Love and Other Horrors

by Boye, Kody

  “Hey,” Michael says.

  “Hey,” Jim replies.

  His boyfriend slides his arms around his waist and leans against his back. It is not sex Michael wants when he displays this sort of emotion. No—what he wants is company, as he feels loneliness during the day that Jim can’t help abide.

  It’s all right, he thinks.

  His heart wants to break out of his chest. It’s a sick thing, a creature of guilt and sorrow, though he knows it is truly his mind who forces him to feel the way he does. A way to a man’s heart is not through his chest, but his mind, and were someone to want a direct way to the mind, they might try finding way through his nose, as it’s the closest, most direct route to the inside of his head.

  “How was work?” Michael asks as the lukewarm water falls on both of them.

  “Fine,” he says, then thinks to add, “I fixed Mr. McKinny’s car again.”

  “Again?” Michael laughs.

  “Again,” he nods.

  Michael doesn’t ask anything further. Instead, he tightens his hold around Jim’s midsection and presses his body against him.

  In that moment, Jim can’t help but feel sorrier than he already does.

  He lays awake. Like he often does during the night, he ponders on life and just what is happening around him. He doesn’t believe in God, as it’s too complicated with the church in such an uproar, and it’s not worth it to try and wish for better things, as ninety-five percent of his check goes into rent, utilities and living, so most of the time, he lays there and tries to imagine just what the future would be like.

  It may be great, he sometimes thinks, or it may be dastardly horrible.

  He can’t imagine a future with anything good in it, at least not in the foreseeable distance. He’s been trying to shave away the block of indifference with the change jar he keeps at the side of the door, as he often finds change in the garage, though whether or not he’s stealing it is up to anyone’s discretion. He doesn’t think it’ll hurt anyone—a few pennies here, a dime or so there. Some would argue that a dollar could save a child’s life in Africa, but with twenty-five cents, they’d still need another seventy-five to get anywhere.

  Shaking his head, he begins to make his way out of bed, to get the customary warm glass of milk that usually helps him sleep, but stops when Michael stirs at his side.

  Will he wake up? he thought.

  It wouldn’t matter. Michael knows of his sleeping problems. He won’t say a word.

  Rising, he makes his way toward the door, but stops before he can do so.

  In the bed, Michael turns.

  He can feel his boyfriend’s eyes on him.

  “Jim,” Michael says.

  “Yeah?” he replies.

  “Are you coming back to bed?”

  “I will soon,” he says, then makes his way out the door.

  The milk does little to help him sleep. It seems to upset his stomach, and when he goes through the entire night in rolls of agony and frustration, it is Michael who tells him he should call in sick for work.

  “You should,” Michael says. “You’ve been on the toilet all morning.”

  “Shut up,” he says.

  When Michael doesn’t say anything further, he sighs, knowing that he has crossed a boundary that he knows he shouldn’t have broken. He begins to say something, but Michael leans forward and captures his lips before he can finish, an apology not broken, but accepted.

  “The boss is a hardass,” he says.

  “You can’t fix cars if your stomach’s messed up.”

  “I know.”

  “So why not call in sick?”

  When his stomach rolls, he decides to do just that.

  It is the next day, when he is only barely beginning to feel better and isn’t in the bathroom for an extended period of time, that he gets the call.

  “I can’t keep going without a good mechanic,” the boss says.

  Jim wants to argue, to say that he has only missed one or two days in the past six months, but he says nothing. His arguments will be futile, his rebuttals unnecessary, and in the end he can do little more than nod.

  Michael is standing in the threshold, his arms over his chest, when he hangs up the phone. “What happened?” he asks.

  “I just lost my job,” he says, then begins to cry.

  There seems to be little he can do. One moment he is happy, then the next he is sad. Michael has suggested that he go to the doctor, because they say that massive mood swings can be an indication that something is wrong, but he says no, that everything is fine and that he’s just going through a bit of a depression.

  That’s a medical condition, Michael says.

  He doesn’t reply.

  Seated at the kitchen counter with a newspaper folded out before him and a red marker in hand, he begins to circle jobs that are within his proficiency range, then begins to think about them and just how much money they will have before they run out. He knows it’s a couple of thousand, maybe two, and that can keep them fed and in the apartment for at least two-and-a-half months, but until then…

  What am I going to do? he thinks, cupping his face in his hands.

  Part of him wants to freak out. Another, desperate part wants to cry. Regardless, though, he has to remain strong—if not only for himself, but for Michael, who will surely begin to panic if he sees him crying, just like he always has and does and will until the end of days.

  Shaking his head, he picks up the marker and continues to go through the newspaper.

  He is there for much of the afternoon. Head bowed, one-year-past-due prescription glasses balancing on the end of his nose, he has gone through much of the paper and has even begun to call a few of the places—the first of which is a lawnmower repair business, while the second in line is a fast food joint. He says he’s served as a cook before, that he can flip eggs faster than anyone else in town (he can provide reference) and that he is more than willing to serve in the food industry if it will help him stay in his home.

  The businesses ask for references.

  He supplies them freely.

  Each person he calls says they will check back with him in the coming days.

  He begins to think this is worthless when the fifth person says that.

  He lays on the couch with his arm over his eyes. Counting sheep in a feeble attempt to fall asleep, it’s one-two-three then three-four-five, six-seven-eight and nine-ten-eleven. When he gets to somewhere within the hundreds, he decides that he will be unable to sleep at this late hour of the afternoon and succumbs to that very notion.

  Throwing his legs over the side of the couch, he reaches up to rub the half-sleep from his eyes and sighs when his gaze falls on his boyfriend, who is sitting in the corner of the room reading a hardback.

  “Hey,” Michael says, when he notices that he has risen. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he smiles. “Why?”

  “Because you’re trying to sleep at five in the afternoon.”

  What more is there to do if I don’t have a job?

  Choosing to keep his thought to himself rather than risk upsetting Michael, he stands, stretches his arms out over his head, then forces himself to grin when Michael in turn rises and pushes his book back onto the bookshelf. He’s always had a problem with not finishing books—he’s an avid reader and will devour half of one in an afternoon, but he seems to always put them aside, something he can’t help but feel is inappropriate at the time, if only because it makes things seem misplaced. However, instead of dwelling how things seem appropriate or not so much, he steps forward, sets his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulders, then draws him forward, into an embrace he can’t help but feel is meaningless.

  “Michael,” he says.

  “Yes?” his boyfriend replies.

  “Everything is going to be ok. Ok?”

  “Ok.”

  He bows his head into Michael’s hair and breathes.

  His sleeping habits only continue to decline as the w
eek goes on. First minutes, then hours, then eternity—it seems like he cannot sleep at all, and when Michael finally confronts him with a bottle of Melatonin in hand, he gives in and decides to try to normalize his schedule.

  The pill works.

  Every night, he’s out like a switch, and every morning when it fades away, he’s right back up again. Most mornings are spent beside the phone, afternoons with Michael on the couch watching TV or something similar. He tries to introduce new habits into their lifestyle, budgeting accordingly for each time they may possibly go out to dinner, but Michael is afraid. He says so one night just as they’re getting ready to go to bed, him with the pill already in his system and less than an hour away from being completely light’s out.

  ‘I don’t think we should waste any money’ are the words that begin the fable conversation.

  In pajamas bottoms and little else, he looks upon his near-naked boyfriend with eyes that normally would have been reserved for much more lewd purposes. Though he cannot see it himself, he feels it in the back of his head, as though he’s just taken eye drops designed to not only clear his vision, but enhance it. This look—this thing—is what makes him feel as though he has just overstepped a boundary that cannot be undone.

  “Michael,” he says.

  The younger man crosses his arms over his chest, sighs, then bows his head. His fair hair falls over his face and covers most of his eyes, shielding him from any indication as to what he’s feeling. Jim can already guess most of it—indecision, possibly, maybe even unease. He knows fear lingers there as well, just under the surface, but it hasn’t yet surfaced. Indecision has not yet progressed to unease and unease has not yet fallen to fear. It would take some time before those emotions began to surface.

  Reaching forward, he extends his hand to touch his lover’s arm, but stops halfway there.

  He doesn’t want to be touched.

  The voice in his head wills him to instead take the blanket and lift it up, if only partially, and crawl into bed, which he does without another word or action.

  Michael follows soon after.

  As always, Michael falls back against his chest.

  Their fingers lace together.

  It is when the first notice of rent arrives that he begins to become frustrated. Four-hundred dollars out of their account and with no job in clear sight, he thinks that it is the end of the world until Michael wraps his hands around his shoulders and leans forward to whisper in his ear.

  “I’ll get a job,” he says.

  He doesn’t want it to come to this. Always he has promised Michael that he would never have to work, that he could leave his past behind and instead recover from the hellish childhood he’d survived. He took medication for such illnesses, for such psychotic episodes that sometimes came in the form of dreams, and for that reason alone, it pained his heart to hear such a confession.

  You don’t have to, he thinks, but doesn’t have the strength to speak.

  The one man he truly loves should not have to give up the comfort he’s found just because he lost his job.

  Is the world wrong, or is it just incredibly painful? He can’t be sure. All he knows is that he wants to cry.

  “Someone called for you,” Michael says.

  He’s slept in this morning—not, of course, of his own accord. He’d set his alarm to go off at exactly eight AM, but sometime between that and the five minutes that followed, Michael must have risen and turned it off to allow him the solace of sleep. He knew what his partner would say—that it was ‘just to let him sleep,’ but regardless, he can’t think about it. There is something new on the horizon, something that may just get them the money they need.

  “Who was it?” he asks.

  “A technical college.”

  A technical college? he thinks, then remembers that he had called a technical company a few days prior.

  This school claimed to be the future. Computers, they said, would rule the nineties, then the two-thousands afterward, and that by twenty-ten, every kid in America would own one. They would be small, they claimed, but easy to assemble, and not only by the grace of invention, but the ingenuity of man would this future be grand. They offered a three-year program, along with internship, that could very well secure him a job in the flourish future of computer mechanics.

  Is it really worth it though? he thinks, staring upon his boyfriend’s face with all the hope in the world.

  When he began to calculate the logistics in his head, the pieces began to fall together—first the student loans, which would supplement their income and pay for the rent, then the school and just what it could teach him. If one thought about it for any true, definitive amount of time, they could easily see what it could offer, but would it be worth it to dive in headfirst and risk getting eaten by the sharks?

  I did ok in school. Maybe I can get a grant.

  He doesn’t know the exact percentage he needs to pay for the school, but he knows he could find out.

  Stepping forward, he brushes past Michael’s shoulder, then stops.

  In a rough economy, taking a risk could spell the end of them.

  “Michael,” he says.

  “Yeah?” Michael replies.

  “I’m not sure if I should go for this.”

  “I think you should.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You read it, didn’t you?”

  “The clip and the article?” Michael asks, then waits for him to nod before continuing. “Yeah.”

  “You think it’d be worth it?”

  “You’re smart, Jim—this may be the best thing for you, but like I said, I can get a job.”

  “I’m not going to say you have to,” Jim sighs, “but I’m not going to say that won’t be completely out of the question.”

  With the statement out of his mouth, he feels as though a thousand-pound weight has just been lifted from his shoulders and replaced by something much more simple and manageable.

  He hasn’t been to college, technical school or any kind of post-high school program.

  If anything were to come of this, at least he could upgrade his résumé.

  He sits in the lobby waiting for someone to come and get him—a student, a teacher, a secretary, maybe the Devil Himself. He expects the world to come to an end before anything or anyone comes to greet him, as it seems the clock overhead is simply ticking, but when he hears the door open and a voice beckon him in, he rises, brushes dirt from his workman’s jeans and makes his way into the office. There, a man sits with his hands laced together and his eyes set ahead, as though expecting someone further to enter when he himself steps into the room.

  “Are you Jim Arnoldson?” the man asks.

  “Yes sir,” he says. “I am.”

  “I’m Howard Yearn. I work here at this institute.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  They shake hands and then he seats himself when Howard Yearn gestures to the chair opposite him. The man’s eyes are hard, ice-like in their perpetually-hollow pits, and every moment he looks at him feels like a judgment thrust upon him by some higher force.

  Is this it? he thinks. Is this the way it works?

  He imagined it to be different, a trial and error set in order for the student to leap over it. There should be ropes, he thinks, to climb, and rods upon to jump over. This seems too easy, but then again, it is a technical college. He is no Harvard, no Yale, no Princeton, Columbia or Stanford. Hell—he is barely a man with a degree, a man who barely passed math in high school and who only excelled in English because he for some reason liked to read. This place, this very school he now sat in was the bottom of the rung, but it promised something that most other schools couldn’t even begin to debate.

  “We’ve reviewed your application request,” he says, “and your student loan application has gone through.”

  “It has?” he asks.

  Baffled, he nearly loses his breath, but manages to contain himself as the secr
etary at the side of the room rises and passes him a piece of paperwork, upon which are figures he can barely begin to process.

  Is this, he thinks, but stops before he can finish.

  The number of zeros behind the two stop him short.

  “Sir,” he says, looking down at the piece of paper. “I can really get this much money a month?”

  “Of course,” the man says. “The government’s paying for its future generation of workers. How old are you, Jim?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “See? You’ve got a whole life of work ahead of you. Of course your loans would have gone through—that is, if you keep up with the recommended number of hours.”

  I can do this. I really can.

  Nodding, he looks down at the piece of paper, smiles, then tilts his head up at the man he knows will change his life.

  In Howard Yearn’s eyes, he sees his future.

  He can’t wait for it.

  “How did it go?” Michael asks.

  “Fine,” Jim smiles, taking his partner into his arms and spinning him about the middle of the living room.

  “Jim! Jim! Put me down!”

  Unable to contain his laughter, he crushes Michael against his chest, then presses their lips together in a savage kiss. At first Michael tries to shy away, but after Jim calms himself down enough to settle his nerves, Michael accepts the kiss, then pushes Jim away to look him square in the eyes.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “I got in,” he smiles. “I got in, Michael. I got in!”

  Michael bursts into tears.

  Their future is ahead of them.

  Jim begins to attend the technical college with his heart on his sleeve and his hopes in his hands. Not once since high school has he carried a backpack on his shoulders and not even for a second has he contemplated doing homework, but the simple act of waking up in the morning, brushing his teeth, then driving to school has him happier than ever. He makes friends quickly, learns about the inner workings of the newest and future technology, and even begins to construct one of the machines within the first three months of his schooling.