I’m loving it.
“You made reservations at Mangiano’s? Oh, honey, you know that’s my favorite place,” I say into the phone.
“Hmm… duly noted,” the wookiee responds. “But I have the feeling you’re not really talking to me, are you?”
“Of course not, snookums.”
“There’s someone else in the room, isn’t there, snookums?”
Someone who’s about to eat her words.
“Yes there is, darling,” I answer.
“Ah. Ex boyfriend?”
“No, you don’t have to buy me roses, too.”
“Um, catty rival?”
“No, seven is perfect.”
“Mother?”
“When you’re right, you’re right, snookums.”
“Ah ha! Hey, you know what would really impress her?” the wookiee asks. “If you went out with me Saturday night. I know this killer pizza joint downtown that-”
“What’s that?” I ask, cutting him off. “You have a patient waiting? Of course I understand. I’ll see you tonight then.”
“Hey, I’m available tonight too, if you want we could-”
But I quickly cut him off, flipping my phone shut before he gets the wrong idea.
However, I’m pleased to see our conversation has had the desired effect. Mom looks almost sorry for doubting my abilities to snare a doctor. Almost. The Black Widow doesn’t really do apologetic.
“So,” she says, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle from her suit, “Your doctor’s name is Jacob?”
“That’s right,” I say, with almost as much perk as Sam.
“I’d love to meet him.” Her eyes shoot up to challenge me.
“Oh, I’m sure you will sometime.”
“Great. How about you bring him to our mother daughter lunch this week. That is, is he isn’t too busy at the hospital?” She draws this last word out like a taunt.
I gulp down a dry swallow, flinching only minimally as Helga sticks me in the butt again. “Great,” I hear myself say. “He’d love to.”
Chapter Twenty:
David, the Straight Flush
The red curtain comes down, and Mom and Dad begin clapping so hard I think their palms turn red. Mom leans over to Dad and asks, “How’d he do that?”
Dad responds, “I dunno. That was somethin’, huh?”
Vlad the Magnificent was just the show to take them to. No nudity, no men in tights, just good clean sawing a lady in half. I love Kit for getting us tickets. Not only because Mom and Dad are happy to have experienced the shinier side of Vegas, but because for the last hour and a half I haven’t had to say one word.
Thank God, ‘cause I am exhausted. I don’t know if I can eat one more buffet cut of mystery meat or watch my Dad point out one more busty woman in a tube top and nudge me in the ribs with a, “Huh, huh, getta loada her son.” I think the time I’ve put in with my parents this past week should earn me get-out-of-Christmas-free passes for at least the next decade.
But they’re going home tonight. I’m practically giddy at the thought. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. Which is why I’m currently thanking the gods they’re leaving. Because if I have to wear these Levi's and sports jerseys one more day, I think I’m going to get a rash from horrible fashionitis. Oh what I wouldn’t give to feel the sweet softness of silk against my poor abused skin. I even stopped moisturizing when I caught Dad looking at me funny over horrible domestic beers at the two dollar blackjack tables. Instead, I stopped shaving yesterday, going for the billygoat gruff look. While this seemed to quell his suspicion, it’s itching like I can’t believe. I caught my reflection in the mirrors over the Circus Circus bar and swore I was looking at the Brawny guy, all rugged stubble and flannel.
And the worst part is Julio. I haven’t even seen him for four days, and I miss him. God, do I miss him. And I hate the way we left things. He hasn’t even tried to call or text me or anything, and I’m starting to get really worried that things may not go back to normal even once Mom and Dad go back to their desert.
I tried to call him last night. I dropped my parents off in the Circus Circus lobby after a night of watery margaritas at the Nickel Town casino and dialed Ella’s house on my cell. I got through to Juanita, but she said Julio wasn’t home. He and Ella were out at the “man place.” I have no idea where she meant, but with a name like that, it couldn’t be good.
So instead I drove home and went to bed. But as I lay in the dark, the room suddenly seemed unbearably empty without Julio. I began to wonder where he was, what he was doing, and worst of all, who he was with. God help me, I had visions of him going a bump and grind with Marc and his leather pants. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get that nightmare image out of my head, any exhaustion from a night at Nickel Town magically transformed into the unquenchable urge to drive downtown and wrap my hands around Marc’s scrawny little neck. I admit it, I was actually jealous. I spent the entire night tossing and turning and picturing Julio leaving me.
I was, to steal a phrase from High Desert David, dog tired when Mom and Dad dragged me out of bed this morning to go visit the Hoover Dam. Luckily, I didn’t have to do much talking there, as Mom and Dad amused themselves talking about the damn water and the damn tourists, and everything else damn about the Hoover Dam, a la Chevy Chase.
“Well, that was a hell of a show,” my dad says, as the house lights go up and we gather our belongings.
“How did that girl do that? Just appear behind that black curtain like that? I mean, there was nobody there.” Mom’s still shaking her head in wonderment as she hauls gargantu-purse onto her shoulder and we make our way out of the theater. “Are you really friends with that lady he saws in half?” my mom asks.
“Kit? Yeah, she’s a friend of mine.”
Dad nudges me in the ribs with his elbow and grunts, “Huh, huh.” Puhlease.
“You think you could git her to tell you how she did that?”
“I don’t think so, Ma. Magicians are pretty tight-lipped about these things.”
“She’s real pretty,” Mom says again. “I never seen anyone so blonde as that.”
“It’s a wig, Ma.”
“No!” she says, clearly surprised.
I usher them up the crowded aisle, out of the theater amidst the rest of Vlad’s starry eyed fans, and outside into the night. It’s a cool, the desert weather extremes of winter having kicked in. What I wouldn’t give for my lamb's wool jacket with the tapered waist and calfskin cuffs. Instead I shove my hands into my denim pockets as I ask, “So, where did you park?”
“Around the back,” he replies.
“You’re not in the lot?” My poor feet groan in protest.
“Hell no.”
“Language, Frank,” my mother whispers.
Dad ignores her. “The bastard wanted to charge me six dollars just to park there. Why pay him when I can park on the side street for free?”
Now I groan. I could have told him that there’s free casino parking in the lot down the street, which, coincidentally is where little ol’ me parked his red Miata.
But, I don’t. Instead making the long trek in silence as we circle around the back of the casino to the side street. Which is really more like the kind of grimy service alley you see on CSI. Their Chevy four by four is parked off to the side, sandwiched between an overflowing dumpster and a boarded up service entrance. The only other car in sight is a red pickup with three guys in scraggly beards sharing a six pack of Budweiser in the cab. More good ol’ boys too cheap to pay for parking.
“See, no fees here,” my dad says, his pudgy, red face beaming with the pride of a successful parking mission.
I bite my tongue, refraining from pointing out the rancid coleslaw leaking onto his tires from the open dumpster. Instead, I console myself with the thought that in another five minutes they’ll be safely in their American made pick-up on their way back to the High Desert, and I’ll be zipping home for a long hot bath with imported lavender body wash and an
exfoliating facial to follow. I can almost feel my pores sighing in relief as we cross the dark expanse of asphalt behind The Grand. Only a few more steps, and I’m home free.
Only, of course, I don’t get there. That would be way too easy.
Instead I hear a sound that roots me to the spot, my three hundred dollar boots suddenly feeling like lead instead of imported leather.
“David?”
I freeze, closing my eyes and hoping I’m hallucinating. If I don’t move, maybe this will all go away. Maybe he’ll just disappear behind a puff of smoke like Kit, and I can magically usher my parents out of Vegas before the house lights go up, illuminating the truth about their less than hetero son.
“David!”
Damn. He’s still there. Julio calls out my name again, closer this time, and I can feel him closing in. Somehow, though, I still can’t bring myself to turn around. Maybe if I stand really still he won’t notice me. That’s it, I’ll blend into the asphalt and he’ll rush right past me. It could happen.
“I thought that was you I saw coming out of the theater,” Julio says. “Ella and I caught Kit’s show tonight too. Wasn’t it great?”
Mom and Dad both turn around at the sound of his voice. Mom clutches her purse a little closer to her side, and Dad’s eyes narrow. Shit. I force myself to turn around and face my boyfriend.
I do. And, God, does he look good. A feeling of instant warmth fills me from the inside. I’ve missed him. He’s dressed in tight leather pants and an indigo silk shirt, pointy-toed cowboy boots, the gold necklace I bought him for Christmas, and a handful of black jelly bracelets around his wrists.
Mom and Dad are kind of looking from him to me as if waiting for an explanation. I quickly run through possibilities in my head. Another gay House of Blues bartender? Who follows me into a dark alley at night? Nope, not liking that one. I know, a stalker. Hmmm… even a gay stalker would make them raise an eyebrow or two. A buddy I go to the game with? I take another look at Julio. Puhlease. There’s no way he looks like he spend every Sunday cheering on the Bronco’s.
“Hi,” Julio says, extending a hand to my Dad. “I’m Julio.”
Dad shakes it, reluctantly, the black jelly bracelets on Julio’s wrists bobbing up and down as he does. Then Julio and Mom shake hands. She’s looking back and forth from me to Julio as if she’s watching a ping-pong tournament.
Julio unhands Mom, and she gives my dad a sideways look. I’m still too frozen with fear to interpret it, but he grunts under his breath as a response. They still haven’t said a thing.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat and trying not to sound like I’m on the verge of a breakdown. “What a surprise meeting you here. Julio is, uh, he’s… my landlord.” Oh lordy, that was lame, but what can I do? Julio cocks his head to one side, looking at me funny. He’s a little upset, I can tell by the way his jaw clenches together tightly, but what am I supposed to say to them?
I know Julio thinks I should come clean. But he just doesn’t get it. He’s never had to hide who he really is. Julio’s parents never expected him to date the head cheerleader, marry a nice Christian girl, and raise a whole gaggle of little dirt bike racers. They knew what they were getting into. Not mine. He just doesn’t get it. Sorry, honey, you have to be the landlord.
“Oh. Well, it’s a wonderful building you have there,” my mother says, speaking slowly as if Julio might not understand English.
His jaw tenses again, but he smiles politely at my mother and says, “Thank you Mrs. Campbell.” Mom relaxes her grasp on her bag a little at Julio’s effort to eradicate his accent.
“David told me his parents were coming into town. I hope you’ve had a nice stay.”
“Oh, yes,” Mom says, “It’s been just a hoot. We don’t git to see David as much as we like, so this has been a real treat. Hasn’t it, Frank?”
Dad grunts again. He still hasn’t said anything. He’s just looking from Julio to me and back again. It’s the same look he gave my moisturized, clean shaven cheeks the other day. Despite the cool night, I think I feel a sweat beginning to break out on my brow. I clear my throat. “Well, Mom and Dad have a long drive ahead of them.”
“Oh, I hate to leave you,” Mom says. She gives me a big hug, her eyes looking teary. Dad shakes my hand and claps me on the back.
“It was so nice to see my guys together again,” Mom says, blinking back tears. “You’ll have to come visit us soon, David. Maybe for your Dad’s birthday next month. I love to see all my guys together in one place.”
“Maybe, Ma.” Maybe, as in give me a couple days to come up with a fabulous excuse not to.
Mom gets into the truck, and Dad starts the engine. Mom shouts out the window, “Nice to have met you, Julio.” Dad doesn’t say anything. Not even a grunt. They pull out of the alley as Julio and I stand there waving.
The second they merge into traffic, and out of sight, I turn to Julio.
“What the hell was that?”
“What?” he asks, the niceties of a moment ago completely shed. His eyes are flashing that Latin fire again, and his congenial smile is a distinct memory.
“That. What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“I wanted to meet your parents. I was toned down.”
“Toned down? Julio, there is no such thing with you.”
“Sorry, if I didn’t drape myself in cheap denim,” he says looking me up and down with disdain.
“Hey, I had to wear this okay?”
“You had to?”
“I had to for them. They are my parents.”
“They’re nice people, David.” His expression softens for a moment, and, heaven help me, my heart actually melts. Julio liked my parents. It hits me with the jolt just how much that means to me.
“Yes, they are,” I answer. “Which is why I don’t want to give them both heart attacks with the news their son is gay.”
“So you really think this is the answer?” Julio gestures again to my hetero costume.
And it’s not so much the way he says it, but the look he gives me. Like he find me suddenly repulsive. I wonder what he’d think if I told him this is the same outfit I wore my entire childhood. That until I came to Vegas I didn’t know an Armani from a Tar-shay. That I rode dirt bikes every Saturday and actually yelled, “yee-haw” when I won the state championship. Does he even know me at all? I don’t even know anymore. All I know is I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me, and instead of breaking down into the tears I feel forming in my throat, I get angry.
“It’s the only answer I have,” I yell.
“That’s such crap, David. You’re better than this.”
“What? What do you want from me?” I ask, my own tone rising to match the tension etching his face. Because right at the moment, I really don’t know. I’m trying. I’m trying to be understanding, but he isn’t. He just doesn’t get it. They can’t handle having a gay son. It’s not my fault I was born to people who can’t handle having a gay son. So, what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t please everyone. How is it fair for him to demand that I be who he wants instead?
And despite how angry he’s making me, I can’t get over how much I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. I hate the fact that this gulf has opened up between us and it’s scaring me that the more we stand here arguing, the bigger it seems to get.
All I want to do is just put my arms around him and tell him I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment anymore, and I don’t want feel insanely jealous at three in the morning wondering where he is. But I can tell by the look on his face, that won’t be happening. We’re suddenly miles apart and, it’s not just because I’m dressed in a baseball cap and sports jerseys to his Cavalli and Armani. It’s because he can’t ever really understand me. Can’t understand why I need to do this. He can’t accept me any more than my parents can.
“I want you to just be David,” he says.
“I am being David,” I yell.
I
think I see the Budweiser boys getting out of the red pickup now, watching us, but I don’t care. I don’t care anymore who sees us yelling at each other or what they think. All I care about is the way I feel my life slowly slipping away from me with every word out of Julio’s mouth.
“This is it. This is as David as I’m going to be. I have parents who are hicks, okay? I have parents that can’t accept a gay son. That’s the way it is.”
“It’s the way you make it, David,” he says, his volume matching mine now. And I know the guys from the truck are staring, but all I can see is Julio. And his beautiful brown eyes flashing at me. And the gulf between us widening with every word.
“I didn’t create this, Julio. I’m just stuck living it.”
“You are so full of shit,” he shoots back. “Look at you. You’re not on stage, David. You can’t play a different role for everyone. This… this is disgusting.”
“Well, if you find me so disgusting, maybe you should just stay at Ella’s,” I spit back.
“Maybe I will!”
There. It’s been said. It hits me as he turns on his snakeskin boots and starts to walk away, that he’s really walking way. From me. From us. It’s over.
Suddenly I want to run after him, yell I’m sorry, I’ll be whoever he wants. But I don’t. Instead I stand rooted to the spot, my chest tight, until Julio is out of sight and I’m standing alone.
As tears well up behind my eyes, I hear the door of the red pickup truck being slammed shut. I vaguely hear heavy sets of footsteps behind me, but don’t spin around until it’s too late.
I only have time to register a large cowboy hat before I hear a sickening thud and the pavement rushes up to meet me. The words, “Fucking queers,” ring in my ears as my vision blurs, three pairs of scuffed work boots dancing before my eyes. And only then do I realize the sickening thud was me.
Then everything goes black.
Chapter Twenty-one:
Kit, the Ace of Clubs
The smoke billows around me, the audience on its feet cheering and clapping and calling his name. He holds his hand out for me, and I take it, gliding to center stage beside him as we take our bows. I look out into the crowd, the bright spotlights making it impossible to distinguish one clapping form from the next. Vlad raises his hands into the air, then falls in an exaggerated bow. Causing the applause to erupt into a thunderous roar.
What Happens in Vegas Page 18
