Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl

by Andrea Lawlor

  So he’d go into work, wash dishes furiously for four hours, eat as many fajitas as possible while sitting on a salsa bucket by the walk-in, wash more dishes, and leave. He never stuck around for a shift drink and Truly Tasteless Jokes session with the cooks. He barely spoke to the waitresses, who were all girls, and so were dangerous in a different way. A real dishwasher wouldn’t say the things Paul thought, like “Cute side ponytail!” or “I think Brent the busboy is flirting with you!” or “Did you get those shoes at Domby’s? Can I ask how much?” Paul kept his mouth shut. He needed more money than he was making at the club and Linn Street combined, and no one else was hiring. Plus, he knew he could just quit without notice; he wouldn’t care about burning a stupid sports-bar bridge.

  He’d been working at Mondo’s for two weeks when Chad announced at a pre-shift staff meeting that the owners were inviting everyone to a Christmas party at Givanni’s, their more upscale Italian restaurant. Paul overheard the waitresses sniping about the conceited Givanni’s staff. Paul didn’t care; he liked a free meal and an open bar. He was allowed to bring one guest, but Jane refused, and he wasn’t about to invite Christopher to flame all over him. He’d go alone, be a spy, finally see what normal straight people did when no one was looking.

  The night of the party, Paul biked downtown in his dressed-up dishwasher clothes: black pants and a white button-down and a shiny powder-blue Macy’s brand tie borrowed without asking (and after a judgmental moment of discovery) from Christopher’s closet. He stood by the bar, trying to get his one free drink. The two girl bartenders ignored him. He saw the cooks drinking shots in their frat-boy dress-up clothes at the other end of the bar. Paul was a bad spy. No one was going to talk to him; he was being frozen out by normal people, kings of their own element. One of the waitresses flat-out ignored Paul’s repeated attempts to start a conversation. The cooks looked like a couple of Army guys; Paul remembered with a start how in his world those guys would be considered meat, trade, objects. Paul decided to get one for himself, see what it was all about.

  “Hey, Chad,” he said to the manager, a former wrestler and current MBA student.

  “You didn’t bring anyone?” said Chad.

  “Oh,” Paul said, thinking. “Actually my sister’s meeting me here, but I have to go make a phone call. Is that cool?”

  “Sure,” said Chad. He finished his Molson Ice and released a small belch. “Excuse me.”

  Paul left the restaurant, and biked home very fast. He felt brave, like Elliot in E.T. He changed himself, put on a tight miniskirt and cleavagey striped shirt and strappy platform shoes he’d been hoarding. He called a cab, and was back at the restaurant a half hour after he’d left. No one questioned him at the door. Pretty girl privilege, he thought. He’d heard of it and tonight he was going to test it out.

  ABBA came on as he moved to the end of the bar where the cooks stood, drinking their manly ice beers.

  “Excuse me,” Paul said. “I can’t get the bartender’s attention. Can you—?”

  The cooks sprang into service like two cartoon lackeys.

  “What’re you drinking?” said one.

  “It’s free, right?”

  The cooks nodded vigorously and exchanged a glance. Paul thought carefully; he needed his drink to communicate his intentions.

  “Maybe a Long Island?” He beamed cleavage at the cooks and composed his face into an expression of apprenticeship.

  “Have you had anything else already?” said the bigger cook. “You don’t want to mix with a Long Island.”

  “Oh, good point,” said Paul. “I had some wine. What should I get? I like sweet drinks.” He wondered if his makeup was too queer, too thick.

  “Maybe another glass of wine?”

  “Ooh,” Paul said, inspired. “I want a daiquiri!”

  The cooks looked at each other and laughed. Paul knew he had nailed his performance. Now he would take it to the next level.

  “Wait—what are you guys drinking?” Paul imagined Jane’s disapproval.

  “Oh, we’re doing Jäger shots. Do you want a shot?” The bigger cook leaned his muscular bulk onto the burnished metal bar top and signaled for the bartender, who jiggled her way to him at a speed which made Paul marvel. He’d never move that fast for a hot guy. It sent the wrong message.

  A round of Jäger shots magically appeared and were festively drunk.

  “Which restaurant do you work at?” the smaller cook asked.

  “Oh,” said Paul. “I don’t. I’m just meeting my brother here, but I can’t find him. He works at Mondo’s.”

  “We work at Mondo’s!” cried the two cooks.

  “I’m Polly,” said Paul.

  “Dave,” said the bigger one.

  “Dan,” said the smaller one.

  Paul was happy to get their names straight for the first time. Even though Dave was probably 6'2" and Dan was maybe 5'8" Paul couldn’t reliably tell them apart. Both were ripped, both spiked up their blonde crew cuts with gleaming gel, and both had spring-break-in-Cancun tans. The littler one was hotter: more compact and with Sears-model blue eyes. The bigger one—Dave, right—was okay-looking, kind of square. Paul let a crowd coming in the door squish him closer to the bar, in between the cooks.

  “Sorry!” he said merrily.

  Dan ordered more shots.

  “Paul seems like a cool guy,” said Dave. “Quiet.”

  “We’re total opposites,” said Paul. “He’s always been really quiet, and like, deep.”

  “You’re not deep?” said Dave. “You seem like a deep chick.”

  Paul wondered what he’d done to give off this impression. Was he dressed wrong? Did he say something dorky? Or did guys talk to girls like this?

  “Of course I’m deep,” he giggled and scolded at the same time. They did a second shot and he could feel himself warming. He felt cozy and gregarious, everywhere and maybe especially in his pussy. He weirdly loved these guys. The dinner segment of the party had ended, and the tables had been moved to the walls to make room for a makeshift dance floor. The first song the DJ played was “Disco Inferno.”

  “I love this song! We have to dance,” said Paul. He was just going to let it all unfold. The cooks followed and they made a tiny circle amid the purse-clutching waitresses and air-punching busboys. The bigger cook was definitely more focused on Paul, and Paul was just a little oarless boat on a stream. He danced closer to the big one. He was so big. He wasn’t a bad dancer. Dan, the littler one, seemed annoyed, and Paul began to wonder if he liked Dave. Ha, Paul thought. I bet! That’s why he’s not into me…Dan excused himself to find the bathroom, which Paul took as confirmation of his analysis.

  “Disco Inferno” ended and the DJ paused, then played “YMCA.” Paul watched his coworkers make nostalgic letters with their arms. Probably thinking about swimming lessons, he thought. He stopped dancing in protest.

  “Do you want to go outside where we can talk?” Dave said.

  “I can’t hear you,” Paul said. He did not want to talk. “Let’s get another shot.”

  Dave nodded and led Paul back to the bar by the hand. They were now on a date, it seemed. Dave gently pushed Paul right up to the bar and protected him from the outside world with his bulk. Paul took this in, feeling Dave’s body whispering close to him. Dave took care of everything, ordering shots, fending off other people, whatever needed taking care of. Paul twisted his body around so instead of his ass brushing Dave’s pants, they were face to face. Paul felt very private in the lee of Dave’s body and the protective cover of drunk girls on barstools all around him. He let his wrist dangle and bump Dave’s pleated pants. No one could see a thing. He looked Dave in the eye and let the backs of his fingers drum the hard line of Dave’s fly.

  “Let’s go outside and get some air,” Dave said. It wasn’t a question. Paul nodded and followed as Dave cleared a
path through the people. Outside, the ped mall was too well lit. Dave led Paul into the alley behind Givanni’s.

  “Classy,” said Paul, gesturing to the dumpsters.

  “Do you really care?” said Dave.

  Paul was alone in an alley with a guy who might start punching his face at any moment, if he knew. Paul felt his barely noticeable arm hairs levitate. He breathed air like thrilling Mini-Thins through his insides. Dave did a little swaying dance, pulling Paul to him. Paul came up to his chest and had to tilt his head up to see Dave’s face.

  Dave kissed him then, a sloppy oniony kiss but not too bad. Paul noticed his pussy area was no longer cozy and gregarious-feeling. That would come back, he thought. This was hot! He was totally passing with a straight guy! Dave pushed Paul’s breasts up and ran his hands over Paul’s miniskirt. Paul guessed this was foreplay. He ran his hands over Dave’s pants, and Dave pushed into him, pushed Paul against the gross brick wall and expertly unzipped his own fly at the same time. Paul found Dave’s fleshy half-hard penis in his hand, insistent. Dave pushed on the back of Paul’s neck, to let Paul know he should bend over. Paul crouched down and rubbed Dave’s knobby penis more.

  “Come on,” said Dave. He sounded annoyed. “Come on, just put it in your mouth. You started this.”

  Christ, thought Paul. Had he started this? he wondered. He wanted to finish it, to know that he’d passed. He wanted his spoonful of proof. But this guy was kind of a tool. He put his mouth over Dave’s cock head and Dave shuddered. The alley smelled of dishwater and rotting garlic bread. Dave pushed into the back ridges of Paul’s throat over and over, which Paul did not find arousing. Paul touched the ground with one hand to keep his balance and encountered a shallow pool of slime. He moved his hands to Dave’s ass, to wipe off the slime and to make this whole thing go faster. He strangely wanted to cry but didn’t. What was he even doing here? He let Dave pound his throat sore, and massaged Dave’s ass through his pants. When Dave started to buck, Paul tried to get up, to disentangle his mouth from the whole operation, but he wasn’t fast enough. Dave squirted yellowish mucus onto Paul’s lip and chin. Paul knew his lipstick was completely gone at this point, so he spat, hitting Dave’s shoe, and wiped his mouth with his arm like a sailor.

  “Another shot?” said Dave.

  “Um, no,” said Paul. “I have to go find my brother.”

  “Okay,” Dave said. “Want some help?”

  “No, thanks,” Paul said.

  “It was great meeting you,” Dave said.

  “Totally,” Paul said. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold his body in place in this nasty alley. “We should hang out some time.”

  Paul walked with unsteady dignity toward the Holiday Inn lobby, where he asked them to call him a cab to the Foxhead. He had to find Jane.

  IV.

  On the first leg of his trip home for winter break, a puddle jumper to Chicago, Paul sat next to a business-looking man from Cedar Rapids, silently judging. What manner of business could anyone even conduct from Cedar Rapids? Why would you choose to wear pleated pants? Bit early for that lite beer, isn’t it? And so on. His head throbbed from the party the night before, which had been a combination send-off and second annual twenty-first birthday party (Jane’s idea, because she knew he was vain about his age).

  Paul stripped down to his Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian Psycho Killer tee shirt and read with aggressive spaciousness his copy of Bimbox, a queer Canadian zine which advocated, through collage, violence toward businessmen.

  At O’Hare for two hours, Paul lugged his tightly stuffed backpack and large duffel across concourses. He’d brought all his best clothes and music, just in case. He sat cross-legged against the wall of Gate 22B, listening to the tape Diane had sent him for the trip in the Walkman (Walkmate, they said at Michigan) Jane had semi-permanently lent him. Diane’s tape was heavy on art rock and country songs he didn’t know, with bits of David Bowie and Donovan carefully wedged in, and surprisingly sloppy—cut-off songs, no track listing, snatches of what she’d taped over (Al Green), which he decided to take as a subconscious romance message. He’d gotten the package in the mail a few weeks before, had played two songs and immediately stopped the tape. It was noise and he gave up. But now, after four hours on auto-reverse, he had broken through its difficulty and found its beauty.

  The first tape you ever got from someone was always an adjustment in how you thought of them, an insight into how they saw themselves. Diane was much cooler than Paul had originally thought; she wasn’t secretly cool, she was actually cool. She was an artist, not just a fan. He wondered if she’d still like him after they spent six weeks together. She knew some of what he was, but not all.

  The intercom called his flight, and Paul stood up. He was entering his last days of boyhood, at least for a while. He’d be in Provincetown with Diane in a few days, right after this quick placating stopover at his mom’s house, payment for the plane ticket she’d sent. Maybe he should have gone into the men’s room, seen if he couldn’t have gotten a farewell handjob. He’d spent the flight unsuccessfully requesting special favors from the flight attendant, who obviously was one of those “Straight-Acting, Straight-Appearing GWM Seeks Same” liars. So much for the mile-high club.

  When Paul arrived at the Albany airport, his mom was waiting by the baggage claim. She’d been waiting for an hour but she didn’t mind, she said, as if Paul had made the plane late, possibly through his choice of outfit or just through original sin.

  “How many bags did you bring?” she said. She was so practical, his mother. “I thought you were only staying a week.”

  “Actually, I’m going to visit a friend of mine in Cape Cod for New Year’s,” he said, refusing her the satisfaction of hearing him name a female friend. “And then I’m going to fly back from Boston. So not quite a week.”

  “Well, Ari will be sorry to hear that,” she said. “He was really looking forward to some big-brother time.”

  Paul could not suppress an eye roll. Ari had never once looked to Paul for anything brotherly, hadn’t even bothered to come to the airport—and why would he? Being seen with Paul was the last thing a sixteen-year-old kid in Troy would want. His mother shouldered Paul’s large duffel. He tried to take it from her and she pushed his hand away.

  “And don’t you want to spend time with Grammy? I know she wants to see you.”

  “Mom,” said Paul. “Jesus. She doesn’t even remember my name.”

  “Of course she remembers your name, and watch your language,” his mother snapped. “You know, Ari visits her every week. He’s very devoted. And she always asks after you—how’s Paul, is Paul doing a new play? Is Paul a famous actor yet? She never got over your Shakespeare days.”

  “For chrissake, Mom,” said Paul. “It was one play.”

  “But you were so good.”

  “Mom!”

  Paul closed his eyes in the car, claiming travel-related nausea while his mother filled him in on the goings-on of various relatives he couldn’t quite place, over the low hum of public radio. At appropriate pauses he asked, “How is Dmitri, still at HVCC?” or “So, what’s happening at work?” and let her talk. Jane’s old Walkman pressed into his side, clipped to his big white belt. He felt the old desperation. What if he couldn’t get out of this town again, was somehow trapped here while all the other fun people were hanging out together somewhere else? He mentally assembled a soundtrack for the depressing stretch of highway between Albany and Troy—mostly Skinny Puppy or KMFDM—and then for Troy itself, where abandoned liters of Crystal Pepsi tumbleweeded down the empty streets. This required the big guns, the Pogues’ “Old Main Drag” or L7’s “Pretend We’re Dead,” which reminded him now of Diane, in the kitchen at Michigan. He remembered driving the streets of Albany the summer after high school, wearing sunglasses in a futile effort to distance himself from Justin Rosenblum, who while nicely ch
auffeuring carless Paul around town tended to blast the Communards from the rolled-down windows of his Saab.

  “Paul,” said his mother. “Wake up, my babydoll. We’re home.”

  He opened the car door, now legitimately nauseated and headachey. Nothing had changed—same shabby ranch, same lone sheath of vinyl siding disengaged and dangling off the side of the house, same plastic Santa climbing into the chimney on the across-the-street neighbor’s roof, same old Huffy—Paul’s, in fact—rusting under the carport. He saw the light on in the basement window, his bedroom—Ari’s bedroom now. He should call Justin, he thought, see if he was home for the holidays and wanted to get a proper drink somewhere, like two clever prodigals. Justin probably still had his own car; they could hit the gay bars in Albany. Then again, Justin Rosenblum, like most other twenty-two-year-olds Paul knew, had already graduated from college, and so, logically, was not on semester break, and anyway being Jewish was probably not planning to come home from LA for Christmas. Paul followed his mother into the living room, where she’d made up the couch for him. He might have to go to Provincetown early, Paul realized; he didn’t know how much more of Troy he could take.

  * * *

  ×

  In high school Paul had been neither popular nor cast out, but instead alternated between the two states, a comedian and a scholarship boy. He worked just hard enough to maintain his full ride to Albany Academy, to placate his parents and to avoid Troy High, which was chock-full of meatheads he’d known since second grade. Albany Academy was twenty minutes from his house, and a world away. His mom dropped him off on her way to her job as a teacher’s aide at Doyle, and he usually made his own way home. His first year he made friends from a variety of circles. He played D&D on Friday nights with a group of guys from Latin class, watched arthouse films up at RPI with Beckett and girls Beckett knew from Emma Willard, made JV soccer, and got himself cast as Puck in the school play. His characters tended to die early in their campaigns, he sat on the bench for four years, and he had been cast as a fairy, but Paul felt somehow right in those mahogany halls, surrounded by boys in navy blue blazers, as though he’d finally found the backdrop he’d always deserved.