Cupid Painted Blind

by Marcus Herzig

  “I don’t know,” I finally say. “I like him. He’s so cute and handsome. When he smiles at me he makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. So … I don’t know. Is that love? Or being in love? Or just a silly teenage crush? I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to get naked and do naughty things with him?”

  The awkward way he poses his question makes me laugh at first, but when I look at him there’s no smirk on his face, no silly, awkward grin. He means it, and he’s not shy about it, which has to be a first. I grab the heart-shaped pillow again and continue fiddling with the seam. I’m the one who’s feeling awkward now.

  “I guess,” I say without looking at Phil, and I feel my ears turning bright red.

  “And do you think he’d want that too?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t exactly size me up when I was standing next to him in the shower. Then again, neither did I.”

  “Right,” Phil says. “So what about Jack’s party?”

  I look at him. “What about it?”

  “Will you go?”

  “Oh God!” I say, tilting my head back and bumping it against the wall. “I really don’t know. I mean, it’s Jack and a whole bunch of Jack’s friends, and I don’t like any of them.”

  “You like Chris, though.”

  “Yes, but … I don’t know. Jack doesn’t even know I’m coming, and he’s not exactly my biggest fan. What if I show up at his place and he just slams the door in my face? I really don’t need any more run-ins with him or any more humiliations.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” I look at him again. “Would you go?”

  “I don’t go to parties,” he says. “I never get invited to parties, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t go because if someone invited me to a party I’d always think they’re probably only doing it so they can pour a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or something.”

  I sigh. “Let me rephrase the question: if you were me, would you go?”

  He ponders the question for a while, and I’m thinking he’s probably finding it more difficult to put himself in my shoes than making the actual decision.

  “I think if I were you and if I really thought he’d be the right guy for me, I’d jump at any chance to spend time with him. And maybe, if I declined his invitation, I’d be worried he’d feel rejected and he’d lose any interest in me.”

  “Damn,” I say and I hug my pillow and drop myself on the bed, “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “If you knew what my answer was going to be, you already know what yours is.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I follow the logic of that.”

  With a subtle smile on his face he says, “Think about it.”

  * * *

  Late in the evening I’m lying on my bed, hugging my heart pillow again and staring at the ceiling, trying to come up with arguments to refute Phil’s logic and valid reasons for me to weasel my way out of Chris’s invitation to Jack’s party without appearing ungrateful or indifferent about his amorous advances—if that is what they are.

  Phil, I have to admit, is right about one thing: things have changed between us. A mere week ago I never even would have listened to anything he had to say, let alone giving his weird views any serious consideration. On the other hand, I would have given 2-b-pretty’s advice a whole lot of consideration, so whether I like it or not, I can’t come up with any reason to easily dismiss Phil’s suggestions other than that he’s ugly.

  And that’s so stupid.

  I don’t want to be stupid.

  I will have to go to that party.

  Damn.

  The mere thought of it makes my heart beat faster, and I don’t know if it’s the decision itself that excites me or the prospect that I’ll be spending an evening with Chris in an entirely recreational setting that—given our host’s reputation—will in all likelihood include alcohol, cigarettes, and possibly other perks usually reserved for adults. Either way, a fast-beating heart has to be an unmistakable sign that I’m alive.

  I like being alive.

  My heart skips a beat as the ringing of my phone startles me out of my thoughts. It’s Alfonso.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “¿Que pasa?”

  “Nothing much. Just staring at the ceiling and contemplating my shitty little life.”

  “No kidding, dude, I’ve seen your ceiling, it looks depressing as frick. You need to get out more. ”

  “I know, right?”

  “Speaking of which, wanna sleep over on Friday? We can get burritos, play Xbox, and I can give you an erotic massage if that makes you feel any better.”

  I take it as a good sign that he’s teasing me about my sexuality. He wouldn’t do that if he had a problem with it.

  “As enticing as that sounds,” I say, “I can’t on Friday. Chris invited me to Jack’s party, remember?”

  “I remember you got invited. I somehow must have missed your decision to go. What else are you keeping from me, Matthew?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’ve literally just made up my mind two minutes ago. Sorry, pal. Should have called earlier.”

  “You don’t love me anymore ever since you turned gay. I’m disappointed, Matthew. Very disappointed.”

  “I’ve never loved you, Alfonso. You were always just a token Mexican friend to me. To make me appear more tolerant and cosmopolitan, you know?”

  “I’m Argentinian!”

  “Potato, tomato,” I say, and we both laugh.

  “So have you told your parents yet?” he asks.

  “No. Still working on my road map out of the closet.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about the party. You think they’re gonna let you go?”

  “Sure,” I say, “why not?”

  “And extend your curfew?”

  “Probably not.”

  “That’s gonna be one hell of a party for you then, if you have to be home by eleven.”

  I haven’t even thought about that. Chris told me to be at Jack’s by ten. “Oh,” I say.

  “Yeah, oh! Great planning, Matthew!”

  “Like I said, I only just decided I want to go to the party. I haven’t had time to think about the details.”

  “You should have thought about the details before you made up your mind, stupid,” Alfonso says, and I can hear his eyes rolling. “Okay, let me try again: how about a sleepover on Friday? We can have burritos and play Xbox and then you can sneak out the back door, go to your party, and sneak back in in the middle of the night, and your parents—or mine—will be none the wiser. Sound good?”

  What he’s proposing takes a while to register. “Are you being serious?” I finally say.

  He scoffs. “You got five seconds, Matty. Four … three … two …“

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A broken rotary clothes line is lurking in the dark on the dry, brown front lawn like a dead spider. The small house looks run-down and scruffy. It hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in ages, and in the dim porch light I’m not sure if that paint was white or pastel blue. Now it’s just dirty gray with brown splotches. I climb the three squeaky stairs to a front porch that seems to be used mostly as a storage area. There’s a broken fridge, its inside walls brown and grimy, the door torn off and leaning against its side. I smell the dead rat before I spot it behind the fridge. Half a dozen plastic bags with old newspapers and leaflets from grocery stores and fast food places fill up most of the small space on the other side of the front door. Loud music is hammering through the thin walls, and I’m surprised someone even hears the doorbell when I ring it. A moment later the door swings open and Jack stands in front of me holding two bottles of beer, one full, one half-empty.

  It takes a few long moments for my presence to register with him, and when it finally does, he says, “The fuck are you doing here?”

  “I … sorry …,“ I stammer, and I’m about to turn around and leave before he smashes a beer bo
ttle on my head, but then Chris ninjas his way in from the side and says, “He’s with me, Jack. My plus-one.”

  His bright red T-shirt reads Keep Calm and Party On.

  Jack’s eyes jump back and forth between Chris and me two or three times before he slurs, “Fucking hell.” Then he thrusts the full bottle of beer against my chest. I grab it so it doesn’t drop on the floor and he makes me clean up the mess.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I—”

  “Shut up, Maddie. My house, my rules.”

  He puts his own bottle to his lips and empties it, tilting back his head. When he’s done he leans in to me and let’s out the longest, loudest, and most disgusting burp I have ever heard.

  “I don’t give a shit what you two fags are up to,” he says to both Chris and me, “but whatever you do, don’t jizz on the carpet. Or the furniture. Or anywhere. Or I’m gonna make you lick it up.”

  He bursts into laughter as his hand slams down on my shoulder. Then he turns and walks away.

  “Don’t mind him,” Chris shouts over the music and closes the door behind me. “He’s already pretty wasted. Come on, I want you to meet a few people.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room. After the bumpy start I’d rather turn around and run, but Chris’s soft, warm hand feels too nice in my own, so I stumble after him without protest.

  He drags me across the room to a group of people, three guys and a girl. They smile at us as they see us coming, and my heart starts beating faster when I suddenly realize that I know at least one of the guys, David, a tall boy with ash blond hair. He was a year above me in junior high, and toward the end of seventh grade I used to have a crush on him for about four weeks. Then the school year was over and he went on to Jefferson High which is why I have never seen him again until tonight.

  “Guys, this is Matt,” Chris says and they all say hi as he tells me all their names, but the music is so loud and I’m so nervous that I don’t remember any of them except the one I already knew.

  David, holding hands with his curly-haired hipster boyfriend, raises his eyebrows with a big, bright smile and says something to me but I can’t hear him so I lean in and say, “What?”

  “I remember you!” he shouts in my ear. “Brookhurst Junior High, right?”

  “Yeah!” I say, feeling flattered that I left an impression on an older guy, someone I used to have a crush on no less.

  “I used to watch you in the schoolyard with your Latino boyfriend. I always thought you were such a cute couple.”

  “Oh, no no!” I say, shaking my head emphatically and flailing my bottle-holding hand about. “He was not my boyfriend. Just a friend.”

  “Right,” David says. His smile says, ‘I don’t believe a word you say, but whatever.’ Then he raises his bottle of beer, chinks it against mine and says, “Anyway, good to see you again. Cheers!”

  He takes a swig from the bottle, and since I don’t want to appear rude, I do the same. The bitter taste of alcohol running down my throat makes me shudder, but I pretend that of all the beers I’ve had in my life, this is clearly the best.

  Which, technically, it is.

  Here’s to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.

  Half an hour later and halfway through my second beer, I’ve not only grown used to the taste, I’ve fallen in love with it and with the rest of the world around me. I’ve heard of parties with booze and funny-smelling cigarettes, but I’ve never been to any, so I had no idea what I was missing. Chris’s friends all seem very nice. They do most of the talking, I do most of the laughing like a giddy little schoolboy who’s finally allowed to sit at the grown-up table. When I’ve finished my second beer I get up to get a third. I know my way around the house by now, but on my way to the kitchen my bladder is calling for my attention, so I make a detour to the bathroom. When I turn the doorknob, the door doesn’t open, and from the inside a female voice calls out, “Just a minute!”

  So I wait a minute.

  Two minutes.

  Three.

  I’m eventually joined by a guy with shaggy brown hair who must be sixteen or seventeen. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a surfing monkey on it. In his right hand he’s holding one of those funny-shaped, smelly cigarettes.

  “You waiting?” he says, flicking his head at the bathroom door.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Right.” He takes a drag from his cigarette. “So you one of Jack’s friends?”

  Friend isn’t exactly the right word, but the guy probably isn’t interested in my life story, so I just nod.

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Tony,” he says and holds up his hand for a bro shake.

  I shake it. “Matt.”

  “Right.”

  The sound of running water is coming from the bathroom. No flushing toilet, just the tap running. A minute later the door opens and a girl careens into the hallway, hitting her shoulder against the door frame in the process.

  “Ouch!” she says and laughs. Making her way back into the living room, she hits her other shoulder against the next door frame.

  “Do you mind, Matt?” Tony says. “I really gotta go.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Before he enters the bathroom, he hands me his cigarette.

  “Thanks, but I don’t—”

  “Can you just hold this for me? I need both my hands to hold my dick, and I don’t want hot ash falling on it while I’m peeing.”

  “Right, sure,” I say. Tony closes the door and I look at the reefer in my hand. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? It doesn’t look like a regular cigarette and it doesn’t smell like one either. I carefully lift it up to my nose and smell its strangely intriguing, sweet smell. After a quick look left and right to make sure nobody is watching, I put the reefer to my lips and take a small puff. I don’t feel anything except a strong, musty smell in my mouth. I take another drag, and this time I inhale the smoke deep into my lungs. It burns, it stings, but I manage to exhale it without coughing. A few moments later I feel lightheaded and exhilarated. Here I am, Matthew Elliot Dunstan, at my first party, drinking and smoking weed like a boss.

  If only Greg and Zoey could see me, I’m thinking and I giggle.

  Then I’m thinking, If only Mom and Dad could see me, and I cringe, and my cringe makes me giggle some more.

  I take another drag.

  “Matt!”

  Startled, I have to I cough. I look in the direction of the voice and see Chris floating towards me.

  That’s funny. I didn’t eve know Chris could float.

  “Oh, hi!” I say, and my smile feels like it’s stretching from one ear to the other.

  “I see you’re enjoying yourself, huh?” Chris says, looking at the reefer in my hand.

  It feels like two or three minutes until I can make sense of his words, then I say, “Oh, that! No. No, no. That’s not mine. I’m just holding that for Tony. You see, he needs both his hands to hold his dick …” I giggle, “… and he doesn’t want hot ash falling on it.” I giggle some more because it feels so nice to be giggling.

  “Just holding that for Tony, huh?”

  “Yeah! He needs both hands to hold his dick and …”

  Saying the word dick to Chris makes me giggle again.

  “Just give me that!” he says. With one hand he grabs the reefer, with the other he playfully slaps the back of my head, which is totally hilarious. He takes a deep drag and inhales the smoke forever.

  Again, I hear water running. No tap, just the flushing of the toilet this time. The bathroom door opens, and Tony comes floating out. “Dude,” he says, “that girl left the biggest turd I have ever seen just floating there in the toilet.” He grabs his reefer from Chris’s lips and looks at him. “Thanks for holding that for me, Matt.”

  “No problem,” Chris says. “Good stuff.”

  “Yeah.”

  As fascinating as Chris and Tony’s conversation is, I really gotta go, so I turn
and float into the bathroom. I didn’t even know I could float, but apparently I can, and I’m really good at it too.

  I’m a natural born floater, I’m thinking proudly as I hover over the toilet and unpack my dick to relieve myself. As my urine is flows down the bowl, the world around me melts. The grimy bathroom tiles, the house, the music, Jack and Chris and Tony and David, the house, the street, Brookhurst, my family, Zoey and Alfonso and Phil, the world, the entire universe and I become one conglomerated mess, a beautiful mess, the messiest, most beautiful mess I’ve ever seen. I’m overcome by a profound feeling of love for my world, my life, my everything. What’s not to love? I have the best best friend in the world, I have a huge crush on a super sexy guy who seems to be really into me, and I’m out partying on a Saturday night, drinking beer and smoking weed. Screw strict parents, obnoxious little brothers, and stupid school assignments with weird, freaky-looking partners. This is my life, and I’m going to live it the way I see fit, and whoever doesn’t like it can go wherever it is the devil resides these days.

  Trump Tower, probably.

  I don’t know how long I’m standing there, contemplating life, the universe, and everything with my leaking dick in my hand. Time has long since lost all its defining properties.

  Nothing was, nothing will be.

  Everything just is.

  I am.

  I am floating back to the door, and when I open it, I’m not even surprised to see Chris gone and Jack standing in his place. Why would I be surprised? It’s Jack’s house, goddammit, and he can fricking well stand wherever he likes! He just happens to stand right outside the bathroom, and I’m genuinely happy to see him.

  Curiously, so is he.

  “Oh Maddie,” he says and puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’ve been missing you.”

  As he leads me down the hallway, away from the buzzing living room and toward the stairs, he leans his head against my neck. His warm breath smells of beer and nicotine as he continues to slur, “I like you, Maddie. I really, really like you.”