The Home for Wayward Parrots

by Wehm, Darusha;

  “Eww,” I said and did nothing when Johnny stole my last piece of toast.

  21

  THE FIGHT

  AUDREY WAS NOT ONE OF THOSE NEUROTIC, paranoid girlfriends that bad movies and early twenties male-bonding conversations are filled with. If either of us worried about the other one cheating, it was me. I didn’t think she was or anything, but I knew I wasn’t going to be sneaking off to hot sheet motels on my lunch hour, and Audrey knew it, too. I was completely happy with Audrey. I could imagine a universe where she wasn’t as perfectly content with me, but I couldn’t imagine one where I wasn’t. So if anyone was paranoid, it was me.

  Except Audrey was weird about condoms. Not the whole time, of course. Like every other woman I’ve slept with, she insisted on condoms at the beginning as much as I did. It’s not like sex is exactly a safe activity in this day and age, my main concern — pregnancy — notwithstanding. Condoms were the solution, not the problem.

  But once I’d been exclusive with a woman for several months, the condom conversation started to morph in strange and bizarre ways. As if We’ve been together for X number of months is a valid reason to stop using condoms. Like, all of a sudden, after so many months of exclusivity, all that perfectly good safe sex is somehow inadequate. Like, after so many months of dating, there’s no longer anything to fear.

  Of course, they all say they are on the pill. And I’m sure they are — I’m not accusing any of my ex-girlfriends of actually trying to get knocked up. But there’s no way I can be sure, not one hundred percent certain, that they are taking their pills regularly enough, or that they never forget, or even that they are taking them at all. There’s no way, other than administering the tablets myself on a set schedule, that I can be sure. And I need to be sure. So, I don’t have sex without condoms. Ever.

  And, for some reason, my girlfriends all ended up hating that.

  SEEDY AND I DIDN’T DATE LONG ENOUGH for it to come up, so it happened first with Audrey. It started slowly. Not knowing what was coming, I didn’t see the signs. After about six months of dating, she announced that she was on the pill. I thought she was just telling me stuff about her life and I said something useless like, “Good for you,” or “How much does that cost?” I forgot all about it.

  A few times after that, we’d be in bed and I’d reach for the nightstand drawer. She’d say something like, “Do you have to?” and I’d laugh and say something like, “Why risk it?” or “No glove, no love.” Eventually she tried the now-familiar line, “I want to feel you. Really feel you inside me.”

  That line has absolutely zero effect on me now, but the first time, when Audrey said it, her voice all husky with lust, I nearly fell for it. My hand actually paused on the way to the drawer and I briefly thought, “She’s on the pill. We’re both healthy. What’s the worst that could happen?” Then I remembered The Thing with Jacquie and had a flash of what my life would become if Audrey got pregnant.

  We both had good jobs, with excellent parental leave benefits, so the financial hardship I imagined back when I was eighteen was gone. But I still had the same constriction in my chest, the rising panic that the thought of unwillingly becoming a father had stirred in me six years previously. I still felt getting someone pregnant was the same life-ruining experience it would have been as a teenager.

  I barely had my own apartment. I still didn’t even own a car. I was technically an adult, but I was just a juvenile-adult. I could walk into a meeting at work and talk about steel torsion strength and million-dollar budgets, but I still felt like I needed a permission slip to walk onto a used car lot. I still felt weird every month when I paid my bills, like I was just practising at being a grown-up. I couldn’t be a parent! It would be the worst thing that could happen to me.

  It was a momentary flash, over in under a second. Probably Audrey wouldn’t even have noticed if it hadn’t immediately killed all desire in me. Her hand just happened to be in the perfect position to notice my physical and emotional deflation. I rolled away from her to avoid the look of confusion and hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled into my pillow, not exactly sure what I was apologizing for.

  “I don’t get it,” she said, holding me from behind and rubbing my back. “Most guys can’t wait to get past the condom stage.”

  “I’m not most guys,” I said, hurt and anger in my voice.

  “I know, baby,” she said, “and that’s why I love you. It’s just kind of odd, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, I like to be safe,” I said, still a hint of indignation left though I was starting to feel mollified. “Don’t you want to be careful? I don’t know what I’d do if you got pregnant,” I said, softly.

  “Okay,” she said, and I thought that was the end of it. Foolishly.

  SHE NEVER TRIED THAT LINE WITH ME AGAIN. Instead, she left it alone for a while, long enough for me to assume that everything was back to normal, that everything was okay. Then, out of what seemed like nowhere, she accused me of sleeping with someone else.

  We hadn’t even been fighting. We were at her place, putting the groceries away, and she happened to end up with a bag of non-food stuff. There was a box of tissues, some hand cream, shampoo and a box of condoms. I didn’t know what was in the bag when she went crazy, so it was some time before I figured out what was really going on.

  “You’re fucking someone else, aren’t you?” she said, wheeling around in the small galley kitchen. We were maybe two feet apart. It was unnerving.

  “What?”

  “That’s the only explanation,” she said, her voice rising dangerously. “You’re fucking someone else.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You can’t even deny it,” she said, getting close to a shout. I was backing up, trying to put some space between us. I had no idea what was going on.

  “I don’t know what made you think this,” I said, “but I’m not sleeping with anyone else. I love you, Audrey. I don’t want anyone else.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice back down to a more normal level. I knew I was really in trouble now.

  “What made you think this?” I asked, hoping for some clue to the bizarre misunderstanding she must have had. “Is it all the time I’ve been spending online?” I guessed blindly. “I told you, I’m trying to find my birth parents. It takes a long time. You want to look at my email? You want proof?” I could hear the desperation in my voice.

  She shook her head, and I thought I saw tears forming in her eyes. She wasn’t much of a weeper, so I started to get scared. She really believed that I was cheating on her! How was this even possible? I’d never done anything ...

  That was when she threw the box of condoms at my head. It caught me just above the eye and stung a surprising amount. I reflexively began to rub the spot, as Audrey recited, calm and mean, “Having multiple sexual partners is a risky sexual practice. You should use condoms every time you have sex to reduce the risk to you and your partners.” She emphasized the S at the end of the last word and then shrieked, “Get out of my house!”

  I fled.

  WE TALKED A FEW TIMES AFTER THAT. She apologized and I apologized, but it was over. She didn’t trust me and neither of us wanted to be in a relationship without trust, and that was all there was. When I went over to my parents’ for dinner and told them we broke up, I said it just didn’t work out. “It was a mutual thing,” I said. It was technically true, but it didn’t tell them anything of the real story. How could I explain to my parents that my girlfriend was so insecure about herself and so untrusting as to assume that I’d lie about something as important as birth control?

  I was a wreck for a long time after Audrey and I split up. I had really loved her. I had started looking for apartments we might move into together. I thought she might be The One. But it turned out that she must have been hiding it for a year. The jealousy. I’d never told her about The Thing with Jacquie, or what I thought it must have been like for my real parents wh
en I came along, but surely that was obvious. Assuming I was hiding something — that I was hiding an affair, of all things — I couldn’t understand that.

  I didn’t want to be with a woman who thought all men were cheating, selfish bastards. I didn’t want to be with a woman who could think those things and pretend that we were equals. For a long time, I didn’t want to be with a woman at all.

  I’ve had a half dozen girlfriends since Audrey and about half of those were serious enough to get to The Fight stage. At only thirty years old, I felt like I was really too young to be so cynical, but the truth is that I almost always had a sense of relief when it finally came to the end. It’s like the monster hiding just out of sight in the shadows has finally shown itself, and now that you can see that it’s just yesterday’s shirt and a twisted-up coat hanger, you can finally stop being afraid and just get it over with.

  Unfortunately, it inevitably means getting over the relationship, too.

  22

  THE RAINBOW ROOM

  OBVIOUSLY, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN EASIER FOR ME if I’d been gay. So, after one particularly nasty breakup, I tried. Kind of. The idea came to me when in the dairy aisle. It was Tuesday — grocery day. I stopped off at Thrifty’s on my way home from work, as I did each week. I was standing in front of the yogourt, trying to decide whether it was a raspberry or a blueberry week, when I noticed them. They were about my age, much better dressed than I was, but otherwise similar enough. They were obviously a couple, discussing the meal plan for the week. The tall guy was checking items off a list written on the back of an envelope while his boyfriend inspected the cheeses. They looked so normal. It was what I had always wanted.

  I thought about them the whole way home. Why couldn’t I have a relationship that was as easy as that? It was the part I’d loved best with Audrey — simple domesticity. Dividing up the household chores, cooking for each other. I’d never had that feeling since, the simple happiness of being with someone you love on a daily basis. The spectre of The Fight always took the sweetness out of it.

  Obviously, I didn’t immediately think the solution was to become gay. But as the weeks went on, I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan and Jim. At some point I’d given the dairy-case guys names, jobs and hobbies in the fantasy life I’d imagined for them. I pictured their apartment, immaculately decorated in soft cream and teal. Ryan was a doctor, Jim an architect. They had a Labrador puppy, a massive DVD collection and a well-used Xbox.

  I wanted their life.

  FINALLY, ONE LONELY FRIDAY NIGHT I decided that I owed it to myself to give the other team a fighting chance, and went to the Rainbow Room, the local gay bar. I wasn’t looking to pick anyone up, I don’t think. It was more like a trial run, to see if this was a viable alternative. I mean, it clearly wasn’t working with women. I’d never been attracted to a guy before, but I’d never tried, either. It seemed like it was worth a shot.

  This is the kind of story that usually ends with mortifying and hilarious results. In my case, it never even got that far. The bar was filled with great-looking young guys dancing, drinking, having a fabulous time. It looked so easy.

  I parked myself in a dark corner and sipped my seven-dollar beer. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, but I’d decided that anything had to be better than The Fight. I tried to ignore the terrible disco music and ogle the guys.

  I was on my second beer when I realized that I couldn’t keep my eyes off the few women in the place. It just wasn’t happening. Thankfully, not a soul had come by to talk to me, so at least I’d been spared an attempted pick-up. It was a pathetic scene, and I knew I was wasting my time. It became obvious to me that anyone who thinks just being exposed to queer people will turn you gay is full of shit.

  I abandoned the remains of my beer and stood up to leave. It was still early, by a nightclub’s standards, but the place was packed and I had to weave my way through the bodies on my way out. I’d just about made it to the door when I felt a large hand on my shoulder. A jolt of panic shot through me, while a small part of my mind thought, Finally, at least someone noticed that I’m alive.

  I turned around, trying to figure out a nice way to tell my erstwhile admirer that I was just leaving. “I’m sorry,” I’d already begun when my brain froze up a little and I completely forgot what I was saying.

  “Gumbo?” Johnny Frazier said, looking surprised and amused all at once. “For the life of me, I never thought I’d see you here.”

  “I DIDN’T THINK I’D SEE YOU HERE, EITHER,” I said, a newly purchased beer in front of me, courtesy of Johnny. I’d lost touch with him in university, the same as the rest of the old crowd. I certainly never expected to find him again at the Rainbow Room.

  He shrugged. “A lot of my friends are gay,” he said. “I did an acting major as an undergrad. I’ve been hanging out here since I was nineteen — I know almost everyone in this place.” He took a big slurp of his drink.

  “So, are you...?” I let the question dangle, embarrassed by asking it, but it came out before I could stop myself. Johnny was cool about it, though.

  “I don’t like labels,” he said as if that explained anything. “I’m lucky that no one at work seems to care one way or another. It’s a lot more progressive than I would have thought.”

  I frowned. Why wouldn’t the theatre be progressive? “What’s your job?” I asked.

  “I work for the province,” he said, then seemed to remember that I didn’t know anything about him anymore. “I went to law school after my undergrad. I’m a Crown prosecutor now.”

  I nearly spit my beer all over him. “Seriously?” I said.

  He nodded. “The courtroom is great,” he said. “It’s just theatre for a tiny audience. I love it.” He leaned toward me. “But all this is just putting off the inevitable. Tell me, Brian, what the hell are you doing alone in the Rainbow Room?”

  I LEFT OUT THE GORY DETAILS, but it felt good to talk to someone about my women troubles. And I’ll give him his due: Johnny didn’t even laugh when I told him about my ridiculous plan to try to like guys instead. He just let me talk and then nodded sagely when I’d finally run out of steam.

  “That sucks, buddy,” he said. “And I sort of see how you feel. But it’s not women that are the problem. It’s you.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Look around. These guys are having a great time. It’s got to be easier to have a relationship with someone who gets you, right?”

  “You don’t really believe that Mars and Venus crap, do you?” he asked. I did, of course. But he made it sound like I was a flat-earther or something, so I just shrugged.

  “People are people, Gumbo. All relationships are hard.” He got a thoughtful expression on his face and something clouded in his eyes. “Trust me, gender doesn’t have much to do with it.”

  We drank in silence for a moment, and then he grinned. “And that’s why I don’t even bother with ‘relationships’ anymore.” He waggled his eyebrows in a pantomime of a leer. “Friends with benefits. Now that’s where it’s at.”

  This time I did spit beer. Johnny laughed and slapped me on the back. “I’m just fucking with you. You’re all right, Gumbo. You know, we should get together again sometime.” He looked around the room, which was getting louder and hotter as time went on. “I hate to admit it,” he said, “but I’m getting too old for this.”

  After that night, Johnny and I had a nearly regular dinner date once a month. He would make me laugh with some story from court or his theatre days. I’d bore him with engineering or parents-search talk, and he’d listen when some new relationship bit the dust after The Fight, then tell me to quit bitching and get over it.

  At times it felt like there had never been a point when we weren’t friends, like those years between middle school and the Rainbow Room were just a momentary loss of contact. As if we’d just lost each other’s numbers for a decade. As if we’d never stopped caring about each other.

  23

  A MATTER OF TIME


  I WAS DRIVING HOME FROM WORK when the phone rang. I try not to answer the phone when I’m driving — it takes my concentration from the road and I never feel entirely safe. I let the call go to voice mail.

  It was a Tuesday, so I stopped off at Thrifty’s, then popped into the liquor store for some beer. Carrying everything, I managed to stop at the mailbox in the lobby — I was expecting a couple of DVDs from the movie rental service I used. So I was totally laden down as I rode the elevator up to my place.

  I’d long since moved out of my dinky apartment in Handgun Heights. After a couple of years of a decent salary, even I had to admit that it was time for a nicer place. My new apartment was on the seventeenth floor of one of the few high-rises in town. It wasn’t much bigger than my old place, but it was worlds apart in every other way: hardwood floors, oak cabinets and stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen, jets in the bathtub. It cost about double what I’d been paying, but I could afford it and I liked the place.

  I set my groceries down on the island counter and started putting things away. Something nudged the back of my mind, but I couldn’t remember what it was. Once the stuff was put away and I was eating my dinner of a roast chicken leg with a deli salad from the store, I remembered. That phone call.

  I wiped my chickeny fingers on a napkin and grabbed my phone. I punched up voice mail and was glad I didn’t have a mouthful of food when I heard the message.

  “Hi, Gumbo. It’s Blair. Sorry I missed you at Mom’s party the other week, but you saw what it was like. Crazy. Anyway, Ange told me you two had a chat and I figured we should maybe get together sometime. If we wait too long, the baby will be here and that’ll be the end of free time. So give me a call. And give me Johnny’s number, too; we can make a real reunion of it. Okay, bye.”