I smiled. There was no way I’d put myself on the Co-Dependent List by telling her how good it felt to know how rotten things still were chez Miller. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get all pathetic-slash-abusive at dinner to try to entice him away from Dogface.”
“There’s got to be some boys around here to introduce you to. I bet Nate knows a buttload of super-cute gays from his job.” Her current paramour was an associate curator at the art museum (and played bass in a band called Choking Hazard that I would thankfully not be required to experience in concert). “Should we give him a call?”
“No! I haven’t even met him.”
“It’s alright. He’s seen you on TV and videocassette.”
“Thanks, but I’m good. Really. Believe it or not, just being here with my best friend in the universe is enough.”
“Of course it is,” she laughed. Then, in a dopey airhead-squeak: “Hope I can get the afternoon off to drive up to Austin with you…”
“You better, or there’ll be trouble.”
MARCH 6, 1990
Despite my Psycho Beach obligations (rehearsals, extra gym-time, mandatory tanning-bed sessions provided by our sponsor Electric Sun Worship) and horrendous course-load, I still found ample time to obsess about Nick. We’d been like Joey and Perry in The Wanderers since the semester started — he came over to use my state-of-the-art laundry room, we rented videos, went to dinner, hung out with Sara. And never discussed Barney or why he was glaringly absent from all our platonic fun. What was undeniable was that the nicest, hottest, most genuine guy in the world was so eager to be with me that he never refused my invitations. I had to be content with that for the time being.
Sara (“I haven’t been without a boyfriend in six years”) was a fount of wisdom on the subject, and advised me to just be the best friend possible to Nick, so that when he became comfortable enough to let the chemistry kick in, it would seem like we’d been in a relationship all along. She also made amazing mashed potatoes and had driven over in a torrential thunderstorm to help me finalize a major dinner I was going to surprise Nick with.
The apartment smelled like a country kitchen. I’d been microwaving a free-range, organic turkey breast from Whole Foods for hours, and now the twin aromas of cinnamon incense and tollhouse cookies wafted forth into the evening as well. I prepared pricey farm-fresh carrots and poised them on the stove, ready to steam, as Sara pulverized, whipped and seasoned her spuds.
“How do I know when it’s time for The Kiss?” I asked matter-of-factly while sinking a toothpick into the chocolate-chip pan-cookie mass. It came out gooey. Five more minutes.
She started to set a smart table. “When he grabs you by the shoulders and plants one on you, that’s how.”
“I’m sure I’m going to have to make the first move,” I told her, pulling out a couple wineglasses then deciding that was too gothic for soda or seltzer. “I just don’t know when.”
“Wait as long as you can possibly restrain yourself,” she said. “You have absolutely nothing to lose that way. He knows you want him. So relax.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one living like a monk.”
“No, I sure as shit ain’t,” she vamped. “In fact, Greg’s due at my place in about twenty minutes. So I’m going to hit the bricks.” She pecked my cheek. “Oh, almost forgot.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a little bouquet of Indian Paintbrushes wrapped in plastic.
“You didn’t have to buy that,” I began, touched.
She filled a glass and popped the flowers in. “I didn’t. I stole them from the little gazebo in front of my building.” She placed it on the table. “Now everything’s perfect.”
“Except for Barney,” I pouted.
“I’d like to know when the last time was Barney did something like this.” She opened the door to the sound of rain splatting on the terrace and cascading off the roof. “Good luck. Maybe there’ll be a power failure.” She hugged me. “Mmmm, those muscles drive me wild!” She nipped at my neck.
“Valerie,” I imperiously croaked, in flawless imitation of Denholm Elliott chastising his kinky frump secretary (after ordering her to raise her skirt, exposing panties, garters and withered thighs) in one of our all-time creepy cult favorites, Brimstone & Treacle. “You are an extremely salacious and corrupt Jezebel. And thank you very much.”
She took off. I barely had time to assemble the Stove-Top Stuffing before Nick arrived. “Hi!” I practically cheered, unable to quell my enthusiasm around him.
“Something sure smells great,” he smiled.
“My new cologne,” I said. “It’s called Rotisserie.”
He laughed. I scampered over to the kitchen to coordinate everything. Nick checked out the table. “You went to way too much trouble.”
“Please… it’s nothing,” I said as if I pulled expertly roasted turkey from the microwave on a daily basis. I made sure the cooling pan-cookies were out of view before Nick came in.
“How can I help?” he asked.
I responded with a quick borderline-flirtatious look, letting it hang in the air a couple of seconds before: “Everything’s under control. Would you like a Coke or sparkling water?”
“A nice, cold Coke’d be great.”
Luckily the six-pack had spent precisely twelve minutes in the freezer to give them that extra icy kick. I got the drinks while he carried the two plates I’d heaped with food to my magazine-photo-ready dinette. We sat down. Our knees immediately bumped together, and Nick made no effort to move his. Christ, what a tease.
As a college student with no real aptitude for cooking, it did my heart good to see him dig into his dinner and hear him say, “Damn, this is superb. It’s like Thanksgiving all over again.”
“I’m thankful I didn't burn any of it. But make sure to save room for dessert. I don’t want to hype anything, but it’s from scratch.”
He got that sparkle in his eye and said, “What did you do?”
“Eat all your vegetables and you’ll find out,” I quipped, subtly increasing the pressure of my leg against his.
He smiled at me with what seemed such spontaneous warmth I felt like I’d taken a hit of nitrous oxide. He should be the movie star, not me. Then I imagined the effect he'd have on any predominantly female jury and realized he’d chosen the right career.
“You’re pretty tan,” he remarked.
“Orange, you mean?” I deflected. “It’s strictly for professional purposes. And awful. I’m sure it’s like basting yourself in pure cancer. You seal yourself into this pod stark naked, and all you can think of is how many other naked bodies have been in the same exact tiny space this week. But no one wants tanlines, right?” Why had I said that? Now he was probably picturing me naked, but with orange genitalia. Not hot. “The rehearsals have been fantastic, ticket sales are way better than normal. They might already be extending the run, and we don’t open for two weeks.”
“That big premiere calls for a real celebration,” Nick said. “I promise you won’t have to cook.” He pushed his chair back. “Although you’ve got a talent for that, too. If I don’t slow down, I can forget about dessert.”
…Which, a short time later, he loved — the still-warm pan-cookies slathered (not by coincidence) with his favorite ice-cream, Amy’s White Chocolate. We stayed at the table a long time after consuming everything, talking about his clerking job and Twin Peaks and my classes. I suddenly became aware that being able to make him dinner, and look into his eyes while we had a long, easy conversation and listened to the rain together was like staring into the serene, beautiful face of my ordained destiny — then I caught myself internally paraphrasing more of Dennis Potter’s smashingly wicked Brimstone & Treacle dialogue. But unlike Sting’s satanic interloping sexual predator in the film, I meant it sincerely. How could I be so lucky to have spun our ten-second encounter in the li
brary last fall into Nick here, now, two feet in front of me? Okay — I sounded like a lunatic. Pull in the reins, bitch, I admonished myself. Suddenly, he jumped up. “That reminds me” — what does, my wacko inner monologue? Were my lips moving?? — “I’ve got something for you. Down in my very wet car. Be right back.” And he was out the door. Intrigued, I used the brief intermission to herd the dishes into the sink, then performed a quick handsome-check in the bathroom, where I heard the front door open and close and Nick call out, “Look who I found.”
Expecting to see some unwelcome mutual friend crashing our quality-time, I practically stumbled toward the door. Nick stood in the entryway holding a small plastic bag… and a tiny, saturated black thing. As I came closer, the thing yowled miserably. A kitten!
“Hold on,” I said, grabbing a towel from my cedar chest. Nick carefully wrapped it around the kitten, perhaps a month old, leaving only the golf ball-size head exposed. “Where was it?” I asked.
“She was crying up a ruckus by the dumpster… even drowned out the rain,” Nick revealed, softly rubbing the wriggling, mewling ebony kitty dry.
I stroked its wet little forehead with one finger. “How ‘bout some half and half?” I whispered. Sara used a couple shots of it in the mashed potatoes and had left the rest of the carton. I poured some into my smallest dish and microwaved it ten seconds before placing it on the floor. Nick put her down and she began lapping it up in a frenzy, her tongue a tiny pink blur.
We stared at her, thoroughly charmed, with matching beatific smiles, then Nick said, “So… want a cat?”
“Completely. It’s just not allowed,” I lamented, unable to make myself a hero because the Duval Villa was strictly no-pets. Asswipes. “Maybe I could Anne Frank her ‘til the end of the semester…”
Nick chuckled at my somewhat tasteless reference. But, at 15, I’d played Peter van Daan (in a sandy brown wig to look a fraction less Hitler Youth in the play based on her diary at San Antonio Little Theater. The production was not only held over twice, but exported for a weekend each to Houston and Corpus where entire school districts were forced to watch us enact the devastating tragedy and then write us thank-you letters. So… I felt I was allowed.
“Naw,” Nick replied, scooping up the satisfied kitten who curled up in his hand, cleaning her miniature whiskers. “That didn’t work out too well the first time, did it?” Duh… he was absolutely right. And I called myself a Holocaust educator! “And I wouldn’t want the Nazis who run this place to come take her away for meowing while you were in class or doing a show.” He kissed the top of the kitten’s head, which she shoved into his cushy lips. “I can probably talk Barney into letting her stay with us a little while… or longer. I think.”
I bristled at the notion of Barney turning away the kitten, breaking Nick’s heart. Sounded like a typically obnoxious and insensitive Barney move to me. The kitten nestled down in Nick’s lap, sleepy. She’d had a busy evening. I petted her, eliciting a tiny purr and a dizzying quake of arousal deep inside myself RE: the proximity of my hand to Nick’s ever-fulsome denim-clad crotch.
“I used to have a kitty like this,” he said. “All black, and I found him too; I was riding my bike to the 7-Eleven for a Slurpee.”
“How old were you?” We were both fondling the kitten now. Our fingers lightly brushing together then moving apart, my pulse starting to race with the greatest erotic thrill I’d ever known — as fucking lame as that was. The exact same scenario could probably be found in a 1950’s romance comic book for girls ten to 16… perhaps “Doris Douglas, Veterinary Nurse”: “Doris had never been more aware that Dr. Fox Phillips’ strong, well-shaped fingers sported no wedding band! He’d saved the adorable kitten’s life, but had he doomed poor Doris to a possibly fatal heartsickness no vaccine could prevent??! Doris couldn’t allow herself such selfish thoughts… there were too many ill and recovering pets depending on her nursing skills!”
“Twelve or 13,” Nick said, snapping me out of this chagrined tangent. “There was this construction site where I had to walk the bike over the torn-up sidewalk, and I turned around and this kitten, a little older than this girl, was following me. I got kinda worried, ‘cause he would not let up coming after me… I was afraid he’d lose his way and not be able to get home. But I wasn’t going to kick him back where he came from…”
“I hope not. You are from Amarillo, though, so it must’ve occurred to you,” I deadpanned.
We shared a pleasant little glance and I thought Now! This is it! Kiss him!!! But he was in the middle of a story, so… no. “He followed me all the way to the store and waited out by my bike while I got my Slurpee. When I got out, I took a good look at him… all dirty and skinny and, just bedraggled. I knew he was a stray. So he got a ride back to my house with me.”
“In that white basket on your handlebars with the plastic flowers stuck to it?”
He laughed big at this then cutely stifled it, glancing down to make sure he hadn’t freaked out the other kitten. (He hadn’t — she was sound asleep.) “I didn't drive no sissy-bike,” he assured me in that indigenous Last Picture Show/gay phone-sex cowboy accent I enjoyed. I drove home no-handed, drinking my Slurpee like a man. And he was a tough, smart little kitten… he just dug his claws into my shirt and held on.” I was crushed when he took his hand off our kitten to take a sip of soda.
“You must’ve kept him,” I guessed, not moving my hand in case our steamy “petting” session continued.
“‘Course I did. I named him Judson. My mom wasn’t too wild about the idea; what if he was rabid, or tried to suck the breath out of one her friends’ babies? Like you said… it was Amarillo… early Seventies. The Exorcist was still in the theaters. The Baptist neighbors probably thought a black cat meant I was into devil-worship. Not that anything’s changed. But once I got Jud cleaned up and put a flea collar on him, Mom became real fond of him. We traded off giving him baths in the sink every couple months. He never complained.”
“You rescued him from a mud-pit at a construction site. I’m sure he was very grateful.”
“He was sweet. ‘Til this one night. He used to sleep curled up next to me, almost always.” Smart cat, I refrained from saying aloud. “I usually slept through to morning, but not this time. It was 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., and I woke up to almost pitch-dark and total dead quiet. I must’ve been having quite a sexy dream. About what, I had no idea, but I never liked pajamas, so I slept naked, and when I opened my eyes, my thang was standing tall and rigid, tenting up the sheet. I saw it before I felt it, y’know?” Having never seen nor felt his rigid tentpole, but strongly suspecting I was closer than previously estimated to achieving both goals, I could only nod, dry-mouthed. “The next thing I noticed was Jud on the edge of the bed, all crouched down like he was after something. And as I’m wondering what the hell he’s lookin’ at, he starts to slink forward, and I’m thinking it’s probably a tarantula, scorpion — something I needed to whack. I was right about that. And just as I figured it out, he attacked my ding-dong.” Our eyes met. He nodded gravely, then we both began laughing uncontrollably.
“What… happened — to it?” I finally got out.
“He got me good. Teeth and claws. I had to shove my face into my pillow so no one’d hear me yell. I mean, that’s not exactly a scrape you want to call Mom in with the Bactine for.”
“No permanent damage, I hope?”
“It was okay. It bled a lot, ‘cause, y’know…” That at 12 or 13 you had a big man-size cock that was rock-hard and throbbing when the mauling took place… gotcha. “And my brother saw the sheets the next day and told everyone I got my period. So that was fun. But it wasn’t serious. I did have to lay off my favorite hobby for a couple weeks.”
He resumed stroking the kitten again, his hand coming to rest against mine. I felt the dusting of hair that trailed from his wrist to the knuckle of his little finger. “I’m in a truly interesting class this semeste
r,” he said. Is it how to torment boys ’til they cum in their pants? I almost said. Which would’ve been wrong since he was talking about Trial Advocacy. “All about cross-examination, discrediting witnesses, jury-mind-control… all the low-down sneaky shit you can get away with in a courtroom. I was thinking you might like to audit it with me once a week. If you apply to law school, they’d eat that up. If you have time, I mean.”
If I had time?! I would have given up a Charles Busch road company slot to sit next to him in a class every week. Probably. “That’d be fantastic,” I told him.
“Cool, then. Hey, we forgot about your present!” Before I could assure him the auditing invite or the nail-biting tale of Kitty VS Boner would’ve been individually sufficient, he handed me the plastic bag from his car. I took out a white jewelry box and opened it. Inside was a black leather thong strung with four sizable dangling shark’s teeth. “Picked it up while I was down in Galveston. Thought you could wear it onstage, playing a surfer and all.”
“Thanks, Nick. I sure will.” I wanted to hug him, but he was sitting down and the cat was napping on him. “Help me put it on?”
“Sure,” he said. I had to resist arching my back at the touch of his fingers fastening it around my absurdly erogenous neck. Before turning around to face him, I covertly undid my top two buttons to provide a better view of the teeth against my nicely cut upper pecs. “What do you think?” I asked, twisting around dramatically.
“That you’re gonna be the best-looking psycho on the beach.”
✽✽✽
Alexander Young, My name is Tiffani Tarr! I’m 13 years old. I am a huge fan of HEARTS CROSSING! I have been for about a year or more now, and I tell you it couldn’t improve AT ALL! My favorite story line is the Simon-Cyrinda-Natalie one. That’s the BEST ever! Your character, evil Simon Arable, is perfect. I love it. I look forward to seeing what Simon will do next. He’s so unpredictable but great. Your [sic] really a terrific actor & you just couldn’t get any better. To be able to play that evil a character has got to be hard. I couldn’t do it, FOR SURE!
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