by Kage Alan
He gave me a look as if to say I knew exactly what he was talking about and it wasn't that.
"I'm a little lost here."
"I know you're lost, my son.” Reverend Shelton looked said and pointed to a door that had appeared to my left. “Go through there, and may God be with you and show you back to His kingdom."
"Thanks.” What a strange way for him to end our conversation.
I hadn't realized I was so far off the path in life God wanted me to follow. The reverend apparently had a paper that said so, though, so it must be true. Isn't that the way it worked with religion? It was printed somewhere and therefore must be true?
I stood up and started towards the door. Just before I opened it, I turned back around and could swear I saw the reverend shaking his head at my paper and mumbling something that sounded vaguely like “unholy.” Since when did the Church dislike English majors?
The next room turned out to be another waiting room, though it was very different from the first one I'd been in. For one, it wasn't all black and white. Colorful rainbows decorated these walls, and there were triangular chairs spread throughout the room. Even the pencils and pens lying on the receptionist's desk were the same colors found in the rest of the room. Was this the daycare part of the building? If the appointment person had made another mistake, they were going to hear about it!
"Andy?” A man poked his head out from one of two office doors, and I nodded. “Why don't you have a seat. I'm just finishing up with your sponsor, and then we'll get you in here in a moment."
"Okay.” Sponsor? What sponsor? I didn't realize I needed one and certainly never knew I had one. This whole procedure was entirely ridiculous. All I wanted to do was find out if the damn university had anything to offer me or not. The way things stood, I was more than content to go back to the cornfields, the smell of fertilizer and anti-McDonalds campaigns.
I sat down impatiently and looked around for a magazine, hoping Time had a movie review I hadn't read.
"Holy..."
The magazines were as different in this waiting room as the waiting room itself. Instead of the respectable and recognizable titles I'd seen earlier, there were copies of Advocate and, most unexpectedly, Playgirl. I wondered if the receptionist or counselor knew they were out here. Someone was obviously playing a prank, so maybe I should get rid of them, or at least bring it to their attention. If this area did house a daycare program, I was certain parents wouldn't want their children looking at a magazine like that.
"I think we have things well in hand.” The man who had spoken before appeared next to me. “You can come on in now."
"Great.” That hadn't taken as long as I thought it would. I stood up and followed him back into his office. “Listen, just so you know, uh, somebody stuck a Playgirl magazine out there on the table."
"I know.” He looked at me slyly. “It's the Mel Gibson issue. I'm surprised no one's stolen it yet. Have a seat."
I sat down in one of the triangular rainbow-colored chairs as he took his place on the other side of the desk. Whoever my sponsor was, he or she was no longer in the room. That was really the least of my worries. What bothered me was that the counselor knew exactly what issue the Playgirl was and expressed surprise not at the fact it was out there in the open, but that no one had stolen it. I understood that UCLA was liberal, but I had no idea just how liberal. Furthermore, I knew Mel Gibson enjoyed showing off his bottom in movies, but I'd never heard of him showing it off in glossy print.
"Look,” I began, “I'll make this simple. I don't want holy water, communion wafers or a look at Mel Gibson's ass or any other private areas. All I want to know is how good your English program is in case, however unlikely, I should decide to transfer."
"Oh,” the counselor scoffed, “we've already dispensed with that major and chosen the appro-priate one for you. Now, if you'll just take a look at these—"
"Excuse me?” I cut him off. “You and somebody else dispensed with my major? This decision was made for me and without my consent?"
I had no idea what to say to this. These people had some nerve.
The counselor was peering at me, uncertain why I was balking.
"Did it occur to anyone that I might actually like English and be fairly proficient at it?"
"Well,” the man piped up, “of course we took that into consideration. Consider this, however. Why limit yourself to just English?” He was starting to become enthusiastic. “Why not embrace the shoes of the major you were born to fill instead? Why not follow the road you have always naturally and instinctively known you should be traveling?"
"Don't even say chemistry,” I warned.
"No, not that.” He chuckled. “Not chemistry."
"Then what? What?” I demanded. “What major am I so well suited for? Huh?"
"Homosexuality!” he exclaimed triumphantly.
"That's not a major.” I sat back in the chair in disgust. “It's a lifestyle, and a lifestyle by choice. That means I have a choice in this matter, and I choose not to bother with it. I mean...” I snorted in exasperation. “...what kind of courses could possibly be offered for such a ridiculous curriculum?"
Oh, I could see it now. The first one would start off with basic stuff, like color identification. No longer could I say something was yellow, dark green, beige, blue, orange or light green. It would be lemon, kiwi, taupe, turquoise, crush and lime from here on out. I don't think so!
"That's the beauty of the major, though.” The counselor pulled a catalogue out of his desk and opened it to some page I couldn't see. “There aren't any what you might call regular courses offered."
"Then what kind are there?"
"Intercourses!"
He had to be kidding.
"There're two major areas you have to pass in the intercourses, only it doesn't matter which you take first. One is the Oral Intercourse, which consists of the Amateur, Competent and VHS-Friendly levels. We have several electives available for the Oral area, including...” He searched a few pages further in the book. “...the Gag Reflex, Tongue—Instrument of Pleasure, and Ingestion."
"Oh, those are so important in life,” I muttered as sarcastically as I possibly could.
"You know it!” He completely ignored my atti-tude and pressed on. “The second intercourse is a real favorite of students: Anal. Unfortunately, not everybody is cut out for the Anal Intercourse, and most of the ones who aren't don't make it past Penetration, the first level. Once you get to Depth Perception, the second level, those who are there are in it for keeps. The third level, obviously, is Diddling."
"Obviously."
"And the electives..."
"I can hardly wait."
"...are High-Octane Lubrication, Frequent Frantic Fornicating and The Bald—"
"I get the point,” I interrupted, “or at least a picture that comes to mind. I don't think I need to know more."
"So.” He pulled some papers out of his desk and laid them down in front of me. “The sooner we get you processed and enrolled, the sooner you can start your new life and I can pick up my free microwave oven.” The counselor seemed overjoyed at the prospect of claiming his prize. “Now, if I can get five more people, I'll be eligible for a trip for two to Hawaii!"
"Hawaii? There aren't any—wait a second.” I objected. “I'm not signing anything, so you can hold off on that microwave."
"Andy.” He seemed saddened by my attitude. “We don't need you to sign on the dotted line right now."
I was relieved. This might buy me enough time to escape from his office and get the hell back home where I belonged.
"You signed it before you were even born. This isn't a choice or lifestyle. It's the way things really are, who you really are. Andy Stevenson, this is your life! You just have to acknowledge it to start."
"Look, for the last time, I'm not gay!"
"Sure you're not, Andy.” The counselor winked at me. “And neither is Nathan Lane or Elton John."
"They aren't gay.” Nathan Lane
? Oh, come on! Well, maybe. And Elton John was just a bit peculiar in his outfits and such. He couldn't possibly be gay. Hell, he was about as likely to be “festive” as ... that one guy who starred in the movie Hearts Of Fire with Fiona and Bob Dylan. What was his name again? Rupert Everett!
"You're so closeted you can't see what's in front of your face."
"Excuse me?” It occurred to me suddenly that this was all just a dream. I didn't have to be here. I didn't have to stay. “I don't have to take this."
He looked at me with sad eyes again.
"In fact, I'm going to wake up now."
"Yes.” He smiled gently. “I believe you will."
* * * *
I think Jenny sensed there was something wrong between Jordan and I. Almost anyone else would have chalked it up to a personality conflict mixed with some overt hostility, but not her. Jordan was a good kid and, as far she knew, so was I, therefore it must be something other than boys just being boys—or boys doing boys in Jordan's case although he hadn't “done” me.
There was a reason for the tension, and Jenny was bound and determined to see us work it out whether we wanted to or not. Her plan was simple. Jordan had an errand to run in the morning and was going to meet up with us at a restaurant near the beach in the afternoon, only Jenny had no intention of making it a group event. No sooner had we pulled into the parking lot when her pager went off. She excused herself to use a payphone then reappeared a few minutes later.
"Andy.” She put on her best apologetic face. “That was Kenny. My dear absent-minded husband seems to have left his briefcase at home and—"
"No, he didn't,” Benny interrupted.
"Yes ... he ... did.” She stared him down then turned back to me. “And I have to go take it to him. Someone's going to have to wait for Jordan, though, so..."
"No, he didn't,” Lenny chimed in.
"Do you both like living?” Jenny raised her voice, and they immediately nodded that they did, indeed. “Now, what did I just say?"
"Daddy left his briefcase at home,” Benny repeated.
"And Andy has to wait here for Jordan,” Lenny finished.
"That's right,” She growled at them, then looked back at me with the sweetest of smiles. “Would you be a dear and wait here for Jordan? He doesn't have a pager, and I don't want him to think that something happened to us. Here.” She pulled a twenty out of her purse and forced it into my hand. “Go grab something to eat, and we'll catch up with you later."
She shooed the kids back into the minivan, tossed my bag out the window and was backing out of the space before I even had a chance to respond.
I knew a set-up when I saw one, but they were generally a bit more subtle than this. What could I do except stand there with a dumbfounded look on my face and wonder what the hell had just happened? I threw my hands up in the air in a desperate attempt to express absolutely nothing that came to mind then headed for the entrance. At least I'd eat.
It was one of those restaurants that served a little bit of everything, didn't specialize in anything and made it all just a little bit differently so that they could call it “California cuisine.” Well, that's how I interpreted it, anyway. I ended up with something that was called a “BLT” yet was anything but a BLT. Bean sprouts, lox and tangelos just wasn't the same as bacon, lettuce and tomatoes, but it was my own fault for not reading the description. Who knew?
I looked around for a place to sit and actually expected to find one. Forget for a moment that it was lunchtime, and that all the kids were out of school and it was a beautiful day outside. After all, I was certain people had better things to do than eat at this very same restaurant and take up all the tables at the very moment I was looking for one. Right, and it was just a rumor that people went out shopping the day after Thanksgiving.
"Hey, Detroit!” a voice called out. I turned towards the sound on the chance that whoever it was might actually mean me. Sure enough, sitting at a table by herself and finishing up some peach cobbler while reading a book was the girl from the beach the previous day who'd wanted to charge me ten dollars to put suntan lotion on her. She waved for to me to come over. Like an idiot, I did.
"I just used up most of my cash and I didn't bring the checkbook,” I told her sarcastically, “so I don't know if I can afford to sit here."
"That's okay,” she assured me and winked. “I'm not charging."
"What?” I looked at her in mock surprise. “Tips were good yesterday?"
"I'm not a prostitute.” She didn't sound amused.
"True. I'd have been the one getting screwed,” I muttered just loud enough for her to hear. “May I sit down?"
"Go ahead, Detroit,” she replied evenly. “I'm Jan-ice, by the way."
"I'm Andy.” I sat down and spread a napkin across my lap. “Everyone else seems to call me something else, so if you want to call me ‘Detroit,’ I'll answer to that, too. What are you reading?"
"The Wolf and The Dove by Kathleen Woodewis.” Janice watched my face twitch. “Is there a problem?"
"That book just isn't my idea of romance.” I knew because I'd bought all of Woodewis's books for my mother for her birthday and Christmas. While I hadn't actually read them, I did skim them and read the back covers. “If some guy invading a woman's world, and her wanting to kill him and then ending up finding herself attracted to him does it for you, fine. I'd hardly call that love, though."
"Sure, and you were looking for romance and love yesterday at the beach, weren't you?"
Okay, she had a point.
"Did you know that most tourists come here because they think California women are so desperate for sex that we'll employ fruit when we can't get a man?"
"I've ... never heard that before.” My face said differently.
"I wonder where people get these ideas from sometimes.” She looked around the room and shook her head. “Like I have nothing better to do with my life than think about sex twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Believe me, I can't stand it when men stare at my boobs and think because I'm blond that I want to be...” She paused. “How do they put it? ‘Championed by some adventurous soul looking to share some of his ... ‘"
"Spirit?” I suggested. That sounded really famil-iar to me. Maybe I wasn't meant to be a romance writer after all. I mean, if she could come up with the same wording I did...
"Exactly. I mean, who talks like that, anyway?"
Did she expect me to answer that? I hoped not.
"Let me offer you some insight,” she went on. “You have no idea what it's like to be undressed in the daydreams of every guy who walks by, and looked upon solely as an object of sexual desire. I want to be seen as someone much more. I have brains, dreams, wants, needs, desires of my own, and I want someone to love me for more than the sum of my outer beauty.
"Just because someone approaches me doesn't mean I'm going to like them, but you wouldn't believe the things they say if I don't think their pick-up lines are the wittiest and most charming things I've ever heard. Most of the time when I do date, they're only interested in one thing. Now, not all of them are assholes, but enough of them."
Several long moments of silence passed before she got curious enough to wonder what I was thinking.
"Well?"
"I'm still a little stuck on me not having any idea what it's like to be undressed in someone's daydreams and looked upon as an object of sexual desire."
She didn't know about Jordan.
"You've just completely missed the entire point of the conversation.” Janice sighed, took a bite of her cobbler and picked her book back up. “Eat your lunch."
"I'm not totally missing the point.” I picked my sandwich up and took a bite. “Oh, what the hell!” I grimaced. “This is disgusting!"
"You should have asked them to put avocado on it."
"This was one of the few things I didn't think would have avocado.” I picked up a French fry and tested it to make sure it really was a French fry and not some other funky thing. It wa
s real. “Anyway, it's not like what you were saying is the first time I've ever heard that, and it's not like I don't have insight into people, either. I'm not completely shallow."
"Well.” Janice set her book back down. “By all means, please share this brilliant insight with me."
"Fine. I will.” I looked around and gathered my thoughts, except there weren't any. “People are like...” My eyes finally rested on ... “French fries."
"That's your insight? An analogy that people are like French fries?” She stared at me, but couldn't figure out if I was telling her the truth or pulling this out of my ass. I think it was the uncertainty that prompted her to let me continue. “Okay, how?"
Yeah, genius, how?
This was going well. Janice had actually thought enough to ask me to sit down so she could share some of her insight with me, and I was paying her back with ca-ca. It was my duty as a writer to be thorough in all forms of thought and quick tidbits of wisdom, including such subjects as love, romance and the binding energy that brought the people of the world together.
It was also my duty to be able to bullshit when necessary.
"I think it's the potato that's important as opposed to strictly the fry itself."
Janice gave me a perplexed look.
"They're like parts ... parts that make up the whole. For instance, we eat French fries with salt and ketchup, but you wouldn't do that with a baked potato. Most people eat that with butter and sometimes sour cream, but not ketchup. Likewise, we don't smother French fries with butter or sour cream. Do you follow me?"
She didn't.
"Okay, take home fries or hash browns, now. We have ketchup with those, but no sour cream. Sometimes we even butter them or add eggs, but you wouldn't add eggs to a baked potato. We also wouldn't have eggs with French fries, but we would the hash browns. Then you get into combinations like potato salad, which has salad dressing as opposed to sour cream. I mean, they're both white substances, but miles apart in taste and compatibility. When was the last time you had salad dressing with a baked potato or a French fry? It would be like mayonnaise instead of vanilla sauce on your cobbler."
