by Alan Conway
I get home just after midnight. Larry must be out at the bar. Maybe he'll go right to bed when he gets home. I don't wanna hear any of his shit. I close my door, flip on the lights, and swap my jeans for gym shorts. Now what to do…
I could read some, but reading's for the birds. I got a shit-ton of movies. Surely there's something in my collection that's decent. What am I saying? All my movies and books are still packed up in the closet. I browse the internet for an hour or so, looking for nothing. Maybe I'll just lay down.
I'm curled up in my big blanket, thinking in the darkness. I should've gotten that hot girl's number. I need to erase Jennifer's number. I gotta go shopping soon. I need some new clothes. That shirt I wore today, I wear it all the time. Brian's shirt. I borrowed it like four years ago for some reason. But it's my favorite shirt and he never asked for it back. Brian. Damn dude, I didn't realize how much I've missed you. You're so awkward sometimes and it's fucking hilarious.
My phone beeps. I'm too lazy to reach for it.
Brian's one of the best friends I ever had. But something went wrong a while back, didn't it? I can't remember.
I do remember what he told me that day at his house when we were still in high school. And what he said before he moved to college. But I try to forget.
I'm an asshole, remember.
Something crashes in the kitchen. It jolts me awake so it must have been pretty fuckin loud. I could sleep through a hurricane. It's early. The sun's still hiding beneath the horizon. I shuffle through the ambient glow and into the kitchen. Larry's on his knees mopping up coffee and broken glass. I can tell he's pissed.
“Coffee pot slipped out of my hand,” he says. “Gimme some towels.”
Fuckin A. I give him more paper towels and step around him carefully, then I feel something bite the arch of my foot. I lift up my leg and see a red smudge on the linoleum. A tiny piece of glass the size of my thumbnail juts out of the bottom of my foot. I hop over and pull up a chair, trying to dig it out with my fingers. It hurts like hell and it's just sinking deeper and deeper.
“You saw me cleaning up the glass,” Larry says. “I don't know why the hell you'd be walking over here barefoot. I got some pliers in my toolbox there on the table.”
I don't argue. I always lose. I find the pliers, hook the bastard, and yank it out.
Larry gets to his feet and zips up his lunch bag. “Guess I'll just pick up a cup of joe on my way in. I'm already late. So, where were you last night?”
“Out,” I say, cleaning the cut with alcohol.
“With who? That Hatcher girl?”
Larry likes Lauren enough, so I might as well go with it. "Yeah and–"
“And?” the piece of shit asks.
“Brian Jamison.” I want to take it back right away, because Larry's heard rumors about Brian and if he knew I was even talking to him–
“Who's that?” He doesn’t make the connection. Good. I just say we went to high school together. That's vague enough.
“Ben and Sheila's kid?” Shit. I can hear it in his voice.
I nod a little and try to walk out of the kitchen, but the pain in my foot slows me down.
“I went to school with his dad,” Larry says. “We use to call him Big Ben. Good guy. Hear his son's queer. That true?” He looks at me. I shake my head like its the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.
He's pleased enough.
“Well, I'd love to stay here and chat but I gotta get to work,” he says, grabbing his toolbox and bagged lunch. Almost in the clear…
I turn towards my room but I feel his heavy hand fall on my shoulder. “Oh yeah, gimme your keys.”
I spin around. “Why?”
“You're not going out today. I need you to do some cleaning around here. Some of the boys from work are coming by later for a game of poker. Straighten up the living room, sweep, dust, and vacuum. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure,” I answer quietly. “Can I have my keys back when you get home?”
“Yeah, then you can go do…whatever it is you do. And please do your laundry. Christ, I can smell it from in here.”
I say okay and hand him my keys. Wish you were here, Mom...
“Order a pizza if you want, but leave me some.” He's almost out the door. Come on, Crazy Larry, get outta here. “And stay away from that Jamison boy. Got a bad feelin about him.”
My shoulders lighten as the sound of his pickup rumbles away into silence. I don't feel like cleaning a goddamn thing, thank you very much. A quick adjustment of the couch cushions, a wipe of the hand here and there, and voila. That drunk bastard won't know the difference.
I hope.
The hot spray of the shower feels good on my back. I dress and fix my hair. I really don't want to shave (it's such a hassle), but I do anyway. There's one Band-Aid left in the medicine cabinet. I bandage my foot and pull a sock over it. Fuck it, I lose the sock and find my flip-flops. I grab my huge brick of a wallet from the dresser and stick it in my back pocket. Now where's my phone…
Under the bed. Got it.
Call Brian. Dialing. Ring ring, buddy. Please be home.
Lauren
Brian was my boyfriend once upon a time. We were in kindergarten. I remember kissing him on the cheek when our parents took us to see a movie together. Even as a five-year-old, he was socially awkward. Very shy. On the playground he just wandered around, quietly dreaming to himself. But I liked him because he was very sweet then, and I think he's even sweeter now.
I beat him at chess. It was fun. I probably should have let him win, though. Maybe not. He would have known. We end up back at his apartment and reminisce about old times. Good times. We laugh and hoot and cry. I've missed this guy so, so much. This lovely man.
I slip off to the bathroom and notice Brian has a framed photo of the three of us on a table in the hall arranged between pictures of his parents and sisters. I stand there for a while just looking at it. We were once a happy little trio doing everything together, always at each other’s houses or out in River City looking for kicks. It hits me that our meeting earlier in the park was the first time we'd all been together in years, and Damon skipped out on us. For some girl I'm sure. He's not seeing anybody right now. Not seriously anyway. I would know about it.
Does Brian really have a chance? I want him to have one. Damon is hard to figure out for someone who professes to have a sole interest in women. Call it suspicion, call it wishful thinking, call it whatever you want. Damon is one who only lets you in so far. On the surface he's shallow and doesn't show gratitude or apologize very often. I said something to him about it one time, and do you know what he said? He said all of that is understood between friends. I said no sir, expressing gratitude and admitting your faults are secondary only to expressing affection for those you love. As far as love goes, he's not one to show affection most of the time. His relationships aren't even that complicated. He is.
Why would I want that for Brian, you ask? Because I truly believe Brian can deepen Damon. He has this almost magical ability to bring out the truth in people, the unbridled raw essence of their soul. I know because he did it to me. He taught me to love myself and to be myself at all times. It's funny because Brian still has trouble with it. He's gotten to a point where he's afraid to be himself. I hope that Damon's acceptance will break down those barriers.
I must help them help each other. Something inside of me whispers it is the right thing to do.
We stay up late and watch Letterman. I'm exhausted and don't feel like driving back to River City tonight. Brian strokes my hair which nearly puts me out. He stops. His breathing slows and deepens. I forgot he snores. Ugh.
I close my eyes and drift off comfortably in Brian's lap as the night crickets sing their lullaby.
Brian
The alarm on my phone goes off at seven o'clock. I wake Lauren and go to my room to get ready for work. She hugs me goodbye and we promise to call each other more often. After she leaves, I shower and realize I need food. I'l
l stop off at the grocery store on my way home. There's one banana left on a rack near the kitchen sink. I take it and head out the door.
I pull out my phone to silence it before walking into work and see I missed six calls from Damon during the night. Butterflies flutter beneath my ribs. I call him back immediately. No answer. I’m about through the front lobby when my pocket begins to buzz. It's him. I run outside to take the call.
I’ve certainly woken him up. He mutters hello.
“It's me,” I say. “I guess my phone was on silent. Sorry I missed your calls.”
“No worries,” he says. “I just wanted to see if you could go shopping with me today.”
“I have to work until one o'clock, but I'm free after that.”
“Cool,” he says. “I'll be at your apartment around two. Sound good?”
“Absolutely,” I say. I'm ecstatic. He asks me to text him my address after we hang up. I do so.
The rest of my workday is shot because my mind is overrun with warm, plush thoughts that supersede editing the obituaries. I watch the digital clock on my computer screen increase minute by minute with eager anticipation, but my nerves are tight and restless. I might as well be waiting to have something mauled in a doctor's office.
I'm out the door at one o'clock on the nose. I'm usually a slow driver, but I'm back at my place by ten after. I check my hair, adjust my shirt. A little cologne, maybe? Sure, why not.
Damon arrives and we head over to the Cordova Mall on Lynnbrook Parkway. On the way, he confesses to have invited me along because I have a better fashion sense that he does. I disagree, but he's on a budget and I'm delighted to help out any way that I can.
We avoid the high-dollar outlets and take the escalator up to the second level. There are a few sales going on. I toss a few shirts at him, a couple pairs of jeans – different styles in two sizes. I even find a nice shirt for myself, which I put back before we leave because I'm cheap. He goes into the dressing room and comes out with nothing that he likes. For someone who's open to suggestion, he's so damn picky. About everything. God bless him.
The food court isn't too busy so we stop in for pizza. Damon has one bag with one shirt in it. He picked it out. A good choice at fifty-percent off – a red and blue patterned button-down that fits perfectly. I had bought nothing. I'm not a complete tight wad. I do splurge now and then. While we eat, he asks where I got the shirt I'm wearing. I can't remember. He asks how much I paid for it. I tell him.
“I can't believe you paid eighty dollars for that shirt,” he says. “Don't get me wrong, it's a nice shirt, but just a shirt. I wish I could afford nice stuff like that.”
“That's a nice shirt,” I say, pointing to the shirt he's wearing.
“Twenty bucks at Shop-and-Save. You think I give a damn?”
We laugh it off and eat in silence for a while.
“Things haven't been all that great for me, dude,” Damon says through a mouthful of pizza. “Larry's a pain in the ass and he's free to treat me like his little bitch now that Mom's gone. I just want to get out of there, you know?”
I nod sympathetically.
“I'm new here in this town and I don't really know anybody except you and I'm glad we can start hanging out again but the chicks here are all stupid and you know me, I don't like the idea of dating, but it'd be nice to have somebody for a while. I've just been looking for a job and wandering around the house while Larry's gone. I've been out a few times, but the girls sucked and I don't mean in a good way.”
We laugh at this and finish our lunch.
“I don't know,” he says. “I just get lonely sometimes. I'm more lonely than most people know.”
“I can relate,” I say.
We get up, throw away our trash, then walk out into the muggy afternoon. Once we're in the car Damon says, “You got a little hottie stashed away I don't know about? Some mean nasty bitch to take advantage of you?”
After I catch my breath and feel the blood rushing out of my face, I tell him I don't. He says that's too bad because if I did, he wanted to have a go with her. Such a silly boy.
We pick up a movie and drive back to my place. I hope I have the courage to say what I want to say once we get there. I've played out the conversation in my head, rehearsed it, explored the possible outcomes and consequences before deciding on the most viable approach.
He sits in the recliner while I put the movie into the player. I choose not to sit down because I hope it will make me feel less vulnerable once I open my mouth and there's no turning back.
“Damon, there's–”
“Holy shit! I want to see that! Heard anything about it?” He's pointing at the movie trailer playing on the TV – some forgettable screwball comedy I'll probably see at some point, but I can't remember who's in it or who directed it, and at this point I don't care. I get nervous. My knees start to shake. My palms sweat. My face is getting hot. Feels like a furnace raging behind my cheeks.
Now's not the right time. I'll wait. Chicken.
Lauren
It's a slow day at work. I've sold two phones. Cheap, prepaid flip phones that were obsolete five years ago. My boss might be better off saving the ink on my commission check. A couple of football players from the high school come into the store and ask if they can put up a flyer in the window. Brody, the manager, is out to lunch so I tell them to come back later, then I wonder if Brody really gives a damn about helping the River City Rattlesnakes promote another chili supper. That makes three this month.
Brian left me a voicemail earlier. He said he and Damon were going to the mall today. I really hope they have a chance to catch up and have a good time. My fingers are crossed.
A girl comes in whom I recognize but I can't think of her name. She dated Damon for a while. Yeah, dated him. Weird, right? Her name starts with an H…
I force a smile as she browses the car chargers on the back wall, but those feelings sneak up on me – that urge to jump on her back and rip out handfuls of her hair for what she did to him.
She approaches me and says, “Excuse me, do you have a charger for this phone?”
I look at it and know we have dozens of them in the back. I try to look apologetic. “I'm sorry, but they're on backorder. We should have some in next week. I can take your name and call you when they come in.”
“Heather Meeks,” she says. I don't know who has a faker smile right now, her or me. “You look familiar. Did you go to River City High?”
Before I can say no, she's looking down at the business cards on my desk.
“Lauren Hatcher,” she reads. “I remember seeing you when I was with Damon. Are you still friends with him?”
I say yes and she expresses her disappointment. Ugh, please leave, little cheerleader girl.
“How is he?” Heather asks.
“He's fine now,” I say through my teeth, wishing they were fangs so I could rip her throat out.
“We kind of ended on a bad note, so if you don't mind, tell him I'm–”
“Sorry?” Whew, my blood pressure is through the roof. Better watch myself.
“Is there a problem?”
“Actually, I think they've discontinued the car charger for your phone. I'm very sorry.”
“Oh. Well…”
“Have a nice day.” Bitch.
After she leaves, I get a grip. I can definitely see why Damon was attracted to her. She's very pretty. But she played him like a harp. I guess they were together for a year or so before he found out she was cheating on him. I wasn't surprised, but I couldn't have told him that. Heather was probably the only person to really know him because he let her in. And after it was all said and done, he was heartbroken. Devastated. Drank whiskey when he wasn't asleep, then he started taking pills and God knows what else. I've seen Damon cry before, but not like this. This boy was at ground zero and almost in a constant state of tear shed. Since then, he's been more closed off than ever before. Women have become disposable playthings. If there was ever a possibility of emotion
s getting in the way, he would duck out faster than you can say Reese's Pieces.
I really hope she doesn't try to contact him. His number has changed since they knew each other, but in a world of connective technology, it won't surprise me if she tries.
He needs a good person who loves him for who he is and for all his imperfections. I think it was Sam Keen who said you come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly, and Brian Jamison does exactly that. Vote for Brian.
I suppose I am a little jealous of Damon being the object of Brian's affection. My parents always thought that Brian and I would eventually get married, buy a house, have children – all of that stuff. But they don't know what I know about Brian, even though I sometimes find myself lost in a fantasy writing checks as Lauren Jamison.
I call Brian as I'm leaving work. He says he and Damon watched a movie then Damon left to clean house before Larry gets home. Now Brian tells me he wants to join a health club or get a gym membership. I hide my laughter because this isn't the first time he's said this. But I suppose he's motivated now and with good reason. He's not in bad shape, just a little out of shape. I almost tell him that I could get him on at my gym with a discount, but I realize he lives three hours away. Then it hits me. I tell him to ask Damon if he wants to join a gym together. A perfect opportunity for a little male bonding…
Damon
After I leave Brian's place, I get the house looking nice and ready for Larry and his guests. I go to my room and play a video game while I wait. Can’t wait to get outta here…
Maybe I'll see what Brian's doing. He sure was uptight today. He's always been uptight, but now he's really uptight. He's probably not doing anything right now. He's boring. But that's okay, I'm boring, too. Nothing wrong with being boring. He doesn't seem happy. Sure he's got a good job and he's in college, but there's something missing from him. I guess we could both use a friend right now.
I dial his number but before I press send, Larry bursts into my room huffing out his whiskey breath under his bloodshot eyes.