Sweatpants Season

by Danielle Allen

  “City, chill,” Country Boy warned.

  “And as you know, we had her in here the other day. Since that podcast hit the airwaves, our email account has been blowing up with questions. Is she blaming our show because she can’t get a date? Is she as ugly as she sounds? Does she even date men? Does the A stand for animal,” City Boy continued, causing Country Boy to laugh uncomfortably. “And since we’ve had some issues and dealings with A. Bishara, I wanted to spend some time answering your questions.”

  “What are you doing?” Carlos asked with a sharp edge to his voice.

  “It’s fine. Our first question comes from GregCarter and it reads: Do you know her name?” City Boy laughed to himself. “I actually do know her name. The three of us know her name. But we refer to her under the name she writes under. It’s a pen name she hides behind. So, just to clear that up for everyone listening, the name of the woman behind A. Bishara is known by us; however, we call her by her pen name to protect her privacy. She’ll out herself when she’s ready.”

  “Okay, let’s answer Timothy’s email about what to do with the naked pictures of his ex-girlfriend now that they’re no longer together,” Country Boy interjected.

  “We will get to the reasons why he should keep them in a few minutes. But first, I want to get through the questions. We have more questions and comments about A. Bishara than anything else, so that’s what we’re talking about now. The people have spoken, and we have to give the people what they want. So, let’s start with the question that kept coming up the most… what does she look like? Fellas, do you want to start or should I?”

  “What she looks like has nothing to do with why she was here,” Carlos answered through clenched teeth.

  “Los, answer the question. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you would look at her,” City Boy snickered.

  “She’s pretty. Let’s move on,” Country sighed.

  “I must admit she’s hot. But as soon as she opens her mouth, she goes from a strong nine to a low two. The only reason I won’t give her a one is because of her ass. Los, calm your ass down. We’re telling the truth. Are you denying it? You’re saying you didn’t notice she was hot and that she has a nice ass?”

  “What’s your point, City Boy?”

  “My point is that the people want to know, so we give them the answers.” He let out a growl. “While Los Cabos calms down, let’s move on to the next question: does she have a point?”

  “Does she?” Country Boy pondered.

  “Yes.” He paused. “Her nipples,” City Boy joked, causing Country Boy to laugh.

  “City, chill the fuck out,” Carlos barked.

  “Come on, guys. We’re live,” Country Boy reminded them.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Let’s take a call from the phone line—remember we take calls between eight thirty and nine o’clock every Friday when we can get to it. Okay, Caller, you’re on with Date Night.”

  “Hey, City Boy! What’s up, everybody? I’m Matt, and my question is about that Bishara bitch. What’s wrong with her? She can’t take a joke?”

  “Well simply put, we said something that offended her delicate sensibilities and now she spends her time writing columns about how we are what’s wrong with the modern man and dating today. Even Los agreed that her ideas that we were toxic, misguided, and communication deficient were bullshit.”

  “On the other podcast you said that she had a stick up her ass. Maybe she has one up her ass but needs one in her pussy. She sounds like she needs someone to hold her down and give her some dick!” The caller laughed. “That’ll straighten her out!”

  “If she had some dick, she wouldn’t be on ours so much,” City Boy added with a chuckle.

  “I’ll find her and force her uptight ass to take the dick,” the caller continued. “That’ll calm her ass down.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. I pulled into a parking spot at Rich Gallery and felt like I was going to vomit.

  “What the fuck did you just say?” Carlos roared.

  “Calm down, Los. He was just suggesting that she needs to get laid. That’s all,” City explained, his tone of voice slightly off.

  “No, the fuck he wasn’t. And then you… You know what? I’m done.”

  “Thanks for your call. Line two caller, you’re on the line with Date Night,” Country Boy said quickly as if trying to erase the first call.

  “I have an issue with a woman who doesn’t know her place. Thanks for always keeping it real with bitches like A. Bishara. You three are heroes!” the caller cheered.

  “Knows her place? Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck is going on?” Carlos was livid. “Is this what you wanted, B? Is this what you wanted?”

  “Do you see how many emails we got this week? How was I supposed to know what people were going to say?” He laughed uneasily. “You’re going to have to chill out. You act like they’re talking about your mom or your girl or something. You don’t even work with her anymore.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t work here anymore either,” Carlos responded.

  “Los, wait man. At least wait until we’re off air,” Country Boy pleaded. “Let’s talk it out.”

  “Talk about what? The fact that—I’m not doing this on air. I’m not doing this at all.” Carlos sounded done.

  “What’s the problem?” City Boy asked. “We are answering a listener’s question about a woman who wrote an article that talked shit about us. It’s fair game. And for the record, you agreed that she was wrong.”

  “And now I’m telling you that she’s right. This is fucked up. Have you listened to any of the bullshit you’ve said?” Carlos didn’t sound like he was near a microphone anymore.

  “While Los Cabos cools off, let’s head back to the emails and see what else is waiting for us,” City Boy propositioned.

  “Los!” Country Boy called out.

  Carlos’s response couldn’t be heard.

  “You said it yourself. This show is for entertainment purposes only. That was your statement for us.” City Boy let out a chuckle “That was our official word, remember?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Okay, that’s it for tonight. Tune in next week and we’ll answer more of your emails. You don’t want to miss it. I’m City Boy—”

  “I’m Country Boy…”

  “And this is Date Night with the Lost Boys,” the two of them said in unison.

  Chapter Twenty

  I was so mad and frustrated that I didn’t even realize tears were streaming down my cheeks. Because I called out toxic masculinity, I had random men attacking me. I didn’t care that they called me a bitch. I didn’t care about what they said about my looks, my relationship prospects, or even my opinion. The thing that caused my body to convulse was the fact that the one guy insinuated sexually assaulting me. The thing that brought tears to my eyes was that in standing up for the objectification of women, I was not only objectified, I was threatened.

  Using the heel of my hand, I wiped my eyes. Fortunately, I didn’t put on any makeup, so nothing smeared. But my eyes were pink, and my face was flushed. It looked like I’d been crying. Since I had a few minutes, I closed my eyes for a while, hoping to look normal again as soon as possible.

  “Close enough,” I muttered as I surveyed if the two-minute meditation helped.

  As I walked to the door, I was so in my head that when I saw Carlos, I was caught off guard. I stopped in my tracks.

  My heart skipped a beat. “H-hey, Carlos.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I replied awkwardly.

  He wore black pants and a black button up shirt. Something about him in all black was mesmerizing. Just seeing him made the tears well up in my eyes as I thought about everything that happened on the call and everything that had happened between us.

  Two people from class walked passed us, and he moved closer to me to get out of the way. I could smell his cologne. I inhaled deeply wit
h my eyes closed, and when I opened them, he was staring at me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Looking up at him, I let myself feel the feelings he stirred within me. I wanted to kiss him or at the very least hug him. But I just stood there, staring at him, missing him from a foot away. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

  He licked his lips. “I’m okay.”

  Our exchange was painfully awkward and brimming with combustible energy. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me. He licked his lips and took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “We should get inside,” he declared, turning toward the entrance.

  I followed behind him and when he opened the door, he stepped to the side for me to enter first.

  “Thank you,” I said as I walked passed him. I stopped five steps after entering the building. “Wow.”

  Groups of photos were framed and hanging on a display wall. A red, velvet rope kept anyone from getting too close, but I could tell there were rows of display walls positioned behind the initial one that greeted us.

  “Wow is right,” he agreed, standing close enough that I could smell his cologne. As if realizing he was two seconds away from being nuzzled by me, he moved to the other side of the room. He got as far away from me as possible and I felt his rejection down to my soul. I didn’t have long to process why it hurt my feelings the way it did because Luca Romano made his grand entrance.

  “Hello, fellow photographers! Welcome to your special showcase at Rich Gallery. Whereas one photo can catch a viewer’s eye, multiple photos can tell a story. Creating a photo story is the combination of art and storytelling. You begin with planning what story you want to tell. Each individual photo contributes to the theme, the structure, and the message of your final project. Everything we’ve done over the last few weeks has led us to this.” He stretched his arms out wide. “And here we are… your final assignment. Your work is on display and you are going to have to communicate your story to the rest of us. Each of you will have three minutes. By the time we’re done, the doors will be opened, and you will be free to show off your talents to your friends and family. Are we ready?”

  We moved to the first set of pictures. At first glance it was food, but there was something off about each picture.

  Luca opened his arms. “First, we have the work of Lourdes”—we all clapped politely— “But instead of Lourdes telling us about her work, we’re going to invite Duke to tell us the story.”

  Everyone murmured in confusion. Duke walked up slowly, his eyes darted around as if he were still trying to understand what he saw.

  “Take a minute and just tell us what story you’re gathering,” Luca explained, his tone encouraging as he held his notepad poised.

  Duke surveyed the makeshift wall of photos. “Lourdes is telling us about food. She’s reminding us of where the meat we eat comes from by having the plated dish and the live animal somewhere in the background. Almost like a before and after.” He looked over at Luca. “That’s all I got.”

  “That’s all you need,” he replied with a smile. “Very good. Thank you.”

  Everyone clapped.

  We moved to the back of that wall and there were eight more photos positioned. I tried to find the common link as Lourdes approached the display slowly.

  “Duke is commenting on the homeless situation in our country with pictures of people who live on the street?” The tail end of her sentence ended in a higher pitched voice as if she were questioning her own interpretation.

  “Are you asking us or telling us, Lourdes?” Luca questioned.

  “Telling?”

  “Are you sure? Tell us again.”

  “Duke has pictures of panhandlers with signs. Some look dirtier than others. Maybe some are homeless and maybe some aren’t. But all of them are asking for help.”

  “Very good,” Luca commented, clapping. “Thank you.”

  As a class, we moved through nine other duos before we arrived at mine. I smiled as my classmates murmured.

  “Here we have Akila’s project,” Luca announced. “Carlos, would you please tell us the story Akila is telling?”

  Carlos gave me a sidelong look before moving toward the photos. He silently assessed the photos before turning so we could see his face. He stroked his beard before he opened his mouth. “Akila is doing a role-reversal, objectifying men to the degree that women are objectified.”

  Just the fact that he got it gave me butterflies.

  “Excellent!” Luca commented, giving him a huge grin. “Thank you.”

  Carlos looked at me and the corner of his lips turned upward. The slight smile coiled a knot in my belly and heated my cheeks.

  Maybe there’s a chance—okay, maybe not.

  Carlos turned his back on me so fast that if I wasn’t devastated, it would’ve been almost comical. Pushing my feelings down, I walked around the wall with the rest of the class.

  I can do all things, I reminded myself as I moved toward the front since it was my turn.

  I took in several eye-catching photos of the same couple.

  “Akila,” Luca beckoned. “Please tell us what you see. What is Carlos telling us?”

  “Carlos used the same two people in each of the shots. It’s clear they are romantically linked from the public displays of affection. Each of the locations are different so it’s showing different moments in the couple’s relationship. Carlos is taking us on a romantic journey between two people who are possibly in love,” I offered.

  Luca made a notation in his notebook. “Very nice! But what makes you assume they’re in love?”

  I pointed to the close-up of the couple. Their profiles were sharp as they looked at each other angrily. “This isn’t the end of the story.” I pointed to the next photo of the couple holding hands watching the sunrise. “And this being the next photo shows that they got through it. That’s part of what loving someone is—forgiving them, overcoming obstacles.”

  “Excellent, thank you.” Luca grinned at me before turning to the next wall.

  My eyes lingered on Carlos’s pictures for a minute before I tore my eyes away. When I turned my head, I caught him staring at me. He only held my gaze for a few seconds before turning toward our classmate.

  Each time he pointedly ignored me felt like a punch in the gut. I wanted to talk to him. I needed to talk to him. But after blocking him and walking away from his apology, I understood why he’d ignore me. I understood why he would stand on the other side of the room even though we were partners. But it still hurt.

  I exhaled and tried to shake it off.

  We finished the final six photo stories and while I politely clapped on cue and stared straight ahead, I couldn’t stop thinking about Carlos. I didn’t hear the words used to describe what we were looking at because my thoughts kept returning to Carlos’s photo story. I glanced over at him. He was the embodiment of physical perfection, and I marveled at how he was also the epitome of complexity. Since I’d met him, he managed to be nothing like I expected, and his final project was no exception. I didn’t expect his work to be so romantic although something about his photos nagged me.

  We’d made it to the back of the gallery when the sound of people entering the building carried through the space.

  “It’s seven o’clock,” Luca announced. He clapped once and had an excited gleam in his eyes. “Your work is officially on display. We’re going to head to the front, and then you are free to greet your guests. I’m going to say a few words, we’ll have a champagne toast, and then the show is yours. While I want you to mingle, be mindful that you should remain close to your exhibit so you can interact with those who are taking in your work. Follow me.”

  Leading the charge, Luca marched toward the red velvet rope that separated us and our work from the people who had just arrived. While it sounded like a ton of people, I knew that most of those people were there to see Luca. We all knew that he posted it on his social media page, and tickets sold out mere hours after h
e’d posted. But it was still cool that so many people were going to see our work.

  As I was about to pass Carlos’s work, I slowed to a stop and stepped out of the way of the people behind me. Since I felt rushed when I had only a couple of minutes to describe his photo story, I wanted the opportunity to take my time.

  Couple passing notes at a table. Couple at a bar. Couple at dinner. Couple kissing under the stars. Couple in bed. Couple angrily facing each other. Couple holding hands at sunrise. Wait…

  My heart rate quickened.

  I backed up to get a better look at the entire story, and I noticed something out the corner of my eye. I glanced over my shoulder. Carlos stood with his hands in his pockets watching me.

  My stomach flipped.

  “Carlos,” I whispered.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at him. So many things ran through my mind, but I didn’t know where to start. For a full minute, the indistinct chatter stopped, and the gallery was eerily silent. We stood in the stillness, both of us waiting for the other to make a move. I couldn’t read him. His handsome face displayed no emotion and his brown eyes gave nothing away. It hurt to look at him, but I couldn’t bear to look away. My thoughts and emotions were all over the place and even though I couldn’t deny how I felt, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

  Suddenly the sound of people broke the trance we were in.

  He took a step toward me. “Akila.”

  Just hearing my name roll off his tongue was enough to fill my eyes with tears.

  I tucked my clutch under my arm and brought both of my hands to my heart. I knew there wasn’t much time and that people would be surrounding us soon. But when I looked into his eyes, I just wanted to tell him everything I was feeling. I wanted him to know that I missed him. I wanted him to know that I did what I thought was best for me. I wanted him to know that I had feelings for him. I wanted to tell him that I heard the podcast. I wanted to just confess everything to him and let the chips fall where they may. But when I opened my mouth, none of that came out.