by P. J. Post
“I do what? What am I? How drunk are you Larry?”
“Not too drunk to take you,” he says, raising his fists.
“Look, that’s the second time in two weeks you’ve sucker punched me, but I’m over it — got it? If you want to do this, then that’s what’s going to happen. But know that I’m going to finish it once and for all.”
I’m still pissed, but for some reason, the rage is evaporating.
Larry steps back and looks at me. He turns back into the halo of the street light, and I see a different expression on his face, not one of anger, but something else entirely. I recognize it. I’ve never seen it on a guy, at least not one looking at me, but I’ve sure as shit seen it on girls that like me.
Shit. The truth hits me and if he wasn’t so wound up about it, it would almost be comical. He’s gay and he’s sweet on me.
That actually explains a lot. Some guys might get weird about this, but I could care less. Well, that’s not entirely true. I once heard someone say that it was better to be looked over than over looked, so it’s kind of flattering. But his feelings are all kinds of misplaced.
“Larry, do you have something to tell me?” I ask softly.
“No, what the hell are you talking about?” he shoots back.
“Larry,” I say again, “before I kick your ass, do you have something to tell me? And then maybe we can just talk instead of throwing punches and shit?”
Larry looks away but lowers his fists.
“Is that what all this skinhead shit is about? All this posing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His response lacks conviction.
“I always knew something was fucked up about you,” I say.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he says, raising his fists again.
“No, no, no. That came out wrong. I always had a weird disconnect between some of the stuff you did on stage, your music and the bullshit attitude you throw around off stage. The off-stage shit always sounds fake.”
“You don’t know,” he says quietly.
“I don’t know what?”
“What it’s like, especially in Oklahoma.” He spits out blood.
“What what’s like? It’s just me, you like me, right? I mean that’s where all this anger is coming from, right? You’re trying to convince everyone of something? How macho you are, is that it?”
He just looks away scowling.
“Or is it you’re trying to convince yourself of something? But I’m like a goddamn thorn in your heart, huh? I’m the one who screws up all the rationalization?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, shit. Say it fucker.”
“Okay, I’m gay. There, happy?” he says angrily.
“Yeah, I am. Hey, come here,” I say and walk over close to him so he sees my eyes and then take him by the shoulders. “No one gives a shit, dude.”
He laughs nervously and steps back, pacing. “Easy for you to say. My parent’s would freak if they knew.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Because I know them, that’s why. They’d think I was a pervert, like I was choosing to fuck guys instead of dating the prom queen.”
“Are you?” I ask.
“Am I what?”
“A pervert.”
“Fuck you!”
“See, so now that we have that established. Look, I hate your guts, but I’m cool with you being gay. Hell, I might even like you if you stop with the posing bullshit and just be yourself. You parents love you, man. They won’t freak.”
Larry looks at me unevenly and continues to walk around the yard as he runs his hands across his bald head. “It’s hard to talk about, no one gets it. I’m not like what you see in the movies or on TV.”
“What does that mean?”
“In the movies, queers are always lisping and playing dress up and bullshit, like it’s a fucking joke. I played sports, man. I’m a guy, you know. I just like guys, instead of chicks, like that, you know?”
“There are at least two gay bars in the city. I know, I’ve played shows at both of them and they were really cool.”
“You played punk shows at gay bars?” he asks with skepticism.
“I was in a dance band for a while last summer,” I say, grinning. “My point is you’re not alone.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I can’t help you with whatever you’re feeling for me, thanks I guess, but sorry, dude, I’m not like that. I’m into someone else, but they don’t give a shit about me, so we have that in common.” And then I remember what I was trying to get across to the kids at the show tonight. “As for the gay thing, be honest, man. Be who you are. Life’s too short to waste it play-acting or being a douche.”
“Thanks,” he says sarcastically.
“You’re lights out on stage with your tunes, I’ve always said that.”
“No shit?” he asks.
“No shit. Don’t live your life in fear, man. You have to learn to be honest with yourself, and then everyone else will get it.”
“You think so?” he asks cautiously.
“No, not really, but it sounds good, huh?” I say grinning.
“You’re no help. I should have kicked your ass,” he says through a tired grin.
“Look, the people that love you, will love you, no matter what. And if they don’t accept you for who you really are, then they can go fuck themselves.”
“That’s still easy for you to say.”
“You don’t know where I come from, man. You have no idea at all. I know a little bit about self-acceptance and burying shit deep down where you hope no one will ever be able to see it — so deep they’ll never see who you really are.”
He looks at me again and his expression changes, and then he shakes his head in defeat.
“Tell you what. If I’m around, at a show or wherever, I’ll have your back.”
“Does that mean we’re friends?”
“Not a chance, asshole,” I say, laughing. “I mean we might become friends if you turn out to be as cool as Greg. But I won’t stand by and let anyone fuck with you because of who you are.”
“I can handle myself,” he says.
“Everyone needs someone to have their back. Like I said, when I’m around, you can count on me. No shit.”
“You’re serious?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
He nods. “Thanks man, really.”
“No big deal. Oh, but don’t go putting a billboard out or anything, this is still the zipper of the goddamn Bible belt. Just start with close friends at first.” I caution through a wry grin.
He laughs again. “I think it’s going to take some time to adjust. You won’t…”
“Tell anyone? No, man. Like I said, I don’t give a shit.”
“Thanks,” he says holding his face. “Nice punch.”
“Don’t be a wimp, I only grazed you,” I say.
“I think you nearly broke my jaw and my teeth are loose,” he says running his finger inside his mouth.
“I tried to kill you, so consider yourself lucky. Hey, is Greg coming or did I miss him inside?”
“He’s inside,” Larry says.
“So, you were just waiting out here to bushwhack me? How about an apology?”
“For what?”
“For fucking clocking me, that’s what,” I say indignantly.
“Oh yeah,” he laughs. “Sorry.”
“Fuck it, close enough. Go on in. The bathroom is on the left, under the stairs. Get cleaned up, ruin some towels.”
“You’re not coming in with me?” he says with concern.
“No, I’ve had enough for one night.”
“But, your friends…”
“Go find Todd and tell him…tell him the boy in search of his fantasy girl said you were cool.”
“What?”
“Trust me; he’ll know what it means. Just be cool.” I step closer and tap his chest. “This is your secon
d chance to prove if there’s a good guy in here or if you’re really a dick. It’s up to you, dude.”
He starts to walk away and then turns. “Thanks. I didn’t think you were like this.”
“You thought I was an asshole?”
He grins. “Yeah.”
“No, you were right; I am an asshole, but I can’t stomach bullshit.”
He nods and walks back up to the townhouse.
“And drop the Mick, shit,” I shout after him.
I watch him go and rethink my advice. I made it sound so simple, but I’m a hypocrite.
I’m still hiding just as much as Larry is.
§§§§§
When I get back to the Garage, I take my acoustic guitar, a few beers and my smokes outside and have a seat under the orange awning lights on the sidewalk. It’s cooler than it has been over the last few nights and feels nice. It’s so isolated at the back of the industrial park that it feels like I’m the only person on the planet.
Tonya’s Fiat is parked off to the side of the parking lot. I imagine her getting out of it again and then try to shake the memory away.
The truth is I feel weird being inside by myself now. It just feels wrong.
My whole miserable life feels wrong.
Or is it that why I’m just waiting out front for Tonya to get home — again? Love distorts everything. The sad truth though is that I don’t know if she’s coming home tonight or not. She might spend the night with Trevor. And then where does that leave me?
Right back where I was a couple of months ago is where. And that wasn’t so bad. I’ve survived worse than Tonya’s rejection. It doesn’t fucking matter in the end.
I light a cigarette and pop the top of one of my beers. It’s cold and refreshing. I start playing Why I Live, but Tonya’s voice runs through my mind. Her everything runs through my mind, trampling every rationalization I can throw at her.
No matter what I try to tell myself, I’ve never been through anything worse than this, except for Annie. Physical pain heals and scars over. Having my heart cut out doesn’t heal the same way. I know this is true because I’m still not over Annie.
I play and drink and smoke and try to get myself right, but I keep hearing my advice to Larry.
Honesty.
Don’t live in fear.
What does that even mean?
A couple of hours later, I see headlights bouncing down the rough industrial park street. The car pulls into the parking lot. It’s Trevor’s Jag.
I take another drink, but realize it’s only my second beer and even it’s grown warm. I’m way too sober for this.
I stare at the car and after a few moments they get out. Trevor walks around to the front and waves as he says, “Goodnight.”
Tonya seems to notice me because she suddenly stops.
She stares right at me, those brown eyes boring into me.
And then she turns back and meets Trevor at the front of his car. She glances over to me for the briefest of moments and then slides her arms around his neck like she’s going to kiss him.
I suddenly feel sick to my stomach and look away. I’m about to go inside when I notice her walking up to me.
She stops. “Fighting, again?” she says scornfully.
I look back down, unable to meet her eyes.
I focus on her frayed jeans and worn converse tennis shoes. The headlights of Trevor’s Jag flash across my eyes as he pulls out of the parking lot. I replay the scene from that rainy afternoon when I watched her walk back inside the Garage.
Everything has changed, and yet — and yet — for all of my rationalizations and anger, I feel exactly the same way about her.
Fuck it.
She goes to step past me and I reach out and grab the hem of her jeans. She pulls against me, but I hold firm.
“Let go,” she hisses down at me at me.
I don’t dare look up, lest I lose my nerve.
My heart is beating as fast as Greg’s double kick and even with everything I’ve had to deal with in my life — I’ve never known fear like this.
“I’m in love with you, Bethany. I wanted you to know.”
She stands still, silent for what seems like an eternity and then jerks her foot free.
I look up as she opens the door to go inside.
She scarcely glances at me. But when she does, her gaze is cold, anguished hatred.
“Beth…” I begin, but the words won’t come.
She walks inside and lets the door slam against the frame.
So that’s it.
I study my Zippo as I light another cigarette and down the warm beer to ward off the emotion that I feel coming.
I take a drag and pull my knees up, resting my arms on them. I promised myself, no more tears, not for her. I reach down and open the last beer and take a long drink.
I pull my guitar to me, holding it by the neck as the body rests on the pavement, as though we’re dancing.
I lean my head forward and rest it against the neck.
I’m empty inside, just fucking dead.
Mom was wrong. The truth doesn’t need the sun at all.
10
Just Like That
I wake up on the couch, but don’t remember getting here. I’m resting under a thick blanket that I don’t remember getting either.
I sit up and drop my face into my hands, rubbing my eyes. I’m disoriented, like I slept too long. Looking outside I realize it’s probably after lunch time.
And then the image of Beth’s cold glare leaps back into my mind.
Shit.
And then I remember what I told her.
Bethany.
I leap off the couch, stumbling through the blanket and nearly trip. I race up the stairs and into Tonya’s room. I fall back against the wall. It looks like she packed in a hurry. I glance out of the small second floor window overlooking the parking lot. Her car is gone.
And I know she won’t be coming back anytime soon because the proof is on her bed, or rather it’s not.
Her teddy bear is gone.
§§§§§
So that really is it.
I spend the rest of the day trying to pick up the pieces.
Should I look for her?
Should I call someone?
No, there isn’t anyone to call.
The anxiety is almost crippling. How does anyone ever love again after feeling like this? I’d take the worst beating my dad ever gave me over this pain. Love is fucking cruel.
Books and movies make it seem so romantic, the first kiss, the first time couples make love, the intimacy, the closeness, the trust, but it’s all fucking bullshit. Real life doesn’t work like that. I should know better. Of all people, I should know better.
I want to hate her again.
I want to scream at her. Tell her she can’t hurt me.
But that’s bullshit too because I still love her to death.
I can’t play guitar or listen to music, because every goddamn song reminds me of her in one way or another. I don’t feel like drinking either, so I just chain smoke and pace around the Garage throughout the afternoon.
I feel like I have to escape my own skin.
I’m about to go for a walk to spread my misery around when Peggy’s Z pulls up and she and Todd hop out. They’re laughing and hugging and kissing, and I want to kill both of them.
I refuse to ask where they were last night because I’m pretty sure that since neither of them have a home, they rented a hotel room. Good for them, but I don’t want to hear about it.
I’m really happy for them, they need each other, but I’m not in the mood to watch an evening of puppy-love. Maybe the better idea is to just kill myself, instead.
They walk in with a twelve-pack.
“Hey Connor,” Peggy says and hugs me.
“Dude,” Todd says.
“Hey,” I say.
“We lost you at the party,” Todd says. “But I got your message. Larry’s not such a bad guy after all.”
“Hey, did you know he’s gay?” Todd asks.
“Yeah,” I say as though it’s common knowledge.
“Shit, I had no idea,” he says.
Peggy ruffles his hair. “You’re clueless about a lot of things, honey, but I love you anyway.”
“Well, did you know he’s actually pretty cool? And did you know he restores muscle cars? I’m taking the Nova by his dad’s shop next week.” Todd pops the top on a beer and hands it to me. “Where’s Tonya?”
I drop heavily onto the couch. “Have a seat, we need to talk.”
“About what?” he asks as he sits down.
Peggy nestles in beside him, looking at me nervously.
“I think Tonya took off. I think the band might be on hold for a while,” I say.
“Bullshit,” he says, “Where would she go?”
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure she’s gone. She said she might be, going somewhere, that is.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” he asks.
“I just found out last night, before the show.”
Peg crosses her legs and leans over the coffee table and pulls her cigarettes out of her purse. “That doesn’t sound like her,” she says as she lights a smoke. “She would have told me.”
“Would she?” I ask.
“I think so, but maybe not,” she says irritably.
“When is she coming back?” Todd asks.
“I’m not sure, maybe fall, maybe never.”
“Fucking never?” Todd shouts, “That’s just fucking great!”
“Why?” Peggy asks, focusing on her cigarette.
“Family shit? I don’t know for sure.”
“Is it that Trevor asshole? I’ll cream him for this,” Todd says.
“No, it’s not him. This isn’t his fault,” I say.
“Then who?” Todd asks venomously.
Peggy gets up and walks over to the phone. “Her family is fucked up. It might just be what she said. And when she’s done, she‘ll be back. Let me call her folks.”
“This sucks, what are we going to do?” Todd says
“Hang on, let’s find out what’s going on before everyone panics.” Peggy starts to pick up the phone when it rings.
