Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (10 page)

1, 2, 3.

Dear lord, how could Eric utter such a thing? Is he trying to give me a heart attack? If he’s looking for mouth-to-mouth, there are easier ways of getting it. Talk about mixed messages. First, he’s holding my hand, and then he’s talking about doing a girl? The tip of his sneaker begins tickling my calf.

“Eric, are you…?”

“What?”

I turn bright red. I want to ask Eric if he’s gay, but I don’t know if it’s my business. In middle school, I was constantly probed about my sexuality. Boys wanted to know why I walked on my toes. Girls asked why I wore Secret deodorant. “Because it makes me baby powder fresh,” I’d say. Still, excuses never worked and ambiguity only gave people ammunition. So I came out.

“Are you gay?” I ask Eric.

Pondering the question, he lights a cigarette and responds with a speech rather than a one-word reply. I feel he’s recited the speech before. Like these lines are forever stored in his memory. Like these lines make him feel complete. “I refuse to be labeled in a specific category,” he begins. Then he loses me because the rest of whatever he’s babbling on about sounds like a sonnet rather than an answer.

“I have no idea what you just said,” I admit.

“Basically, I’m attracted to the individual rather than the gender.”

“So you’re bi?”

“Shit,” Eric laughs. “I told you already, I don’t do labels. I’m just me.” Still not quite finished with his almighty declaration, Eric stands to make his final words all the more memorable. “Most gay people use their sexuality as a crutch. Their sexual preference becomes their entire identity. I don’t want to be one of those people. I want to be known for my writing.” Pulling the journal from his shorts pocket, Eric begins fanning out pages like he wants me read them. I’m bored with his holier than thou attitude, so I knock him down to size.

“You write?”

“Yeah I write.” His tone teeters on the defensive. “I write and I fuck. That’s what I do.”

How romantic. Can I quote you on that?

To prove himself, Eric launches into the cynical topics he endlessly scribbles about in his journal: the burden of fruitless ambition that high society places on us all, the inadequacies of people in his life, the hollowness of the American Dream, the notion that we’re all born to die.

I wonder if he’s writing to illustrate some genuine insight on humanity, or if he’s faultfinding and making excuses for his own destructive behavior. All very deep and all very boring, he rattles on and though I’d like to be supportive, I’m not. My eyes blink open and close. When they open, I focus on the outline of his lips, not his words.

Wake me, I think. Eric, you’re so very interesting, but when wake me when you’re ready to hook up.

“You look tired,” he finally says. Inside the bar, the music changes to a soft love tune.

“No, I’m listening.”

“Sorry, it’s a problem of mine. I can’t stop once I get started.”

“Can’t stop what?” I flirt.

“Talking.”

“Oh.”

“I better take you home,” he says, reaching for my hand. Then with ease, he lifts me from the chair, and we’re face to face once again. This time, I refuse to let go though. My lips are quivering, and I’m trying to think of a clever way to get him to kiss me. Studying the circular pattern of hair on his chin, I imagine how his tiny whiskers would feel brushing my cheek. Would they scratch? Would I enjoy the rush of the pain? His tobacco breath warms my lips, and I shiver. “What’s the matter?” he asks. His voice is wolf-like.

“Nothing,” I say. Though truly, I’m paralyzed.

“No. What’s wrong? Tell me. You look scared.”

Inhaling deeply, I take in the night air – the salty, sweet fragrance of the Gulf in the distance. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” His hands wrap around my hips, and though I’m confined, I’m completely fine with it.

“Your writing seems kind of bleak. Maybe you should have a better outlook on life.”

“You think so?”

“Kind of.”

“Forget that. You know I’m about to kiss you, right?” I struggle for a reply but can’t get the words out. His breath feels sticky against my skin, and I imagine with one touch I’ll be glued to him forever. Kiss me you fool.

He does, and I jolt in place as his tongue swoops in my mouth. This feels right. This is why I’m on this planet. This is why life doesn’t suck ALL THE TIME. I’m powerful, yet powerless as he drains, yet fills me, and here I remain for what seems hours, drunk in the thought of being swallowed hole. And this is my life.

One small step for Eric.

One giant leap for me.

The next day, I’m finishing up a psychology exam, and seated beside me, that sad, wannabe Kim Dexter is up to her usual tricks. I could kill her. I’m totally dragging ass from the night before and she thinks I’m going to give her answers just because she’s decided to flatter me for the moment. I don’t think so. I know her game, and I know how quickly it will end once she gets what she wants. So I tell her to go away, that the teacher might hear, but she persists. Tapping my shoulder, she attempts buttering me up by informing me that gay men invented psychology. “You know Freud was a fag, right?” she whispers. “That is, after he got past his Oedipus complex. You know fags and their mothers.”

“Will you quit?”

“It’s true,” she says. Her red hair is tied studiously in a bow. “So, do you have the answer to question eight?” I can’t believe this. The teacher, reading the Wall Street Journal, is seated at a desk fifteen feet from us, and Kim thinks he won’t hear her nasally voice. Either that or she doesn’t care. “Hurry. Give me the answer,” she demands, slapping my shoulder. Gold bracelets click and clank, dangling on her wrist.

“Shh.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Using reverse psychology, Kim goes from saccharine sweet to no sugar added. “Whatever, I bet you don’t even know the answer,” she says. This is the real Kim: the Wal-Mart bra thief, the airbrushed cover girl with a face full of freckles and a broken down car. “I don’t know why I talk to you anyway,” she whispers. “You’re not a fag. Real fags don’t live in Rivershore. Real fags know better.” Two minutes later, voila, she’s back for more. “My Miami hairdresser, Raoul, he’s a real fag,” she whispers. “He gives me ALL the answers.”

The bell rings, and I think Kim’s right. Maybe I’m not a real fag. A real fag would have slapped her in the face. A real fag would have given Eric more than a kiss last night.

“I can’t believe you kissed him,” Jenny says, walking me to my next class. Earlier in the day, I made the mistake of telling her about my night on the town with Eric. “You know I don’t approve,” she says.

“Well sorry, but I like him.”

“You like him?” she asks, completely mortified. Pulling my script out of my book bag, I figure it’s best to ignore Jenny and begin studying my lines. “Well, I’m certain your dad will be thrilled to know that bit of information.”

“I’m sure he would, but NO ONE is ever going to TELL him,” I reply. Ignoring me, Jenny checks her make-up in a compact mirror before flicking off an approaching group of freshman boys interested in the hemline of her jean skirt. “Is that clear?”

“Crystal. If you’re nice to me, that is.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Beee nice to me,” she buzzes.

Ok. This is bullshit. I’m supposed to be reveling with my best friend in the fact that I kissed a boy, and now I’m being blackmailed for it? What gives?

Jenny halts in the center of student traffic, digs in her designer purse, and reveals a container of pills. Opening shop in the hub of the bustling hall, she doesn’t flinch at the fact I’m mad; she’s too busy making a buck. “Watch a master at work,” she boasts.

This is Jenny, the entrepreneur, the walking pharmacy on heels.

Announcing her presence with the shake of a pill bottle, she waits as a line forms. The pillheads, poppies, and emo kids all want in, emptying money from their pockets.

Annoyed, I consider blowing a whistle when I hear Jenny inform her first customer, a ditzy cheerleader, about the perfect pick-me-up for a mid-day crisis. “Mix this pill with a glass of vodka and all of your troubles will wash away.”

Pulling Jenny aside, I tell her to stop acting crazy. Shocked, she reacts like I just stepped on her toe as some longhaired stoner complains about me cutting in line. “Jenny, why are you doing this?” I ask. “You don’t need the money. Your dad buys you what you want.”

As if I’ve crossed some invisible boundary, Jenny narrows her bright blue eyes, flinging her blonde locks back. “You don’t know my dad,” she says.

This is true. I’ve never met her dad. Jenny’s very hush, hush about him and rarely leaks information about their relationship. Well, unless she’s drunk. Then she tells me he’s an absentee father who works 70 hours per week in a finance job where his sole duty is to make rich people richer. Still, he can’t be all that bad. At least, that’s what I’ve concluded from Jenny’s happier memories.
One time, when I was thirteen, dad took me to Hawaii for spring break. We stayed at one of those fancy resorts with slides and soap shaped like seashells. Dad said he’d buy me whatever I want so I picked out the cutest bikini. Mom thought I was too young for a bikini, but she wasn’t invited. It was just dad and me
.

“Jenny, please don’t sell this crap to people,” I plead.

“Bub,” she says, trying to mask her anger. “I love you, but if you don’t move out of my way, I’m going to smack you.”

“Go ahead,” I reply, challenging her. Flinching, Jenny stares me down in silent disbelief. “I know you. You’re not a hard as you pretend to be,” I say.

Then pause, pause, pause.

“Next!” Jenny calls, reopening shop.

In unison, those remaining in line let out a sigh of relief. The stoner, he bailed, so Jenny moves on to the next customer. Sure enough, Danny Schmidt accepts the role.

“Will this stuff get me chicks?” he asks. His round belly hangs below his black ‘Dracula Lives’ tee.

“Of course,” Jenny says. “Chicks will dig you. Guys on medication are super hot. Chicks love them because they don’t complain as much.”

“Stop it, Jenny. Danny has enough problems,” I say. Danny lowers his head in shame. “Sorry Danny, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s ok,” he says quietly and turns away.

“That’s enough! Quit running off clients!” Jenny screams at me. Then suddenly, she plays it cool, real cool, upon first glance of her new boyfriend. “Oh, there’s Greg…shit.”

With his preppy friends, Greg approaches us as if the hall is his personal highway, as if being the student body president gives him the right of way, and I suppose it does. I mean, some people are simply destined to be the shit and today, much like every day, Greg dresses right for the part. The collar on his white polo shirt is popped up at a perfect 45-degree angle. The khaki pants he wears are wrinkle-free and paired with a creamy leather belt. His black-framed glasses magnify his beauty and intelligence all the more.

The question is what does Greg see in Jenny? This is what I’ve been asking myself since their rendezvous at The Gap. Sure, Jenny is a catch but smart guys like Greg usually prefer the catch of the day, and Jenny has been put out to sea quite a few times. Therefore, I don’t get it.

“Scatter people!” Jenny says, quickly putting her merchandise back in her purse. Agitated, the remaining customers groan and disperse. “How do I look?” Jenny asks me. I’ve never seen her so unconfident in her confidence.

“Like a slut,” I joke.

“Are you serious?” Frantic, Jenny tries to stretch her plaid skirt to her knees. “Damn, I knew I should have worn something else,” she says, rapidly. “Do you think Greg saw me with my pills? He can’t know about the pills.”

Here I stand utterly shocked. Usually, Jenny takes the word slut as a compliment. And why does she care what Greg thinks? What’s going on here?

“You look fine,” I assure her. “Everything is fine.”

Granting me a rare hug, she presses lightly, afraid she might wrinkle. “I know it’s pathetic, but I really like Greg,” she tells me in confidence. “He’s not like the other guys. He goes to class. He gets good grades. I really think he’s relationship material.”

Relationship material? How can she stand here and utter such blasphemy? What happened to her ‘boys are big stuffed teddy bears’ speech? This is not the girl I know. At the premiere of the film depicting my life, this is part where the pod person jumps from Jenny’s body and goes boo!

I hear no boo though, just boo hoo as Jenny leaves my side. What if Jenny does get into a relationship? Will I be replaced? Is Greg the new me?

I just can’t watch (oh, yes I can!) as Greg takes Jenny in his arms and gently strokes her back as if she were fragile and then kisses her mouth in a short, respectful way. There’s no slobbering like most boys. Genteel, the last of dying breed, that’s Greg. How could Jenny not turn to mush? I melt just witnessing it. Jenny knows. Here, now, she takes off Greg’s glasses and tries them on, ruffling his straight black hair, but deep down, she knows I’m watching. She knows that I rot whenever I’m alone in this blinding hallway of public school hell. I might as well be a mannequin. Dress me up and throw me in the cloudy window of a rundown store. Right now, I feel equally plastic and unnoticed.

Turning to bid me farewell, Jenny points to a red wall poster, painted with a creepy pumpkin face, promoting the Monster Mash. “Can’t wait for us to shag!” she yells.

It’s the same line every year. Can’t wait to shag! Then she disappears with some random guy she’s destined to suck off while I’m left sucking in my chipmunk cheeks in an attempt to appear blessed with great bone structure.

As if Jenny cares about shagging with me!

Last year, she begged me to be her escort and then ditched me before we finished one dance. On most nights that would be fine, but she knows how much the Monster Mash means to me. It’s the only dance that I attend. There’s no prom queen to salute, and for one wondrous night, the outcasts rule the dance floor. Hiding behind a mask, anyone can be popular. Anyone can be queen, even me!

However, this year, I can already predict my luck. The charmed ones, Jenny and Greg, will be lost in each other all night and I’ll be the gay best friend by the punch bowl. Oh, this punch tastes great. It’s got pineapple in it? No kidding. Not even a zillion Brazilian boys could take me away from this punch bowl. That’s how lame I’ll sound. Sure, last year’s dance was no better, but at least being deemed a pedophile for dressing up like Pee-Wee Herman got me attention. This year my fate seems far, far worse. Now that Jenny has a boyfriend, this year it appears I’m destined arrive and go home alone.