by Daryl Banner
He doesn’t move an inch. Standing at that top step like a statue of pure muscle and beauty—a very grumpy statue, I might add—only his eyes move as they take me in, inch by inch.
Then he grunts something under his breath, turns, and slips back into the building.
That’s when my eyes lift to a stone slab just above the door that reads, in crisp, chiseled letters: Piazza Place.
And apparently I’ve caught the attention of the couple making out against the café window again. “Ooh, you don’t want to piss him off,” one of them warns me. “Yep, that’s right, no matter who you’re here to bang in that building.”
“Oh. No, I’m not here to, uh, bang,” I tell them, somehow making that phrase sound casual. “I live here now. P-Piazza Place. See all my luggage? I’m moving in.”
The two men give each other a look, then stifle their laughter. “Welcome to the gayborhood!” one of them calls out, causing the other to laugh harder. Then the two ditch their spot by the window and saunter off, hand-in-hand.
The gayborhood? That’s cute. “I’ll get him to like me!” I call out at them as they saunter off, like a promise. “I have a way of growing on people! Uh, who is he, by the way? Guys?”
Neither respond as they walk away. I watch them lazily turn the corner, vanishing from sight.
I face the building once again, my excitement renewed for no reason at all. Today, my life begins! With a bag hanging on each shoulder and my tall suitcase rolling behind me like a plastic carcass on wheels, I ascend the front steps of Piazza Place and carefully sidestep the teenager’s colorful chalk equivalent of the Mona Lisa.
My rolling luggage catches on something on the way inside, and I crash noisily into the front entryway. There’s a door to apartment 101 on my left with a row of mailboxes next to it, and another door on my right with a staircase lining the wall. After making the unfortunate discovery that there’s clearly no elevator, I begin my laborious trek up the stairs, dragging my luggage behind me—and wincing at the obnoxious smack, smack, smack of the wheels against each step.
With a grunt (and a merry sigh of relief), I finally reach the top floor—the fifth—and stand in front of the door to apartment 501, right off the stairs. Despite a cramp making itself known in my left leg and my temporary fatigue, my heart races with excitement as I lift a hand to knock, eager to finally meet my roommate.
The door flies open before my knuckles even touch the wood.
A round-faced, linebacker-bodied, total frat-bro type appears before me, bright-eyed, full of energy, his otherwise smooth and peachy skin flushed like fire within his cheeks. He wears nothing but a pair of gym shorts and an oversized white tank top that hangs so low, his full muscled pecs and nipples are visible. Light brown hair spills like a bomb from underneath his tattered, backwards ball cap.
“Bro!” he cries out, spreading his arms. “Tell me you’re Connor! Bro! Tell me you’re fucking Connor! I’m Brett Macintyre! Your roommate!”
3
There’s only one way you can meet that much energy: “Yep! That’s me!” I cry out, matching him.
“Holy fucking fuck, bro! It’s me! Brett! Shit, I said that already. Hey, guys!” he shouts out over his back into the apartment. “Guys! It’s my new roommate! He’s adorable! He’s from—Wait, where are you from? Oh, right! Georgia!” he decides with a snap of his fingers, shouting over his shoulder. “My country-boy roommate from Georgia!”
“Kansas,” I politely correct him.
He doesn’t hear me. “Dude, let me help you with all that.” Without asking, he grabs both my bags off of my shoulders, lifting them as lightly as if they’re loafs of bread. I moan with relief. “Come on in, bro! This is our pad now. What’re you doing out there? Let me show you around!”
I pull my rolling suitcase inside. The front door opens to a long, narrow living room stuffed with a couch occupied by two guys and a big, colorful patchwork blanket thrown over its back. A green mismatched coatrack sits in the corner by a floor lamp and a small round table covered with action figures and half-empty shot glasses. A 40-inch TV is mounted on the wall sandwiched by windows, with a small table underneath it that holds a lamp, a tiny porcelain Buddha, and a PlayStation. A short hallway leads off from the other end of the living room to a bedroom and bathroom.
To my immediate left, the living room opens to a small kitchen with a breakfast-bar-style table that juts out from the tiled wall, stylish barstools shoved underneath it. The little bit of kitchen counter I see is covered with beer cans and a large box of half-eaten pizza. Dirty dishes fill the sink, a lime green towel hangs lazily over the faucet, and the door to the fridge is slathered in boob and dick magnets.
“And here’s your room!” he exclaims like a game show host announcing the big grand prize, pulling open a set of French doors in the kitchen that lead to another smaller room, which I at first assumed was just a pantry. It’s a cozy little space complete with a twin bed, a doorless wardrobe, and two long smudgy windows that stare out at a fire escape.
He pushes past me and tosses my bags onto the bed, which creaks under their weight. “It used to be a dining room years ago,” he tells me, “but it got converted to a second bedroom. How fucking cool is that?! The doors don’t lock, though, but hey, I won’t come barging in, y’know, in case you got a fella in here!” He lets out a laugh, then slaps me on the back and pulls me into the room. “Dude, bro, are you alright? You look shell-shocked! So what do you think? You like your new living space??”
I give the small room a quick glance, nodding slowly as I take in the sights—from a long lightning-shaped crack that runs down one of the walls, to a suspiciously discolored spot on the flooring, to the huge hand-shaped smudge on the window.
Living in a shoebox is exactly what I dreamed. Third rite of passage: check!
“I love it!” I cry out. “And hey, if the building catches fire, I’ll be the first one out the fire escape!”
“That’s the spirit! Hah! You’re such a positive guy. Fuck, I love my new roommate!” Brett shouts out over his shoulder at his buddies. Then his eyes flash and he turns right back to me. “Hey, check it out, another awesome perk: whenever you got the munchies, just peek your head right out of your bedroom … and you’re already in the kitchen! I always keep the fridge stocked full of the essentials, man. Beer, milk, protein, beer … and …!” He playfully hops out of the room, flings the fridge open, and gestures grandly at it like a magician. “Deli meats!”
I glance at the fridge, confused.
Brett notices, then looks himself. “What the—?” He slaps the fridge shut—causing one of the boob magnets to drop onto the tiled floor—and faces the living room. “Guys! Who ate my deli meats??”
“I got hungry waiting for the pizza,” sings a buzz-headed guy from the couch, his pale skin making the tattoo that runs up his long neck all the more vivid in color. Most of his skinny body is lost in an oversized yellow Pikachu hoodie. “I swallowed your meat. I did the bad thing, and I am sorry.”
“Are these guys your … other roommates?” I ask, still standing at the opened French doors.
“Oh, hell no,” laughs Brett. “It’s just you and me here, bro. These moochers live on the first floor and just stop in all the time, eat my food, and won’t leave. Hey, guys,” he shouts at them. “Can’t you give us some space? I told you my new roommate was coming tonight, didn’t I? I must have said it twelve times!”
“You sure did,” sings the guy at the couch. He turns his eyes onto me, gives my body a once-over, then props an elbow on the back of the couch. “I’m Lex, short for Alexander, not for Lexington.”
“Dude,” grunts a larger, round-faced guy at his side with short curly hair, olive skin, and diamond stud earrings. “Literally no one ever thinks it’s short for Lexington. Why do you keep saying that?” Then he glances at me. “I’m Omar. Short for Omar. Hi.”
Lex ignores his couch buddy and eyes Brett importantly. “Has he met Dante yet?”
“Oh
, nah, don’t worry about him,” Brett blurts at once, chuckles nervously, then leans toward me and adds, “He’ll love you, don’t worry.”
Lex lets out a single bark of laughter at that. “Really, Brett? Are you trying to convince us that Dante doesn’t vet everyone who moves into the building anymore? That guy is a total control freak.”
Omar snorts. “Don’t let him catch you saying that,” he mutters under his breath. “He’ll tie you up tight, turn you into his new barbell, and bench-press your skinny ass.”
“If only,” sings Lex with a wistful sigh.
I’m still playing catch-up here. “Who’s Dante?”
“Only the hottest landlord in the fucking city,” answers Lex before anyone else can, as if he’s been standing on the tip of his own tongue waiting for me to ask. “I once called Dante into my apartment with a complaint about the broken plumbing in my bathroom.” He bites his lip and giggles. “There was no plumbing issue. I just wanted to watch that big, hot, hunky body of his bend over to look under my sink and give it a little tinkering. Mmm, that man … muscles for days, killer smile, God-given eyes …”
“You’re so horny for him, why don’t you go knock on his door right now?” teases Omar dryly. “I’m sure he gets lonely in that basement apartment of his.”
“Oh, hell no. You kidding me? Well …” Lex reconsiders, lifting a beer to his lips. “Maybe after a few more of these.”
“Guys! I got an idea!” cries out Brett, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Let’s show him to the gang!”
Omar lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t subject your new roommate to the gauntlet yet. The poor guy’s only been here five seconds. Let him get settled in.”
I’m lost. “The gauntlet? The gang? Who?”
“On the other hand,” Lex puts in like I’m not even here, “better to rip the Gayville Band-Aid right off and see if he runs off like your last roomie did.”
Brett appears notably anxious from his friends’ reactions, so I decide to put him at ease with a shrug. “Y’know what? I think it sounds fun.”
Lex, Brett, and Omar stare at me. Then, after a breath, Omar rises from the couch to grab himself another slice of pizza. “You’d be meeting the whole gayborhood at once, you know. Do you have any idea what that’ll be like for a twink like you?”
I laugh. “A twink? You think I’m a twink?”
Lex folds his arms on the back of the couch and rests his chin on them, batting his eyes. “You are so precious. Like a blue-eyed baby doll on a shelf. Let me describe what it’ll be like. Have you ever done molly on a rollercoaster while your boyfriend blows you in the back car?”
“Jesus, Lex, don’t scare the kid,” cries Omar.
Feeling my renewed sense of boldness stirring inside me, I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “I think you are all sorely underestimating my ability to adapt to new situations. Maybe I’m not as innocent as I look.”
Brett and his friends look among one another, a slice of pizza frozen halfway to Omar’s mouth.
“Alright! Send the group text!” Brett announces at once, slapping my back and pulling me in for a side hug. “We’re going out tonight, boys!”
“But first things first,” I say, then turn to Brett. “Your bathroom?”
A moment later, I’m in the bathroom, the door closed, and I experience a long-awaited moment of relief as I empty my bladder to the tune of Brett, Omar, and Lex’s muffled voices carrying through the door—likely talking about me. After letting my eyes dance across the cluttered bathroom, from the colorful mismatched towels to the rubber-ducky shower curtains to the four canisters of hair mousse on the sink, it occurs to me that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be in my life.
Knock-knock. “Bro,” comes Brett’s voice. “Not to freak you out, but you might want to change into a sexier outfit. The guys suggest something tight.”
4
My head spins from all the different names that have been shoved into my ears over the past hour. Not to mention all the faces, drink offerings, hugs, kisses on the cheek, and surprise slaps on the ass.
“Guys, c’mon, give my boy here some space!” shouts Brett at one point. “Let him breathe!”
Spoiler: They don’t.
And I suspect it has everything to do with these bun-hugging shorts Lex grabbed for me out of his apartment. They’re showing everything my mama gave me, and that’s not even to mention this tight shirt my new friends have me in, too, which might as well be a crop-top.
My ass cheeks might have handprints on them.
I can’t confirm it. It’s just a sneaking suspicion.
“Bro, I knew you had it in you!” The two faces of a blurry Brett cheer me on after I down another shot. “Think you’re up for one more club?”
Brett, Omar, Lex, and I have been to three bars and two different nightclubs already. My ass hasn’t recklessly drank so much since the night of my twenty-first birthday—last year—and even then, I was in the comfort of only one bar in the middle of a dusty Kansas town, joined by just a handful of high school pals, football blasting on the TV at the smoky bar, and an old pool table between us. I won every game that night, by the way.
It’s a damned miracle I’m still on my feet as the tipsy quartet of us lazily make our way back down the twelve blocks toward Piazza Place.
“Should we take him to Aubergines?” asks Lex. “It’s on the way, begging to be stopped at, and it’s a staple of the whole Mayville experience, so—”
“No, no,” Omar interjects, shaking his head. “I veto that. Way too soon. Maybe our next outing?”
“It’s up to Connor!” decides Brett as he grabs me by the shoulders, pulling my stunned face right in front of his. “You wanna go? Or call it a night?”
It’s my first night here. I haven’t had this much fun in years. The flashing lights of a strange new city beckon me toward their sexy, neon glory.
“Let’s fuckin’ go!” I cry out with a laugh.
“That’s the spirit!” shouts Brett, giddy.
Aubergines is accessed by an alley between two buildings, its secret entrance blinking with the neon light of a giant eggplant for a logo. On the way in, I’m the only one who’s carded, and I don’t hear the end of it as we dive into the dimly-lit bar.
Which I very soon discover is also a strip club.
There is a small sea of purple-and-black tables and purple-cushioned chairs filled with loud men whistling, chatting, and watching. A catwalk juts out from a wide stage along the dark back wall, cutting through the tables. Dancing on that catwalk, a pair of guys are halfway out of their sailor uniforms, the waistbands of their pants lined with dollar bills.
Brett is loud as he cuts a path for us through a crowd of men up to the stage, where I’m given a front-row view of the action. The nearest dancer catches my eye, winks, then demonstrates his talent of twerking in a pair of skintight white sailor pants.
“Like what you see?” asks Brett with a nudge. Lex and Omar have gone to the bar to get drinks. “Your mouth hasn’t closed since we came in!”
I snap my mouth shut, then laugh. “Well, are you looking at the same guys I’m looking at??”
“Yeah, dude, I am!” He throws an arm around my neck, pulling me in for half a headlock and half a hug. “Hey, we can do this every fucking night. I mean, isn’t that the point of being alive? To live it up? Wait, what the fuck is he ordering?” he blurts as he stares past me toward the bar. “Hey! Hell no! Take those fruity-ass drinks away! Nah!”
He leaves my side at once, and I just laugh, finding it all funny. Somehow, I already know I’m safe with my roommate and his friends. They will look out for me, no matter how wasted I get.
My pocket buzzes.
I suddenly remember I have a phone. When I lift it clumsily up to my face, I have to squint and wipe my eyes to see the message clearly.
My heart leaps. It’s a text from someone who apparently saved himself in my contacts as “That Awesome Alan Guy You Met At The Airport” that read
s: Had a great time meeting you today. Hope you like your roommate. Meet up sometime soon for a bite?
I have to read it ten times in a row to make sure my buzzed eyes are getting it right. Then I slap my phone to my chest, deliriously happy.
Now what do I do? How do I respond?
I barely give it any thought as I start tapping out a reply, grinning the whole time, and send it.
Lex fills the vacuum left by Brett, two drinks in his hand. He gives one to me. “Vodka tonic,” he says, then nods at my phone. “Whose hot sext got you dreamy-faced? You already got a few numbers tonight? There were some hotties at Poison Ivy.”
“It’s a guy I met at the airport,” I tell him. “He was really cute and let me share his Uber, since I apparently can’t hail a taxi for shit. He even paid.”
“Your Georgian accent comes out more when you’re drunk,” Lex points out.
“It’s Kansas,” I reply, taking a sip of my drink.
“Let me give you a couple of city lessons. First, never drink something in a club if you didn’t see it get poured in front of you. That’s how you end up strapped to someone’s bed with a rubber foot-long up your tooter. Your drink is fine,” he adds as I stare at my glass, frozen and wide-eyed. “You can trust the three of us. We’re basically family, now.”
“Uh …”
“Second, and this doubles as a heads-up: Brett is going to try and turn you into his little bro. He’s got a kind of bro complex, if you haven’t picked up on that yet. He inexplicably both fucks and friend-zones himself with every guy he meets. I think it’s from his fraternity days. Are you keeping up or are you too drunk for this kind of conversation?”
I give him a thumbs-up that nearly knocks over my drink, and a wink of reassurance.
Lex shrugs. “Fine. And third, and perhaps the most important: Never—and I mean never—be late with your rent. Brett’s last roommate was a disaster, and that coupled with Brett’s own immaturity … Let’s just say that Dante wasn’t happy. Next slip up and Brett is out of that apartment he loves so much. He won’t say this, but he’s counting on you to be a good roommate and to … well … balance him out. You’re his last hope, Kansas boy.”
