by David Crabb
“I’m a sprite. A fairy. I’m Puck!” he tittered, his arms and legs smeared with mud.
Ray-Ray, a thin boy with a curly blond ponytail, was bent over a concrete bench in one of the gazebos, busily weaving the long leaves of a tropical plant into shirts for us.
“We can live off this land,” he declared. “We’ll work this soil and harvest our own food!”
For a moment I believed him. We can live in nature, I thought, the steady traffic of Austin Highway zooming in and out of a strip-mall parking lot sixty feet away. Sylvia and I curled up beneath the stars with a flashlight to read the party pages in Interview magazine.
“Look how gorgeous she is,” Sylvia said, pointing at the model Linda Evangelista hugging a famous fashion designer who was wearing a chandelier as a hat.
“This one’s great,” I said, transfixed by a picture of Kurt Cobain laughing with the famous drag queen RuPaul as she held his crying baby.
“Oh, Crabb. I wanna go there!” she sighed, snuggling up against me. “I wanna be with those people!”
“Me too, Sylvia. But what would we do?”
“We have marketable skills, bitch! Maybe you can get into performing or something. And I can get some poetry published!”
“We’ll be like a gay-straight, art world power couple!” I declared. “We’ll live in a brownstone and our friends will be gallerists, junkies, drag queens, and performance artists!”
“It’ll be fabulous!” Sylvia sighed as she took my hand. “A real life.”
We lay under the stars in each other’s arms all night, imagining that future together in a better place.
The next morning I met my dad at my mom’s apartment to move. She was headed to Seguin and I was moving in with my dad down the road from Gunther High. I’d had just enough time to put a crisp white button-down over a torn, pit-stained T-shirt that was covered in Sharpie drawings of anarchy A’s and crosses.
“Sorry I’m late,” I told my dad, still pulling chunks of dirt and moss from the soles of my shoes. “Greg’s brother thought it would be funny to turn off the alarm clock.”
“It’s okay, son,” said my dad, patting me on the back.
“Boys will be boys,” my mother added, emerging from the kitchen with a suspicious look. My mom was upset that I wasn’t moving with her and knew perfectly well that I’d kept my new social circle a secret from my dad. “I’m sure your father is going to love your friends.”
Over the last month of sporadic apartment-hunting I’d managed to downplay the “new me,” wearing baseball caps over my short-on-bottom/long-on-top haircut and opting for bright, clean sneakers in lieu of my usual scuffed-up boots. In small doses, I was a pro. But now I’d be living with my dad for several days in a row a few times a month, which was going to be challenging.
“Well, visit your mother when you find the time,” said my mom, without looking at me. Directing a synthetic smile at my father, she added, “I’m sure you’re both going to enjoy living together.” My mother and I both knew that living with my dad could be difficult due to his temper. But as he closed the door to his pickup truck, I knew it was a done deal. I felt a pang of guilt as we all drove away. My mom was making a family with someone she’d always hoped to find, and I knew she pictured me as a part of that future. But I reminded myself that regardless of the occasional tension with my dad, I was going to be free. And it was going to be awesome.
My dad couldn’t leave soon enough. It had been four days of nonstop complaining and griping. The landlord was an asshole, the traffic was bullshit, and all the local restaurants were crap.
“Goddamn piece of junk!” he screamed, bouncing up and down on an overstuffed suitcase. I wanted to explain that his anger would never change the simple physics of his situation, but when my father was having a spell, I’d learned to do what I did best: disappear. I sat quietly on my bed in a red baseball cap reading an algebra textbook and listening to Aerosmith, the most benign and heterosexual CD I owned. After a few more minutes of violent grunting, my father stepped in to say good-bye to his all-American, rock-and-roll-loving bookworm of a son.
“All right, DJ. I’m giving up on that goddamn thing,” he said in the doorway, holding a garbage bag of toiletries and clothes by his side. “The checkbook is on the table for food and stuff. I’ll see you in a few days.”
We hugged good-bye and I watched him walk down the stairs. With the phone in my hand just outside the frame of the window, I waved to him as he pulled from the parking lot, knowing that a dozen teenagers awaited a call from my newly parentless home.
By nine o’clock the apartment was packed with people. A mist of cigarette smoke hung in every room, and Solo cups full of vodka and Big Red soda covered every surface. Jake had brought a container of impossibly strong weed cookies that had slowly turned everyone into woozy zombie versions of themselves. Carla and Raven hummed along to the lilting shoegaze of Cocteau Twins on the couch as Greg and Jake reclined against each other on my bed.
“David, come here,” called Jake, holding up a joint.
I sat on the edge of the bed and took a hit as something shattered in the kitchen.
“Ignore it,” he said, pulling me down on top of him and Greg. He held the joint to my lips and I took a long toke. “Doesn’t that feel better?” he asked, slipping his hand beneath my shirt to rub my shoulder. Greg cleared his throat and rolled to his side, shifting Jake’s hand out of my shirt.
“Oh. Sorry,” Greg said, maneuvering farther beneath Jake in a way that pushed me farther off him. “This bed is so small for three people.”
The doorbell rang. Greg smiled and snatched the joint from my hand as he rubbed Jake’s chest. “You should probably get that, hmm?”
I opened the front door to see Sylvia in giant black sunglasses with a bun of bright lavender hair atop her head. She had a huge suitcase, her massive purse and a pet carrier. “Finally, Minerva. I’ve been ringing for five minutes! Oh dear,” she said, noticing my guests. “What’s the average age of this gathering? It’s like fuckin’ Romper Room in here!” Sylvia barged past me, knocking over Raven with one of her suitcases. “Shift it, creatures of the night! Is my room down here?”
“What?” I muttered as she waddled down the hall into my dad’s room. “You can’t go in there!”
By the time I walked in, she was already unpacking her suitcase, stacking black satin on black chiffon on black velveteen atop the dresser. A tiny Siamese cat jumped on my dad’s bed.
“A cat? You brought your cat?”
“His name is Voltaire! Not after the industrial band, after the poet.” She removed a newspaper from her bag and starting tearing it into strips as she walked into the master bathroom. “Voltaire! Poop in here, okay?” The little cross-eyed cat walked into the bathroom as she dumped a small bag of kitty litter into the newspaper-filled bathtub. “You. Poop. In. Here,” she said, kissing his face. “I swear, this little bastard understands every fucking word that comes out of my mouth! Girlina!” she announced. “Mama’s home!”
“I thought you might stay over, but I didn’t realize it would be so permanent,” I said.
Sylvia cocked her head to the side like a dog who had just heard a confusing sound. “Well, of course, munchkin. Where else would Mama stay? We’re roomies, Crabapple!”
Before I could muster a reply, she was dragging me down the hallway to the kitchen. “We can make me a key tomorrow. I’ll stay here until your dad comes home, at which point I’ll stay with Ray-Ray for a few days until we have a fight and he kicks me out again, which generally takes about four days . . .” She rambled on and on, bopping from the fridge to the utensil drawer to the microwave, making herself a drink as she heated up one of my dad’s Mexican TV dinners.
“I can’t really pay you anything right now,” she continued, “but Mama is on a job hunt and once I get on my feet, I’ll chip in for bills. Not too much. It’s not like you have to pay anything.”
“Yeah, but my dad—”
“—Is
a wonderful man,” she cackled, filling a 7-Eleven tumbler half-full with his Jack Daniels. “Thank you, Mr. Crabb!” she said, filling the whiskey bottle up with an inch of tap water and placing it back in the cabinet. “I’ll be ready to leave for the club at eleven. I’ll be in my room until then,” she said, going down the hall.
“But I’m having a party. I don’t wanna go to . . .”
“David, where are you?” Jake yelled from my room.
I walked in as Greg laced up his shoes and Carla put on her jacket.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Duh,” said Carla, kissing my cheek. “It’s a school night. I gotta be home by ten.”
A line of kids started to stream out the front door.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Jake, lying back on my bed as Raven kissed his cheek. “I’m too baked to drive.”
“Have fun, boys,” she said, winking as she left.
“But you’re coming with me, right?” Greg asked me as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Aren’t you staying over at my house?”
I looked past him at Jake, whose shirt was riding up, exposing the faint line of fine hair leading from his navel to his belt buckle. “I’ll hang with you, David,” he said. “My dad’s out of town.”
“Greg,” I stammered. “I’m going to stay here. I have my own place now.”
His face collapsed like an overdone soufflé. “Fine, David. I guess you don’t need to stay with me anymore, then.”
I had never chosen anyone over Greg before. But tonight, my libido was winning. Greg stomped down the hall and out the front door, slamming it behind him. I stood in the center of my room as Jake stared directly into my eyes.
“It’s cool if I stay here with you tonight, right?”
“Of course!” I blurted before he was actually done asking.
“Come here,” he said, each bicep flexing as he rested his arms behind his head. I’d taken one step toward him when someone screamed from the living room.
“Sylvia!” a man’s voice called. “Where is Mama?”
Sylvia erupted from her room, emitting a high-pitched squeal.
“Jake, I’ll be right back.” I ran down the hallway to find Sylvia jumping up and down with Ray-Ray and another man with a matching blond bob.
“Minerva, it’s Sterling and Ray-Ray. They’re going to the club with us tonight!”
“But Sylvia, I drank too much to drive.”
“But Sterling’s drivin’ us! Mama’s gonna get ready. Y’all make yourself at home.”
“But I live here!” I yelled as she skipped down the hall.
Sterling turned on the TV at top volume and flipped the channels, one per second. “Ugh. Your cable selection is the worst!” he complained in a queeny, nasal voice.
As Sylvia did her hair, I sat awkwardly between the boys on the couch, “making myself at home” in my own apartment. Down the hall, I could see a light under my bedroom door. I imagined Jake behind it naked, sprawled out on my bed unconscious, waiting for me like a pornographic sleeping beauty.
“It’s time to put on my face!” screamed Sylvia from my father’s room.
“If she’s just starting, we won’t be out of here until midnight,” I moaned, eliciting unexpected laughter from the chilly Ray-Ray and Sterling. I spotted Jake’s backpack by the TV, and it hit me: since I wasn’t man enough to bail on the club for fear of Sylvia’s wrath, couldn’t I just make it impossible for us to leave?
“Hey guys,” I asked sweetly, “you like cookies?”
Thirty minutes later Sylvia came out of “her room” holding Voltaire. She was dressed to the nines. “Whaddya think, boys?”
“Hush, bitch!” said Sterling, shoving his eighth cookie into his mouth. “We are halfway through this MTV True Life with Serena Altschul!”
“It’s about an Amish community who’ve all become addicted to crystal meth,” added Ray-Ray, greenish crumbs cascading from his lips.
“But girls, it’s almost midnight and I’m all dressed up!”
“Shhhh!” demanded Sterling. “We’re too fucked up to drive and we have to finish this show!”
The two of them devoured more cookies as Sylvia stomped to the kitchen and poured herself a cocktail. Eventually, she sat with us and surrendered to the fact that this would not be a big night out. At 2 a.m. we were transfixed by our fourth straight episode of True Life, glued to Serena Altschul’s chilling, in-depth exposé on a tiny Texas town torn apart by a string of cult-related animal sacrifices. Even I’d fallen victim, so stoned after my sixth cookie that I’d totally forgotten about the smooth, tan boy with crystal-blue eyes lying in my bed.
Around three in the morning I woke up alone on the couch.
“Hello?” I called as someone in the apartment giggled. There was an odd taste in my mouth and something sandy and brittle in my teeth. I walked into my dad’s bedroom, looking for Sylvia. In the bathroom mirror I looked at my brown tongue and noticed something on my lip. I removed a small piece of newspaper from my mouth and caught a whiff of my own rank breath. Looking into my dad’s bathtub, it hit me.
“Ha-ha, bitch!” howled Sylvia in the mirror over my shoulder. “You ate cat shit!”
I bent over the toilet and retched, slamming the door in Sylvia’s face with my foot. After five minutes of vomiting I stormed into the living room, where she was shutting the front door behind Sterling and Ray-Ray.
“Now, David. Before you get too mad—”
“You fucking bitch!” I screamed, pushing her against the wall. “Get out!”
“I’m sorry, Crab-Cakes. I just got too fucked up. I was a little mad,” she pleaded, her bloodshot eyes filled with tears. “I don’t mean to hurt people,” she sobbed. “I just lose control sometimes. I love you. Please, I don’t have anywhere to go.” Barefoot with crooked lipstick, she became the victim again, a transformation she excelled at, partly through manipulation and partly in truth. “Please, Minerva. Just let me stay here tonight.”
As I looked into her sad, bloodshot eyes, I saw a girl who, for all her faults, had become the closest thing I’d ever had to a sister. But I couldn’t bear to give her permission. Instead I walked away, leaving her to cry alone. In my room, Jake was passed out, curled up into a cocoon under my bedspread. I lay down next to him, feeling a total lack of horniness, the taste of cat shit still ripe in my mouth. After an hour I was still too enraged to sleep. And I knew what I had to do.
Next door in my father’s room, Sylvia was passed out on her side, still fully dressed. I snuck past her and into the bathroom, where I leaned over Voltaire’s makeshift litter box and retrieved a small turd with toilet-papered fingers. Quietly, I crept toward the bed, the rising sun just beginning to peek through the blinds. At the edge of the bed I stopped, seeing Sylvia’s journal open on the floor. I leaned over it and noticed my name. It was a letter to me.
In the letter, Sylvia apologized profusely for what she’d done, writing that she’d never meant to hurt me and regretted how she’d behaved. She ended the note by reminding me that I was her best friend and hoped that I could trust her again one day.
In the mirror over my dad’s dresser I caught my own reflection: standing there with a piece of cat shit in my hand, prepared to feed it to one of my best friends. Not only was it a cruel prank, it wasn’t even clever, doing the exact same thing to Sylvia that she had done to me. It was pathetic. She hadn’t even locked the bedroom door. She could’ve. But she trusted me. Just as I thought this, Sylvia rolled over to face me in her sleep, revealing a star-shaped tapestry of a dozen Band-Aids covering her mouth. Still holding the wad of Voltaire’s poop at my side, I looked down at her messy face. Sylvia: my loving, trusting friend.
I woke up around 1 p.m. the next day with Jake beside me. In the night, he’d kicked off all the sheets and removed his underwear. I was curled up against his side fully clothed, my face resting against his chest. He smelled musky and the skin on his belly was soft as I rubbed my hand across it. I looked up to
see him staring at me with those pale-blue eyes, close enough that I could see every beautiful line and detail in his plump pink lips, which I’d never wanted to kiss so badly.
“Hey David.”
“Yeah,” I replied, pulling him close to me as my erection grew against his hip.
“You wanna suck it?”
“What?” I asked, thinking I’d misinterpreted the layered nuance of his romantic gesture.
“My dick,” he clarified. “Wanna suck it?”
I looked down at his penis, which was brightly lit by a shaft of midday sun creeping under the blinds. It was flaccid and wrinkled. I’d never seen a penis so brightly lit before. The head was more purple than I’d expected. The balls looked far too hairy to belong to Jake. The urethra seemed way too big, like the mouth of a dehydrated sandworm from Dune. Jake cleared his throat and hocked a loogie into a glass on my bedside table. The musky odor of his body was suddenly pungent and overpowering, like a bunch of old onions.
“Well?” he said, gesturing to his penis like I was a child who hadn’t finished his dinner. I looked at it again, a little bit repulsed.
“Um,” I stuttered, unable to answer him.
“Oh. Uh, okay,” he said, sitting up stiffly in the bed. “Well, I gotta go, dude.”
Jake jumped up and dressed quickly, either too mad or too embarrassed to take his time. After he left I felt ashamed that I couldn’t perform, without being entirely sure that any part of me had actually wanted to. I’d had him in the palm of my hand, but I let him get away. What was my deal with sex? Why was I so afraid of intimacy that I couldn’t even do it with a pickle?
Sylvia stumbled out of her room around 2 p.m., lit a cigarette, and curled up with me on the couch. She was rude, foulmouthed, and untrustworthy. But she was the devil I knew. I spent the day with her watching TV and drinking screwdrivers while Voltaire ate leftover pizza on the dining-room table. Cigarette butts were everywhere and a potted plant in the corner had fallen onto my dad’s turntable, but I couldn’t be bothered to clean any of it up. This was my castle. And I was its prince.