Credit cards, his loan, the various music clubs he was committed to—Stefan looked over the papers with their totals in bold black ink. How would he pay all this off? Never mind the fact that he didn’t know where he planned to go, how could he ever get free of all the debt hanging over his head?
He wouldn’t ask his mother for help. On this he was resolute. He wondered how he could come up with the kind of money he needed.
He’d insured his voice at his mother’s suggestion. Perhaps he could—No. That’s silly, he thought. For one, he couldn’t imagine how to stage a ‘voice accident’. Then there was the awkwardness of not being able to speak, which he didn’t suppose he could handle. Not worth it, he figured, for the sake of getting rid of some debt. How much debt? he wondered. He pulled over his gravy-stained napkin, took out a pen, and listed all his financial liabilities in a column. As he added them, his spirits sank. When the total came out in only four figures, he sighed with relief, but resigned himself to the facts: this idea of leaving was stupid and unrealistic. If he kept going at this pace, the bills could stay at arm’s length. But getting rid of them altogether was impossible.
Stefan gathered up the bills and shoved them into his coat pocket. He was supposed to go out with the boys that night, he remembered. That would be good for him—a few drinks, some dancing, their company.
He leaned back in his plastic chair and sipped the last of his soft drink, wondering if a new pair of sneakers would make him feel better. Maybe if he had those he would get into shape. And being in shape—well, he had a vague sense that it was good for something. I should join a gym, he thought. It would probably be expensive, but it was something he was supposed to do.
~
Stefan put the sneakers on his bed next to the shirt he bought for that night’s outing. He took the receipts from his pocket and looked at them. What have I done? he thought. I’m in the hole, and the first thing I do is grab for a shovel.
If he was staying, it didn’t matter. Was he staying?
That’s a nice shirt, though.
He left the matter and got changed into his outfit for the evening. The shirt looked good on him, made him look kind of adorable—the best he could hope for. The running shoes had that nice new spring to them, which would be fun for dancing.
~
“Hey,” said Stefan, joining Rick and Paulo. Rick wore one of his saggy ‘serious outsider musician’ outfits, far too haphazard for the gay scene. He wasn’t available and didn’t care, so at least two or three people on any given night out asked Stefan “What’s your friend’s name? Does he have a boyfriend?” When particularly frustrated, Stefan would answer honestly: “No, he doesn’t,” omitting the detail of Rick’s overseas not-really-a-girlfriend.
Paulo wore a powder blue short-sleeved shirt he’d ironed perfectly before going out. (Somehow he never got cold, as if carrying the heat of a foreign climate in his blood, even though he’d never lived outside Canada.) His forehead was a perfect shore for the wet black waves of his hair. While the rest of their gang faded to a winter pallor, Paulo stayed a perfect summer gold. His looks had such a general appeal and, combined with a misreading of his shy air of self-deprecation, everyone assumed he operated in some aloof, unreachable league, and no one but his friends approached him.
“Where’s Allen?” asked Stefan.
“Over there, talking to Adam,” said Paulo, pointing. “Do you remember him? He’s a journalist, writes for the financial section of one of the national papers, I can’t remember which. Yeah, that’s Adam.”
“Look at you, you’re swooning, you big geek,” chided Rick.
“Sorry,” said Paulo, turning back to them.
“No, it’s cute,” said Rick. “He’s a nice-looking guy.”
“I bet he’s really got it together,” said Paulo.
“You mean he wouldn’t go for an actor-slash-cater-waiter,” added Stefan.
“Well, come on, really,” said Paulo. “He probably lives on the harbour-front in some beautiful condo with his perfect boyfriend.”
“One way to find out,” said Rick. “Hey Allen!” he called across the bar, and gestured for Allen and Adam to come over. They all said their hellos, and Rick made a particular point of introducing Adam and Paulo.
“Oh, we’ve met before,” said Adam, smiling. “I distinctly remember that.”
~
“He’s a really nice guy,” said Stefan, looking at Paulo and Adam, who sat in a corner, wrapped up in discussion punctuated with joking touches on the arm or hand that would inevitably lead to more.
“Paulo would have to work really hard to screw this up,” said Allen. “Adam is so interested in the arts. I think it’s because he’s a fundamentally un-artistic person by nature—he’s so left-brained sometimes it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over. So he really appreciates that creative spark in other people. Besides, look at Paulo, he’s a stunner.”
“You should tell him that.”
Allen smiled. “That’s a nice idea. I will.” He took a sip of his lemonade drink. “So that just leaves you.”
“What?”
“Well, with Paulo fixed up, you’re the only one of us who’s single.”
Stefan pushed back from the table. “I don’t see that as something that needs fixing.”
“Stef, I know you want that in your life. If you were happy being single, I’d leave it alone. But it’s obvious that you’re not happy.”
“And it’s up to you to correct this, is it?”
Allen waved a hand. “I’m just going to drop it, because now you’re getting huffy.”
“I’m getting a drink, is what I’m doing,” said Stefan, getting up. “You want one?”
“Sure.”
“Another one of your girlie-pops, or would you like something else?”
“Gin and tonic,” said Allen.
“Oh, that’s much better.”
Stefan headed for the bar. Rick darted up to his side and said a word of warning—“Ming”—then dashed away again. Stefan looked around. Where?
Stefan’s stomach turned into a pitcher of ice-water. There he was, Stefan’s ex, the one his friends called Ming the Merciless, owing to the particular style he sported these days, with a trimmed little moustache and beard, a head shaven as a first strike against male pattern baldness, and a penchant for black clothes. As Stefan understood it, usually the person who’d been dumped underwent a change of image—a sudden interest in fitness, a new haircut, piercing, tattoo, wardrobe—but in their case Ming did all the work while Stefan retreated, back into his old circle of friends, back into his old hobbies, back into his mother’s house.
Already in the queue at the bar, Stefan was trapped. Ming spotted him and headed over with someone in tow. Stefan never told Ming how hurt he was, accepting instead the terms he’d been offered, the plastic olive branch of post-romance friendship. Ming wasn’t to be blamed for thinking that Stefan wanted to see him, to talk to him, even if he didn’t want to do either ever again. Each encounter left Stefan feeling belittled, defeated, and lost. He felt dread, knowing it was about to happen again.
“Stefffff-an!” said Ming, hugging him with hard slaps on the back. “I’m so happy to see you. Stefan,” he said, yelling sharply into Stefan’s ear, turning to the man he’d towed here. “This is Michael. Michael, this is Stefan.” His tone implied “the one I’ve told you so much about”, but Stefan could see from Michael’s face he’d been told nothing about their two years together, since they played no appreciable part in Ming’s memory.
They shook hands. Stefan took guilty comfort for a moment in finding the new boyfriend ugly. Then he felt further hurt that—ugliness notwithstanding—this person was still his replacement.
The bartender thumped the bar. Stefan turned and yelled, ordering Allen’s drink and asking for a double of his own drink.
“Oh,” said Ming, raising an eyebrow, “who’s the other drink for?” Stefan gestured back to Allen, who waved and gave a big smile, knowi
ng that Ming never approved of Stefan’s friends, for reasons none of them managed to figure out before the relationship ended. This disinclined them to him in the first place, but the subsequent badly-handled dumping raised the stakes to full-on hatred. Stefan’s friends made a pretence of fawning over Ming whenever they had a chance, knowing that it had a salt-on-a-slug effect on him.
The bartender sloshed Stefan’s drinks down and called out the price. Stefan rounded up, tipping the man out of habit, though the glasses were sloppy with spillage that dribbled down onto his trouser-legs. Noticing this, Stefan found his exit: “Well, I better—Nice to meet you, Michael. Min—Jason, good to see you.” Ming reached to hug Stefan. Stefan looked at his drinks and shrugged.
~
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know, Allen, I thought he was with you,” said Rick.
“Was he okay? Or was he upset?” asked Paulo, holding hands with Adam as they all walked toward the pizza shop where they ended their nights out.
“Maybe he went home,” said Adam.
The others laughed. “No,” said Rick, “that’s the last place he’d go if he was upset.” He looked to Allen, “Was he upset? We’re all kind of operating on this foregone conclusion.”
“Ming was there,” said Allen.
“Ah,” said Rick and Paulo at the same time. Adam looked confused.
“There he is,” said Paulo, pointing.
Stefan stood leaned inside a telephone booth, his eyes closed, the receiver still next to his ear.
Allen ran over to him, helping him back to a standing position, hanging up the receiver. “What were you doing?” he whispered as Stefan’s eyes fluttered blearily.
“Listening,” said Stefan.
~
Stefan decided he wasn’t up for dragging his mother out of a bar, particularly not on a Monday night, so he showed up at the rehearsal early. He walked carefully across the soundstage’s rubberised black floor, keeping a low profile as he found a metal chair in a corner from which he could watch without interrupting.
His mother was singing a number, something written specifically for this television special. Stefan thought it very pretty, and smiled as he leaned back in his chair. Delonia was talented, he’d never contest that fact. If his mother had to be famous, at least she was good and famous. Sure people hated her specials or found the things she did too cheesy or sentimental (most people found them too cheesy or sentimental). But there were moments like this when he was proud of her.
She wound up for the song’s big finishing note, and Stefan fell backward, his legs kicking in the air. The chair, which no one was using for a reason, clanged on the floor, its legs akimbo like Stefan’s.
Delonia, who’d seen Stefan come in, stopped singing and laughed. “Thanks, Neil,” she said in the direction of the sound booth window on the far side of the soundstage. The orchestra members put down their bows and instruments and stared at Stefan as he righted himself and waved.
A voice popped in from nowhere. “Let’s try the number with Christopher.” Delonia nodded, and a boy of twelve walked out onstage in trendy, expensive clothing. He was blond and had a knowing teen-star-to-be sexiness that made Stefan uneasy.
Delonia gestured for Stefan to join her in the spotlit centre of the holiday set. He shook his head, but she insisted. He ran up and gave her a quick kiss.
“Hey, Stefan,” said the disembodied voice.
“Hey, Neil.” Then he looked up, as if to heaven, and said, “Hey Tim, Rob.” He yelled at the set, “Hey Raj, hey Marlene.” Voices responded from around the studio.
“Ready?” Delonia asked the young man standing next to her in a tone too childish for a modern pre-teen. She reached down, ruffled his blond hair, and smiled.
“I’m ready,” he said, “just don’t sing flat this time.”
Delonia’s eyes flared. Her mouth opened and closed, showing her large teeth as she struggled for something to say. She looked around the stage at her peers, then put a hand to her face and walked quickly off the set. Stefan was surprised: in her heyday Delonia would have barked the boy off the stage, or simply upstaged him to the point that he vanished in the light of her talent. But tonight her defences were down, and the boy had struck her to the quick.
Stefan leaned down to the young entertainer’s height. “You know what, little man? In a year, two tops, your voice is going to change. And then you’re fucked. Then when you want to make a comeback, you’re going to have to grovel for all you’re worth. But people have long memories around here, and you’ll be lucky to get a gig as a backup choir member for someone as talented and gracious as that woman. She’s been around for a long time, and that’s with good reason. You’ll be lucky if you ever see this place again.” He started after his mother, but turned back to the boy. “Oh, and another thing. You’re gay.” Then he ran from the soundstage. “Mom?” he asked, opening the dressing room door. He found her waving a smoking bundle of sticks in the air. He coughed. “What the hell is that?”
“Sage. It clears the energy in the room.”
“And probably trips the sprinklers,” he said, grabbing it and taking it to the dressing room’s little washroom, where he dropped it into the toilet. He sat Delonia down and took a seat opposite her. “What’s the matter? Normally you would have snapped that little pre-teen bitch in two.”
“I’m not sure,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ve been touchy the last couple of days. I think it’s what you said about Cerise. I’ve been wondering if maybe you were right.”
“No, Mom, I’ve been thinking about that, too. I shouldn’t have said it. What do I know, eh? If you’re happy, then that’s the truth, that’s all that matters.”
“Oh I’m so glad you feel that way. Because last night she asked me to marry her.”
“But—but Mom, you’re married to Dad.”
“Stefan, your father’s been dead for over twenty years.”
“Mom, you said ‘Till death do us part’.”
“Yes, and he’s dead.”
Stefan stood, shaking his head.
“Stefan, please, we want you to be part of this. Cerise thinks that this could be a very important event. What if it were televised? And you and someone special were there at the altar to give me away? That would mean so much to both of us. And imagine what that would mean for our society, to see me and you embracing our true natures and each other that way. Maybe you and Jason might get back together, and we could all live together in our house.”
“Look, that’s never going to happen. I think you’re a crazy woman,” said Stefan, “and I have to get out of here.”
“But you’re here to drive me home.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I’m ready to go back in there now,” said Delonia. “I won’t be long.” She gathered herself and left.
Stefan looked around the dressing room. Posters for old shows were dry-mounted on the wall, including one featuring his parents which had faded into tones of rusty brown. A dress in a stereotypically North American Indian pattern hung from Delonia’s frame. She had one leg stepped forward through a slit in the dress and her hair was pulled back from her heavily made-up face by a beaded headband. Stefan winced at the idea of his mother as sex symbol. His father wore a leisure suit and a warm, completely guileless smile beamed from his beard. Stefan touched the smile. From nowhere, a word popped into his head: Edinburgh.
He knew what the letters on his bedside table were trying to spell, and he knew where he had to go.
Four
Nearest Exit
“Mom, what are you doing?” asked Stefan.
Delonia looked up from the small towel she held. “I’m doing your laundry,” she replied.
“I didn’t ask you to do that. I don’t want you to do that. Could you please get out of my room?”
Delonia smiled. “What’s this?” she asked, holding up the towel, which seemed to hold its crumpled shape against gravity. “Somebody’s been hiding something. Is
there someone I should know about? A guest you’ve been sneaking in? Hmm? What’s this?” She shook the petrified thing.
“I can’t believe this,” said Stefan, banging his head on the doorframe. He threw the mail he’d carried in with him down on the bed. “Mom, it’s semen. There, is that what you wanted to hear? And it’s mine, just mine. Alright? Now that I’m completely bereft of any dignity, could you please get the hell out of here?”
“Oh,” She dropped the towel into the laundry basket, “well at least I know you’re human. You know, you don’t give many outward signs.”
“What? I’m living my life. So what if I’m not in a relationship or having real sex? What do I need those for? Why do you keep pushing this? Relationships are just people’s way of avoiding their mortality. As long as they’re caught up in all the romance of it and busying themselves with paying attention to this other personality, they can hide out from the fact that one day they’re going to die. It’s the ultimate denial of the responsibility each of us has for figuring out what life is for.”
Delonia raised her eyebrows. “Ooh, listen to you! That’s a bit cynical, don’t you think?”
“Is it? Think about it: people sit in office buildings pacified by gushy love songs on the radio all week, then come Friday night we’re out on the town trying to have those experiences ourselves, perfectly distracted from the plight of our fellow man or the vicious activities of our government. Then on Saturday we go to the cinema to watch scripts we’re supposed to aspire to living out. You sing those songs! Do you really think they describe actual experience, or are they really about what we wished we felt like?”
Idea in Stone Page 4
