Not, like, my-my man. That was fully sarcastic.
“Why?”
“You look thoughtful.”
“I’m not thoughtful,” I protest at once. Then I realize that this is a dumbass answer, and Artie, he probably doesn’t waste a whole lot of his time on dumbasses. He seems like more of a smartass kind of guy. “I mean,” I quickly correct, “no more so than usual. Like, I do have thoughts, but it’s not like they’re gonna erect a sculpture of me anytime soon.”
Oh, shit. Freudian word choice attack. Is it even possible to erect a sculpture? Is that what you do with sculptures? Why are my fuckin’ brain and my fuckin’ mouth locked in this perpetual duel? Or maybe they’re working together, because honestly, at this point, I don’t even know which one to blame.
Fortunately, Arthur doesn’t seem to think I’m verbally sexually harassing him or whatever. “Okay,” he says easily.
Then I realize that maybe, as far as witticisms go, that could very well have been way too vague. Like, there are lots of sculptures.
“I meant, like, The Thinker,” I throw in, and strike a thoughtful fist-to-chin pose. Because I am a moron.
“Yeah, I got it,” Arthur replies. He doesn’t seem too repulsed by my lameness, though. In fact, he’s smiling a little, like he might even be charmed.
“Cool,” I say, pleased. Then, because I figure he’s earned himself an explanation (and maybe because I’m a little curious about his reaction)— “Kristy’s roommate thinks I’m cute. Is what we were talking about.”
“I see.”
“Kristy said so, anyway,” I add, because I don’t want it to sound like I’m bragging.
“That’s nice,” Arthur replies. He’s all cool and inscrutable. It’s really friggin’ frustrating. “She’s very pretty.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Yeah, she is.” Is he supposed to seem this chill with this? Isn’t he supposed to … react a little more? I mean, it’s not like I want him to go into some jealous frenzy, or anything. Because that would be unnecessary. But, I dunno. Something would be nice. A slightly worried eye twitch, maybe. Doesn’t seem like too much to ask. “And how are you … this morning?”
“I’m very well,” he replies. He sounds all sincere and jaunty.
“That’s cool. Grammatically correct, too.”
“I do my best.” We step into the kitchen. He shuts the door behind us. Maybe it gets my heart thumping a little harder. It’s just, hey there, privacy. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. About us.”
“Us.” Whoa. We’re an us now? Does kissing twice equal ushood? I try to decide whether I hate it. “Okay, sure.”
He sits down at the table. So do I. For awhile, we just stare at each other in silence; my nerves get more and more on edge with every second that passes, but at the same time, I can’t tell if it’s necessarily bad. Just charged. Finally, he asks, “What’s going on, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. I can’t help laughing a little, because ain’t that the question of the hour? But he just keeps on looking at me, like I’ll magically come up with something better than that. Not frickin’ likely, bro. “Honestly, tales of dentistry just tend to get me going,” I toss in. Take that, silence. “Va-va-voom.”
He stops looking so serious; smirks a little. “Oh really?”
“Yeah, totally. Little Shop of Horrors? Forget about it. I’m gone.”
“I don’t really know what that is.”
“Of course you don’t.” I kick his foot under the table. “Weirdo.”
Somehow, my little act of violence turns into my foot resting against his. Neither of us moves away.
“What are we doing here, Howie?” Arthur asks at last. He doesn’t sound accusatory or anything – just like he really wants to know. Gotta say, I am so mighty acquainted with that feeling.
That doesn’t mean I know how to answer.
For a second, I think about getting up and walking out – like, claiming I have super-hearing, that I can detect a serious puff paint emergency going on out front, that I can’t in good conscience leave Kristy to deal with it all on her own. But, damn it, he keeps on looking at me in this way with his eyes, and I just … I don’t want to bail on him. I owe him more than bailing.
And so I move my foot back into the safe, non-Arthur-touching zone, and I force myself to start talking. “I … have no idea. I think I just like specialize in confusing myself lately. I’ve got no friggin’ clue what …” Yeah, this is going about as well as I expected. “You know what, I’m figuring things out. Let’s put it like that.”
“All right.” Well, gee, thanks for that vagueness.
“How ‘bout you?” I ask, not really wanting to be the only one forced into special confessions time.
“I just got out of a two and a half year relationship a month ago,” Arthur replies, “and am now living with two teenage girls who like to have Drew Barrymore movie nights.”
“So technically, we could both plead insanity on this one.”
“I think so, yes.”
I can’t quite figure out whether pleading insanity means calling it quits. If it does, then I’m not sure I’m such a fan. Sure, it’d be the smart thing to do – no one could ever know about it, and he’s my goddamn boss, and also, ya know, minor detail, he’s a dude, he’s a dude, he’s a dude.
Really, all the whole being-with-Arthur thing has going on for it is that I’ve never really felt this good about anybody before.
“I don’t know,” I say again. Real fucking helpful. “I really just … don’t.”
“Okay,” he says. After a few seconds, he sighs. We keep on sitting, keep on saying nothing.
I start to wonder what ‘okay’ means. Does okay mean done? This whole thing, is it done now?
All of a sudden, that just seems like the most incredible fucking waste. I didn’t – I dunno, get kissed by a guy and have my whole life turned upside down just so it could all be nothing. Get labeled the side effects of douchey Patrick and Drew Barrymore.
And so, not even feeling like me, I decide to do something about it. I look down at the tabletop, and I bust out all the bravery I’ve got, plus more that I definitely don’t got, and I say, “I like you, though.”
It’s quiet for a few searing, excruciating seconds.
“You do?” he says then.
“Of that I am sure,” I reply, real gravely. I’m not sure if it’s jokey seriousness or the real deal. Artie, he doesn’t help me out at all – he just keeps sitting there, staring at me, saying exactly nothing. It’s the kind of thing that’s gonna make a guy feel nervous, and eventually, I add, “Unless you don’t like me, in which case, I’m just bullshitting you—”
“Nikki has good taste.”
I don’t even really know what to do with that completely irrelevant little gem. “In what, music?”
“Cute guys,” he says, all deliberately.
Ohhhhhh.
Well. Okay. I can be down with that.
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask. I’m pretty sure he is, but hey, that doesn’t mean I can’t rub it in.
“Maybe a little,” he replies, eyes all slyly glinting.
“That,” I say, “is really unprofessional.”
“Of course,” he agrees. He holds up one hand, this ‘my apologies’ gesture. I’d almost think he was serious if it weren’t for the sly eyes and the way the corner of his mouth is just barely twitching. “I’ll back off accordingly.”
“No,” I say, a little softer than I mean to. “Keep doin’ what you’re doin’.”
I watch him start to smile as the words sink in. Then he leans in and puts his hands on my face and kisses me. I kiss him back, which is definitely gay. And wouldn’t you know, at the moment, I don’t even fucking care.
+
“You know,” I tell Kristy when I go back out, “I’m not so sure getting involved with Nikki is the best idea.”
“Really?” she asks, in the most profoundly unconvincing imitation of shock I’ve
ever seen. “Why not?”
Luckily, I’ve got a nice, practical explanation all worked out. “It’s just … you and I work together, and she’s your best friend, and it’d maybe be awkward if I, ya know, got with her or whatever, and then it didn’t work out, but she might have to come in here sometime to see you—” (Number of times that Nikki has been in here to see Kristy, just for your information: zero. That part, let’s ignore it.) “—and then I’d be here, and it’d be weird, and I think it would really be better if we just didn’t let things … get weird. With her. And me. Even though,” I throw in generously, “she’s totally hot.”
“Well,” Kristy says, her eyes starting to go into sparkle overdrive, “that’s too bad.”
“It’s a real shame,” I courteously agree.
“But I totally understand,” she continues, starting to work a little bit of bouncing in now, “and I’m sure Nikki will too!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I say pleasantly.
“Oh, eeee, Howie!” Aaaand she throws herself on me. “I’m so happy for you.”
Okay, whoa, this wasn’t part of the plan. “Because I won’t date your roommate?”
“Yes!” she squeals. “You and Arthur and eeeeee!”
“Whoa, wait, I don’t really know what you’re—”
“I just meant that you’re such a courteous employee, and Arthur should be happy that he hired you.” She pulls away and looks at me, mischievous as hell. In a harmless, Disney princess kind of way. “Why? What did you think I meant?”
Good girl, I think. “Exactly that, KQ. Exactly that.”
She beams and kisses me on the cheek.
+
It’s a good week. I’m not gonna lie.
+
On Friday, as ordered, Arthur and Kristy and I make plans to go see Cora in Rocky Horror. I feel bad for a couple seconds climbing into the back seat of Arthur’s car, because I told Amber about the Rocky Horror thing ages ago, and she’d immediately insisted we go. But, hey, they’re doing another performance tomorrow night. She and I will just go to that one, no big. She’ll never even have to know about me going tonight. This, this is just supposed to be a coworkers thing. It’d be weird to mix Amber with … Kristy.
So I text Amber about seeing the play tomorrow night, trying not to think about the fact that Dennis comes home on Monday, that I should probably be here for her right now. I push that gem of a thought into the back of my brain, and then I take off with Kristy and Arthur. We stop at the flower shop first, because Kristy insists we have them at the ready to bestow upon our little actress. After some contemplation, we finally settle on a bouquet that’s violently orange and pointy and a little scary-looking. Just seems right.
Performance space isn’t amply available around here, so they’re putting on the show in the high school cafeteria. And I dunno, man, it just seems like there’s something not quite right about watching this festival of cross-dressing extraterrestrial debauchery in the same place where I used to copy Amber’s math homework while scarfing down soggy ham sandwiches.
But a festival of cross-dressing extraterrestrial debauchery it is: we step inside to find a bunch of tables set up around the room, and, against the far wall, a makeshift stage. In terms of being the old room that I once so knew and … lunched in, there’s not much that’s similar: the lights are turned down low, and there must be some dry ice at work, because the whole place has some creepy fog going on. An instrumental version of The Time Warp is pulsing away in the air. A couple of people (guys? Girls? Guys who do a great job of looking like girls?) in feather boas and fishnets are mulling around, carrying trays with shot glasses on them. I get the sense that I should probably be afraid.
It doesn’t take long for one of them to descend on us. It’s a guy – or at least, that’s what the facial hair wants us to think, no matter how violently the eyeshadow tries to argue otherwise.
“Wow, you can walk in heels better than me!” Kristy exclaims, totally undaunted. “Ooh, is this juice?”
“It’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s Intergalactic Sexy Space Juice,” Makeup Man reports. He’s looking at Kristy in this way I don’t like. Garters or no garters, he’s man enough to want to tap that. And, sure, on the surface it might seem a tad hypocritical, having a bit of a Want To Tap That history myself, but I’m still feelin’ the urge to fight for her honor or bite my thumb at him or something. Besides, just between you and me, I’m starting to wonder if my Want To Tap That history counts.
“Is there alcohol in it?” she asks, wrinkling her nose a little.
“It’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s Intergalactic Sexy Space Juice,” he repeats indignantly.
Kristy blinks up at him innocently.
“… Yeah,” he finally relents. “There’s alcohol in it.”
“Eep, too bad!” And then, like she’s worried about hurting his feelings: “I’m sure it’s very good.”
“You wanna try some and find out?” He leans in a little closer, and somehow, that plus the low lighting plus the smoke makes all of this feel weird and sort of gross, like the cafeteria’s got this double life as a creepy opium orgy den.
Kristy takes a few steps backwards for his step forward and chirps, “I’m nineteen.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Oh, I am so gonna take this sonuvabitch on. My thumbs, they’re just itching to be bitten. (Okay, fine, I don’t really know the specifics of the whole ‘I bite my thumb at you, sir’ deal.)
Kristy gives him this ‘You’re very sweet, but well now really’ look.
“But hey!” she adds on a stroke of inspiration, sliding one of her arms through mine and the other through Arthur’s. “They can try it!”
Which gets him to turn on us. Swell.
“Space juice, fellas?” He wiggles the tray, like that’s somehow tantalizing.
“Sure,” I say, grabbing a few just to shake him off. Kristy beams at me. Meanwhile, some more sorry bastards come in, and our humble drink-server leaves to harass them.
“Cheers,” I deadpan, handing one of the shot glasses to Arthur. He squints down into it, skeptical. I can’t really blame him. It’s a pretty suspicious shade of highlighter-yellow.
“You know,” he finally concludes, “I suspect I’d regret drinking this.”
“Oh, come on,” I urge. “Spirit of the evening.”
He makes a face, but finally nods. Bwahaha, triumph. I down the shot. My taste buds, throat, and lungs immediately threaten to disown me. I’m pretty sure I taste some bleach in there, and that’s one of the more mild ingredients. There might also be toxic piss. A little lemon. All of a sudden, I really remember why I’m not so into the whole getting-wasted thing. Then I forget it, because conscious thought is for people lucky enough not to have just imbibed bleach and toxic piss.
As for Arthur:
“I thought you were going to drink it, too,” I rasp, staring in dismay at his shot glass.
“I did,” he replies, looking grossed out enough that I believe him. “That was horrifying.”
“It’s still in the glass.”
“I took a sip.”
“A sip? You took a sip of a shot?”
“A small sip was sufficient.”
“Laaaaame.” I prod at the glass with my finger. “Finish it off.”
“No.”
“Finish it.”
“Are you trying to get me to succumb to peer pressure?”
“You know, this, right here, this whole shot-sipping deal, it’s a real pansy-ass thing to do.”
“Says the man who is openly weeping in public.”
“My eyes are watering,” I correct (and throw a little bit of furious blinking in there too, even though it’s totally unnecessary because I am so not weeping). “There’s a difference.”
“Wait.” Arthur starts to rummage around in his coat pocket. “I think I might have a tissue here somewhere, if you need to wipe your tears away—”
“Are you sure it’s not a handkerchief, Gramps?”
“Yeah,” I agree, “what?”
“You guys are so cute!” she squeals. I take a step back from Arthur by default and she quickly, oh-so-unconvincingly adds, “As friends.”
“Move on, Kristy,” Arthur instructs, smiling a little.
Fortunately, we get help in this department, because at that very moment, a guy’s voice calls out, “Kristy!”
We all turn around to see Cliff sitting at one of the tables, looking like he’s trying to somehow collapse in on himself.
“Oh!” Kristy bounces over to him. “Hey you, you’re here already!”
“Yeah,” Cliff replies, looking numbed by the horrors he has seen. “I’ve been waiting. For like ten minutes. Alone. Here.”
“It’s spooky, isn’t it?” Kristy beams.
She kisses him hello as she sits down next to him, and he pulls her into a hug. Or maybe it’s just desperate, traumatized clinging. Either way, there’s something really nice about it. To just be able to, I dunno, be with someone, and have it be that easy. To not have to even think about who sees.
But, whatever, I drank Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s nasty-ass space juice, I’m done with suffering for the night. No angsty thoughts.
“Cute?” I mutter instead, going back to Kristy’s little outburst. “We’re not cute, are we?”
“Lord, no,” Arthur murmurs. “That would be so unmanly.”
I get the sense I’m being made fun of.
“Speaking of unmanly,” I say, not about to get bested in banter, “you gonna be a man and finish your space juice, boss?”
“Under no circumstances,” Arthur replies crisply. “You want to do the honors?” he adds, holding it out to me.
And, well, I’m not really keen on experiencing round two of all-consuming liquid torture, but he’s smirking at me a little bit in this way I don’t undig, and, hell, why not?
Our fingers fumble into each other as I take the glass, and neither of us really rushes to change that. Once he’s pulled his hand back, I take a deep breath (in a totally cool way, in the way of a man who has drunk many a man under the table), and I down the once-sipped shot.
Know Not Why: A Novel Page 13
