Taking Chances

by John Goode

  Problem was, I needed more than a few points to tie this game up.

  I tossed and turned all through the night. A strange bed coupled with the fact there was no way to know how tomorrow night was going to go gave me little sleep. Somewhere around ten, the phone woke me up from what must have been a nightmare the way I was sweating through the sheets. It took me a few tries to grab the phone before the receiver made it to my ear.

  “Hullo?” I asked, burying my head under the pillow as I tried to escape the sun.

  There was a slight pause. “Tyler?” Matt asked. “Are you still asleep?”

  Forcing myself not to groan, I answered with a weak, “Kinda. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to make sure everything was set for tonight.” He was using his best “I am trying not to show any emotion in my words” voice, but I could hear the worry anyway.

  “Yeah. I think you’ll like it,” I assured him. Silence followed for so long I thought we might have gotten disconnected. “Hello?”

  “I’m here,” he said quietly. “What are we doing?”

  I sighed as I sat up. “I’m trying to make a bad thing better.” I had no idea if the bad thing was what I had done or my life in general.

  “And then what?” I could imagine him biting his nails down to nubs, which was something I had discovered he did when nervous.

  “Then we figure out what we want to do?” I offered. “I really don’t know, Matt. I just know I like you.”

  “We live thousands of miles apart,” he countered.

  “What happened to moving?” I teased. When he didn’t comment, I knew it had been a bad idea. “I don’t know what we do, I really don’t. But can you tell me there isn’t something here? That you don’t feel it too? Because if you don’t, just tell me.”

  “I thought I made my feelings pretty clear.” His voice had gone cold.

  “And now I’m trying to make mine as clear. I don’t know what else to do.” I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to plead.

  “I don’t either,” he answered after a few seconds.

  “Just try to keep an open mind tonight,” I asked him. “Try and give this a chance?”

  “I’ll try,” he said, convincing neither of us.

  “So, pick you guys at around six?” I said, trying to change the subject.

  “Sure. See you then.”

  I did not like the feeling of finality when the phone hung up.

  Instead of dwelling on things, I got up and turned on the shower. I was going to force this morning to get better even if it killed me.

  I grabbed a quick breakfast and set out to find somewhere that could give me a trim before I had to be at Matt’s. My first thought was to just find a barbershop nearby and get my usual done, but then inspiration hit me. I was in San Francisco, which meant there was an entire part of town that catered to the gay community. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Castro. I waited for him to say something in response, give me a look, anything out of the ordinary, but instead he just nodded and pulled out into traffic.

  I had always pictured San Francisco as a much larger city than the one I was riding through now. I don’t mean there wasn’t a plethora of buildings and houses all around, but the streets just seemed so narrow they made the buildings on either side loom over us, making me feel even smaller. I couldn’t tell if what we were stuck in counted as real traffic, or if it was just the lack of space, but it seemed like there were people everywhere. The city was cleaner than I imagined a city would be, not that I had this image of filth or anything. The streets and sidewalks were nothing like I had ever seen.

  Our crawl across town took almost thirty minutes.

  It occurred to me that, if I had had any idea where I was going, I could have walked faster than traffic was moving. Since I had time, I wondered why I hadn’t walked. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t follow a map, and it couldn’t have been that complicated a journey. We made another half block before the cabbie had to put on the brakes again, and I realized it hadn’t even occurred to me to try to hoof it. The image of me—a huge, countrified hick cowering in the back of a cab, scared that the big, bad city was going to get him—was embarrassing to a fault.

  Or was I was afraid of the Castro?

  “Can you pull over here?” I told the driver.

  “Here?” he asked, looking at me confused. “This isn’t Castro!” he said in halting English.

  I handed him a twenty and got out. “I’m good,” I said, waving. “Thanks.”

  When he saw I wasn’t asking for change, he waved back and took off into traffic.

  “Okay, hotshot,” I said to myself as I pulled out my phone. “Put your money where your mouth is.” I asked my phone for directions to the Castro. The computer voice was as nonjudgmental as the cabbie’s had been, and she began to give walking directions.

  I am not making something up or exaggerating when I say the buildings seemed to get brighter and more colorful the closer I got. Rainbow flags were displayed everywhere, making the whole block look as if it was a new attraction at Disneyland called Gayland. There were a few cafés with tables set up outside and as I walked by, I saw pairs of men drinking coffee while they talked. A couple of them held hands across the table.

  Almost every single one of them paused and watched me walk by.

  I don’t say that as a humble brag or anything. I say it because their staring made me way more uncomfortable than it should have. It wasn’t as if they were all winking at me and drooling, but it was obvious that they paused and glanced as I got closer. I wasn’t sure if they were cruising me or just wondering if I had gotten lost, but there was no way they weren’t looking.

  I began to get really self-conscious when I asked my phone for a barbershop nearby.

  “You know, in the old days we just used our eyes,” a deep, husky voice said from behind me. I turned and saw what had to be the world’s biggest drag queen smoking outside a salon. I don’t mean big as in fat, I mean big as in almost six feet five and wide as a linebacker. I openly stared and gaped. There was no way I could stop myself from the reaction.

  He, she… okay, look, I have no idea what the protocol on these things is, but I was taught you should address people by the name they give you, even if you know their name is something else. James becomes Jimmy, Mikey preferred Michael, and some guys dressed as women. Which meant I should and would address her as a female even though I knew better. So you will excuse my pronoun choice.

  She chuckled and shook her head at my reaction. “Take your time, sweetie. It’s a lot to absorb.”

  My manners snapped back and I looked away sheepishly. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

  “No, being born a hairy lumberjack of a guy was uncalled for—what you just did was expected.” She held out a huge paw of a hand that was adorned with a rather stunning set of ruby nails. “Patricia,” she said as we shook. “And no, I was not a Pat before all of this. I just liked the name. So you’re due for your thousand-mile checkup?”

  I just stood there for a moment. “What?”

  She laughed at my confusion. “Your hair, silly. Are you looking for a trim?” I nodded mutely, not trusting my mouth anymore. “Well, come on then, you’re going to start a riot standing out here on the sidewalk looking like that.”

  She ushered me in. “Looking like what?” I asked as she closed the door behind us.

  “Looking like you play the bad boy with a heart of gold on a WB show, that’s what. Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to one of the leather stylists’ chairs. The place was very obviously a high-scale kind of place to get a haircut. I had never ventured into one of these before; my mom or Gus down on First Street always took care of my hair needs in the past. I sat down and felt the chair ease me into it. Immediately, I swore silently that I needed a chair like this back home to watch college football over the weekend.

  She handed me a glass of wine, which took me aback. I had never been offered alcohol during a haircut. �
�So I’m going to go out on a limb and say you aren’t from here, right?” she asked me as we stared at each other in the mirror.

  “I’m from Foster,” I said and then added a hasty “Texas.”

  “Ah, the home of steers and queers,” she observed before putting her glass down and running a hand over the top of my head. “I don’t see no horns on you, boy.” I didn’t answer and she added, “Full Metal Jacket?” I shook my head no and she sighed. “I swear, finding a queer who likes a good war movie is impossible.” She gestured at my hair. “So what are we doing with this?”

  “Wait! You know I’m gay?” I asked, starting to turn around.

  She spun me back to face the mirror. “You do know you’re gay, right? Because, I’m going to be honest, I don’t have the endurance for another confused closet case from the South right now.”

  I made eye contact with her in the mirror. “You could really tell I’m gay?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can try to hide it with the short haircut, polo shirts, and khakis, but yeah, you were clocked. So just a trim or going for something adventurous today?”

  My mind was like a dog chasing its own tail as I tried to comprehend what she was saying. “I really look gay?” I asked, more out loud than to her.

  She gave me a sympathetic look as she nodded. “I hate to break it to you, but straight guys don’t try this hard to look straight. It looks more like a Halloween costume than an actual outfit.”

  That was ironic coming from a man who was dressed in heels and what had to be the only triple-X silk blouse sold at Dillard’s. “This is just how I dress,” I explained.

  “Oh God, this is what I get for opening my mouth,” she said, walking over to the chair next to me and sitting down. Turning toward me, she crossed her legs and smiled at me, looking like a cross-dressing wrestler who had her own talk show. “Okay, let me guess. You live in a small town.” Nod. “And no one knows you’re gay except for a few friends and even then it isn’t public knowledge.” Another nod. “You were a jock in high school and dated girls all the way to college.” Slow nod. “You moved back for whatever reasons and are single and a little bit lonely. Am I right?” Shocked nod. “Right, so this,” she said, gesturing to my clothes, “is not an outfit as much as it is camouflage, which is not saying you are just dying for a tight V-neck sweater and skinny jeans, but the thought of dressing any different just never crosses your mind because if you did, you would have your third strike.”

  “Third?”

  She began to count them off on her nails. “One, you’re way too handsome to be single. Two, there isn’t a straight guy who isn’t from Utah that is as clean as you are, which means the third would be having a fashion sense. At that point, it’s just a matter of months before someone adds one and one and one and gets queer.”

  Words refused to come to my mouth, much less leave it.

  “So yeah, out here you look like you’re a Mormon missionary who broke away from his handler or someone who is trying way too hard not to look gay. And the only people who try to do that are gay. See? Welcome to CSI: Fag. Now, your hair?”

  It took me almost a minute to repeat, “But I’ve always dressed like this.” There was no way it didn’t sound like an excuse.

  “I know, and when did that start? When you were trying to be the straightest man alive in high school, and then big jock on campus at college. Both times you were terrified of being found out.” She got up and poured us each another glass of wine. “Look, how you dress is your business. I’m just answering your question. Yes, in this city, in this part of town, you look very gay. And not the good kind.” She handed me my glass. “So, a little off the top or something more?”

  I told her what I wanted and settled into silence as she put the smock over my chest. She began telling me all about the parties that were going on tonight, but my mind was nowhere near this room. Was I that obvious? Was I that predictable? Patricia here knew my whole life story without us ever speaking a word, which was as depressing as it was alarming. I had never thought of myself as a confused, gay-guy stereotype, but hearing the words coming out of her mouth, it was hard to deny it.

  And then it hit me.

  “You were the same way,” I said out loud, interrupting her. She stopped cutting and looked at me in the mirror. “You know all that because you were like me once.”

  She smiled at me. “Honey, in one way or another, everyone is like that at least once.” She saw the look of determination in my face and nodded. “Yeah, I spent high school and a tour in the Marines trying my best to be the Bounty lumberjack guy they have on the paper towels. All big and strong, plaid-wearing alpha male, the last person in the world people would think liked dick.”

  “What happened?” I asked her, genuinely curious.

  “I was miserable,” she said with a little scoff. “The real me was dying inside and if I didn’t change, I was going to die. Maybe not physically and maybe not all at once, but in more ways than one, I was going to die. So I gave it all up. I just walked away from my life and tried to find the me I wanted to be.”

  “And that you dresses up as a woman?”

  Her voice got harsh. “I’m not dressed this way because I suffer from a rare form of gay Tourette’s that causes me to break out in Celine Dion and want to be dressed right just in case. This is what makes me happy, way more happy than I was pretending to be like you.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything,” I said quickly.

  “Yes, you were,” she said pushing my chin at my chest. “And it’s okay. Most people assume I’m dressed as a woman, you know, like I’m in drag. I am not a female impersonator and this is not drag. This is who I am. There is a difference. We are all somebody inside, and most of the time we are too chickenshit to stare that person in the face. I stared into the abyss and when it stared back, it was wearing Revlon photo-ready concealer and cherry blossom lipstick.”

  It made me wonder who I was inside and if I could stare him in the face.

  “And presto,” she said, turning me back toward the mirror. “One well-groomed, yet still masculine, trim with no frills.” I looked in the mirror and was impressed. She did great work. “You sure I can’t talk you into frosted tips? You’d be beating them off with a stick.”

  I laughed nervously and shook my head. “I think I’m good.”

  She laughed with me. “I know you’re good. I was just trying to help you out.”

  I got up and made my way to the register and pulled out my wallet. “You do good work,” I told her, handing her way too much money. When she took it, I held on to it and she made eye contact. “And the haircut was good too.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, smiling. She rang up the cut. “You need a cab? Because trust me, if you keep walking around here looking like that, someone is going to cruise you. Hard.”

  I looked outside and thought about it. “You know what?” I said, grinning. “I think that’s okay.”

  Matt

  “ARE you serious?”

  Forcing back a sigh, I leaned my head into my shoulder to hold the phone in place while I pulled off my pants. “You were the one who wanted to meet him.”

  Sophia’s laugh was not pleasant. “Yeah, I wanted to meet him so I could kick him in the balls for treating you like shit. Not to waste my New Year’s Eve with him.”

  “He didn’t treat me like shit. He just freaked out because I had a particularly bad case of verbal diarrhea,” I reminded her as I sat down on my bed and started to pull my socks off. “He flew thousands of miles to make it up to me.”

  “Oh God! Are you really going to sit there and make excuses for him? You sound like a battered housewife. ‘He only hits me when I make him mad.’ Come on, Matt!”

  There was no way to prevent the sigh escaping my mouth this time.

  “And don’t give me that sigh. That is your ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sophia’ sigh and in this case, I do know what I’m talking about. You dating
another asshole.”

  “We aren’t dating and he isn’t an asshole,” I protested, but it was a mistake.

  “You can’t be this desperate, Matt. Honestly, you can’t just settle for the first guy who wanders along and….”

  That was a step too far.

  “Okay, look. I am not desperate and this is not a battered-wife thing. He asked me out and that’s that. If you can’t go and be civil, then tell me now and I’ll tell him it’s just the two of us.”

  The silence between us was deafening because neither one of us even breathed.

  “I’m just trying to help you, Matt. Of course I’ll go tonight,” she said after what seemed like a year of not talking.

  The problem was, I knew she was lying. I knew she was just waiting to get Tyler in a room so she could give him a piece of her mind. And even though I knew what she was planning, I said nothing because I suppose part of me wanted her to do it as well. The part of me that liked Tyler too much, the part of me from high school that still thought he walked on water, the part that refused, even now, to believe he was gay. The part of me that had always been content to just sit in the corner and let other people do the dirty work made me say, “Okay, I’ll give you a call once I know what’s going on.”

  I hung up the phone knowing I had just made a huge mistake.

  What does it say about me that I knew exactly what I had done wrong, but instead of fixing it, I just sat there and waited for time to pass? Worse, how many other times had I done this and never noticed? My dad’s words came echoing back that if I’d moved from Foster to be happy but was still miserable, then maybe Foster was never the problem. I did want to be happy, I really did.

  After a while, I wasn’t sure if I was saying it because it was true or because I wanted it to be true.

  I got into the shower and began to get ready, knowing it would distract my thoughts long enough for them to grow quiet again. Drying my hair, I walked out, saw the suit I had lain out on the bed, and froze. It looked like one of my father’s suits to me, and that was distressing for some reason. I did the math and realized that by my age, my dad had served in the military, married my mom, and had two kids with a third on the way. His life was well into the middle part and mine was nowhere. Was this how I was going to be? Endlessly stuck in neutral until my life started? What was I waiting for? What exactly did I think the starting pistol sounded like?