by Ross Anthony
“You are something else, Mīlo,” he laughed. “What decade are you from, again?”
“I don’t even know. Just sheltered, I suppose.”
Peter had become a guide of sorts. I was learning from him and wanted to soak in as much as I could because of Nicolas, the man who was consistently crossing my mind.
Suddenly, the sound of howling overpowered that of the serene beach scene, and a white volleyball crashed down from the sky and landed in the sand next to us. I sat up to grab the ball to toss it back to the group, but before I could fully get up, sand flew into our faces.
“Thanks, faggots,” exclaimed a deep voice. He picked up the ball and ran back to the rowdy group.
I was stunned.
I recognized him as the burly frat member who had woofed in my face my first day at New Westminster. I looked beyond him at the group of jumping, shirtless men, and in the mix I saw Nicolas. I was surprised, as he didn’t strike me as the Alpha Omega Psi type, but there he was, standing in the middle, in all his chiseled perfection.
“Damn it,” Peter sighed, running his fingers through his hair and shaking out the sand. “I can’t fucking stand Moose.”
“Moose? You know him?” I asked.
“Moose and I went to high school together. He’s always been an asshole.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Is Moose his real name?”
“I don’t know,” he said, annoyed. “Don’t care enough to know. That’s just what everyone used to call him.”
“Sorry,” I said, not trying to press on any more of his nerves.
“Let’s just go,” he said, picking up his things.
That moment was my first true encounter with Hate. Maybe because of my reclusive tendencies, I’d never called attention upon myself. Because of this, Moose didn’t bother me as much as he did Peter. I was actually kind of annoyed that Peter let it get to him the way it did. It was just a word. I couldn’t comprehend why people allowed others to take control over their feelings, the way Justin and now Peter did. He gave Moose the power to ruin a fine Saturday at the beach.
“You can’t let it get to you,” I said, grabbing my things and slipping on my shirt.
“All my life,” he whispered, shaking his head. “He’s been like this, all of my life. Shit’s getting old. This world is never going to change.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “Look at how far we’ve come. We can get married-” I started.
“Do you pay any attention to the news?” he quipped.
“Not really,” I admitted.
Franny from the diner always used to say, “The news is for the sad. You’ll be happier without it.”
“Well, the U.S. Supreme Court recently ruled in favor of a wedding caterer. She was being sued by a same-sex couple because she told them she wouldn’t book them as the marriage went against her religious beliefs. And then, there’s President Cash, who just deported that man to Mexico.”
I stared at Peter cluelessly. I shrugged, urging him to further explain.
“Well, open your eyes Mīlo,” he began to plead. “He is a joke, and the hate is just beginning to intensify and divide this nation. This sets a potentially dangerous example,” Peter elaborated.
“I’m surprised about this Supreme Court thing. Isn’t that discrimination?” I asked.
“You’d think,” he exclaimed. “Now all this does is justify the hate from people like Moose!”
His knowledge on the matter shifted my perspective. I didn’t give him enough credit at first. I appreciated that, despite Peter’s tribulations, he had still gone about his life, living his truth as himself.
However, there were still legions of people who allowed others like Moose to prevent them from living as who they truly are. It frustrated me. Though, as I thought more about Moose kicking the sand at us and making the derogatory remark, I realized that even though I had never experienced it myself until that moment, Peter was right: There was still hate for our people.
The Fear began to make sense, and Moose’s actions began to fester more shock and anger than I had initially felt.
Despite living in an America where same-sex marriage was legal, there was still Moose, and I was naive to think that politics didn’t affect me.
I looked back at the men.
“Bunch of closet cases, really,” Peter continued.
“Do you know all of them?”
“Not all,” he answered. “The only other one I know is Nicolas Evans.”
“Oh, you do?” I asked, enthused.
“Calm down,” he snarked. “We graduated together as well. His parents own and operate Heaven Sent, a top online retailer. They ship and deliver anything and everything. They’re also extreme conservative Catholics.” He paused. “Leviticus 18:22,” he began to quote, “‘you shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.’ My parents go to their church. Not a chance, Mīlo.”
I was a little let down by this.
“Ah, well, I have a class with him,” I said, trying to contain my infatuation.
“Yeah? Good luck. Straight asshole, not my type,” he replied.
I looked back at the group of fraternity brothers, and I caught the eyes of Nicolas staring.
He looked away quickly.
“Hey, don’t forget. The Color Wheel is meeting tomorrow afternoon,” Peter reminded.
“Yeah, I gotta work tonight and tomorrow. I’m not going to make it, sorry,” I said.
“No worries,” he said, putting out his hand. “Give me your phone,” he demanded.
I pulled the device out of my pocket and placed it in his hand.
After swiping speedily across the screen in all directions, Peter handed it back to me. “Your homework is to try it out.”
He strutted off in the opposite direction.
I looked down at my screen. It was on the “Create Account” page of the dating website Peter was using earlier.
I didn’t want anything to do with it.
I turned my phone off and turned to walk toward work.
I figured I’d go in early. Saturdays at the diner were always rough, as they were filled to the brim with people, most of which families who wanted a break from preparing a meal.
Having washed every dish Blondie’s owned, I packed up some leftovers and headed home.
Our apartment wasn’t anything lavish, not by any means. It was a small, two bedroom, one bath unit, stationed on the second floor of a dated complex. Every room was painted with a creamy white color, and the carpets in the living room and bedrooms were khaki toned. The linoleum that made up the floors in the kitchen and bathroom was a cold, slate color that was digitally printed to look as if it was crafted from stone.
Upon entering the apartment, the bathroom was to the immediate left and just big enough for the essentials, which included everything but a bathtub.
Further into the dwelling sat the living room, furnished with a tattered blue sofa just big enough for two. A small, round coffee table sat in the middle, and across from the sofa was a 22-inch analog TV set. The television was off most of the time, as we didn’t have cable, but we had a record player my mother used frequently.
One step out of the living room was the kitchen, which pulled double duty as our dining room, the heart of our home. It was where our beat up dining room table sat. From the lectures to the laughs, every crack, carving, and warp in the used mahogany had a story to tell.
A few steps to the right placed one in one of the two bedrooms, the master bedroom. Notably, the only difference between the master bedroom and the other was that my mom slept in the master. Both rooms had a small closet and were just big enough for a queen size bed, a dresser, and maybe an end table. Finally, to the left of the kitchen was my room, nothing noteworthy.
The apartment as a whole was a dark place.
There was a bubble light on the ceiling of every room, and a maximum of three windows. Each bedroom had one window, and the kitchen had one above the sink, which over
looked the rooftop of the payday loan store next door. That window was particularly nice because it allowed the sunset to pour in, bringing color into our lives, if only for the fifteen minutes it lasted.
I set the table and was soon joined by my mom. She poked around her plate and eventually excused herself to lie out on the couch.
After clean up, I went to my room to give her some space.
Bored and curious, I pulled up the dating app, the HomoSphere, and created an account, complete with a picture and a brief bio, as well as body stats and sexual preferences. I typed “Work, school, and solitude.” I couldn’t think of much else to say, and I wasn’t that invested to come up with more.
The idea was to “shoot arrows” at the guys who caught your interest. If they shot one back, it was a match and you could message one another.
I swiped through numerous profiles and didn’t expect much of a response, but to my surprise, I was greeted and flattered by many men.
It was dangerously addictive.
Only then did I finally understand Peter’s fascination. It provided a higher sense of self esteem and confidence.
My weekend passed and Monday came. Math with Dr. Nolan was growing on me, and I soon became one of her favorite students due to my corrected punctuality and knowledgeable participation in her classroom.
Between less notable classes, I found myself swiping through the HomoSphere while sitting outside under the palm trees. I would watch the same guys walk by as I swiped past them on my screen.
One of the faces I swiped past walked by, holding the hand of a woman. I wondered if she knew, or if maybe the man’s profile was a joke set up by his friends.
However, the deeper I got, I began to notice that there were many men who listed themselves as married and in their profiles they would say one of the two: “yes, my wife knows,” or “don’t tell my wife.” The men within that specific part of the community were very explicit with their desires, and their profiles dripped with a desperate cruelty that seemed to belittle others who didn’t fit their criteria. Very few men were seeking real love. It was mostly one and done affairs, which brought my higher sense of being crashing down quicker than it had been lifted.
I put it away and made my way into Art History. Already seated was Nicolas.
Though I was overjoyed to see him, a slight anger began to bubble up to my chest. I didn’t like that he was a member of Alpha Omega Psi, and I didn’t appreciate that he had blatantly ignored me at the beach.
Quietly, I sauntered to my seat and sat down next to him.
“How was your weekend?” Nicolas asked.
“Fine,” I said, without looking at him.
“Hey,” he started lowly, “I’m sorry about what happened Saturday.”
I looked at him, almost losing myself in his silvery eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for someone else’s actions,” I said.
“I know. I’m apologizing for mine. I should’ve shut that shit down. That wasn’t cool.”
“Well, thank you, for at least acknowledging that. I was mostly surprised, but it didn’t bother me like it did Peter.”
“Yeah, Peter and Moose have always been at war with one another. Believe it or not, Moose actually graduated in the top five of our class. He’s smart enough to know better.”
“Well, intelligence and morality are very different,” I replied.
“Yeah,” he let out a sigh. “Aaand... well, I…” he hesitated, “I could’ve at least waved at you or something,” he grinned.
I was impressed with his awareness, though I was unsure as to why he’d bother to acknowledge me catching him staring as I left the beach.
The air between us took an awkward shift.
Jordan came in, and before I knew it, class was over and everyone including Nicolas was leaving the room.
I lagged behind, putting away my notes in an orderly fashion. I tried to do an internal recap of the day’s lesson, but the only thing on my mind for the duration of the lecture was the man next me.
From my pants pocket I felt a vibration against my thigh. I pulled my phone out and a small notification flashed across the smudged glass.
“The HomoSphere-New Message-Nicolas Evans-In case you were wondering...”
My heart raced with excitement, and thoughts swarmed my mind. My thumbs started racing one another across the screen, putting out words that made no sense, starting sentences and erasing them again and again.
Then my thumbs screeched to a halt. I lacked the cool, slick words to reply with, and I didn’t want to come off as being too eager. In addition, I feared that I would do something to embarrass myself. To do so verbally in person was forgivable, but to have the words permanently displayed in digital format wasn’t.
I closed out of the message quickly and went on with my day.
Four
"In case you were wondering...” I thought to myself as I washed the dishes at Blondies. The phrase echoed over and over again as I sprayed away people’s scraps, trying to think of a smooth reply.
I set the springed spray hose onto the faucet hook, dried my hands, and grabbed the rectangular device out of my pocket.
I had to read the message again to verify that it was in fact reality, and I didn’t dream the whole thing up.
“Hey!” bellowed a voice from behind me. “You’re slackin’, kid!”
I quickly turned to see Mikey dressed in his white apron with his graying hair tucked under a chef net.
“Sorry,” I said, as I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
“Ah,” he chuckled, “I’m just yankin’ your chain, bud.” He patted my shoulder and squeezed it hard with his bony hands. “How’s our gal doin’?” he asked, referring to my mom.
“Oh,” I breathed, “she’s doing well. The doctors said that the tumors have shrunken enough that she should be able to have her resection done soon, in the next month or so.”
He lit up. “That’s great news! Can’t wait to have her back,” he exclaimed. “We need her light in this place!”
“Me too,” I replied.
I thought about how exhausted she was between sleep and the doctor visits, which was all her life consisted of during that time. Even the few steps it took to get to the bathroom wiped her out.
“Now, I know you guys must be having somewhat of a hard time making things go,” Mikey said with a hushed seriousness, “so we all want to chip in and do a little fundraiser or something for you guys, to help with the medical costs and whatnot.”
“No, you don’t have to do that,” I replied modestly.
“Now, listen, you and your ma mean the world to us here. We’re going to do it.”
I felt my shoulders drop as I felt the circumstantial heft I didn’t realize was weighing on me drift away.
My eyes began to well up with relief in the idea that we weren’t alone. “Well thank you, really,” I said.
“No worries, bud. You’re both gonna get through this. The big man upstairs works in mysterious ways,” Mikey said, giving my shoulder a firm shake. “Now get those damn dishes done,” he shouted as he left the room with a laugh.
I laughed too, because his laugh was outrageously fuller than he was.
Mikey was gone, and I resumed washing.
I found there was therapy in the banging and clanging of ceramic and stainless steel, as well as a sense of purity and innocence in a dish pulled clean from the dirty water. It was like a baptism for a plate and it was being washed of its sins.
It got me to thinking about Mikey’s reference to God.
I wasn’t raised to be religious, though I knew my mother’s family was Catholic. She had moved from a farm in Idaho to California around the age of 14. She lived with my great grandparents after a freak tractor-car accident took the lives of my immediate grandparents.
A couple years later, she became a teenage mother, and her grandma shamed her out of the house. Her grandmother’s strong Catholic beliefs proved to be stronger than the love for her own gran
ddaughter.
Because of that, my mom wore her scars of childbirth with immense pride. They were her proof that she could handle anything on her own. What amazed me was, regardless of all the hardships and her seemingly-tough exterior, she always managed to carry herself with a welcoming humbleness. Her warm laughter could turn the most wretched of people into friends, and she never gave up on anything. She was a survivor, and despite her grandmother’s faith throwing her out, my mom never turned her back on her own beliefs. From time to time, I’d catch her praying. I found that hard to understand. Why pray to a man who seemingly encourages others to act so heinously?
As I carried the bin of dripping wet dishes to the heat dryer, my thoughts segued back to Nicolas’ message. “‘In case you were wondering…’ What do I say to that?”
Nothing.
I decided that I’d say nothing and wait for Wednesday to see him in person again.
I finished my duties, clocked out for the day, and went home.
When I got there, my mom was already in bed, so I put the leftover dinner away in the fridge and did some silent cleaning around the apartment.
The rest of my evening was consumed with studying materials for a Psychology 101 exam that I’d have the following morning.
After the exam, as I was leaving campus, Peter caught up to me.
It was a particularly nice day to walk and enjoy the autumn temperatures.
“Hey, any luck?” he asked, nudging me as we walked down the sidewalk past the campus courtyard.
I had my nose buried in my phone, swiping through the HomoSphere.
“Eh,” I replied nonchalantly, holding back the giddy schoolgirl within, knowing full well that I was, in fact, very lucky.
“Let me see.”
He read me.
“No,” I laughed.
“Is he a good one?”
“Maybe,” I shrugged.
“Spill it, bitch,” he shouted.
“All right,” I caved. “It’s just Nicolas Evans.”
