travis Puckett

  THE PUCKETT/DUBOISE DEBATES

  TRAVIS:

  Me building a house?! There’s a laugh. Remember the time I tried to fix the toaster? California Edison blamed me for a three-state blackout!

  GORDO:

  You’ve got until Monday to learn the terminology. Now shut up and go over it one more time. Split-level.

  TRAVIS:

  Steps and an attic.

  GORDO:

  A-frame.

  TRAVIS:

  Point at the top.

  GORDO:

  Ranch.

  TRAVIS:

  Naked cowboys. What if he asks me about nails and wood?!

  GORDO:

  T, it’s not like you’re really going to go through with it! Get him to talk about Craig. Find out how serious it is.

  TRAVIS:

  This is the worst idea you ever had.

  GORDO:

  No, it isn’t. Having sex with a witch doctor was.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF

  Travis Puckett

  I had to get out of that hotel room pronto, and it wasn’t just because of the icky aqua-and-mauve bedspreads. In less than twenty-four hours, A.J. and Gordo had hopscotched from cat and mouse to “he’s-in-love-with-Kim, Kim’s-in-love-with-him” without even landing on cute and nauseating first. Who ever heard of having dinner together in different area codes?! Worse, when I tried to pry the receiver out of A.J.’s ear by alerting her that Giant was on channel 8, all she did was mumble, “I’ve already seen it,” before returning to AT&T and my roommate’s idiosyncratic résumé—which included a fable about a blind date who’d allegedly requested permission to chuck oranges at his ass. (Her name was Cindy and they were actually tangerines. Typically, Gordo was distorting the facts again.)

  Once out on the sidewalk, I grimly accepted the fact that my world had come to a premature finish, leaving me behind like so much flotsam. But I could handle it. Just because I’d been abandoned and discarded by those I’d trusted, just because I was wounded, bleeding, and lost without hope, just because my lover had found somebody else and I’d never get to tickle his belly button again, and just because my ex-best friend wasn’t able to come up with anything more erudite than suggesting I learn the finer points of barn raising, I could still watch out for myself. After all, Saratoga Springs sits smack in the middle of the most significant part of American history, and there were plenty of distractions at hand tailor-made for taking my mind off the futility of a twice-broken heart.

  Craig’s office building. There’s a newsstand on the ground floor that sells chocolate chip cookies. This is probably where he buys them on his way back from lunch.

  Craig’s grocery store. The old lady who owns it told me that Craig loves McIntosh apples. Bullshit. Craig hates McIntosh apples. They must be for the Abusive Shitball who sleeps on the other side of his bed.

  Craig’s pharmacy. The condoms were on a rack right by the front door, so I didn’t go inside. Who needed the torment of speculation?

  Craig’s gas station. There was a hunky little pump jockey whose eyes never left my 501s. If I ever find out he looks at Craig that way, I’ll kick his ass.

  Craig’s house. It has two decks, a Jacuzzi, and a double-tiered patio, doubtless built by the Snarling Douchebag while he had Craig rope-tied in a closet. The bedroom takes up the whole second floor. What bitter crops are harvested there?

  Craig’s lake. Directly across the street from their front yard, it’s ringed by maples and elms and picnic-green grass. He and The Lump probably sit by the shore on summer nights, ruminating—assuming that Craig is allowed to speak at all.

  Craig’s car. He drives a blue Miata with rainbow plate holders. And on the front seat there’s a CD. Damn Yankees. (“Smerko, play the ‘Miles and Miles and Miles of Heart’ song again. Pleeeeeeeeease.”) The Nut-Log probably owns a Bronco.

  Saratoga Museum/Benedict Arnold’s boot. It’s a moldy old shoe. Big fucking deal. What does that have to do with Craig?!

  If Alexander Hamilton could invent a country and then get himself shot in a duel for something he believed in, the boyfriend thing ought to be a no-brainer. Especially without an asshole like Aaron Burr in the picture. Isn’t this what you’ve been teaching us?

  NOW you’re acting dopey enough to be in love.

  This is what you have a life for.

  Falling hard for somebody makes you do things you never thought you’d do before. Like pulling off an A in History or finally facing the truth about yourself. Craig’s the one, Travis. Get him back.

  Split level: steps and an attic. A-frame: point at the top. Ranch house: remember the Ponderosa….

  Dear A.J.,

  Whenever he threatens to call it quits, expect him to come through. It always happens—as long as you don’t argue with him. Example of what not to do:

  TRAVIS:

  My world just ended.

  YOU:

  Like hell it did.

  Example of the best way to get him off his ass:

  TRAVIS:

  My life is over. Think I’ll go hang myself.

  YOU:

  There’s a rope in the closet.

  It’s like lighting a fuse. And if he starts using words like “futile” and “flotsam,” watch out. He’s about to launch the counterattack.

  The next time we plan dinner, ha
ng up on me if I suggest Chinese again. The cordless phone–chopsticks combo just doesn’t work. (By the way, I still have eight spareribs left. Want me to FedEx them?) And maybe you want to think about picking candles that are more romantic than votives. I used the ones in those bell-shaped glasses, and all we were missing on this end was Johnny Mathis singing to us. I got the feeling you were holding out for the pope.

  Four things: (1) The rattle under the hood is because the latch dried out. Shpritz it with a little WD-40 and it’ll go away. I promise. (2) You were right about the temperature on Saturn. (3) Your mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s—it’s just the after-effects of the stroke. When she says “I have a hurricane in my purse,” it may not make sense, but it means she’s healing. Remember when she could hardly talk at all? How much would you have paid for one of those hurricanes then? (4) The kid on the Good & Plenty commercial was named Choo-Choo Charlie.

  My father called me extraordinary. And you were the one who convinced him.

  Love you,

  Gordo

  P.S. When I gave you a hard time about the Pop-Tarts, you knew I was only joking, right?

  Dear Gordo,

  I didn’t convince your father—your father convinced you.

  Beaver’s still out sightseeing. Ask him to send you his list of hot spots. If Craig McKenna ever becomes a national icon, guess who’s got the first Greyline franchise all sewn up? By tonight we can probably expect snapshots of the Toilet Craig Pees In.

  Up until three days ago, I’d have closed the books on this one. Craig has a significant other and I don’t believe in miracles. Right? Then what the hell am I doing in Saratoga Springs with a certifiable (though appealing) fruitcake and a long-distance boyfriend I haven’t even met yet? Beats the shit out of me. So on Monday while Beaver’s getting his ass into hot water with Clayton, I’ll stake out the law firm and see what happens. Why not? If it works, I’ll buy a trenchcoat and marry Lauren Bacall. Then we can all go picket that Dr. Laura idiot.

  Four things: (1) Your aspersions on my blueberry Pop-Tarts scarred me for life. Can’t you tell? (2) Are you sure about the Saturn thing? Because I made it up on the spot. (3) If you hadn’t waited until the last minute to suggest candles, I’d have had time to shop. Ever browse 7-Eleven for mood lighting? It was either votives or a road flare. (4) You were never really an unappetizing pervert. You were a beguiling one.

  This afternoon I checked in with my mother expecting more hurricanes and other natural disasters, only to have her begin the conversation with “How’s Gordo?” You’re the first new thing she’s remembered since the stroke.

  Keep your fingers crossed that Craig’s not a lost cause after all. Because if there’s a way out of this, Beaver’ll find it. Maybe we should take lessons from him.

  Love you too,

  A.J.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF

  Travis Puckett

  Hating Clayton was going to require a lot more work than I thought. Even if I’d been blind to the pecs and the arms and the chest and the ass—which I wasn’t—there were still a couple of other small matters that couldn’t be overlooked: the coffee and the donuts (“You do business with a Jew from the Bronx, you don’t go away hungry.”), the instructions to his secretary (“I got somebody very important here—no calls.”), and the gold mezuzeh around his neck (“Grandma Ida gave it to me when I was 14. It never comes off.”). For two days I’d been rehearsing “sullen” and “hostile,” but after five minutes in his office I knew I was going to flunk my finals before I’d even gotten to the essay part.

  “Talk to me, Travis,” he insisted, leaning against the corner of his desk with his legs spread, like Apollo posing for the cover of Advocate Men. “What kind of house are you looking to put up?” Since all of my available synapses were being utilized to keep from staring at his massive thighs, I couldn’t remember a single thing Gordo had taught me.

  “Uh—point at the top?” I mumbled, blushing shamelessly. But Clayton merely shrugged it off and played the good sport. (Why not? I probably wouldn’t have been the first male to faint on his Adidas.) Reaching behind him, he grabbed a 3-by-5 snapshot tucked into the blotter.

  “Something like this?” he asked, handing it over. Against my better judgment, I stared down at it dumbly—barely registering the black Bronco or the waterfront A-frame or a glimmering Lake Ontario in the background, which might just as well have been made out of Silly Putty. All I saw was the lithe body seated on the top step, with the snug white T-shirt and the chestnut hair and the thermonuclear one-dimple grin that had been tattooed on my heart since 1978. Jesus Christ! How could he have gotten cuter?! It’s not biologically possible!

  “Who’s the guy?” I inquired casually, hoping I hadn’t urinated on the floor. Clayton stared at his feet for a long moment before he replied—and when he did, it was almost a challenge.

  “My boyfriend,” he said carefully. “You got a problem with that?” For the first time all morning, my eyebrows unclenched. I even managed a grin of my own.

  “I’m wearing an earring and size 28 jeans,” I retorted. “Does it look like I have a problem with that?”

  So he took me out to lunch. Somehow, we never got around to discussing my house.

  Dear Gordo,

  This is going to be a lot easier than we thought. It turns out that Craig and his law partner Charleen eat at the same noxious greasy spoon every afternoon at 12:30. (Paradoxically, somebody decided to christen it the Sweet Shop and build it right around the corner from the municipal courts building. In a pinch, it’s possible to order a sandwich, come down with ptomaine, and file a lawsuit—all in the same lunch hour. You should see what passes for chicken salad in this joint.) Fortunately, they don’t charge for eavesdropping, so a cup of coffee that was indistinguishable from liquid nitrogen bought me the booth next to Craig’s for ninety minutes.

  Here’s what we know so far:

  They have a chunky piece of eye candy named Kevin who sits behind the reception desk and pretends he’s not sexually flammable. (Men only, of course. So what else is new? Vaginas and rotary telephones—relics of the twentieth century.) At first he thought I was a process server, but after we’d exchanged our respective theories on Matt Damon’s genitalia, he surrendered the enigma code and pointed me toward the Sweet Shop.

  Craig and Charleen represent a first baseman who plays with (a) the Utica Blue Sox, and (b) Charleen. Apparently, he can’t afford custody of his son, so they’re trying to find him a job in Saratoga Springs. God only knows why. From the sound of it, if he’d take off his pants and hop onto a calendar, he’d clean up.

  The Democrats have just asked Craig to run for office, but he hasn’t made up his mind. How come? Get this. Clayton doesn’t know about it yet. And when he finds out, they’re liable to be finding pieces of New York State as far south as Ecuador. So maybe we have a shot after all. Clayton sounds like a real pip.

  Beaver’s right. Craig was worth waiting twenty years for. At first glance, he’s merely follow-the-dots cute—but when he smiles, it’s like a sunburst hitting you right in the face. And I’d kill for his eyes.

  We need to arrange for them to run into each other ASAP. Whatever’s going to happen is anybody’s guess—but we’ve got nature and Beaver’s moxie on our side. Who knows? After this, I might even be able to stomach It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Love,

  A.J.

  G:

  This is going to be a lot tougher than we thought. Remember when I called Clayton an Arrogant Asswipe? Maybe I should have waited until I’d met him first.

  The Bad News

  They’ve been living together for twelve years.

  Clayton calls him “Honey.”

  They built a summer house with their own four hands in a place called Cape Vincent.

  Craig’s name is on Clayton’s license plate. Sort of. CLAY CRG. Craig must have hit the ceiling and I don’t blame him. According to the unwritten rules, Clayton should have plates that say CRAIG 78 (the ye
ar they met), and Craig’s should say CLAY 78. Duh.

  The Encouraging News

  They started seeing each other right after a Harvey Milk vigil that Craig organized. (I may have had something to do with that.)

  They broke up for three and a half years around the time that Craig forged Anita Bryant’s signature and got her elected to the American Nazi Party. (I definitely had something to do with that.)

  Clayton gave him a wedding ring a couple of weeks ago, but as of 4:32 this afternoon Craig hadn’t given him one back yet. (And he won’t. You always have to let Craig make the first move, even if the idea’s yours.)

  They got into their first fight in 1979 and it hasn’t ended yet—mostly because Craig can’t say no to a human rights issue and Clayton can. (Never ever ever ever tell Craig not to do something. Two reasons: (a) He’s got a sweet heart and he’s usually right; and (b) if he’s making a mistake, he’ll figure that out for himself. You just have to be sure you’re holding his hand in case things backfire on him.)

  We wound up spending most of the afternoon together. First he took me on a field trip of the hardware store (bet you don’t know what an adze looks like), then he bought me lunch, then he showed me the bowling alley, then he gave me a Tic Tac, and then we drove out to Saratoga Lake because that’s where he wants to build my house. Know what he told me? I only have to pay for materials and costs. Nothing else. “That way I can prove I was your first best friend in the Springs.”

  G, I don’t know if I can go through with this. I like him.

  T

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