Boy Midflight (5 page)

“Thanks, buddy. That was fun, huh?” Jeremy coos in my ear. My contentment quickly shatters as I see Chris just inside the doors of the gym staring at us.

OKAY, IT’S
no big deal, right? It was only a fully clothed massage, right? Not like we had sex. Oh, but I would have, if it weren’t for the twenty odd other people strewn about on the gymnasium floor. Shut up! We have a dilemma here! Chris saw you and Jeremy getting a little close, what do you think he’s thinking? He probably imagines that you’re playing both him and Jeremy! We need to work together here to figure this out….

What is this? Who am I speaking to? I think I sometimes take being a Gemini too seriously. All that twin stuff starts going to my head, and before I realize it I’m speaking in plural. I will actually find myself saying to a friend, “No, we don’t feel like seeing that movie.” We? Who are
we
? I don’t know when it started, but we always hold dialogue with each other. It starts in the morning picking out clothes: “No, that doesn’t look good. Do we feel in a blue mood today?” This party continues through the day in the choice of food, what to do, etc.

We don’t know but we imagine it may have started as we began to discover our sexuality. Like an amoeba… wait, do amoebas split? Well for my purposes here, we’ll say they do. As I was saying, like an amoeba we started to split into unique entities that were appropriate when around different groups of people. To some I was a heterosexual lacrosse and hockey buff. Many knew the bisexual personage and tried to convert him to one side or the other. Still others knew the proud gay warrior. Of course there are many shades and colors to each of our personalities. The ideal plan is to one day amalgamate into one superpowered hero. Like when the Transformers turn into Auto Boss.

Friends who know us well actually have names for these entities. “Oh, here’s Angry Ashley.” “When did Franz from Lac la Ronge come out?” “Here’s French Canadian tough guy.” For it is often a full transformation, from voice register and accent, to stance and walk, to gesticulations and subtle nuances.

And so it is in this unstable psychosis that we decide to call Chris up and finally get the lowdown. This is, of course, post several fitful pick-ups and hang-ups of the phone. Ringing…. Ringing….

“Hello?”

“Hey Chris, this is Ashley. How ya doin’?”

“Fine. You?”

“All right. Listen, I’m just going to be really forthright. Are you still planning to break it off with Jeremy or what? Because I’m really into this and want it to work out. I mean, it would be so cool if we both got a summer contract and could live together for the summer. You, Michelle, and I, ya know? I just feel like I made a concerted effort to be with you by breaking it off with Rachel, and I thought we had talked and you were going to end it with Jeremy too so we could be together, and now I don’t know what’s happening….”

“Listen, Ashley.” Whenever a sentence starts with that, I know it is not going to be good. I try to brace myself. “It’s just the wrong energy, ya know? I can’t do it right now. Jeremy and I’ve been together since school started. People would think I’m a jerk. I can’t do that to him. But I really do like you. The energy is just not right.”

“All right, man. That’s cool. That’s cool. Ummm. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” The warrior in me lifts his armor slowly and conceals the pain.

“Yeah, for sure. G’night, buddy.”

Click.

Wrong energy?
Wrong energy
? What the fuck is that? Wrong energy! Fuck that shit! I know I’m living West Coast, airy-fairy, tree-hugging, granola-eating, island shit, but fuck the energy! When is the energy right? This is bullshit! That fuckin’ prick! I break up with Rachel for his ass and this is what I get? Wrong energy. The words ring in my ears like a strange voodoo curse. Wrong energy. Wrong energy. Wrong energy.

MARCH 26

I am shell-shocked, heartbroken, and nearly choked. Was it all just a game for him? Did he ever really want a relationship with me? Chris shut the door in my face after leading me to believe he was breaking it off with Jeremy. And now, I know that I played the fool. Played right into my own sorrow and despair. What does this all mean?

It means that I will not move in with him and Michelle, which I am okay with. Why do I pretend like this didn’t hurt? Once again, I’m alone. What is wrong with me? No fun, too serious? I don’t know. I know I risked and lost. My heart fell from the limb I placed it out on. Where do I go from here? I now don’t have a girlfriend or Chris. I have no one. Will I ever have someone? Am I meant to journey alone? I don’t know how to win emotionally. I always play this game to lose. I set myself up for defeat.

I can’t believe it. Put it behind. Close the door. Chance over. Too bad for him. I have to journey forward. Life beckons and I am ready. I want the full treatment and I’m getting it. Check “Getting Dissed” off the list of life experiences. Next adventure, I’m ready for you. Take me far away to bright lights, new people, and warm weather. Oh! Don’t you see my soul has been forged for this for all time? Advance and thrust. I will not parry.

Last night in my dream, Chris dissed me again. We were at some cabin and we fooled around, but then he walked out on me. Ah! It’s over, though. That really did happen. I was used, abused, and taken for a ride.

It’s pouring rain outside. Why can’t it be sunny? Why can’t I lay on the beach?

I’m so hurt over Chris. Rejected. He, by not taking action, made a choice not to be with me. My pride is hurt. Now what? Who to turn to? Antonio, are you even listening to me?!?

EXITING ST. ANDREW’S
Cathedral onto View Street, Millie and I encounter the usual cluster of panhandlers, drug addicts, and homeless perched on the front steps and along the iron fence. They are the Inciters of Guilty Conscience, unwilling to sit through a mass themselves. My mentor from college and wonderful friend Millie is thirty years my senior and the one who demanded I start writing those damned morning pages. She’s auburn haired and wears thick-rimmed glasses that give her an owlish countenance. She’s a brilliant voice coach and intuitive spiritualist. The first day of college, she walked up to me and brashly reported that I held tension in my jaw—no doubt a defensive reflex rooted in hostility toward my father—and constantly held my abdominals flexed. This, she reported, was a shield protecting my sexuality. I called her a witch. We became fast friends and often spend Sundays together away from school. A great way to refocus at the end of intense weekly studies, and there’s no one I’d rather spend this time with than Millie. We walk to the Cheesecake Café with the choir still echoing in my head.

Millie has an uncanny gift that goes beyond mere women’s intuition. She knows things about a person just by looking at them. “So do you want to talk about him?” she asks once she’s settled with her mimosa.

“About who?”

“Ashley, if you want to talk, I’m here to listen,” Millie says simply and opens her menu.

“How do you know it’s a him?”

“If it were a her, you would have already brought it up.”

I give Millie a pained smile. There really is no getting out of a conversation with her and no option of lying. “Okay, so here’s the deal. You know how I was dating Rachel, right? Well I ended that so I could be with Chris.”

“Jeremy’s Chris?”

“Yes.
Jeremy
’s Chris and the deal was
Jeremy
’s Chris would end it with Jeremy and be my Chris.”

“And?”

“And he hasn’t. He said it’s the wrong energy. That he couldn’t just dump Jeremy now at the end of the year. Everyone would think he’s a jerk,” I say, feeling betrayed all over again. “I just feel like a clown. I mean I gave up Rachel for him. She was amazing. I changed my life and he’s too scared to change his.”

“You didn’t give up Rachel for him. That was for you. It was time for you to move on. You weren’t living your truth,” Millie says, sipping her mimosa.

“Why does living the truth have to be so freaking hard?”

“It just hurts at the beginning. Wasn’t living a lie just as painful?”

“I guess. Why couldn’t it all have just fallen into place like I planned, though?”

“That’s just it, Ashley. You’re trying too hard to create the destiny you see. You’ve got to give it all up in order to fully live.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the simple law of God, the law of nature and of science. In order for miracles to happen, true miracles like love, honesty, and birth, you have to let it all go. Have the courage to not know what will happen tomorrow. That doesn’t mean you don’t make plans and strive for goals. It’s the acceptance of a much bigger plan you don’t have the vision for.”

“So I’m just supposed to forget about Chris?”

“You’ve got to just live your life. You can’t force him to love you. When you have the courage to let go, life will start.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a smart boy, you’ll figure it out.”

AS IS
my custom when hurt or disappointed, I throw myself into work. No time for sulking. Back at it to become better than before. The “you’ll be sorry you lost me” attitude. Wait until I’m immeasurably successful! Then you’ll want me back and I won’t bite! My prayers that Chris and I get a summer contract together change to prayers that Antonio takes me away somewhere warm with palm trees where I can forget I ever fell for him in the first place.

I’m longing for something else, anything to forget the pain of Chris. Unfortunately, I find myself rehearsing sappy material and music, “Raining in my Heart” from
Dames at Sea
, “If I Can’t Have You” from
Saturday Night Fever
. The balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
and the script from
Sleepless in Seattle
where Sam is talking to the radio therapist about his deceased wife. Thank God for Michelle, my buxom blonde who stays at my side, listens to my problems, and loves me regardless. I’ve always been fortunate to have a group of good friends to share the journey with. The yellow brick road would be a lonely place without the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, and the Fruit Fly. Ode to the fag hag, the fruit fly! She who stood by us and escorted us to prom. She who spent countless nights with us out for coffee, at the movies, and shopping. Oh, yes, shopping. It happens to be my favorite sport. She who posed as our girlfriend when necessary and was always willing to be a “cover girl.” Ode to she who escorted us to gay bars and clubs to ogle cute boys in vain. Ode to she who found her own rides home when we hooked up at the club. Hail she who taught us the intricacies of fashion, shared our love of music, and encouraged our endless train of crushes. Hail she who puts up with our tantrums, feeds our egos, and lifts our spirits! Ode to the fag hag, hail the fruit fly!

For some reason God gifted gay men the innate ability to communicate with and understand women. It’s like we’ve been given the key to their secret clubhouse and allowed to bear witness to all the ceremonies of womanhood. The door to the male clubhouse was slammed in our face. But for the most part women are more interesting anyway; the conversation is juicier and we empathize easily with each other.

The relationship between a guy and his best girlfriend or fruit fly is intimate, amazing, and complex. On the surface there are all the benefits and extremities of a boy/girl relationship. There’s the incessant cuddling, the endless dinners, movies, and dates, the tête-à-tête amid bursts of rapturous laughter, and occasionally love notes, gifts, and amorous references. Marriage would be eminent, perfect, a Cinderella dream but for one thing. No Sex. And therein lies the complexity.

This embodies the relationship between Michelle and myself. I adore her, and as evidenced by the rumors in college, we are perceived as a secret couple. Truth is I love that. She’s my connection to society’s “normal” world. Our relationship stands as a blockade to ward off people’s accusations of my sexual meanderings. The issue within is that I harbor a real, albeit confusing, sexual infatuation for her, and I believe she has reciprocal feelings. Intensely devoted to each other and our friendship with secret sexual agendas to manifest, we define the gayboy/fruit fly relationship.

Reclining on one of the assemblage of disparate couches in the student lounge, I sink my teeth into a ripe gala apple purchased earlier at the market in Oak Bay Village. Seated on the ground with her head resting on folded arms in my lap, Michelle gazes up at me, smiling.

“So what are you doing for spring break?” she asks lackadaisically.

My mind immediately creates pictures of Chris and me hiking the Gulf Islands, laughing, and going for long, rain-drenched, late-night walks. Making love…. Zap! Back to the reality of a broken heart, a disenchanted dream, and a sour taste for love.

“I’d actually like to accomplish all my grad requirements so I have no more anxiety before the year-end show,” I reply, my subversive business self overthrowing any lingering hope my inner child held of possible love. “What about you? Are you going home?” I ask Michelle, who has coerced me gently to sit up and share the couch with her.

“Yeah, I’m going to go to Salt Spring Island. My mom’s in a show there so I want to see her. Can you believe the year is almost done? When we get back from break, we only have a month and a half left at college!”

“I know, I can’t believe how fast it’s flown by. I feel like we’re just getting to really appreciate each other, you know?”

“You haven’t forgotten what day it is, have you? We find out about the Butchart Gardens auditions today. We’re still living together this summer, right?” She nudges me amicably.

“That’s right! I can’t wait to find out. But how are the living arrangements going to work? I mean, you, Chris, and me were supposed to live together. I can’t do that. It would be torture to be in the same house as him, especially if he’s still with Jeremy. It would just be awkward. I’d go crazy.” The sudden realization hits me hard. Now what? It was going to be a two bedroom. One for Michelle and one for “us.” I quickly size up the situation and come to the conclusion that for my emotional state, it is an irrevocable impossibility.