Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (13 page)

Jenny once told me that if a terrorist were to drop a hydrogen bomb over Rivershore, she’d be waiting in her lawn chair with a sparkler. This is what I’m thinking. As my knees go weak, this is what enters my mind. That if right now I keel over and die, I’m bound to make it as dramatic as possible. I tell myself, breathe. Breathe Tyler, breathe. But no use, I can’t recall how. I feel myself falling and falling. Then boom — I hit the floor. No live audience. No clapping hands. Just me flat on my back as mom goes silent in the next room.

Here I am twitching. Here I am performing my best impersonation of a boy having a seizure. Give me sugar. Give me rage. Give me anything. Just somebody give me attention.

“Tyler, is that you?” mom calls.

Seconds later, I’ve morphed into a lifeless cadaver and she’s hovering over my head like a vulture. I won’t let her feed off my emotions, I think. She can’t know I care.

“Here, take my hand,” she tells me. Reaching over, she twiddles her fingers like a magician, but poof, this won’t make our relationship any better. I’m still mad. She still abandoned me, and I’m not about to accept any help now.

Up, up, and away, I think. Then I’m quick to my feet as I search for a bump, a wound on my head. I don’t find a bump, just a wound in my heart as I face mom for the first time in years.

Standing before me, she’s an inch shorter than my chin, and her brown pigtails are laced up in pink ribbon. That’s the color of her smock-like blouse and hippie skirt too. She’s a free spirit, dad days. She wears whatever she wants. She always has. Only now, pink seems more like a cover than a color – the perfect ingredient to hide the fact she’s no longer engaged and underage.

Still, she can’t conceal everything. She’s changed, gained weight; that I can see, even though the red crystals around her neck are long and bulky enough to hide her belly.

This is Anna Pinto, my mom. No make-up. No painted smile on her round face. No clowning around.

With open arms, she approaches me, radiating with the musky scent of patchouli. She wants to hug, embrace. I’m not ready for contact though. Not now. Not here. Not ever. “Say something. I want to hear your voice,” she says.

“I, I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a good start. Say something else.”

“Don’t come closer.”

Freezing in place, she inspects me with swollen, brown eyes. Has she been crying? Will she cry now? Only time will tell. And oh, what time would say if it spoke. It would tell you of the week following mom’s departure. I’d bury my face in a bowl of ice cream whenever dad mentioned her name; I’d coat every insatiable hole with calories. And dad, he thought every love song on the radio was written about him.

“What’s the matter?” mom asks. “I can’t read your energy.”

“Where’s dad?”

“He’s making a phone call.” She speaks in a jittery tone. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re mad.”

“No, I....”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, backing away. “I’m going to my room.”

Using a ripped tissue hidden in her hand she dabs at her eyes. “Can I come? I want to spend time with you.” Approaching, her airy dress dances above the kitchen floor, revealing pink shoes.

“No, I’d rather be alone.”

“But....”

“Listen, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Didn’t you get my last letter?” she asks.

A sideways glance tells her no, her whimsical words had gone unread. “I’m sorry,” I offer.

Minutes later, alone in my room, I’m on a mad hunt for something to boost my spirits. I find Puddy. Clutching him to my heart, I fall on the bed and bury my face in his black stuffed-animal fur. Still, the gentle touch of a substitute boyfriend is not enough. I really want Billy. To feel his perfect proportions, that would be grand. To hold, to be held — that’s all I desire. Just allow me a moment to vanish in his arms and let there be no mother, no father to spoil the fun.

No such luck. “Can I come in?” dad asks, knocking on my bedroom door. Happiness lies beneath his tone, and I think, damn mom for coming back, and damn dad for relishing in it.

“The door is unlocked,” I groan.

Entering, dad closes the door behind him, dressed in a white-collared shirt and chinos. I don’t get why he’s trying so hard. Is it to impress mom? No, that can’t be it. Dad’s smarter than that. Well, except when he’s dead-set on convincing the world that being gay is a choice. But is he dumb enough to think mom is going to melt and come back to him because he can throw together a decent outfit? I know men can be clueless, especially when they’re thinking with their dinkies, but damn, earth to dad, the woman is not into you!

“You ok?” dad asks, approaching the bed.

“It’s nothing one of Jenny’s pills can’t solve.”

Concerned, he sighs and his forehead divides with lines.

I have him right where I want him, I think. He knows he messed up for not warning me. Technically, I can say whatever I want.

Billy got me pregnant. That bastard forgot to wear a condom.

With mom here, nothing can bring dad down. Still, this doesn’t keep me from trying.

“I don’t want to talk, just leave,” I tell him.

“Come on bud, don’t do this.”

Taking a seat on the bed, he’s covered in the cologne men buy at the drug store when they’re too old to know better. Rubbing alcohol and pine trees, that’s the scent of dad. “You betrayed me,” I say.

“What?”

“I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“I was going to meet you outside. I wanted to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I was on an important call.”

“More important than me?” I’m going straight for the jugular vein. I want dad to hurt like I hurt. “She just can’t come back. It doesn’t work like that.”

“She’s your mom.”

“Don’t call her that!” I scream. Then I scream more. It all comes out so fast and furious. Enema mouth, that’s me. Before I stop, I begin rattling on about the fact that mom hasn’t fucking earned the title “mom” and how we should call her something else. Profanity never seemed so poignant.

Stroking my back, dad stays quiet, staring at the syrupy movement of the green plasma in the lava lamp on my dresser. I want to find solace in his touch, but I don’t. This is how anger works. It hardens your tender skin and gives you the illusion of being wrapped in steel. It races through you, making you feel charcoal-burned and sweaty. Then suddenly you think maybe you can fight the world.

In an attempt to calm me, dad informs me that mom left. That she’ll be back, but for now, it’s best to keep an open mind until we figure out why she returned. Me, I don’t care why. I have no magnifying glass. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. Besides, I have much better reasons to play detective. For example, take Jenny and the magical case of the missing movie rental. Why was Jenny really here today? What was her motive? “What did Jenny tell you?” I ask.

Dad avoids my eyes. “That’s not important.”

“So what, am I grounded?”

“For what?”

Good, Jenny didn’t tell him about Eric.

Jenny is loved again.

“Oh nothing,” I say.

I sense dad registering the comment, but at least for now, he’s smart enough to resist inquiring about it. You see, dad knows he’s in the wrong for failing to alert me about mom. And this is a chance for me to have the upper hand. So what better time, I convince myself, to inform dad about Billy coming to visit tonight. He can’t say no.

“Billy who?” dad asks, playing dumb.

“Billy Greske. You know, from the film, the guy I hung out with after school yesterday.”

“Oh yes. I don’t think we’ve actually met.”

“Well, you can meet him tonight. He’s coming over to rehearse.”

Dad says he’s working the night shift.

What a shame. Billy and I all alone....

What could we find to do?

“There’s always next time,” I yawn, signaling I’d like to take a nap. He doesn’t move though. There on the edge of the bed, on the edge of telling me something else, something that seems important, he remains lost in thought. Maybe like me, he’s thinking about mom. Why has she returned? Does she want us back? Dad seems to think so. You never get over your first love, he once told me. You may move on, but you never forget that person. No matter where the day takes you, they drill at the core of your brain. Dad, it seems, hasn’t given up. His brain is Swiss cheese, and I’m the ham sandwiched between him and reality. This is me, the jokester: the troubled gay son who entertains dad with my silly antics. Right now, I’d love nothing more than to laugh and tell dad about my belief that clown school must hold a class for bored women on how to juggle men’s hearts. Unfortunately, I know the joke would be on him so I just close my eyes and drift.

Later that night, I’m in a dizzy little tizzy. Billy’s set to arrive in five minutes and I’m bouncing around my bedroom making final preparations. For starters, I place fresh sheets and pillowcases on my bed, ensuring no germs or bugs get in on the action. I want Billy ALL to myself, and if he’s going to catch a bug, I’m going to be the one giving it to him.

Now regarding lighting, I figure the dimmer the better. That way, Billy can’t see what’s coming, and I can play stupid should I happen to bump into his bulge. How genius! I marvel. Then lighting dad’s tea lights, I place them in the shape of a heart atop my dresser. Going for the ‘seduce me when they flicker’ look, I can’t resist a giggle when I set the ceiling fan on full blast!

Oh, I’m awful, I think. Terrible! But enough about me, the next step is music! Now, like father like son, I know the value of capturing a romantic mood with just the right melody. Unlike dad though, I’m not about to be so obvious about it. In other words, I’ll have none of that adult-contempo crap. Tonight, ladies of the eighties are the preferred choice. Therefore, I shuffle retro heavyweights like Belinda Carlisle, Joan Jett, and Pat Benatar into the mix. My plan is to go slow, save the sultry stuff for later. Listening to Madonna at the onset of the evening would be a dead giveaway of my plan of seduction, and I find it necessary to ease Billy into my world of cruel intentions.

Now about style: My first idea is to wallpaper my body in pure white. You know, give off an angelic vibe so Billy will want to take my purity. Then I figure creating an Emily Dickinson look might be tacky. So I settle on cut-up jeans and a white baseball tee with long navy blue sleeves. Talk about butch, with such a sporty outfit, I can feel my manhood getting bigger in my pants. Honestly. Right now, I’d love nothing more than to puke beer, fart peanuts, and tune into ESPN.

This is when I realize the time is 8:03. Yes, I’m counting each minute and this makes Billy three minutes late. Make that three minutes and three seconds late. Am I being stood up? Am I being rejected? My heart begins to hurt when I hear the doorbell. So I race to greet Billy. Granted, I know this is bad form, that all boys should be kept waiting, but Billy doesn’t mind. As I open the front door, he seems too nervous to notice my anxious state. With a script in hand, he simply smiles, completely adorable and camera-ready in a gray hoodie. It’s so cute. He knows to wear layers around me.

“What? No flowers?” I say.

“Huh?”

“Just kidding,” I laugh. “Flowers are so ordinary, and I’m anything but....”

“Right,” he says, taking a moment to glance at the darkness behind him. In the distance, I hear footsteps on fallen leaves. “Uh, do you know that old guy on your lawn? I think he’s carrying a rifle.”

“Old man?” Before Billy can explain, along comes Sergeant Dogshit: a beer-bellied watchtower guarding the premises as his pug, Dookie, soils the lawn. “Ugh,” I moan.

“I think he’s following me,” Billy says.

“Please, he can barely follow the weather.”

“I see you’ve had plenty of traffic through your home today,” Sergeant notes. His blue boxer shorts are pulled up, up, up, along with his matching socks.

“Nice of you to notice,” I reply.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, balancing a rifle on his shoulder. Leaping from the lawn, a tiny tree frog lands on the porch.

“Everything is peachy,” I reply. Sergeant bends down to praise his pug for fertilizing the grounds.

“Nothing like a little dog poop to keep that grass growing,” he says.

“Wow,” Billy mouths. I signal him to get inside, and he slides beside me into the house.

“Who is that boy?” Sergeant asks. “Is he a friend of yours?” The term friend he utters in the daintiest tone he can conjure.

I can’t believe it. It’s like the bastard barely knows he’s alive, but he damn sure knows I’m gay.

“Goodnight Sergeant,” I say. Closing the door, I go to the bay window and watch him stare dully into space. As rain begins to fall, he retreats to his home with Dookie. “So,” I begin, alone with Billy.

“So who was that?”

“That was the neighborhood watch,” I state, rolling my eyes. “But he’s not watching anymore.” Riddled, Billy nods, still a tad confused. “Shall we?” I ask, motioning to my bedroom.

Unzipping his hoodie, he hesitates. “Are we alone?”

“Yeah, my dad has to work the night shift. Is that a problem?”

“No, no problem,” he states. Heavy-footed, he stands firmly in place as I head down the hallway leading to the bedroom. Pausing, I wait for him as his eyes shift in every direction, scanning the house for anything unusual. Unlucky in his search, he follows. “Awesome artwork,” he says, checking out an abstract oil painting on the wall. Dad found the portrait, a slightly skewed image of a voluptuous half-naked lady, at the flea market. It’s a piece of crap, really, but I can’t say that. I want to impress him.

“That old thing? I scoff. “Please. You should see the art at our cottage in Vienna.”

Billy laughs, unsure of what to think. “Are you serious?”

Chuckling, I shake my head negatively. It’s precious to see how clueless, I mean cute, Billy can be. Not that he’s a dumb blond or anything. I mean, at least he’s smart enough to know I’m up to no good the minute we enter my bedroom, or should I say, candlelit dream cave.