by Karyn Bosnak
Kyle looks around the room self-consciously, prompting me to do so as well. Everyone’s staring at us. Kyle looks back at me. “Delilah, we should probably go talk.”
“Wait, is this Delilah Delilah?” the woman holding the ceramic planter asks Kyle. I turn to her.
“How do you know my name?” She looks to Kyle.
“Delilah, come on,” he says, motioning to the front door. “Let’s go outside.”
For the next hour I sit in my car eating a bag of Cheetos while Kyle explains himself. He says that he always knew he was gay but was afraid to admit it. He thought that if he ignored it, it would go away. He had girlfriends all through high school and college, and then I came along. He wanted to like me, he did, but told himself that if he didn’t feel a connection when we were physically together, that he’d stop fighting it. The lack of chemistry between us that day at the Mercer wasn’t just in my head, it wasn’t just because I was nervous—he didn’t feel anything for me either. Having admitted this, Kyle looks to me for a response, but I can’t speak. I can’t say anything because I’m in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I eat a Cheeto and then give one to Eva.
Kyle tells me that the weekend he went to LA, he really did go for a wedding. Telling everyone in New York that he got a job in LA was just an easier way for him to explain why he moved so suddenly. He wanted to start fresh, start anew and start immediately. Having admitted this, Kyle once again looks to me for a response, but I can’t speak. I can’t say anything because I’m still in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I eat another Cheeto and then give one to Eva.
The woman inside holding the planter is his sister. She knows all about Kyle’s and my day of passion at the Mercer because he told her—and his whole family—when he came out of the closet. I’d like to ask if he left out the damp underwear when recounting the details of our hotel rendezvous to his entire family, but I can’t speak. I can’t say anything because I’m still in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I eat another—
Oh, shit. I’m out of Cheetos.
For the next twenty minutes Kyle and I sit in my car in silence. While licking cheese off my fingers, I watch as he samples the small bottles of liquor I took from the minibar at the Ritz. They were in the bag I opened this morning, the bag filled clothes, the clothes that I hid under while spying on him. As he holds each bottle up one by one, I watch in awe as he systematically reads the label, cracks the top, takes a swig, swishes it around in his mouth, swallows, replaces the cap and then moves on to the next. It’s fascinating to me for some reason. After taking God knows how many swigs, he suddenly bursts into laughter—uncontrollable laughter—that sends more tears down his cheeks.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“I threw a plant at your head,” he says, wiping his face dry. “And you thought it was an urn filled with ashes!” As he burst into laughter yet again, I glare at him.
“Oh come on,” he says, off my look. “You lied about sleeping with my dead boyfriend—it’s funny.”
“No, it’s not,” I snap. “Nothing about this is funny.”
“Yes it is, Delilah. All of this is.”
“All of what is?”
“Life,” he says, looking around. “Life is funny.”
Irritated, I look away from him, away from the mirror, away from myself and stare out the window.
“I’m not mad at you, Delilah,” Kyle says after a bit. “I don’t care. In fact, I’m happy you got me out of that place.” I look over at him. The fact that he’s trying to me feel better on a day like today is just plain wrong.
“Kyle, I should go,” I say. And I should—I should go home. I should go back to New York. This was all a big mistake. I mean, what am I doing, really? Every re-meet has been more disastrous than the previous one.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I understand.” He then reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Do you have my phone number?”
“Yeah,” I say. I have your home number and your work number and your address—I have it all.
“Call me sometime, okay?” he says. “Really, I mean it.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, but I know I won’t.
After leaving the cemetery, I drive down Interstate 10 heading back to my hotel in a daze. I’m not aware of the cars around me or that Eva’s sitting on my lap licking cheese dust off my skirt. I suppose that out of twenty guys, this was bound to be the case for one of them, but Kyle? No way. Hearing the beep of my cell phone signaling I have a message, I pick it up and check my voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me.” It’s Colin. “I have a couple of updates for you.” Even though I’ve decided to go home I sigh with relief; I need something to take my mind off all this.
“I found Oliver Leet and Shane Murphy,” he says. “Oliver lives in London, Shane in Minneapolis. Both are single, but—I hate to break this to ya, babe—both are gay.”
Gay? GAY? Both of them? WHAT???????
Suddenly everything happens at once. Just as I drop the phone, my hand slips on the wheel and I veer into the dreaded left lane. As cars begin to honk, I begin to scream and then begin to smell something rotten. Looking down, I realize that Eva is pooping on me. As cars continue to honk and I continue to scream and Eva continues to poop, I look in the rearview mirror, begin to change lanes and then reach for a tissue. The next thing you know I’m veering back over to the right while picking up poop and rolling down the window. What happens next is like slow motion. With my hand out the window, I let go of the poop-filled tissue. After fluttering through the air like a bird for a few seconds, it smacks against the front windshield of a police car behind me. Instantly, his lights go on.
Oh. My. God.
I’m going down, there’s no doubt about it.
After quickly pulling over, I sit in my car and watch the policeman get out of his. While doing do, I pray to Zach Holden to help me, poor Zach Holden, poor hot sexy Zach Holden. The policeman, a big guy with a buzz cut, looks like a real asshole. Sporting mirrored sunglasses and a tan uniform, much like the one Ponch wore on CHiPs, he walks over to his windshield. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he pokes for a few seconds at the tissue, which exploded upon impact. To say the least, it’s not a pretty sight. Eva’s poop, which usually resembles a small brown Tootsie Roll, now looks like . . . well, it looks like any piece of poop would look after hitting a car going fifty miles per hour. It’s splattered all over the place. Shaking his head in disgust, he walks toward my car. Although I can’t see his eyes, I can tell he’s angry. This is not good; this is not good at all.
“What in the God’s name do you call that?” he screams, pointing back to his car with the pen. Okay, he’s not just angry—he’s pissed. Sticking my head out the window, I look back toward his car and decide to play dumb.
“Well, I’m not sure,” I say coyly, “but it looks like it could be . . . a piece of dog poop.”
The policeman gives me a look that says, “No shit Sherlock.” He’s not buying my innocent act for one minute. “Oh, it looks like it, huh?” he says. “Well, what’s it doing on my windshield?”
I try to think of something to say. “Well, sir . . .” Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his mirrored sunglasses, I see the guilty look on my face. He saw me throw it; he knows I did it. Why am I even trying to lie about it? I sink into my seat. “I’m sorry, but my dog pooped on me,” I confess, “so I picked it up and threw it out the window without thinking because I didn’t know what else to do.”
Reaching over, I grab Eva and hold her up like she’s a piece of evidence. While doing so, I try to send subliminal messages to her, asking her to smile for him like she did for me when I got her. But she doesn’t receive them, she doesn’t pick up on it. After staring at the policeman blankly for a few seconds, all she does is fart. Hearing it, the policeman shakes his head in disgust. Suddenly I feel her stomach gurgle—I think someone ate too many Cheetos.
“I’m sorry, sir, please forgive me,” I beg, putting Eva back do
wn. “It was just really smelly and I didn’t want it in my car.”
“Oh yeah? Well I didn’t want it on my windshield!”
Changing his gaze from me to the floor of the front passenger seat, the policeman suddenly gets a funny look in his eye. When I turn to my right and see what he’s looking at, my stomach drops as I spot a few empty small liquor bottles laying on the floor in plain view. Kyle . . . Fuck!
I turn back to the policeman. “I can explain those,” I say, pointing. He shakes his head.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to step out of the car.”
* * *
1 I was, but they were big white cotton briefs and I didn’t want to tell him.
2 I mentioned this to my mother one day, that I find thongs uncomfortable, and do you want to know what she said to me? She said, “Maybe you need a bigger size.” Seriously.
Chapter fourteen
a little bit sweet
sunday, may 8
I’ve been lying in bed at the Viceroy for two days, waiting for a giant earthquake to rock California, break off the little bit of beach that this hotel sits on, and send me surfing out to sea. It’s bound to happen, with my luck. In addition to the $1,000 ticket I got for having an open container of alcohol in the car, I got a $500 ticket for littering, a $1,000 ticket for improper disposal of dog waste, a $150 ticket for improper lane usage, and a $150 ticket for speeding. Yes, speeding. Me. Apparently, in addition to talking on the phone, learning that three of my exes are gay also helps me drive a little bit faster. I didn’t just break fifty—I broke eighty. I got a ticket for going eighty-one miles per hour.
Considering that the room costs four hundred dollars a night, I probably should’ve checked out and had my breakdown at a more affordable hotel. But after giving it some thought, I decided it was better to stay put. My thinking is this: If you’re teetering on the edge of sanity, staying at a HoJo Inn by the airport will surely do you in. I mean, the only thing that’s really keeping me sane right now is the thread count. Okay fine—the marijuana I bought from some kid by the pool is helping, too, as are the PlayStation video games the concierge gave me, and of course the sweet sounds of my favorite ’80s crooner. The four of them together are like two sets of Wonder Twins powers, activating . . . in the form of . . . a very, very fucked-up tramp that’s too comfortable, too entertained, and too stoned to jump off the balcony.
I feel numb, and not just because of the pot. I’m in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I can’t believe Shane’s gay. And I can’t believe Oliver’s gay. I take a hit of my joint and then cover Eva’s face so she doesn’t get a contact buzz.
Shane, #3, was a year older than me and my first college crush. I met him at an after-hours party at his fraternity house and dated him for one whole week. Everyone called him Cowboy Shaner because he was really into cowboy gear. He didn’t grow up on a ranch or anything, so I’m not sure where the fascination came from, but he was always wearing cowboy hats and boleros. You know, stuff like that. If you told me back then that he would’ve turned out gay, I would’ve laughed in your face. Shane was a stud. I mean, gosh, he had this one pair of angora chaps that he wore everywhere. He was macho.
Thinking back now, Shane did say something once that might’ve been a sign he’d turn out gay, had I read it properly. He told me that he had a “boy crush” on one of his frat brothers. Yes, a “boy crush.” Do straight guys have boy crushes? I always thought they did, but perhaps I’m wrong.
As for Oliver, #8, I’ll admit that I’ve always had a feeling that he might’ve been slightly gay, if that’s possible. The main reason for this is because right before we broke up, he went to a wedding and—
Suddenly my phone rings. I look at the ID. It’s Colin. I don’t feel like talking but by the time my brain sends the message to my hands to not pick up the phone, they already have. The T.H.C. in the P.O.T. is making me S.L.O. (I wonder what the R.O.D. would think of that?)
“Top of the morning to ya,” I say.
“Ehm . . . you know Irish people really don’t say that, don’t ya?”
“No? Bummer.” I feel let down.
“And you know it’s the afternoon, don’t ya?”
“Really? Bummer.” I feel let down again.
Colin senses something’s wrong. “Hey, you okay?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘okay.’”
“Well, for starters your voice sounds a little hoarse.”
“Well, that’s because I’ve been singing—” I break into song. “All night long! (All night!) Whoa oh! All night long! (All night!) Yeeeeeah!”
“Oh my . . .”
“Let the music play on . . . play on . . . play on . . .”
“Sweet Jaysus . . .”
“Hey, let me ask you something. Have you ever had a boy crush?”
“A boy crush? What the fuck is that?”
“A crush. On a guy. A boy crush.”
“Delilah, I’m not gay.”
“Yeah, I know that. I’m just wondering if straight guys ever have crushes on other guys.”
“Ahhh . . . that’d be a big fat no.”
“Hmpf. Interesting. Okay, let me ask you this then. Would you know what brand of hose a woman is wearing just by looking?”
“Oh, I get it now,” Colin says knowingly. “Which one had a boy crush?”
“The cowboy,” I confess.
“And which one was into hose?”
“The Brit. He cheated on me with a woman because he said he fancied her sparkly hose.”
I dated Oliver when I moved to Chicago, right when I started at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. He was from London and had the greatest British accent. No matter what he said, he sounded smart. Gosh, how I loved listening to him talk. Sometimes, when he told me stories, I’d close my eyes and pretend like he was Hugh Grant.1 His sweet voice was music to my ears. And he was such a good dresser too, so dapper and stylish. He always wore these adorable tailored pinstriped suits that looked like they came right off Savile Row. We had so much fun together, Oliver and I. We’d go shopping, go on garden walks. He was a great boyfriend. But then he cheated on me with a woman he met at a wedding.
“He didn’t say he fancied her legs in her sparkly hose?” Colin asks.
“No. I remember his exact words. He said, and I quote, ‘Her Givenchy hose were scrumptious! I fancied them so much that I wanted to eat them right off of her!’”
“He used the word scrumptious?”
“Yep.”
“And that wasn’t a little weird to you?”
“No, just the fact that he knew the brand was.”
“If you didn’t pick up on the word scrumptious being a sign, then something’s telling me you probably let a few others go right over your head.”
“I didn’t, I swear. The hose was the only one, I promise.”
“Okay, let me ask then . . . where’d you meet him?”
“The tanning spa.”
“Delilah . . .”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that! He didn’t go there to tan—he worked there.”
“Delilah!” Colin’s voice is louder. “You actually paid me to confirm this for you? You couldn’t figure this our on your own?”
“Like I said, there were no other signs.”
“Somehow I doubt that. What’d you do on your first date?”
“He invited me over for dinner and a movie.”
“What movie?”
“Beaches.”
“I rest my case.”
Since Colin seems to be reveling in the fact that he’s a tad more perceptive than I am, I decide to keep to myself that the date was on Super Bowl Sunday, that it was Oliver’s second time seeing Beaches, and that we both went out and bought the Bette Midler soundtrack the very next day. “Why are you calling me?” I ask grumpily. I don’t want to talk anymore.
Well, I have more news for you, and it might be kind of upsetting.”
“I’m pretty sure I can take it.”
&
nbsp; “Okay, well,” Colin says, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “I found Zubin Khan, and—”
“Oh, wait, let me guess—he’s gay!” I say sarcastically.
“No, he’s not gay,” Colin says slowly, cautiously. “He’s—”
“Oh wait, wait, I got it—he’s in jail!”
“No, he’s not in jail either. Listen, Delilah—”
“Well then he must be dead!”
Colin doesn’t say anything.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“He’s dead?” I ask slowly.
“Yeah, sorry,” Colin says delicately. “But he went quickly though, didn’t feel a thing.” There’s an awkward pause. “Uh . . . were you close to him?”
“No, not really . . .”
Zubin Khan, #4, came right after Cowboy Shaner, which is kind of funny if you think about it because he was Indian. He was both my resident adviser and anthropology tutor during my freshman year in college. My mom met him the weekend I moved in and wanted me to become friends with him because he was super smart, and she was hoping some of his brilliance would rub off on me. In a way she got her wish—something of Zubin’s did end up rubbing off on me all right. It just wasn’t his brilliance.
And now he’s dead. Wow . . . I’m speechless.
“So uh, that’s it, I guess,” Colin says, after a bit. “I’m done.”
I’m confused. “What do you mean done?”
“Done, like I found all your guys.”
Found all my guys? All fifteen of them? He couldn’t have. “No you didn’t, did you?”
“Yeah. Well, except for that Nukes guy, but I told you that wasn’t gonna happen.”
I add up everyone in my head. Nate’s in jail, Daniel’s a priest, Shane’s gay, Zubin’s dead, Tim’s a townie, Ian prefers sweatin’ with the oldies, Henry’s married, Oliver Leet’s a little bit sweet, Nukes is not a nickname based on a last name, Tom’s a townie, Foxy’s in rehab, Dr. Pepper’s in space, Alex is married, Wade’s a puppeteer—I mean Muppeteer, Rod sells beauty products, Abogado doesn’t forgive and forget, Gordy’s still grody, Kyle’s gay, Greg’s still an idiot, and Roger likes to scratch and sniff.