Don't Try This at Home

by Ellee Hill

  Not that Tyler should have been surprised. He’d met Jordan three years earlier, during their senior year in college, and Tyler had learned very quickly that as adorable and entertaining as Jordan was, he was also flaky as hell.

  Now, Tyler glared around at the dusty parking lot, as angry at himself as he was at Jordan. The Testicle Festival was being held at the Oakdale Ballroom, a fact that had sent Jordan into nearly hysterical fits of giggling. The ballroom itself wasn’t very impressive-looking, though: just a big brown and white barn of a building with a vast gravel parking lot. Which was full of pickup trucks and Tyler’s Honda, and not a single Mini.

  Tyler pulled out his phone and punched Jordan’s name.

  “Hey, Ty!” Jordan sounded as sunny and upbeat as always, and there were a lot of loud voices and laughter in the background. “’Sup?”

  “You were supposed to meet me here. Fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Oh shit! Sorry! Didn’t realize it was so late. Gimme… gimme ten more minutes. Kayleigh hasn’t finished opening her presents yet. Then I’ll zoom on over.”

  Kayleigh was Jordan’s youngest sister, a hyperactive little squirt who probably wouldn’t notice if her big brother left earlier, not when she was busily unwrapping mounds of pink plastic Barbie crap. Tyler didn’t say that. Instead he asked, “How far away are you?”

  “Twenty minutes. Twenty-five tops. Sorry, Ty. I’ll bring you a piece of birthday cake.”

  Tyler grumbled something and disconnected the call. For a few minutes after, he remained in his car. But the sun was baking him, and his bladder was complaining about the iced venti latte he’d slurped on the drive over. No way was he going to last until Jordan got there. With an aggrieved sigh, he got out of the car and tromped to the ballroom entrance.

  Every head in the place probably didn’t swivel in his direction as he entered. All four hundred pairs of eyes were probably not focused on the newcomer with the carefully spiked black hair, the slightly oblique eyes, the big fake diamond in one ear, the tight aqua tank top and tighter black jeans. The band on the stage up front—the members in Wranglers and checked blue shirts—didn’t even pause their jangling guitars and banjos.

  “You got a ticket, hon?” A lady in her sixties sat at a card table near the entrance. Her hair was a brassy blonde, piled high on her head like a helmet, and she wore a pink sparkly bandana around her neck.

  “Um, no.”

  “Forty dollars. That includes a big plate of food and a cup of beer, plus five entries in the raffle. You can buy more beer and raffle tickets if you want.”

  Tyler peeled two twenties out of his wallet and handed them over. She smiled and stamped the back of his hand with a design that looked like a cattle brand. Then she handed him five blue tickets and one white one. “White’s for the beer,” she explained. “Go ahead. Grab a beer and have a seat anywhere, hon. We’ll be serving ’em up in thirty minutes.”

  He mumbled his thanks and made his way farther into the building. The place was packed pretty tightly, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Most people looked as if they were dressed for a cowboy’s night out; a lot of the men wore Stetsons or logoed baseball caps, and both men and women were in pointy-toed boots. They sat at long white tables like in a school cafeteria, or they stood in bunches with plastic cups in their hands. Quite a few were clustered near a series of tables displaying gift baskets, bottles of wine, T-shirts, and similar items. Raffle prizes, maybe.

  Right now, however, the only prize Tyler wanted was a bathroom. He spotted the Restrooms sign in the far corner and wound his way there through the crowds. The ballroom smelled of garlic butter and beer and frying oil, which reminded him that he was hungry. He was a vegetarian, and he was fairly certain that tofu and steamed veggies were not on the menu. “I’m gonna kill him,” he muttered to himself as he pushed open the door to the bathroom.

  The bathroom was paneled in dark wood and smelled like floral disinfectant. Framed photos of cows hung on the walls, along with a few horseshoes and a wagon wheel. But the sweetest sight of all were the urinals, one of which Tyler used with enormous relief. He washed his hands and dried them, checked his reflection quickly in the mirror, and prepared to rejoin the crowds. But first he paused in front of the door, taking a few deep breaths and convincing himself that nobody out there was going to tar and feather him.

  And then the door swung open and banged him in the face.

  For a moment the pain was so sharp, so bright, he could do nothing but stagger back. Then he put his hands to his face in a vain attempt to stop the blood that was fountaining from his nose.

  “Oh fuck! Fuck, man, I’m really sorry!”

  Flashing red lights were still playing before Tyler’s eyes, and he had to blink several times to focus on the man who was speaking to him. A tall man, young, bending down a little to peer at Tyler’s face. A few bystanders had gathered around the doorway, and Tyler was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic. He took a step back.

  But the tall guy grabbed his elbow. “Come with me, okay? I’ll get you some ice or something.”

  Tyler was feeling a little woozy, so he allowed himself to be led out of the bathroom and down a short hallway nearby, then through a door that—thankfully—didn’t do him any more damage. They were in a slightly shabby office, full of desks and stacks of paper and photos of people’s kids. “Sit there,” the man said, indicating a black office chair. He removed the red bandana from around his neck and held it out. “Um… here. Use this while I go hunt up a first aid kit.”

  Tyler took the cloth and held it to his nose, where the blood flow had slowed to a trickle. The man loped away. He returned very quickly with a clear plastic bag in one hand and a red and white box in the other. Then he knelt gracefully in front of Tyler’s chair. “I am so sorry,” he said, gently taking back his bandana and handing Tyler the bag of ice instead.

  Tyler winced as he held the ice to his throbbing nose. “Wasn’t your fault.”

  “Well, if I hadn’t banged the door open so hard… but I was kind of in a hurry ’cause I had to take a leak….” The guy stopped and grinned. “Still do, come to think of it. Can you wait here?”

  “Am I supposed to be here?” Tyler asked, looking around with concern.

  “Oh yeah, no problem. My uncle’s running this show. Hang on.”

  Tyler nodded slightly and waited, poking gingerly at his face. His forehead felt bruised, so he shifted the ice there.

  “I didn’t break it, did I?” The man was back and frowning at Tyler’s nose with concern.

  “Don’t think so,” Tyler answered.

  “Maybe you should go to the hospital, just in case. I can drive you.”

  By now, the pain had faded and Tyler’s main discomfort was embarrassment. Especially now that he could get a really good look at the guy. He was tall, probably six four or six five. He was lean, with broad shoulders and ropy muscles in his arms. His brown hair was cut short, his face was tanned and well-stubbled, and he had bright blue eyes. He was goddamn edible, and his tight red T-shirt and Levis didn’t help.

  “It’s fine,” Tyler mumbled. “I’m not gonna die. Besides, we don’t want to miss dinner.”

  The guy grinned broadly. “Hell no.” Then he stuck out his hand—enormous and callused—for a shake. “Name’s Bret Hollister.”

  “Tyler Wang.”

  He’d been teased about the name since kindergarten, so he wasn’t surprised to see Bret’s lips twitch. But all Bret said was, “Nice to meet you. Can I get you cleaned up a little?” He waved at Tyler’s bruised and bloodied face.

  “Um, yeah. Sure.” By now, Tyler was feeling guilty too. His injuries were at least as much his fault as Bret’s—if he hadn’t been standing behind the door like an idiot, he’d be fine. And Bret seemed like a genuinely nice guy, sort of sweet and maybe even a little shy, the type who might dip his ten-gallon hat and say “Aw shucks, ma’am,” at a moment’s notice.

  Bret rooted around in the first aid ki
t for a moment. He pulled on a protective glove and tore open an alcohol towelette, which he used to wipe Tyler’s face. Tyler tried very hard not to squirm, not so much from the pain—which was pretty minimal except for the burn of alcohol on his scrapes—but from the proximity of a really hot guy. And from that guy’s touch, which was somehow intimate despite being clinical.

  “Well, that’s better,” Bret said, sitting back on his heels. “You don’t look so much like an extra in an axe murder movie. Your shirt’s kinda ruined, though.”

  Tyler glanced down and saw that the aqua cotton was now splattered pretty liberally with red. “Yuck.” He pushed the chair back a little so he could stand, and Bret rose to his feet too. “Thanks, Bret. I’m gonna take off.” And Jordan Coelho can go screw himself, he added in his head.

  But Bret was shaking his head. “And miss the fry-up? No way.”

  “I’m not really sure—”

  “C’mon. Some of tonight’s dinner came off my family ranch. You did come ’cause you wanted to try Rocky Mountain oysters, right?”

  “Umm….” When Tyler was a little kid, his parents dragged him along to monthly feasts at his great-grandmother’s house. She used to prepare a huge variety of Chinese delicacies, many of which seemed to involve things no self-respecting American kid had any desire to consume. But all the whining in the world and all the begging for a McDonald’s stop instead hadn’t saved him from being forced to eat ducks’ tongues, chicken feet, and pickled jellyfish. He was fairly certain, however, that even his great-grandmother had never tried to serve him testicles.

  As Tyler was still dithering, Bret was digging in a cardboard box next to the desk. He pulled something out of it with a small noise of triumph and tossed the item to Tyler. “There you go. Now you’ll be fashionable too.”

  It was a yellow T-shirt with the festival logo on it. Tyler shrugged, pulled off the ruined tank and tossed it in a wastebasket, and slipped the T-shirt on. “Thanks.”

  Bret was so stunning when he smiled that Tyler felt a little weak in the knees. He was glad the T-shirt was long enough to cover his crotch, because cowboys probably didn’t appreciate it if you got hard from looking at them. But Bret just kept on smiling, damn him.

  “How ’bout if you come sit by me?” Bret said. “I’ll make sure you get an extra big serving.” And then he winked.

  Tyler tried to make his mouth work properly. “Uh, I don’t wanna intrude—”

  “The company’d be nice. Rest of my family’s in the kitchen, but they know better than to put me back there. I ruin canned soup.”

  Bret seemed sincere in his offer, and Tyler wasn’t all that eager to find a place for himself among the locals. “Okay. Thanks.”

  A few heads turned as Tyler and Bret reentered the main room, but most people were too busy eating to notice. Bret settled Tyler in a seat at the end of one of the long tables, next to an elderly man with a string tie, then hurried away. When he returned, he had a paper plate in each hand. He set one in front of Tyler, the other in front of his own spot, and he sat down. The plate was heaping full. In addition to the small, deep-fried things that Tyler assumed were the festival’s raison d’être, there was also an iceberg lettuce salad, a pool of baked beans, a hunk of garlic bread, and a flour tortilla.

  “You want something to drink?” Bret asked. “We got beer and soda, and I’m pretty sure Uncle Frank’s got some wine stashed away somewhere.”

  Tyler poked experimentally at a ball with his plastic fork. “Maybe later.”

  Bret shoved a healthy amount into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Eat up while they’re hot. They’re best like that.”

  Okay, Tyler thought. He was a vegetarian, sure, but technically no animals gave their lives for this dinner. Presumably, the previous owners of these balls were now out on the range, happily chewing grass and… and doing whatever it was that cows did. Or steers, actually. In any case, it seemed pretty stupid to drive two hours, pay forty bucks, get bashed in the face, and not eat the stuff. He impaled one on his fork tines and put it into his mouth.

  “Well?” Bret asked, and then turned his head to sneeze.

  “Not bad,” admitted Tyler. “Pretty good, actually.” And they were. This time he chose a bigger one.

  Bret sniffed noisily. “My family looks forward to this festival every year. It’s their social highlight. I’m betting you’re not from around here and you’re used to more excitement.”

  “I’m from Berkeley.” Tyler touched the bridge of his sore nose. “And this was plenty exciting, thanks.”

  Bret started to respond but had to pause as he was overtaken by another huge sneeze. He caught this one in his paper napkin and then smiled wryly. “What do you do in Berkeley?”

  Tyler winced a little. “I’m, uh, a grad student at Cal.” Not that he was embarrassed about that, but it sounded so… weeny compared to being a bona fide cowboy.

  But Bret looked impressed. “Seriously?” He snuffled again. “That’s cool, man. What in?”

  “Anthropology,” Tyler answered, knowing that was anything but cool. And as Bret began to ask another question, Tyler’s phone started playing “Born This Way.” Tyler blushed. “Sorry, it’s my asshole friend Jordan. He—never mind.” With an apologetic shrug, he turned slightly aside to take the call.

  “Ty, I swear, I’m heading out the door right now.” There was still a lot of noise in the background, including at least one crying child.

  “Forget it. It’s too late.”

  “Shit. Look… I’ll make it up to you, okay? Friday night I’m gonna take you to this club—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  After a very brief pause, Jordan asked, “So? How are the balls?”

  “Really fucking tasty,” Tyler answered and hung up on him. He turned to look back at his companion, who’d been wheezing and sniffling the whole time, but what he saw made his jaw drop. “Um, are you okay?”

  “Hay fever,” Bret rasped. “Sorry.” His eyes were watery and red, but what really alarmed Tyler were the splotches that had appeared all over his face, and the way his right hand looked swollen and shiny, as if he’d scalded it.

  Tyler thought about the glove Bret had worn while tending to his injuries. “Um, you don’t have a latex allergy or anything, do you?”

  “Latex?”

  A couple of years earlier, Ty had dated a med student named Carl. Carl wore gloves all day, but had suddenly—and rather unfortunately—developed an allergic reaction to latex while he and Tyler were having sex. He just barely managed to tell Tyler to call 911 before he slipped into anaphylactic shock. Carl had survived the ordeal and they’d found a source for polyurethane condoms, but the relationship fell apart shortly after due to the strain of medical school.

  “I think you need to get to a hospital, Bret,” Tyler said as calmly as possible.

  Bret glanced at his hand, and the parts of his face that weren’t broken out in hives went deathly white. “Yeah.”

  A moment or two of not-quite-frantic discussion revealed the nearest ER was about a half mile away. In fact, Tyler vaguely remembered passing it on his way into town. He tried to convince Bret that they should call for an ambulance, but Bret refused. “Mom and Dad’d kill me if I ruined the festival with paramedics. Ha-choo!”

  So instead they ran for the back door, avoiding the people in line for seconds and the helmet-haired lady at the entrance. Tyler grabbed Bret’s arm and dragged him to the only Honda in the lot. They threw themselves inside, Tyler gunned the engine, and they raised a huge dust cloud as they raced away.

  The admitting nurse at Oakdale Memorial Hospital looked doubtfully between Tyler’s bruised and swollen face and Bret’s blotchy red one. “Which one of you?” she asked.

  Tyler pointed. “Him. Latex allergy.”

  Things seemed to move pretty quickly after that. Several people came out and took Bret away, leaving Tyler in the little waiting area. He sat in a green plastic chair and hoped whatever was making the kid with
the blonde pigtails hack and cough wasn’t contagious. Just as he was debating whether to text Jordan a death threat, a young woman in purple scrubs appeared and sat beside him. “You’re with Mr. Hollister?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  She nodded and then frowned compassionately at him. “We have some brochures on domestic violence. They’re over there. And I can refer you to a social worker, honey. I don’t think we have a shelter for, um, men, but—”

  “He didn’t do this to me. I mean, he sort of did, but it wasn’t domestic violence. It was an accident.”

  She patted his shoulder. “I’m sure you feel that way, honey. It’s step three of the abuse cycle. But if you talk to a social worker—”

  “He didn’t abuse me! We just met, and he slammed a door into me, and then he put on a glove to clean me up, and….” He let his voice trail away, knowing how ridiculous the entire story must sound.

  The woman made an unhappy face and then sighed. “All right. I suppose you can’t help with filling out these forms, then.” She waved a clipboard .

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  She went away, frowning. But Tyler stayed. Bret was gone a long time, and eventually Tyler did make his way to the brochure rack, where he learned about the first signs of a heart attack and the first signs of stroke, as well as how to protect himself from the flu and which immunizations his children should get, in the unlikely event he ever had children. He was just reaching for a pamphlet on STDs when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Got something you wanna tell me, Tyler?”

  Tyler spun around so quickly he almost fell down. Bret was grinning down at him. His face and eyes were back to their normal colors, and the swelling in his hand was gone. His other hand clutched a thick sheaf of papers.

  “You’re not gonna die?” Tyler asked.

  “Not right now. They gave me shots and told me to get a MedicAlert bracelet in case it happens again. And they made me fill out a lot of forms.” He flapped the papers. Despite the near disaster, he looked strangely cheerful, and Tyler couldn’t imagine why.