by Kage Alan
Somebody laughed and handed me a couple of napkins. By God, they weren't going to be laughing when I got a hold of the son of a...
As quickly as my still-convulsing body would let me, I stood up and turned around to face the object of my aggressions.
"I'm sorry.” I felt a hand dab at my face with a fresh napkin. “That really wasn't very nice of me, but I couldn't resist."
I finally managed to see through the deep hue my body had turned and get a clear view of the face before me. Incredible! It was as if I was looking at myself in a mirror, only a little older and a whole lot better-looking.
He was in his early twenties, and had light blond hair, clear blue eyes and picture-perfect Don Johnson Miami Vice-style hair. I'd tried for years to get my hair to do anything—anything at all—but I had too many cowlicks.
We were about the same height, but he had a physique that was a bit more appealing to the eyes than my own.
I completely forgot for the moment what he had just done to me but still hated him.
He extended his hand and, instead of punching him, my own met his. I wanted to punch him. I tried to get my hand to punch him, but my body betrayed me! Despite how hot under the collar I was feeling, I felt the warmth of his skin against mine, and I think I actually blushed. It had to be the alcohol.
"My name's Jordan.” He introduced himself, and I still wanted to hurt him, now more than ever. What kind of name was that, anyway? Playboys were named Jordan, the kind who acted as though they invented sex and then tried like hell to spread it around. He was the epitome of why I couldn't get a date. How could I compete with a name and look like that? “What's yours?"
"I'm Marie and Donald's son,” I told him, defeated and still dribbling champagne from my mouth and nostrils.
"Is that what you want me to call you?” He looked a bit puzzled. “Do you have a really difficult foreign name or something? I'm fluent in four languages, so I'm sure I could give it a try pronouncing it."
"No.” God, he made me sick! Four languages? I'll bet I had him beat. I knew English, British, Australian, Profane, and I could probably get by if I had to in the realm of Love. That made five! He wasn't such hot shit after all. “It's just that nobody can seem to remember my name. So far, I've been called Adam, Alex, Axel, Amos, Abner and Butch. If, however, you can ignore everybody else's interpretations, it's really just Andy."
That sounded so plain. Jordan was the kind of name some girl took home to meet her billionaire parents and to get memberships for at exclusive health clubs and dining clubs. Andy was the kind of name parents hired to entertain their children when the television wasn't on.
"That's an easy name to remember."
He said it so simply and honestly that I almost believed him. Then again, why shouldn't I believe him? Of course it was an easy name to remember! It didn't need a masters degree, though I'm sure he had one of those, too.
"In fact, there's a number of famous people with that name."
"Really?” I heard myself ask him, and then realized I might have actually sounded sincere. Where was my uncanny sense of sarcasm? Why was my mouth boycotting any effort I made to tell him to go dance naked in a pit of fiery hot coals and burn? “How would you know?"
There went another brilliant effort on my part.
"Get real!” Jordan playfully hit me in the arm, and I wished for a chainsaw and a copy of the movie Scarface. “This is California, home of Hollywood.” He raised his hands to the sky to accent the word. “Actually, I was thinking of someone more involved with music than acting or the movies.” He moved around to a chair next to the lounger I had been lying on and sat down. “Andy Taylor. He's the—"
"Ex-guitar player from Duran Duran.” I finished the sentence for him and sat back down on the lounger. My God, he actually knew who Andy Taylor was!
"Who had songs on three soundtracks and then also released two solo albums...” Jordan stopped and looked at me, probably to see if I could fill in any of the blanks. So, this was a test.
"The soundtracks being American Anthem, Miami Vice 2 and Tequila Sunrise and then the solo albums Thunder and Dangerous.” I wasn't stupid, however, and he was missing something.
"Dangerous being a bunch of cover songs...."
"And only available on Japanese import. Of course, you are neglecting his involvement with Power Station.” I returned a playful punch to his arm, and Jordan nodded his head as if I'd added the one thing he wasn't going to handfeed me. I actually felt pleased about it, though I couldn't figure out why. Maybe I had just been looking for an excuse to wrinkle his clothes and make him a little less perfect than he was.
"Wow! I thought I was the only person in the world who knew who he was and listened to his music."
"Are you kidding?” Jordan sighed and looked down at the ground. I looked, too, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. There was just grass, and not the kind anyone smoked. Just green grass...
I looked harder. It didn't smell of any chemicals or anything people have sprayed on their lawn. No, it was just grass. What the hell was he looking at?
Jordan didn't move for another minute, and I wondered if he had just simply run out his batteries or something. Finally, he raised his head and looked me straight in the eye.
"So, are you family?"
"Aren't we all?” I laughed. I mean, why else would we be here? Why else would I have been here? In some cases, duty, but not mine. Duty was why I stayed, not why I originally came. Well, duty and the fact I didn't have a ride back to the airport or an earlier plane ticket back home. Only family could put each other through so much in so little time.
"It'd be great if we all were.” He gave me a sly look. “But I don't think that's the way it is, at least, not here."
"Okay.” What more could I say than that? In one respect, I could see if my great-aunt and -uncle wanted to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary with family only. After all, it was a very special occasion and landmark in their lives. On the other hand, I could also understand them wanting to share it with their closest friends, too. It didn't really matter so long as they were having a good time and celebrating it the way they wanted.
"Well, I guess they have to have friends, too."
Maybe Jordan was just trying to feel me out, to see if I had a snobby attitude about others being here. He could be a neighbor's son who was invited and been given dirty looks all night because he wasn't a blood relative. It seemed stupid to me he would think I would hold it against him just because he wasn't a cousin or someone like that. Considering how I felt about my relatives lately, I was likely to be warmer and more considerate to him than any of them.
"I'm family anyway."
"Cool!” Jordan winked and looked me over from head to toe. The only thing I could come up with was that he was trying to place which side of the family I belonged to, but since I looked more like my father than my mother, I doubted he'd figure it out anytime soon.
His reaction struck me as a little odd, even rude and a bit invasive, but then, maybe that was the way people were out here. Being so close to Hollywood, one's appearance was everything, and it was probably scrutinized by bums on the street as well as friends and relatives. Jordan was most likely just doing what he naturally always did.
"So, how long have you been out?"
"Since a couple of hours ago.” The way he phrased his question struck me a little odd as well. Again, it must just be a California thing. If he could look me over and not be the least bit uncomfortable while doing it, then he probably felt unhindered in speaking to me in fluent Californease. As far as I was concerned, that was a positive thing; and to show that I was willing to embrace his culture, I looked him over from head to toe, too.
"That recent?” Jordan seemed both genuinely surprised and pleased at the same time. How queer.
"Well, traveling these days doesn't take nearly as long as it used to. I think we made it here in four hours. Tack on a few hours to get luggage and then drive here ... I'd say
I've been out seven hours now."
"What?” He appeared confused. I thought I'd kept my response simple enough, but maybe I'd said too much. Dad used to say that I loved talking just to hear myself talk. I hoped that wasn't what I was doing now because the last thing I wanted to do was lose him in the conversation, especially since he and I were relating to each other so wonderfully. “No,” he continued, “I meant how long have you been out?"
Well, that cleared things up...
"Since...” I didn't quite know what he meant, now, and I hated to give the wrong answer. “I left Detroit, like I just told you. I'm not quite sure what you're asking."
Something caught my attention, coming from behind me. It was like I felt the presence of someone else watching me, only it wasn't quite as mystical an experience as what might have been felt in, say, Star Wars. I can only describe it as suddenly picking up on changes in the surrounding air density, a kind of radar thing.
I turned around and saw two people I recognized as my homosexual cousins standing there. They peered at me. One of them seemed as though he was getting ready to speak, but before he could, I turned back around and faced Jordan. I hoped it didn't look too rude—just as long as they got the idea I was already conversing with someone and didn't care to be interrupted.
A few seconds passed, and I turned back around. They were gone.
"Whew!” That was a close call.
"What's the matter?” Jordan asked playfully. It was unnerving how charming he could be even saying the simplest things. I'll bet he had other guys quaking in their shoes when he was angry and made women weep when he cried. He would, of course, be the kind of guy who wasn't afraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve, especially when there were women around. They ate that crap up, and his tears would probably only add to their desire to have him and hold him, soothe him, maybe, and definitely have sex with him. Most guys I knew only cried so they could use the salt from the tears on someone's open wound. They could be sadistic that way.
"They're..."
I don't know why, but I just didn't want to say the word in front of Jordan. It seemed a personal thing to discuss, and that topic had never really come up with any of my friends in general conversation, so I wasn't comfortable with it. The only time the word got used was when people called me that in high school, or when women figured it was the reason I didn't want to have sex. I knew how it sounded being spoken to me, and I just didn't want to make it sound that way now. Just because I didn't agree with the lifestyle didn't mean I couldn't be tactful.
"You know...” My discomfort was obvious, but he appeared as though he expected me to finish my statement anyway. “Okay, they're...” I spoke slowly, hoping he would catch on. “...the festive sort, lively and happy."
Nothing. He was playing stupid. He had to be!
"Uh ... joyous."
"You mean gay?” he asked matter-of-factly, and I winced. The word rolled off his tongue so easily I wondered if he had been one of those people who tormented others about their sexuality and called them that name. At least he hadn't called me that.
Then, too, with real gay people around, it should be obvious I wasn't one of them, so why would he?
"Well, yeah, gay is as good a word as any other, I guess—that whole gay/happy thing.” I think I was blushing again.
He was still looking at me in that same playful way when I began to notice for the first time just how smooth his face was and how completely unblemished and perfect his features were. Jordan didn't have a protruding or underdeveloped chin, an oversized or undersized nose or uneven eyes. It was as if his parents had their ideal child formatted or put together on a birthing computer and he was what it delivered as the end result.
I used to wonder what it would be like to be someone—well, someone like him. I wondered how it would feel to be so damn perfect-looking and be able to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the morning and not frown. All those curiosities went away one day when I realized I should stop thinking about them because I would never know. That would never be me, not without plastic surgery.
"I mean, it doesn't bother me like it does a lot of other people."
"What other people?” Jordan looked around us. “This is California."
"Maybe some people are a bit more liberal in this state.” I chuckled dryly. “But not my relatives—at least, not the ones I've talked to.” The champagne was looking very inviting again. I took a long drink from the bottle. “I think it's in the language.” I took another drink and then looked him right in the eye. “The word gay should be replaced with happy or something with a less negative connotative meaning attached to it. How can anyone say anything bad about someone being happy?” I felt I had a very valid point, and I'd certainly rather be asked if I was happy than gay.
I took yet another drink, and then figured I should stop, especially since the champagne was making me warm all over again. The stuff went through me quicker than any other alcohol I'd ever had.
"It's just that, words like homosexual—who wants to be one of those? If someone wants a little diversity, call them a person who's happy, because everybody else in life is pretty damn miserable. But, call them a homosexual? It's in the name, see?” I shook my head. “It really doesn't matter, anyway. I'm no more a homosexual than you are."
"Actually...” Jordan eyed the near-empty bottle and then me again. “I am a homosexual."
He must have seen the confused expression come over my face because he suddenly felt the need to clarify.
"I'm gay—'happy.’”
"No.” I laughed nervously. “You're not."
He was playing a joke on me. He had to be. You could never take people like him seriously.
"Yes, I am,” Jordan insisted.
"No, you're not,” I informed him.
"Why not?"
"You can't be!” It was really just that simple.
"Why?"
"Because.” Why was he making this so difficult? Why didn't he just admit that he was pulling my leg? Enough was enough.
"Because why?” Jordan looked at me with a sincerity that made me suddenly realize he might be telling the truth.
My first feeling was devastation, but I didn't explore it very much and found it far more comfortable to revert back to denial. Such disturbing and severe emotions didn't need attention until it was absolutely necessary.
"Why?” I searched my mind for an answer to his question. Did I really have one? “Because ... you know who Andy Taylor is.” Other words and reasons escaped my mind. “Um ... because you don't look like one.” He didn't, either. He wasn't in his thirties or forties or ugly as sin and didn't have a mustache or any tattoos that I could see. He was just like me, only better-looking.
"Oh, please.” Jordan rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me you're one of those people holding on to the stereotypes that all gay men are in their thirties and forties, are butt-ugly, have mustaches and tattoos, are you?"
"Of course not.” Now I rolled my eyes. “I mean, what kind of person do you think I am, anyway?” I turned, snorted then looked back at him. “I'm a writer,” I explained. “As a breed, we hate cliches and stereotypes. You just seem normal, that's all."
I never would have guessed or suspected it about him. Why did he have to tell me he was gay? I mean, why ruin such a perfect conversation with talk like that? Maybe he was just trying to be interesting. If so, he didn't need to be. I was perfectly captivated with him the way he was.
"You look ... normal.” I spoke the word again.
"What's normal?” Jordan had obviously had this conversation with others before because he knew exactly what to say to stump me at every turn.
"I've never been asked that before.” I thought about what to say to him. I felt like I owed him an answer, mostly because it seemed like something he needed to hear. Or was that me who needed to hear it? If so, then why? “I guess normal is a stereotype in itself. If you were a stereotypical gay, then you would look and act a very certain way that would defin
e you as a ‘normal’ gay. If you were a yuppie, you would look and act in another very specific way. While there's going to be some differences from person to person, there will always be similarities. Now that I think about it, maybe it's the similarities that define the norm."
I was confusing myself. There really didn't seem to be a solid definition of normal that I had a grasp of. God, did anybody? I wondered how well Jordan knew himself. It was time to find out.
"Let me put this a different way. How do you know you're gay?” I asked him, straightforward and matter-of-factly.
"How do you know you're straight?” he retorted in the same manner.
"Well...” Well, shit! That backfired. I had absolutely no idea what made me think I was straight. Could that be his point? And why was he smiling at me?
If I could tell him how I knew I was straight, I would be answering my own question to him. If I could “just know,” then it would follow that he could, too, unless he was lying.
"Let me put it another way."
I wasn't going to let him know I was wrestling with the answer. The last thing I wanted to reveal was that he might actually have me on this whole issue so far. I hated it when the beautiful people got the upper hand with me.
"When did you first fantasize you were gay?"
"Fantasize?” Jordan gazed at me.
"Realize. I said realize.” I hoped my face didn't give away that I just realized I really had said “fantasize."
"Right."
Okay, so he wasn't buying it. I tried.
"When did you first realize you were straight?"
"What?” Prick! Would he quit doing that?
I supposed my answer should have been along the lines of knowing it when I first lay with a woman and had sex with her, but that hadn't exactly happened yet. He didn't need to know that, though. The last time I'd been with anybody—actually, the only times I'd been with anybody—had been my guy friends back home a long time ago. Jordan didn't need to know that, either, since I didn't think it would help my case much.