Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (12 page)

On the way home from rehearsal, James is silent and still, looking out the window of his patrol car as if he has a world to talk about but a universe of reasons to hold it all inside. Me, I’m equally troubled except I’m not quiet. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Racing faster than the speed of life, my heart is rocket ship loud.

I ask myself, what’s this about? Does dad know I snuck out last night? Did he hear I kissed Eric? Ba-boom. Ba-boom. I don’t want to sound weak but I think I’m having a heart attack.

Talk about stress. James won’t even look at me. Here I am totally cute, humming the death march, but his eyes steer in every direction but mine, locked on traffic or the palm trees adorning the sidewalk.

I don’t get it. Usually James’ skin has a reflective glow. Today though, it appears dull. Flakes form around his shaved bowling ball head. His broad forearms appear ashy in spots, in other places, almost white.

Seated beside him, I convince myself that something awful is afoot. If James is in a bad way, then dad must be in a state far worse. They’re like sponges, both of them. They soak up each other’s problems. When one can’t handle the grime, the other scrubs ‘til the matter is clean. Today, James has bathroom duty.

“All right James, spill it,” I command.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he returns. Sexy as hell in his uniform, his too smooth delivery tells me otherwise. A former thug hailing from downtown Atlanta, he knows how to talk the talk. But can he walk the walk?

“Don’t lie to me, James. I’m way too young, cute, and yes, gay to be grounded. Now tell me what you know.”

Honk! Honk! James fails to answer, rattled by the horn of a car stuck behind us in traffic. In a whisper, James curses before seeking forgiveness from the Jesus statuette glued to the dashboard.

“Very Christian-like,” I smirk. “But shouldn’t good Christians be kind to their fellow man?”

“I’m the kindest man you’ll ever meet.”

“Then kindly give me the information I need.”

James can’t help but smile – his white teeth full and glorious. “What’s going on in that head? You think this is about you? Is that it?”

“Of course. I snuck out last night and if dad found out he’s going to kill me.”

“Is that right?”

“And if he hasn’t found out and you tell him, I’m going to kill you.”

“You don’t say,” he laughs. I hear static come across the radio when a dispatcher asks another officer to ‘come in, come in.’

“Listen, this is serious!” I tell him.

Letting up on the gas, he turns to face me. This is the first time we’ve been made eye contact since he picked me up. I’d forgotten how intense his stare could be, how his pupils are like unwavering holes of intimidation, how they can deplete you and make you come clean about anything. “You listen. Have I ever told your pop anything?”

“No.”

“Then why are you worried?”

James is right. I shouldn’t question his loyalty to me. He’s never been anything but honest. That’s why in sixth grade I told him about my interest in boys before I told anyone else; I knew he wouldn’t blab. Plus, I’ll always remember his response: Love yourself for who you are. God’s no dummy. If he didn’t want you that way, you wouldn’t be that way.

To be honest, God wasn’t really a part of my life until we had that talk. I had my reasons. For one, I used to pray daily that my attraction to boys would be a phase. Obviously, that went unanswered.

And then there was my Maker Prayer….

Make mom love me. Make her come back.

Make her. Make her. Make her.

It was just another overlooked request.

So I figured, if most people think fags go to hell, why should I believe in God? “Because God is NOT most people,” James said.

For me, that clicked, and I don’t give a damn what the haters have to say. God has to let fags in heaven. Who else could help him decorate, cook, and entertain? We’re kind of everywhere.

“Lord, watch over me now,” I whisper, as we venture home. Outside my window, I spy a car salesman selling a new SUV to a fashionable couple. In a strip-mall parking lot, trophy wives and senior citizens race for the space closest to the doors.

Super Wal-Mart, Super Target – in these parts, discount chains don capes and fly. The prices have been slashed; the item you need has arrived, and for local residents, self-actualization is a full shopping cart away.

Thankfully, turning off the main drag, James leads us to a less urban setting, where oak trees line the road and a bridge leads us over the lily pads of Frog Leap Creek.

Beside the creek, I spy Rivershore Fairgrounds, a dome-shaped home to antique car shows during the week, and on Sundays, amateur wrestling. Today, except for a pick-up truck, the parking lot is empty. Still, to the right of the main entrance, I see movement: a tall white tent being erected on an acre of green grass. Circular at the bottom, it becomes smaller and smaller, rising to the sky like a paper birthday hat or an upside-down ice-cream cone. To the inside, shirtless male laborers transport large square objects wrapped in gray blankets.

Pointing to the tent, I ask James if he knows what event is coming. Playing naïve, he shrugs and tells me it’s probably a fall fundraiser, that or a Junior League fashion show. Then changing the subject, he begins a round of Twenty-One Questions regarding Phase Two of Rivershore Heights. Do I like the new model homes? Have I looked inside? Is that where I had gone when I snuck out last night? That boy I was with, what’s his name again?

“I don’t know. John or Steve,” I reply.

I can play naïve too.

It’s just an act though. Inside, I’m riddled with complexities. I wonder, why is James asking these questions? What’s his fascination with Phase Two of Rivershore Heights? Why has dad forbidden me to go there?

Arriving home, it’s business as usual. Most of the neighbors check the comings and goings of cars through partially cracked blinds while Sergeant Dogshit stands at attention on the corner of our street, saluting the sign that reads Eisenhower Drive. Leashed at his side, I watch Dookie brown another bright green lawn. Them is liquid landmines, I think. Them keep the enemies at bay. Keeping Jenny at bay, that’s another story. Her cherry red convertible is parked beside my mailbox.

“What is Jenny doing here?” I ask James.

“You got me. She wasn’t here when I left.”

She’s telling dad about Eric.

No, she wouldn’t do that.

Yes, she would.

No, she’s my best friend.

As James slows to stop in the middle of the street, Jenny springs out of the house in a mad rush. “Promise you’ll go easy on your pop,” James says. He’s had a rough day.” He places his thick, callused hand on my chin. “Hey, look at me. If you need to talk….”

“I know, James. I know.”

I step out of the car as the stifling heat coils around my body, squeezing me like an anaconda. Bolting down the driveway, Jenny yells an abbreviated hello, unlocking her car. “Sorry Bub. I hate to run, but I have a date with Greg,” she says.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I forgot to grab the movie the other night.” With the exception of her key, I note she’s empty-handed. Her eyes are red.

“Really? Where is it?”

“In the car.”

Meeting Jenny at her car, I peek through the open passenger window and search for the DVD. Nothing is there, except for two navy Gap bags and a silver Pop-tart wrapper. “I don’t see it,” I say.

“What’s your deal? Get lost. You’re acting like your crazy neighbor.” She pushes me away.

Here’s where my voice soars.

Here’s where enough is enough.

“You think I’m crazy?” I scream.

“Yes.”

“Remember that cheerleader who bought your pill today? Remember that poor girl, Jenny?” Bored, Jenny inspects her manicure, blowing hot air on her fingertips. “Well thanks to you, she thinks she’s Little Orphan Annie.”

With an artificial laugh, she rolls her eyes. Still, I can see it registering. She had an impact. She knows it, and though that may exhilarate her for the moment, there’s a mournful girl trapped inside who knows she’s been bad. “Gee, another Rivershore cheerleader with delusions of grandeur,” she says. “Really Bub, I’m not impressed.”

“Don’t be a monster.”

“Oh, come on. Take a joke. You know that cheerleader doesn’t give a shit about you. To that girl, you’re nothing but a fag and I’m nothing but a slut.”

“So? Who cares what she thinks?”

“I do! I’m NOT a…” she begins. Then fighting her emotions, her lips tremble and she dodges my eyes.

“What?”

“Oh, just forget it!”

“No, say it!”

“All right! I’m a slut sometimes, but you know I’m more,” she rushes out. “You know I’m not damaged. Even if I don’t believe it myself, you know I deserve more. Right?”

“You ARE more. You’ve always been more. You know that.”

“Do I?” Momentarily, the wall collapses, and the Jenny I knew before high school emerges. The girl who could set the world on fire with her laugh, the girl more innocent than a kitten, here she is without the formula, the bad girl exterior she’s concocted to survive.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re more,” I state.

“Yeah, well, you’re obligated to say that. You have to say tomato when I say tomaato. That’s what friends do,” she responds, growling at me under her breath. Then opening her car door, she slips into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition. “By the way, Bub, defending drugged-out cheerleaders should be the last thing on your mind right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You better talk to your dad,” she says.

“Why? What did you tell him?” Keeping mum, Jenny playfully shrugs. “Jenny, what did you say?”

“Nosy, nosy,” she states.

“Jenny, stop it. For once, this is NOT a joke!”

“You’re right. It’s not a joke. It’s just a case of you being jealous that I have a date.” Then pressing down on the gas, she blows me an exaggerated kiss, a super mouthy muah, and drives off into the picturesque day.

This is Jenny, selling her pills instead of digesting them. No logic. No reason. No holds barred. Simply Jenny.

And fine, I’ll admit it; I may be jealous, but I’m mad above everything. I mean, here I am trudging toward my house in anticipation of my uncertain yet certainly shaky fate, and Jenny’s off to prep for her first date with Greg.

Still, I’m not bitter, no.

I’m too busy to be bitter.

Me, I’m turning the knob of destiny, or in other words, I’m opening the front door. It’s unlocked, and on the inside, there’s some jazzy love song saturated with a saxophone on the radio. Think WFART but with fouler and gustier winds.

Except for the music, the house is quiet, clean too. On the couch, four peach pillows sit in perfect pairs. On the wooden coffee table, not a speck of dust or a crumb. I set down my book bag, calling dad’s name but no reply. Above the fireplace, fresh begonias soak in a crystal vase. I smell burning candles, the scent of brown cinnamon. The red rug outside of the bathroom has fresh vacuum lines. “Dad, are you there?”

There’s movement in the kitchen, and I hear a woman’s voice. Edging closer, I arch my head toward it and the voice becomes clear. It sounds as if the woman, stumbling over her words, is preparing a speech. “Hello. No, that isn’t right. Hi. It’s nice to see you. No,” she says.

I whisper, “Dad?” The music on the radio covers my voice.

“Tyler, I knew our paths would cross,” I hear the woman say. Outside the kitchen, I remain hidden, listening to her talk. She said my name. How does she know my name? “I wasn’t going to come but the wisdom of chance said I should.”

Wisdom of chance? What kind of kook talks like….

Wait. Suddenly, it all connects. The sappy music, the fresh begonias, the candles, the clean house, the white tent....

The CIRCUS tent....

God, I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.

This isn’t about my homecoming.

Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

This is about mom. She’s come home.