And he’s right, mostly. No one deserves to have their most vulnerable, intimate moment blasted to the entire student body—if it’s not a crime, then it should be. But I was also wrong in using Dave as a stand-in. I hurt him too, not as publicly, but I did hurt him.
“I’m a big boy, Boss. It’s probably time for me to start handling my own shit.”
“Did you know he took that picture?”
I shake my head, hoping Chris knows me well enough to know I’d never allow it.
“What a dickhead. Why’d he send it around?”
“Maybe he was mad I broke up with him.”
“You were together?”
“Eh.” I shrug. Together seems too strong a sentiment, especially now. “We messed around.”
“Why’d you break up with him?”
I consider a few excuses that all ring false. “It didn’t feel right. In any case, I think it’s just me and my grilled cheeses from now on.”
Chris grins at that, and I’m glad I can eke out a smile from him still. We pull into Harley’s, and once inside, I order a Hungryman platter, which has just about every breakfast food you could imagine. Chris watches me eat, then helps me out when I start to lose steam and offers to pay before I can ask him to cover it because I spent my last dollar on booze. We don’t talk much on the ride home, but it’s a comfortable silence. It seems some of the big questions are out of the way, which is a relief.
“What did the guys have to say about it?” I ask Chris, cringing at what his response might be.
“Nothing,” he says. “And they won’t either.”
I’m guessing some threats have been made. Chris is watching my back yet again. Not much has changed since sixth grade. Kind of makes me feel like a loser to the nth degree.
It’s super late when we get back to Chris’s house. I don’t worry about waking up his parents. They’re in the Cayman Islands for a few days, where they have a vacation home. Chris stayed back for Tabs’s party tomorrow. Rather, today.
Upstairs, I ask Chris if I can use his shower, but it’s not until I’m out that I realize I don’t have any clean clothes. I really don’t want to put on my soggy, grimy boxer briefs, so I wrap the towel around my waist and go out to Chris’s bedroom, where he’s reclined on his bed staring up at the ceiling.
“Hey, man, can I borrow some clothes?”
Chris looks at me then, head to toe and back again, and I swear there’s something hot and illicit in the way he sizes me up. A desire that is definitely more than friends. But then he snaps out of it and hustles off his bed to grab some clothes out of his drawers, pushes the stack at me, and won’t make eye contact. It’s a lot like that morning after Sebastian. Like this big, dirty secret he doesn’t want to talk about or even acknowledge.
Something for me to tackle another day.
I dress inside the bathroom, and when I come out, Chris has gotten me a glass of water and a Tylenol. He points to his bed and tells me he’ll sleep on the futon. I thank him again for finding my drunk ass and not telling my mom.
“Just don’t let it happen again,” he says.
As I’m drifting off to sleep, Chris reaches up and finds my ear, flicks it, and whispers, “Happy birthday, Theo.”
And despite all the bullshit of the day, I figure I’ll be all right, because in spite of being outed in the most publicly humiliating way, I still have Chris in my corner, and that’s really all I need.
Empty Boxes, the Damn Ball, and Other Metaphors for the Suckage of Life
I WAKE up around noon the next day to the sounds of a party revving up outside Chris’s window. Oh yeah, that. I peer through the blinds, squinting at the assault of daylight like a vampire. The headache is still with me, only a little more muted. My sister’s by the pool, one arm draped around Chris’s shoulder, laughing at something one of her friends is saying. I’ve only been awake for about ten seconds and I already feel like puking, which is only partly from the alcohol.
I scribble a note to Chris—Thanks for letting me crash here—then creep downstairs and sneak a muffin from the glass case in the kitchen that Paloma keeps stocked with an assortment of goodies. I jog across our driveways, keeping to the bushes like a ninja to avoid running into any of Tabs’s guests, and find my mom upstairs in our kitchen, doing dishes while singing, but the singing abruptly stops when she turns around and sees me.
I get the arched eyebrow—just one. My mom’s not very strict. In fact, she’s the exact opposite of strict. Around the time we started high school, my mom kind of shrugged and said That’s all I can do. It’s up to you now. Maybe it’s because she’s from Puerto Rico, where it seems parents are a little laxer and the kids more independent. In any case, as long as we come home at night and check in every few days, she pretty much stays out of our business.
But my mom knows something’s up, and the arched eyebrow says more than words.
I have this speech prepared for my mom, which begins with my first stirrings for Casanova Guerra and how my desires have manifested over the years, growing stronger and more unavoidable. Then I was going to reference a boy who is Chris-like but not actually Chris, and conclude with the relationship I recently ended as an example of me needing to be a little choosier about who I date. As she’s staring at me and I’m searching for the right metaphor with which to begin this great oration of my sexual awakening, I decide to cut to the chase and simply say, “I’m gay, Mom.”
She nods and sets down her scrubby and opens her arms to me. I walk over and get this great mama-bear hug from a woman half my size who has more strength in her two arms than most men I know.
“You want to talk about it?” she asks.
I shrug, still encased in her arms, thinking about when she taught me how to dance. I was ten years old, and she insisted it was essential to my growth as a man. You need to know how to lead, mi hijo. I doubt I’ll ever be leading a bride, but I’ll always have my mom to dance with, and that’s enough for me.
“I thought I did, but you seem to get it, so maybe it’s not necessary after all.”
“What happened yesterday?” she asks, pulling back to look at me, and I can only assume she knows most if not everything that went down.
“This picture went around school of me….” I clear my throat, and she holds up one hand to gesture that I don’t need to go on.
“Do you want me to call this boy’s mother?”
My sweet, old-school mother is a lot like Chris in many ways, only instead of beating a guy’s ass, she goes for the jugular—his mother.
“He doesn’t have the best home life,” I tell her, feeling bad for Dave all over again because he’s basically a runaway who had the good fortune of having an aunt with a spare apartment and no tenant. Then I kick myself for feeling bad for that asshole at all. “Besides, Chris already beat his ass. That’s probably enough.”
She nods. “Well, I can see why you call him Asshole Dave.”
We share a bitter chuckle at that, and even though my mom pretends to not know what’s going on in my life, clearly she does. Then she reveals perhaps more than she ever has about her relationship with my father when she says, “Make sure you fall for what’s on the inside and not what’s on the outside, baby. Otherwise you’re just buying an empty box.”
I nod and feel pretty bad at the same time. My father reduced to one sad metaphor, an empty box. I kiss my mom’s cheek and tell her I’m going to visit Uncle Theo at the home. She seems surprised at that. “You’re not going to the party?”
“Not my scene,” I tell her. Another part of me manning up is not doing shit I don’t want to do because other people tell me to. Even Chris and Tabs.
“Tell your uncle I said hello,” she says. “He was always very nice to me.”
I PICK up pulled pork sandwiches from Paula’s Pit Barbecue, including a pint of baked beans and a quart of their potato salad, even though it’s about a mile out of the way. I stuff it all in my backpack and arrive at Saint Ann’s in the early afternoon
. The receptionist is different than the one I faced off with before—weekend crew. At first she thinks I’m delivering food and tells me they have a policy of not accepting meals from outside vendors, so I have to go through the whole exercise of proving to her I’m the nephew of one of the residents, producing my ID again, having her verify it with someone else, and finally they give me the pass to work the elevator to go see Uncle Theo.
This time he’s in an activities room, where someone has stretched a volleyball net at waist-high level across the middle of the room. The old folks are all sitting in chairs, batting a beach ball over the net. Some of them are really getting into it, while others just sit there with glazed expressions on their faces. When the ball reaches Uncle Theo where he sits in the back, he bats it out of annoyance in a spike that goes straight to the floor. The instructor mimes the motion of hitting it up and over the net, then puts the ball in play again with a smile on her face the whole time, and I think I want some of whatever she’s taking.
I lift the plastic bag with the Paula’s logo and point to it to get Uncle Theo’s attention. He stands up pretty fast for an old man and gestures toward me. His presence is commanding, and a nurse immediately goes over to assist him. It’s not Manuel this time, but Gloria, who escorts him out of the room and over to the larger rec room, where we all sit down together.
“You know, Theo, outside food is prohibited for the residents.” Gloria says it like it’s protocol for her to say it, but I sense that her heart’s not in it.
“But I brought extra for you, Gloria.” I unpack the food and slide a pulled pork sandwich wrapped in foil toward her. She glances back at the door and then over at Uncle Theo, who’s still scowling and hasn’t seemed to have picked up on our negotiation.
“Captain Wooten doesn’t have any food allergies, so I suppose we can let it slide this time.”
I smile my eager smile and pull out the rest of the food. Uncle Theo taps the lid to the container of potato salad impatiently and seems to not know what to do with it. I did some reading on dementia and found out there are good days and bad days. Compared to the last time I saw him, this seems to be one of my uncle’s bad days.
“Let me get that for you, Captain.” Gloria tucks the napkin into his shirtfront like a bib and lays out his plasticware. She goes to the trouble of portioning out the food onto a plate she made out of one of the Styrofoam containers. When he tells her he wants more on his plate, she reminds him the food is rich and he doesn’t want to eat too much and get a rumble in his tummy. Then, instead of eating, he stares at it.
“What’s all this?” he asks with a frown, and she points to each of the sides, telling him what they are. He nods along like it’s all very obvious.
“And what’s this one?” he asks again, pointing at the sandwich.
“Pulled pork,” she says.
“Stringy meat from a pig with barbecue sauce,” I tell Uncle Theo, because I think he heard her the first time but still didn’t know what it meant.
“Oh,” he says like it’s something he’s never had before, but he’s willing to give it a try.
“You eat it with your hands like this.” I show him what I mean by taking a bite of my own.
“Is it any good?” he asks.
“Mmmm.” I nod, not wanting to expose a mouthful of food to them.
I watch Uncle Theo take a hesitant bite and feel kind of sad and happy at the same time. Getting old sucks, but at least he has really nice caretakers who seem to give an actual shit about him as a person.
“Where’s Manuel today?” I ask him once we’ve all settled into our meal.
My uncle shakes his head and says briskly, “It’s Saturday.” He looks to Gloria for confirmation, and she nods.
“That’s right, Captain. Manuel only works on weekdays.” She smiles at me. “It helps him remember the days of the week by knowing Manuel’s schedule. He has it taped up in his apartment.”
Interesting, I think and then, is that normal?
“Has Manuel worked here long?” I ask, trying to mine her for information without making it too obvious. Gloria smiles like she knows what I’m up to.
“A few years now.”
“Is Manuel here?” my uncle asks, seeming put out by the thought that Manuel might be in the vicinity without him knowing.
“Not today. It’s Saturday.” Gloria rests a hand on his arm, and he nods and goes back to eating. I don’t mention Manuel again because I don’t want to get my uncle worked up about it or have him think we’re hiding something from him.
My uncle is a tidy eater, careful about wiping his mouth and not talking with his mouth full. I’ve seen some of the other old folks who aren’t so tidy and wonder if table manners are one of the last things to go, then feel guilty for thinking that way about Uncle Theo. Just makes me sad that it’s only going to get worse for him, losing more of his memories and identity and even the habits he’s had his whole life. And what’s waiting for him at the end of it all? Death.
Jesus, that’s grim. Even for me. I’ve got to get back on the sunny side.
We eat in companionable silence, and when we’re through, I help Gloria clean up. I ask her if she wants the leftovers, and she says she’ll keep the food in the staff fridge and try to sneak more to my uncle tomorrow, so long as his stomach agrees with it. I wonder if they do poop checks or something, then realize it’s probably a situation where the old folks shit their pants if the food doesn’t agree with them, and then I have all the respect in the world for the staff of Saint Ann’s, because wiping another person’s ass is true compassion.
When it’s just my uncle and me again, I suggest we play some gin rummy, but he only wants to play solitaire. He calls to Gloria for “the cards,” and she retrieves them from somewhere else, perhaps his room. I watch him line up his hand meticulously and realize there must be something calming about the ritual itself.
He’s not too interested in conversation, and I find myself taking the lead. I ask him a little bit more about Saint Ann’s, whether he has a roommate (“hell no”) and about the activities they have here. He doesn’t like most of them, including what I witnessed, which he calls “the damn ball.” He’s kind of grumpy about all the stuff they make him do, even though it sounds pretty stimulating and a hell of a lot better than sitting here alone playing solitaire. I get the impression my uncle was a hater before hating was cool, so I ask him what his favorite activity is, thinking he’ll say being by himself or chow time.
“I like walks with Manuel,” he says. His face changes then, becomes softer and sweeter. A small smile forms on his wrinkled face, subtle, like a shift in the light. It’s so tender on such a tough man that it melts me a little on the inside.
“He seems nice,” I agree.
My uncle nods, and I decide to reveal to him something about myself. It’s not like my dad is going to visit him anytime soon, and even if he does, I doubt Uncle Theo would remember.
“I’m gay, Uncle Theo.”
“Gay?” he asks, tasting the word like it’s an exotic food.
“I like other boys.”
He shrugs like it’s not the huge revelation I think it is. “That happens sometimes.” He goes back to counting out cards and seems generally unimpressed.
“My dad doesn’t know.” Hopefully he’ll get the hint that it’s not something he should share without me having to say it explicitly.
“Neither did my father,” Uncle Theo says.
I must have misheard him. Is he saying he’s… “What do you mean?”
“Liking boys.” He stares directly at me like I’m being dense. “My father never knew.”
He sighs, and it seems laced with regret and longing. And here my mind is blown. Uncle Theo just came out to me, and maybe it was rumored before among the older generation of Wootens, but if it was, I didn’t know about it, and it certainly wasn’t made known to me. I read somewhere homosexuality has a genetic component, and I wonder how many other queers have been hanging out in the
Wooten family tree, closeted, and whether Uncle Theo was ever out or if it’s something he’s hidden his entire life. Did he ever have a boyfriend? Male lovers? I have so many questions, but I don’t want to overwhelm or confuse him.
“Is that why you joined the Navy?” I ask.
He nods again, his face still drawn and dejected. “My father never liked me much.”
“That sucks,” I tell him, feeling closer to Uncle Theo than I ever thought possible. I think I have it hard now, but try to imagine seventy years ago, what it must have been like for him to be gay at my age. I can’t even.
We’re quiet after that—the only noise is the rasp of the playing cards in my uncle’s hands—and I notice he’s cheating by pulling different multiples of cards when he runs out of options, but I don’t mention it. I’m not even sure it’s considered cheating when you’re only playing yourself.
I DRAW out my visit with Uncle Theo because I don’t want to go home until long after the party’s over. Uncle Theo punks out pretty early, says he needs to go take a nap, so I end up skating along the intercoastal, just enjoying the sea breeze and the view of the water, until I can’t stall any longer.
At home I sneak up to my room and close my blinds, consider playing the Sims but decide it’s just an invitation for more pain. I queue up some of my favorite skate videos on my tablet instead, thinking about what tricks I might want to showcase at Plan Z, assuming I still have the balls to compete. A while back I found this hour-long skate video that has no music or talking, just the background noises of a skate session—the rollicking percussion of wheels on concrete, the sandpapery swish of boards grinding rails, trucks clicking and popping, and all the syncopated rhythms of tricks I can identify just from the sounds they make. I must have watched this video about a hundred times, whenever I want to relax. Now I close my eyes and zone out to the gritty soundtrack, imagining myself pulling off all these gnarly tricks.
I wake up in the dusty blue of twilight. I go over to my window and peek between the blinds at the pool area. The partygoers have vacated the premises, and Tabs is nowhere to be seen. I hope she didn’t leave Chris and Paloma with cleanup.
When Everything Is Blue Page 14