by Tara Lain
He sat up slowly, half expecting his head to hurt and stomach to lurch like they did when he drank too much, but he hadn’t had even one drink. No. He’d had one kiss. Make that two. What the hell was I thinking? Since he realized he was gay nearly fifteen years before, he’d told no one. Even at ten, he’d known beyond a doubt that nobody in his life wanted to hear how much he liked boys. He didn’t fully understand what it meant to be gay, but he knew it was bad—something his dad made fun of and the other kids curled their lips at.
You’re a fag.
You’re so gay.
They never said that to Artie because he swaggered, spit, and fought to be sure they didn’t. Yeah, he barely needed a brain to get that gay was something he didn’t want to be. And yet—he was.
No matter how tough he got, how many sports he played, how many fights he won, he still had to force his eyes away from the beautiful butts and thighs of the guys in the locker room. So finally, at sixteen, he’d borrowed the car and driven as far as he could get in one evening to a gay bar he’d read about online. Scared witless, he sat in the car and watched the men go in and out. Some were really cute. When he’d worked up his courage, he got out of the car and just stood there. If somebody looked at him who he thought was unattractive, he’d glance at his watch or stare away. Even at sixteen, he’d been big and strong-looking, so nobody messed with him. Finally this really pretty guy glanced at him. With a deep breath, Artie smiled.
His name had been Aubrey. He’d sucked Artie’s cock and didn’t even ask him to return the favor. He’d rocked Artie’s world—but not enough to make him come out.
Artie stood from the trashed bed and dragged himself to the fish tank. “Sorry, guys.”
The little dudes rushed to the glass and then to the surface as Artie sprinkled food. Even sticking his finger in and letting them nibble barely made him feel better. He stared at plecostomus guy doing his vacuum cleaner imitation. “I don’t get me. I finally make this big move and who the fuck do I choose? The king of fucking England. France. Whatever. Somebody so far out of my league, I can’t even see him on the field. Breathing the same air as François should cost me extra.” He sagged onto the end of the couch—the tangerine couch he’d covered to impress François. “He must have been laughing. ‘Poor stupid plumber thinks some Target slipcover is going to do it for me.’ Shit! In my whole life, I never tried to get above myself. I’ve always known where the hell I belonged. When did I get so”—he waved his hands like a windmill—“special?”
He stared at the fish. “I think it started with you guys.” The moments of François on his knees, nose pressed to the glass like a kid, flashed through Artie’s mind. “Fuck that. I’ve been living in fantasyland. Now I need to get back to normal.” He started toward the bedroom, then glanced back. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get rid of you.” He should, but he couldn’t stand it. Not now, anyway.
A half hour later, he plodded down the stairs of his place toward the truck. Don was gardening and waved. “Hey, Artie. How did your friend’s visit go? Did he like the fish?”
Every word of that question hurt, but it wasn’t Don’s fault, so Artie tried to smile. “Yeah, he liked them a lot. And all those suggestions you made worked out really well. He especially loved the cheese.”
“I told you. Gouda’s the best. That was quite a car he arrived in.”
“Yeah. He’s pretty well-off and doesn’t know how to drive. Weird, huh?”
“Not having to drive sounds great to me.”
“I really appreciated all your help. Can I take you to dinner to thank you?”
He waved a hand. “No need. But I’d love to make dinner for both of us and work on a puzzle or something. Maybe a movie.”
Don loved to cook and missed having lots of people to do it for. “It’s a deal if I can buy the food.”
“Agreed.”
“How about this coming weekend?”
“I’ll try to fit it in my busy social schedule.” Don grinned. “Where you off to this lovely day?”
“I’m going to visit my parental unit. I haven’t seen them for a few days.”
“You’re a good son.”
“Thanks.” He shrugged and hoped it didn’t look too uncomfortable. He started to turn, but Don cleared his throat.
“Just because you love them, doesn’t mean you have to emulate them.”
“Uh, what do you mean?”
Don smiled as he clipped at the bushes with his shears. “I’ve never met your folks, but I have met your brother. Nice young man, but not you, and I suspect that you’re unique in your family.”
Artie snorted. “Nothing unique about me. Hell, Don, the guy who came over to see the fish. That’s what unique is. He writes music and plays piano like an angel, and when he walks onto the stage people can’t take their eyes off him. In a room of a thousand people, François would stand out. Me? I’m part of the carpet. Nah, part of the plumbing.” He made a sound that approximated a laugh.
Don kept clipping. “And yet he’s your friend. He enjoys your company.”
“Naw. He just likes my fish.”
Don did laugh. “If you say so.” He looked up with those smart eyes. “Do you remember what I did for a living, Artie?”
“Uh, you were a teacher, right?”
“I was a professor of existential philosophy at UCI.”
Artie grinned. “Whatever that is.”
“You always say you’re dumb and don’t understand things. While you might not grasp my title, if I say an existentialist believes that we’re free to create ourselves, so free it’s terrifying and we try to hide in our boxes, I’ll bet you grasp that idea immediately.”
Artie swallowed. Damn. That’s true. “So what did you call that?”
“Existentialism. Most people don’t get it, Artie. It’s too much for them, but you’re so inquisitive and open to new ideas, you can take it in. The fact is, you’re very smart and have a special quality of intuition few people share.” He curved his lips, and his old eyes warmed even more. “Take my word for it. I tried to pry open closed minds in the classroom for fifty years.”
Artie didn’t know which way to look. Nobody’d ever said anything that nice to him—except maybe François.
Don held up a hand. “That’s your one blind spot I’ve ever seen. You won’t accept good things about yourself. But that doesn’t make what I said any less true.” Don gave him a pat on the arm. “Now go see your family, and maybe later we’ll chat some more.”
With a nod, Artie escaped into the truck. Driving the ten minutes to west side Costa Mesa, all he could think was about being so free to create himself it was scary. Do I really have that much power? I mean, I can’t make myself taller or more handsome. Shit, that’s a shame. He half smiled. But if the answer’s yes, isn’t it kind of an insult to the universe to do less than everything I can? Hell, I’m so dumb, I don’t even know what I could do.
Brain whirling, he pulled in front of his parents’ house. He hadn’t mowed for quite a while, and the grass showed the neglect.
AB ran out of the door and dove for Artie. “Yo, bro! Been missing you.”
“Hi, squirt.” He stared at the lawn. “Hey, how come you haven’t mowed the lawn?”
AB gazed at the front yard like he’d been unaware that grass grew. “I don’t know. You always do it. I guess I thought you liked it.”
“How about making it your job from now on, taking care of the yard? You know, you live here, right? You can mow, edge, maybe cut the bushes.”
“I don’t know nothing about grass and shit.”
“There’s lots of stuff online, or I’ll bet you could come over to my place and learn from Don. He works in his yard all the time, and he knows lots. Hell, you might even like it. He does.”
“Yeah, okay.” He shrugged.
“Learn enough and you could maybe get a job with a landscaper.”
“I ain’t no mow-and-blow dude.” He folded his arms over his chest.
“Nothing wrong with mow-and-blow. Some of the hardest working men I know do that job, and there are lots of companies that do real elegant landscaping and hardscaping. Great stuff.” He pointed. “Grab the lawn mower while I go say hi to Mom and Dad.”
AB frowned but nodded and walked toward the garage.
Artie strode up the steps. Funny he’d never thought of asking AB to mow the lawn before. He rapped once and walked in the always-open front door. They never locked it because that would mean they had to get up to answer the bell. “Hey, guys.”
His mom looked up from her book. “Hi, honey. How are you?” She raised her cheek for a kiss, and he planted it as he walked to his spot on the couch.
“I’m good, Mom.” That was a lie, but she didn’t really want to know. “Hi, Dad.”
His father nodded but never dragged his eyes from the screen, where a group of guys and one cute woman sat around a desk holding forth on some sport or other.
Artie gazed at the screen. What a waste of time. He sucked in a breath at the thought.
His dad said, “Something wrong?”
“Oh no. I was just thinking what an odd job, sitting around talking about sports all day like it was, you know, world peace or something.”
His father just stared at him, then finally said, “Dream job.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
The sound of the old gas lawnmower rumbled through the windows. His mother said, “What’s that?”
“AB’s mowing the lawn.”
“Why?”
“Because the grass is really long and needs mowing.”
“But—”
He nodded. “Yes, I know, I always do it. But AB lives here. He can see when it needs mowing and he can mow.”
“Oh.” Apparently the thought had never occurred to her.
He looked back toward the TV. “Dad, did you ever want to go to college or do something different?”
“What?”
“Just wondered.”
Silence. Artie kept staring at the screen and forced himself not to talk. For a second it seemed like his father wouldn’t answer; then he said, “I tried for a football scholarship.”
His mom said, “You did?”
“Yeah. Before we started going out. I tried, but I wasn’t good enough. Too small for college ball, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you go to college anyway?” Artie smiled at him to show it wasn’t a judgment.
“I really just wanted to play ball. It was pretty, uh, disappointing when I couldn’t. And I was never much good in school.” He let out a long breath. “Anyway, then I met your mom and you came along and that was that.”
Artie glanced at his mom, who looked kind of hurt but maybe not sure why she was hurt. Artie said, “What about you, Mom?”
She sat up straighter in her chair. “I was a real good student. I could have gotten a scholarship to college, but I got pregnant.” She sucked in air. “And that was that.” She said it with a snap.
Whoa. Somehow in twenty-five years he’d missed this whole scenario. He’d wrecked his parents’ lives. No, wait. Couldn’t they have created it some other way? “I like school. I would have gone with you.” He grinned at her.
“But you were just—” She finally got the joke and laughed. “Pretty funny. Do you know how hard it is to work and raise a kid? Your dad and I were just kids and didn’t know anything about raising a kid.”
“Hey, news flash. You did great.” And that was pretty much true.
Her lips parted and tears leaped into her eyes. “Why, th-thank you, Artie.”
His dad said, “Why’d you think of it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about—my life, I guess. It made me wonder more about stuff.”
“Honey, you’ve always been a deep one.” His mother smiled. “Even when you were real little. Why’s the sky blue and why did dinosaurs exist if they were just going to die off? Remember, Al?” She looked at his dad.
“Yeah. Hell, we couldn’t shut you up.” But he chuckled.
“I don’t remember that so well.”
His mom waved a hand. “That’s because it never stopped. You still do it.” She shook her head and went back to her book.
When he glanced at his dad, he’d returned to his fascination with the television. I guess this conversation is over. He stood. “Thanks, guys. See you soon.”
His mom stuck out her cheek, her eyes never leaving the page. He kissed it and walked out the door.
AB pushed the mower across the lawn, his shirt gone and a thin film of sweat glistening on his upper body that had been fit in high school but was now going soft. He stopped when he saw Artie and wiped a hand over his face. “Hey, man, this is hard.”
“Yeah.”
He grinned. “But it’s kind of fun.”
Artie smiled back. “Good. Tackle the flowerbeds, why don’t you? The front here gets lots of sun, and you could plant some pretty flowers. Bet they’d grow.”
AB glanced around with interest, but then raised his shoulders. “Yeah, maybe.”
“See ya.”
“You going already?”
“Yeah. Got stuff to do.” Which was true, but he wasn’t sure what.
“Okay. See you soon.”
Artie started to reach in his pocket for money, then didn’t. “Let me know if you need anything.” He walked toward the truck. Wonder why I did that?
Chapter Thirteen
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, he pulled up across from his friends’ favorite bar. Yes, it was early. No, that didn’t matter. Everyone had their own definition of Sunday brunch. Artie didn’t usually do the Sunday thing, but today he was exploring—himself.
He jogged across the street and plunged into the semidarkness of the place. It took a second for his eyes to adjust; then he peered past the four or five people sitting at the bar drinking beer and the two couples at tables and spotted a familiar cap and head of hair in a booth in the back. As he started toward them, Jimmy Ray looked up and gave him a grin. He said something to the others, and three other guys—Walt, Raoul, and Mal—turned and waved. Walt called, “Yo, Artie. Hey, man, good to see you. Take a load off.”
Artie glanced at Mal. How obnoxious was he likely to be about Artie pushing him off the JT job? What the fuck? Artie grabbed a chair from a nearby table and pulled it up to the side of the booth and sat. “Hey.”
Walt said, “We don’t see you much on Sundays.”
“Yeah. I had a little extra time so thought I’d come see your ugly mugs.”
Mal said, “Not too busy being JT’s Prince Charming?”
Artie met Mal’s eyes, and Mal blinked first. Artie said, “I figure JT just made a mistake. He probably booked you guys before he knew what a picky client he was working for. She’d already fired most of the people from the job. I didn’t want that to happen to you, and I’m sorry you didn’t get another day’s work.”
“She hasn’t fired you.”
Artie shrugged. “Not yet, but it’s probably gonna happen.” That was sure as fuck the truth.
Mal seemed happy about that, and he took a swig of his beer.
“So you workin’ for JT, man?” Raoul looked real interested.
“Yeah. He’s got this superparticular client, and he hired me because I know how to do different shit so he can keep fewer people around to piss her off.”
“He knows you’re real steady and reliable and you’re not gonna let him down. Nothing dumb about JT.” Raoul sipped beer.
Jimmy Ray guffawed. “How much did you have to pay Raoul to say that, man?”
Artie grinned. “Yeah, thanks, Raoul. I’ll slip you the bills later.” Still, he wanted to give Raoul a hug—which he’d probably hate.
Mal gave Artie a look. “So how’s your great piano player doing? Still hammering out like a sick cow?”
Artie swallowed to cover the flip of his stomach.
Walt said, “What’re you talking about?”
“The day I worked for JT—you know
, the one day—all day long somebody in the house hammered on this piano, and it sounded like some two-year-old who got into the wrong room. Shit, it was crazy-making. But Artie here says it’s this great piano player who lives in that house, and he gets really pissed at me for being so obnoxious. Shee-it, if that’s somebody’s idea of great, give me bad country any day.”
Jimmy Ray said in his kind of kid-like way, “You don’t mind listening to the bad piano all day?”
“No. Because it’s not bad—most of the time. The guy composes.” Jimmy Ray stared at him like he’d never heard the word. Artie shrugged. “Writes music. So when he’s writing, he plays a little and then goes back and starts over. Anyway, sometimes he plays a whole tune and he’s really good. Mal didn’t get to hear that.”
“I looked that guy up,” Mal sneered. “Shit, he’s some stupid fag. Did you know that? I mean, while you’re admiring how great he plays?” He folded his hands under his chin and fluttered his eyelashes. “Hell, fag music played by a dick-sucking ass fucker.”
Walt chuckled. “No shit? Artie’s working for a fag?”
Raoul laughed. “Don’t get any on you, man.”
Artie looked down and realized he was standing. Holy shit, how did this happen?
The three guys stared at him like maybe he was going to say something important, but Artie didn’t know what that was. He gazed back at them, and all he could think of was the stories people told about when you died and saw things like through a long tunnel or tube. A rushing sound filled his ears, but he could hear his own voice screaming, “I’m so sick of this shit!”
He put his hands to his ears. Wait. Did I really say that?
Walt was mouthing words, and Artie shook his head a little to get the ocean out of his hearing.
“—sick of?”
Artie looked at Walt. “What?”
“I asked what you’re sick of.”
Artie looked around. Even a couple of people from the seats at the bar looked over, so he must have been loud. Jesus.
Mal raised a lip. “Yeah, what are you sick of, Haynes! All the fags we gotta work for?”
“Fuck you.” He spoke so softly he could barely hear it.
