Laugh Cry Repeat

by John Inman

  Subtle.

  Wyeth weighed the envelope in his hands. It was fat and bulky. Curious, he peeled it open and gave the envelope a shake. Two items slipped out. One wafted gently onto his lap, the other landed with a thump on his desk. The one on his desk was the book he’d dropped in the lagoon when the gorgeous but annoying jogger tripped over his dog. The book was dry but swollen to three times its normal size, the pages brittle and crackly and fluffed up like they’d been force-fed growth hormones. Several of the pages had come loose and were crookedly taped back into place. Most of the back cover was missing, and several other pages appeared to have had their corners nibbled off. Possibly by hungry koi.

  Wyeth shifted his attention to the paper in his lap, which turned out to be a note in the same clunky penmanship in the same orange crayon.

  Dear Wyeth,

  It was lovely running into you and Chaucer the other day. My rehab is coming along nicely, thank you for asking. They tell me I should be able to walk without blubbering in pain within a year or two. As soon as I became mobile, I wheeled myself back to the lagoon and retrieved your book. With the assistance of my microwave oven, a neighbor’s blow dryer, a box of kitchen matches, and two quarts of medicinal gin, I succeeded in drying the fucker out. It’s a little poofier than it used to be, but I trust it’s still legible. Give my regards to your four-legged friend. Tell him I hope his mange is getting better. Or not.

  Deeze

  P.S. Sorry about the crayon. I couldn’t find a pen.

  Wyeth stared at the note, then picked up the book. He stared at it for about a minute and a half before spitting up a laugh. He studied the note again, and while he studied the note, he remembered everything about the man who wrote it. The way he looked. The way he smiled. The way he could annoy the tread off a car tire.

  The way he looked.

  Wyeth gave his head a shake, grumbled something less than kind, and dropped the book into a wastebasket. He started to drop the note in with it, but at the last moment changed his mind and stuffed the little piece of paper into his trouser pocket instead.

  That evening when five o’clock rolled around, he stepped through the library’s front door, breathed in the stagnant ninety-degree heat that hadn’t let up one little bit in over a week, and gazed across the street to see Deeze leaning against a tree, watching him.

  “Oh God,” Wyeth muttered to himself. “Not this guy again.”

  “GET ANY interesting mail lately?” Deeze asked. He wasn’t dressed in running shorts this time. He was decked out in faded jeans and a simple white dress shirt neatly tucked in. His sleeves were rolled up, which set off his olive skin and hairy forearms perfectly. Wyeth wondered if that thought had crossed Deeze’s mind while he dressed, then decided that was an unworthy and uncharitable idea that… was probably true. Deeze wore Birkenstock sandals over bare tanned feet and a simple braided gay pride bracelet on his left wrist. He was also holding a bouquet of yellow daisies interspersed with purple heather, which he had clearly just purchased from the flower stand on the corner. The bracelet and the flowers were the only splashes of color on him.

  Wyeth gazed uneasily at the flowers. “I don’t want those,” he said.

  Deeze smiled brightly. “That’s fortuitous. They’re not for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “And in case you’ve forgotten, my name is Deeze.”

  “I know. Short for Doogie Zamboni.”

  “Darryl Zachary, actually.”

  “I was close.”

  Deeze continued to lean against the tree. He didn’t stick out a hand to shake hello. He didn’t ask how Wyeth’s day was going. He just stood there, shoulder digging into the bark, ankles crossed, smiling and holding the flowers in front of his chest.

  The silence was getting a little awkward, so Wyeth asked, “How did you get the book dry?”

  “Oh, so you did get my package and note.”

  Wyeth sighed. “Yes.”

  “No thank you?”

  “Umm, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Were you surprised by the orange crayon?”

  “Strangely, no. And the book?”

  “I stood over it with a blow dryer, like I said. Took hours. Ponderous task. I hope you appreciate the effort. Next time read Winnie the Pooh. Fewer pages. Less absorption capabilities for soaking up pond water. I’m sorry, did you say you did appreciate the effort?”

  “I was deeply touched.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Just so you know, Wyeth, I’m lying too.”

  “About what?”

  He thrust the flowers in Wyeth’s face. “These,” he said. “They really are for you. I thought maybe I could follow you home where you can stick them in water to preserve their virginal freshness, not unlike your own, then me, you, and Cujo could go for a walk together before dinner. I’d like to get to know you better.”

  Wyeth thought it best to ignore the “virginal freshness” remark. “What on earth do you want to get to know me for?”

  Deeze smirked and fluttered his eyelashes. He must have figured that was answer enough.

  “Good grief, Deeze. What are you, twelve? And tell me the truth. Why do you have crayons?”

  “I teach preschool. I not only have crayons, I have paste at home too. Gallons of it. And construction paper. Reams and reams of construction paper. All colors. Wait till you see the hand-crafted Christmas card I’ll send you come December. Sparkles, little gold stars, tinsel. You’ll be charmed right out of your socks.”

  “Holy shit, you’re serious.”

  “Thank you. If your interests run to a more hands-on approach to dating, I also have a paddle with holes drilled in it for the really rotten kids. We might drag that out one evening just for shits and giggles. I could bend you naked over my lap and pound the living—”

  “You beat your students? Preschoolers? You spank preschoolers?”

  “A mere jest. A whimsical flight of fancy. I don’t really have a paddle. Well, I do, but it’s not for—”

  “Did you say ‘dating’?”

  “Yes. Dating. Me. You. The dog. Dating.”

  Wyeth just stood there. Dumbfounded. It was the oddest thing, but for the space of about ten seconds, he lost the capacity to speak. Finally, he coughed up some rudimentary noises. A couple of grunts, a snort, a sort of wheezy gagging sound that was a little off-putting, even for him. By stringing those noises together, he managed to create a reasonably coherent sentence. It wasn’t the mention of dating that threw Wyeth for a loop. Or even the paddle. It was the other thing. The truly incomprehensible thing.

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you’re a teacher?”

  Deeze narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t benefit from preschool as a child, did you? If you had, you would clearly be more adept at comprehension. Yes. I’m a teacher. And I’m asking you for a date. A normal person would have figured that out by the flowers alone. You really are quite slow, aren’t you? I mean, for a librarian.”

  “I don’t want the flowers.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t want to date you.”

  “Yes, you do. Let me buy you dinner.”

  “Oh, you have your wallet this time?”

  Deeze smiled. “Yes. Wallet. Credit card. Protection. And by protection,” he hastily added, apparently seeing Wyeth about to snap his head off, “I mean long pants in case your dog starts humping me again.”

  “Where did you go to college?” Wyeth asked, one eyebrow climbing up into his hairline, still clearly unconvinced Deeze was telling the truth.

  “University of San Francisco. How about you?”

  “San Diego State.”

  “When did you graduate?”

  Wyeth counted on his fingers. “Five years ago. You?”

  “Six.”

  “How do you like teaching?”

  “I love it. How do you like librarian-ing?”

  “It’s called library science, and I love it
.”

  Deeze’s face softened. He was still holding the flowers under Wyeth’s nose. He gave them a little shake, rustling the blossoms, and said softly, “Look how much we have in common. Look how easily we communicate. We’re practically on a date already, and you don’t even know it. Take the flowers. Please. I want to see them in your hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Just fer cause.”

  Hesitantly, Wyeth slipped his fingers around the bouquet and brought them to his nose, lightly inhaling their fragrance. “They smell nice,” he said quietly. “Thank you. But I really can’t—”

  “Yes, you can,” Deeze smiled. “You know you can. In fact, you already did.”

  Wyeth swiveled to look behind him at the library entrance, wondering if any fellow employees were watching him being wooed in broad daylight by a guy wearing a gay pride bracelet. Not that he much cared. About the bracelet, at any rate. Or witnesses either.

  He turned back to Deeze. He stared deep into the man’s eager brown eyes. There was kindness there, he suddenly noticed. Kindness mixed with mischief. Deeze was clearly a menace. He was also clearly waiting with bated breath to see what Wyeth’s answer would be. And if the truth were known, so was Wyeth.

  He honestly didn’t know what words were coming until he opened his mouth and spit them out. “We have to walk Chaucer first. Maybe if we eat at an outside cafe somewhere, we can take him with us. He’s been alone all day. He’s used to company. He tends to get destructive when he has too much time to himself.”

  “You mean like ambushing joggers and humping strangers?”

  “No, I mean like eating throw rugs and hiding the knobs off the kitchen stove.”

  “Pets are such a blessing.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “So you are coming to dinner?”

  “I guess I have to eat sometime.”

  “Your enthusiasm makes me all tingly.”

  Deeze offered Wyeth a wide, handsome smile. Wyeth was surprised to see a very sweet and very honest thank-you in that smile. Deeze patted his chest like his heart had gone all fluttery for a second, and blushing, Wyeth whapped Deeze upside the head with the flowers, telling him to stop being such a twit.

  “Ouch,” Deeze said, picking a petal out of his hair. “Glad I didn’t buy anything with thorns.”

  “Serves you right. You really are the most annoying man I’ve ever met.”

  “At least I’m the most at something. Pinnacles are good, don’t you think? Why slog up the hill at all if you can’t claim the summit?”

  “So says the guy who suffered through four years of college to teach toddlers how to finger paint.”

  Deeze appeared mortally offended. “Hey, finger painting’s tough!”

  Shaking his head, Wyeth sniffed the flowers once again and peered across their colorful heads to the man opposite him. The man under the tree. The man who didn’t seem to know how to give up. The man who was totally unconcerned (maybe) by how good he looked in that white shirt.

  Wyeth breathed in a long, shuddering breath. “Well, come on, then. Let’s go get Cujo. I mean, Chaucer.” Mumbling to himself, he added softly, “I’m going to regret this. I know I am.”

  Deeze bumped him with his hip. “It’s just dinner. No reason to get all weird about it.”

  Wyeth nodded. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  “You’re a little high-strung. You know, they have medication for that.”

  “I’m high-strung? You’re calling me high-strung?”

  “Yes. If you could only admit that, it would make it so much easier for you to cope with your plethora of psychoses.”

  “My plethora of psychoses? Did you say plethora of psychoses?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I said. Fear of friendship. Avoidance of restaurants. Inability to train your dog. Unreasonable aversion to exercise. Tendency to employ daisies as weaponry.” The longer Deeze talked, the broader he smiled.

  Wyeth rolled his eyes so far up into his head he could see his hair follicles dangling down. Deciding eye-rolling was a little too cavalier, especially under the circumstances—after all he was about to cop a free meal—he offered a commiserating grunt instead.

  Deeze slipped his arm through Wyeth’s and steered him up the street. Clearing his throat, he leaned in close and whispered, “I’m glad you’re finally accepting the truth about yourself. Now then, about that paddle….”

  DEEZE STOOD at Wyeth’s living room window, staring out at the window directly across the street. His window. He could see the familiar pictures on his walls, the colorful afghan thrown across the arm of his favorite chair, the efficiency kitchen at the back of the living room with its microwave oven on the countertop next to a dish drainer by the sink with his coffee cup still sitting there from this morning. He could even make out the door leading into his bedroom. Hell, he could see everything.

  “I guess I should stop running around naked when I’m home.”

  His voice was fluttery because he was being jarred continuously from behind. Chaucer was humping his leg again, and he was really going to town. Apparently Deeze was the best lay he’d had in years.

  “I had no idea you lived so close!” Wyeth called out from the bathroom. “Just so you know, I’m not a Peeping Tom. Like I care what you do. If you want to run around naked, run around naked!” He stuck his head out the bathroom door. “I mean, after you get home, not here.” He ducked back inside. “Just close your stupid drapes so you don’t inflict it on the rest of the world.”

  “I feel I should take offense at that remark,” Deeze said, his breath fogging the window.

  “I’ll be out in a minute!” Wyeth yelled over the sound of flushing water. “I’m going to brush my teeth before we go! You and Chaucer get to know each other.”

  Deeze gazed down at the dog still clamped around his leg, his sharp little toenails digging into Deeze’s tender flesh while the mutt humped away for all he was worth. “Your dog and I know each other well enough already, thanks!” he called back. “I’m starting to feel like a slut!”

  “I’m sure that’s not a new experience for you,” Wyeth mumbled, probably not quite as softly as he intended.

  Deeze turned from the window and glowered across the room. “I heard that.”

  The flowers he had bought were standing in a drinking glass on the coffee table. Deeze still couldn’t believe it, but Wyeth didn’t own a vase. What sort of self-respecting homosexual didn’t own a vase? Deeze turned from the window and gravitated toward a bookcase along the wall, dragging a still-humping Chaucer along with him like a ball and chain.

  Wyeth seemed to have a wide range of novels from a wide range of writers, although most appeared to be thrillers. Deeze wasn’t in the least surprised to see the books were neatly sorted in alphabetical order by authors’ names. The guy hacking up toothpaste in the other room was, after all, a librarian. He plucked one book out at random—a Stephen King—and flipped to the inside of the back cover looking for a time card to see if it had been stolen from the library. Disappointingly, it hadn’t.

  “No,” Wyeth said from the doorway behind him. “They’re not stolen from the library, if that’s what you’re wondering. I buy my books just like you do, only mine aren’t full of pictures, and I don’t get them from Geppetto’s Baby Boutique.”

  Deeze slipped the book back on the shelf. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a grin.

  Wyeth moved to the window. “Which apartment is yours? Just so I’ll know where not to look.” He turned back briefly to glance down at Chaucer, who was still happily humping away with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Wyeth opened his mouth as if to yell at the beast for his incessant humping, but at the last moment, he clapped his mouth shut and turned back to the window as if admitting he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Some weird sixth sense must have told Chaucer that the two humans in the room were both thinking about him, because he suddenly released Deeze’s leg. Deeze was afraid to look at th
e back of his jeans for fear of seeing a doggy semen stain there. He looked down at the mutt, who was still doing some fragmented humping in midair while his engine idled down.

  “Was that good for you?” Deeze asked.

  Chaucer turned and walked away.

  “Typical,” Deeze sniffed. “You give of yourself, you offer it all—”

  “Oh, do be quiet.”

  “Sure, boss.” Deeze stepped up to the window beside Wyeth. “There,” he said, pointing. “My apartment is the one with the red curtains.”

  “Good lord,” Wyeth said. “You really are right across the street from me. Your apartment looks nice. It looks like you actually keep it clean. I’m surprised.”

  “There’s a mean streak in you. Did you know?”

  “Wait a minute!” Wyeth barked, leaning close enough to the window to rattle his eyeglasses against the pane. “You’ve got a cat!”

  Deeze rested a hand on Wyeth’s shoulder, wondering if he’d have his arm ripped out by the root. Oddly enough, Wyeth didn’t seem to notice. He was too engrossed in the cat across the way. Following Wyeth’s gaze, Deeze stared through the window. Sure enough, a cat sat on the back of Deeze’s couch, licking its butt.

  “That’s Napoleon,” Deeze said, wondering why cats always lick their butts at the most inopportune times. Of course socially speaking, he supposed, it was never an opportune time for anybody to lick their butts.

  “He’s a Maine coon cat,” Wyeth said, clearly impressed.

  Deeze nodded, impressed that Wyeth was impressed. “Yes, he is.”

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “Yes. And he knows it.”

  Deeze still had his hand on Wyeth’s shoulder. He enjoyed the sensation of strong bones and lean musculature moving beneath his palm. He could feel Wyeth’s heat, and that was enjoyable too. So he sidled a little closer.

  Standing so close, Deeze realized he was about half a head taller than the redheaded man beside him. When Wyeth almost caught him staring, Deeze pivoted his head to peer through the window again.