by Boye, Kody
Six months into his life as a technical college student, he begins to realize that this is what he wants to do.
One night, while sitting at the counter doing homework, he raises his eyes to find Michael standing in the kitchen, eating cheese and crackers. He rises and starts for his boyfriend’s side, then stops before he can round the counter, when Michael raises his head and looks him directly in the eyes.
Something on his face unsettles him.
“Babe?” he asks. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Michael says, shoving the saltine and cheese mix into his mouth. “Don’t worry about it.”
You always say that when something’s on your mind.
Sighing, he braces his hand against the counter and stares Michael in the eyes, begging for a response. When none comes, he rounds the counter, takes two of the crackers in hand, then places a piece of cheese between them, all the while waiting for his boyfriend to speak. It seems as though nothing is going to come out when Michael turns and starts for the threshold that leads into the living room, but when he stops to do what Jim thinks is reconsider his actions, his right hand tightens into a fist hard enough to make the vein in his arm bulge.
“Michael?”
“I’m not used to you being gone so much, that’s all.”
“I’m gone the same amount of time I usually am,” he says, starting toward his boyfriend.
“I know, but…”
“But… what?” he frowns. Unsure how to take his partner’s response, he wraps his arms around his shoulders, then pulls him back against his chest, swearing he can hear their hearts beating together when he bows his face into Michael’s neck.
Isn’t that what they say? That two hearts beat as one?
Either way, he doesn’t want them to be individuals—he wants them to be a pair, together, as two people bonding together to create one greater whole.
With that thought firmly in mind, he sighs, takes a deep breath, then backs away, giving Michael just enough space to decide what it is he’s going to do.
When Michael turns, Jim expects the worst. However, when he sees the look in his eyes and the curve of a smile on his lips, he knows that things are lighter, the agony distant and the frustration caged within its magical menagerie.
“You ok?” he asks.
“I’m sorry for being so selfish.”
“Don’t be, babe.”
“It’s just… I’m used to us spending more time together when you’re not gone.”
“I know.”
“And… I don’t know. Maybe I should try to find some new friends, but this town, this place—“
Michael doesn’t need to finish, and as he draws away, into a place where his voice is silent but his thoughts are screaming, Jim tries not to remember the horrible abuse his partner not only suffered as a teenager, but as a young adult, when his father whipped him to bits for being gay and his mother smacked him so hard across the face she cracked his lips. The thought, as unsettling as it is, grounds him even further and only confirms his suspicion—this time alone is forcing him to reconsider his past, his notions, and possibly even their future together.
“You’re… ok with me going to school,” he starts, unsure how to continue. “Right?”
“Of course I am.”
“I mean… I know you must be thinking about some things.”
“Yeah.”
“But you know I love you, right?”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t be doing this if we weren’t together.”
“We weren’t?”
“No. I want a future together, baby. I want a future with you.”
Michael turns his head up.
When a smile crosses his partner’s lips—when his white teeth are revealed and his dimples are shown in all their glory—he knows he has made the right choice.
One year later, he the top of his class. Riding the coattails of his professors, soaring through his homework like mad, he is like an obstetrician aiding not others, but himself. Each of his teachers say that he will go far, that he will be one of the leading men in his field and that, come time for the new millennia, he will be at the top of the career bracket making not tens, but thousands of dollars.
Seated at the kitchen counter with food on the table and more content than ever, he waits for Michael to get out of the shower, all the while scratching numbers into dimensions that serve as the makeup of one of the world’s current supercomputers.
This is amazing, he thinks, looking not only at the sheet, but at the book next to him.
Gargantuan in purpose and even greater in scope, the Computer Sciences book at his side is his Bible. Though not Catholic, Christian, Lutheran or Baptist, he believes himself to be a religious man based solely on the text within this book. It tells him of the past, the present and not only the foreseeable, but the distant future. It says that every ten years their computer processing power doubles and that by twenty-fifty, they could very well have computers that fit within contact lenses.
Amazing. Just… amazing.
In the distant side of the house, he hears the water turn off and the door close. Shortly thereafter, Michael emerges in a pair of boxer shorts and crosses the room to fetch one of the tacos he brought home for the afternoon’s lunch. “Hey,” he says, offering him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Hey,” he replies.
“More homework?”
“More?” he laughed. “It’s never-ending.”
“Still,” the younger man says, unwrapping the hard shell before him. “It seems like all you’re doing lately is homework.”
“I’ve worked my ass off to get straight-As.”
“I know. You’ve earned it.”
Smiling, he sets his pencil down, then reaches over to mess with his boyfriend’s hair. In response, Michael laughs and opens his mouth to take a bite out of his food.
The sight alone makes him realize just what all he is working for—their present, their future, maybe even a family. He’s broached the topic of adopting or maybe even hiring a surrogate, but they haven’t talked about it in detail. They’re young, not even in their mid-twenties, and can wait for such things as children. Besides—in his current frame of mind, he doesn’t think that he would be a capable father, especially not with all the schoolwork he has piled up.
Caring for a baby and going to school—he might as well shoot himself in the foot.
Ah well, he thinks. It’s no big deal.
Taking a bite out of his own taco, he bows his head and continues his work.
“Your grades are impressive,” Professor Haldwell says in a meeting after class one day. “You must study quite a bit.”
“I do, sir,” he replies, sliding his hands into his pockets.
“I never expected this from you, Mr. Arnoldson.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I be honest, son?”
“Yes sir.”
“I thought you were just some dumb hick like most of the other kids here are.”
“Sir,” he laughs.
“It’s true, Mr. Arnoldson. You’re one of the brighter bulbs in this group.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” he smiles, reaching out to shake the man’s hand as he offers it. “I’m just trying to work toward a better future.”
“You have a girlfriend, son?”
No, he thinks, but his confidence betrays him and he offers a nervous smile. Not exactly.
“Something wrong, son?” the professor asks.
He does not trust this man enough to say that he is gay, that he sleeps with another man and that he shares his home with him. That knowledge in itself is enough to place him in an awful predicament. Time and again he has heard of students getting slighted for their accusations, their thoughts, their selves, and he doesn’t want to fall into that trap. So, like the honest man that he is, he smiles, shoves his hands in his pockets, then says, “No,” because it’s the truth—he doesn’t have a girlf
riend, and though he has a man at home, that is not what the professor has asked.
“Shame,” the man replies. “You’re a good man.”
He’d say thank you if he had the need to.
“How’d school go?” Michael asks.
Ok, he thinks, closing the door behind him.
He doesn’t want to broach this topic with Michael, this indecision about their relationship and sharing it publicly. It’s too sensitive a topic, too great a risk, so with that in mind, he merely smiles and leans forward to embrace the man he has lived, loved and lied about for nearly four years.
“It went fine,” he says, smiling when they break apart. “What about you?”
“I didn’t do much,” Michael admits.
“That’s all right. As long as you’ve had a good day.”
“I have.” Michael pauses. His eyes flicker in their sockets. “Jim. I need to tell you something.”
“Yeah?” he frowns. “What is it?”
It seems as though there is something thick on the air—tension, thick with meat and juicy beneath. He imagines a knife slicing through the air and killing the millions of particles he knows are there, then it slicing into his partner’s chest and killing him on sight. Just the tone of the words makes him feel as though something is wrong.
“Michael,” he says, frowning when his partner’s smile begins to widen across his face. “What is it? Tell me.”
“I got a job.”
A job?
Has he heard correctly?
“A job?” he asks, laughing as Michael’s smile continues to get wider and wider. “Doing what?”
“Working as a museum tour guide.”
“That’s great, baby,” he laughs, once more taking Michael into his arms. “Where is this?”
“Just down the street.”
“So you’re the guy that basically leads them through the museum, telling everyone what everything’s about?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh God, Michael. This is great.”
Beyond great, actually—in years past, he thought Michael incapable of even thinking about work, much less attempting to do it. However, despite that, something in his gut tells him his partner is more than capable of doing this.
He’s good with people, he thinks, and he knows how to talk about things.
How Michael could go on for hours and hours about something he’d learn. Just the other day, he’d told him almost the entire history of a pharaoh from Egypt and then some. If that wasn’t a display of his ability, then he didn’t know what was.
Unable to contain his happiness, he pulls Michael into his embrace once more.
Things seem to be going just fine.
“So,” Jim says, raising his eyes as Michael steps through the door. “How was your day?”
“Long,” Michael replies, “but great.”
His boyfriend is wearing a long-sleeved, button-up shirt that bears the local museum’s logo on its breast. Burnet’s Bazaar is home to many things—some mummies, medieval weaponry, pottery, but it is most famously known for its reconstruction of all things Arabian, particularly in regards to their historical reconstruction of one such location it is named for. The fact that Michael is learning to navigate such a place is almost beyond him, but in that regard, Jim stands, smiles, and takes his partner into his arms, only to have him fall to his side and onto the couch a moment later.
“Beat?” Jim asks.
“Beat,” Michael replies.
“I’ll make dinner tonight.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
“No need to thank me.”
His secret passion is cooking. While he loves to get his hands dirty with machinery, he can’t help but feel a certain thrill when he is poised above the stove with food simmering in a pan. It’s like a drug—adrenaline, fueled by the very need to make something delicious, the saucer his needle and the oil his pain.
He did it, he thinks. He really did it.
His boyfriend—his Michael—has finally done what he thought was impossible.
Tonight should be a celebration.
He will make it as such.
He prepared a feast in all respects—chicken, noodle, with a bit of vegetable on the side. When Michael rises from his short catnap and comes into the kitchen, he merely stares at the pile of food sitting on the counter and laughs when Jim raises his head and waves his eyebrows. “Jim,” he says.
“I don’t get to do this enough,” he replies. “Especially not for you.”
“But this… have you been in the kitchen this whole time?”
“Chicken Alfredo with Velveeta and broccoli on the side.”
“It smells delicious,” Michael says, pacing around the counter to take a bit of the cheesy broccoli on the tip of a spoon. “Tastes delicious too.”
“I’m glad you like it, babe.” Jim sets his hands on Michael’s shoulders and guides him back around the counter. “Sit down. I’ll get it for you.”
“You don’t have to do—“
“You’ve been at work all day.”
“But you were at—“
“School. Yeah, I know, but I haven’t been on my feet for the past eight hours.”
Frowning, Michael does as asked, reclining in his seat as though it were more than just a simple plastic kitchen chair and watching Jim as he makes his way back around the counter. Once there, he begins to splay food out on two plates, humming a tune under his breath as he does so.
The day seems to be going perfectly well.
He can’t ask for anything more.
“You ok?” Jim asks.
“I’m fine,” Michael says. “Why?”
“You look sore.”
“I’ll get used to it. Don’t worry.”
Can’t expect me not to, he thinks, but only kisses Michael’s brow in response.
Settling down into bed, Jim tries not to think about Michael’s work or his schooling. It seems impossible, given the lack of activity and the current circumstance, but he eventually manages to settle into an even routine of breathing and almost falls asleep until Michael rolls over and sets a hand on his face.
He cracks one eye open.
Michael frowns in response.
“You ok?” Jim decides to ask.
“Fine,” Michael replies. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Us.”
“What about us?”
“Our future… what’s going to happen after you get out of school.”
“You worried about it?”
“No. I…” Michael pauses. “Can I say something, Jim?”
“You know you can.”
“I don’t like living here.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I don’t either.”
“I mean… I know we’ll have to wait until you get out of school, and I know that’s not going to be for another two years, but I… I dunno. It’s just tough, that’s all.”
“You’ve got a job,” he says, “and I’m in school, so at least we have a future for the two of us.”
“You really think so, Jim?”
“I think so. Don’t you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, pressing his lips to his boyfriend’s. “Nothing more we can do about it now.”
At the crux of his schooling career, he finds himself almost unable to believe that he has almost been attending college for an entire year. In this town of screams and means, it seems impossible to go about accomplishing anything, much less doing it in such a simple matter. This place is filth, vile—it breeds hate like rats and in turn leads to religious persecution. How he’s managed to avoid it these years he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t think it particularly matters.
As they stand at the end of the harbor, looking out at the lake that lays complete with lilies and swans, he reaches out to hold his partner’s hand, but stops when someone passes by.
Not here,
he thinks.
How he would love to hold Michael’s hand, to kiss his cheeks or lips in public. In California, maybe, they would not be lynched, or in New York, New York, but not here. It’s an undeniable fact that should they even begin to do something of the sort, it will swallow not only him, but them whole.
This is what I’m doing this for. This is why I’m back in school.
Someday—someday—maybe they could move to the coast, to a place where the economy would thrive and the energy clean and clear.
Someday.
Someday.
He thinks of someday two years later, when he is standing at the podium in the socially-oppressed town he has lived his entire life in. With his diploma in hand, garbed in a robe and with a hat on his head, he holds a plaque made of wood and embossed in gold. Upon it is the name Jim Gabriel Arnoldson and the words Bachelors in Computer Sciences. The sight of an audience full of not only his fellow peers, but his one and only family makes him feel as though he is the greatest man on earth.
In the third seat in the seventh row, near where the patrons with the last name of A sit, he finds his partner looking upon him with eyes proud and smiling. In that moment, when their eyes are captured within one another’s, he thinks of how much hell he has gone through to get to this point—how, despite all his fears, doubts and misconceptions, he was able to do the one thing he has set out to do.
This is all because of you, he thinks, nodding as he begins to make his way off the stage and toward the man he loves. This is all because of you, babe. All because of you.
When Michael steps forward and into his arms, he can’t help but think he’s the happiest man on Earth.
Seven years later, he is standing at the register buying flowers for his boyfriend.
“They’re beautiful,” the cashier says. “Who are they for?”
In this socially-oppressed neighborhood, you can’t get away for being gay—you can be lynched, beaten, raped and even murdered for such an open declaration, but in his mid-thirties and with more money in his pocket than he could ever imagine, he smiles, swipes his debit card through the machine, then looks the clerk straight in the eyes.
