Twas the night before Christmas. Really. The inner corridor that connected buildings C and D of the Springwood apartments was lit in a multicolor ecstasy courtesy of two lone strands of lights that ran the crease where the the egg shell walls met the browning carpet. One of the lights a few doors down was flickering and somehow seemed to only add to the ambiance. Muffled voices and bad television could be heard thru the thin walls, yet as I stood in front of the solid oak door, titled D4, I heard nothing from inside.
My keys had been out for a solid five minutes. Silently hanging, afraid to do the only job they were ever meant for. From across the hallway there was commotion followed by the familiar sound of one of the old apartment doors being opened. I could feel someone watching me, so finally I turned around.
"Hi." It was all I was really interested in muttering.
A small framed red head stood slouched from knee to shoulder in the doorframe of D5. Her hair was pulled back with a blue scrunchy and she was wearing a a Florida Gators sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. The smile on her face was warm and inviting, and in her right hand she held a large glass of deep red wine. It tilted to the left ever so slightly as she spoke.
"I told Marques that I'd try to pass on a message for him to you, if I could." Marques was her eleven year old son. On most days he would be sitting dead in the middle of the hallway, between their door and mine, playing with whatever toys that had caught his fancy on that particular occasion. Sometimes I'd just ask the name of his game, and others, when I was really dreading going inside, I'd sit down right next to him and pick a side to play pretend.
I raised my arm in the air and shook it so that the sleeve of the coat I was wearing fell back to reveal my watch. 11:20.
"Yeah, it's the one night I can actually get him to go to bed before me." She said with a smile, that showed more than a little concern. "Is everything ok Sam?"
"Oh, you know how the carousel turns Becky." I offered a smile in return and shifted the weight of the two bags I was holding. Finally my keys sounded like keys.
"Is he home?" She asked tilting her wine towards where I was standing.
"Twelve text messages and two voicemails says he is." I said chuckling.
"Well it doesn't sound like he heard you yet." She chuckled back. "Fabian is at work till morning, and I'm just watching reruns of Roseanne, you wanna come in and have a glass of liquid courage with me?" The referenced wine again tilted, and I felt myself panic inside, thinking she was going to spill it right out of her glass. The deep red ones stain for life, that was something I learned the hard way, New Years Eve 2002,
"Much longer, and it'll be Christmas. Something tells me that'll only make things worse." Again I offered my best half smile.
She took a long sip from her glass and swirled it around. "What’s in the bags? Peace offerings?" She giggled.
I looked down at the two bags that were only getting heavier, and shook my head. "No, I learned a while back that offerings bring no peace. It's my old school books. They were in my car and I'd been meaning to bring them out."
"School books? When were you in school?"
"I was in a couple classes at the junior college. It didn't last long." We both laughed.
There was a loud thud from inside the apartment, and again I shifted the weight of the heavy books. I didn't hear it, but I guess I sighed.
"The natives are getting restless!" She motioned towards the noise, and almost as if the thud had been the telephone being slammed back on the counter, from somewhere deep in the pocket of my favorite jeans my cell phone vibrated. I fished it from the darkness and held it up to my face.
"Are you gonna spend all night in the hallway with that slut or are you gonna come in and finish this." It read.
"Is it..." She asked. "What’s it say?"
Like always, I made excuses and hid the truth. Two qualities that I had mastered in my lifetime. "It says please hurry." I explained as I slid the phone back in my pocket.
She laughed again, but this time it was more at me then with me. "Well I guess you better hurry then."
"Yeah, I better get in there." I started the key into the lock and paused. "What was Marques's message? You never told me."
Becky had already began her retreat back into her apartment when she paused and looked out between the now half shut door. Her face was morose and she said the next words with a much more serious tone.
"He wanted to make sure that SOMEONE wished you a Merry Christmas, Sam."
Another sigh, and I opened my door as she closed hers. Worlds collided in an instant. The whole apartment smelled of must, and the only lights lit, were dimmed at best. From the bedroom I could hear the sweet voice of Michael Buble, and tho I couldn’t make out the words, it soothed none the less. I set the books down by end table, and laid my keys to rest upon it. It wasn’t until my coat was half off, that I recognized the faint cry from within the kitchen. “Justin?” I called out in a soft voice almost on purpose. I knew when he answered, it would begin. I walked towards the bar to hang my coat over the stool. Geravais, our cat scooted to one side and made room. I nuzzled my knuckles across his head and he purred in return. “Hi Gerry Baby…” I whispered. “The fucking cat doesn’t even like you!” The snide comment pierced thru the space between us. The light in the kitchen came on, and there he was, sitting at the base of the refrigerator. One leg straight out, one bent at the knee. His old slippers dangling from his toes for dear life. And a bottle of Jameson cupped in his right hand. “So the cat’s taking sides?” I let my weight guide me in a step backwards, and began making my way to the couch. Now you have to know our apartment is the size of a walnut. Not a big walnut either. One of the ones that are easily carried by a mid sized squirrel. And I say walnut because all the walls are fashioned in an innate wood paneling that has faded to resemble the nut in question. Our couch is a minute five feet from the bar space where Gerry was now also leaving. Both of us had been here before. As I disappeared from his view from where he was on the linoleum, his neck muscles strained and he lifted the back of his head from the fridge. “The fucking cat has never liked you. Cats can sense when they can’t trust somebody. And we all know YOU can’t be trusted, Samuel.” He slid his free hand to under his leg and gave himself a boost as he stood up to a wobbled position. He was in a shirt his ex had given him several years back, fitting. It was faded, but still legibly read “Open”. “The cat likes me just fine, Jus.” “Fuck you!” He snapped back. “Fuck me? No, Fuck you Justin!” I yelled flailing my arms in the sky as I laid my head back onto the cushion of our hideous red couch. Of course HE picked it out. We all know who has taste, and who doesn’t. He was scrambling thru a cupboard in the kitchen and making so much noise that it all sort of blended into one metal clinking euphony, he was looking for ammunition. “What the hell are you doing?” I demanded as I sat up. His arm was already raised, and the frying pan looked delighted to take flight. He cocked back, his wrist twitched and he lunged forward releasing the “non stick” nemesis in mid arch. He yelled something, but I never heard it. Instead I darted left, and collided with one of the barstools, only to tumble down onto my bad knee. The frying pan missed my forehead be a weak half foot, and crashed into a tall paisley vase that held fresh cut tulips. Like a bullet hitting a jar of marbles, it exploded. Water, glass, and kitchen utensils flurried thru the air in unison. And PAUSE. My life wasn’t always like this. Actually, I remember the day it became “like this”. Lets do a flashback, cause God knows I love flashback sequences. You have to play along completely with me in order to fully go back to that day though. Remember the song “Twisted”, by Keith Sweat? Well that song defines this flashback, so hum it if you know it, and if you don’t know it, well… points will still be made, you’ll just miss out on an awesome song being stuck in your head for the rest of the day.
So where were we? Awe yes, I was twisted all right. Bobby Santiole was having the first basement party of the summer back in 1996. Everyone was invited, even me, which was rare. Bobby and I had had conversations in P.E. about how UNathletic we were and would often spend entire kickball games sarcastically nit picking the other players wardrobes. But that was as far as our friendship had stretched until I had received the invite to this particular party, on this particular day. As I descended down the rickety stairs a loss of light occurred and a mixture of pre-pubescent voices filled the room. They overpowered Keith, but not completely. I saw Bobby over in the far corner of the room and nodded. I was pretty sure he saw me, but he didn’t nod back, instead he quickly looked down and then back at the group of boys he was conversing with. In the center of the room was an old dining table with a shiny white latex material strewn across it. In the middle of the table, surrounded by what looked to be kool-aide blood splatter, was a large crystal serving bowl filled with red childhood memories. I spent the better part of the night at that table. Occasionally a thirsty party go’er would come to quench, and uninspiring small talk would be made. Sometime later that night after Bobbies parents had really tied one on, the lights got even darker. From my vantage point at my sturdy table, I watched as the room split into two separate groups. Most the boys had found refuge to my left, as the giggling school girls were now huddling to my right. From behind me, fingers tip tapped my shoulder. “You wanna play?” A voice asked. I turned around to see Dawn Collar. She was a freshman. I had never actually spoken to Dawn till right this second. Or right that second. (I’m not sure what the proper etiquette is when telling a flashback. Do I stick in the story and stand true to timelines as the occur. Or is it an insult to the intelligence of my listener if I let myself fully integrate my consciences back into that moment?) Fuck it. I had never actually spoken to Dawn till right THIS second. “Play what?” I asked as I quickly sipped from my drink. Dawn smiled, “You have a..ummm.. It looks like you have a red mustache.” She giggled as she motioned to my upper lip. I thought about sleeving it, but I loved the shirt I was wearing, so instead turned to the table in search of a napkin. “A bunch of us are gonna play ‘Five Minutes in Heaven’” She said from behind me. I had heard of it, damn well never played it though. “Right now?” To this day I don’t know why I asked her right now, but I do know that the stupidity of the question caused me to look for that napkin for at least a couple seconds longer. Sheer embarrassment napkin searching. Should be an Olympic fucking sport. “Well yes, now.” She said. Because I was turned I never saw the face she made to her girlfriends. How do I know a face was made you might ask then. Well I’ve seen enough horrible Rachel Leigh Cook movies to know a damn face had to have been made. I turned back around and she was a couple inches from my personal space. She smelled like vanilla. I’ll never forget that. “Sure.” I finally said. Within fifteen minutes a huge circle was formed on the floor of that old basement. The chattering had hit an all time low, and suddenly everyone’s focus was on an old glass Sprite bottle that had been retrieved and emptied from the cooler in the corner. All eyes shifted as it passed thru the hands of several teens, making its way in the shortest possible route from outer circle to inner. Desiree Handley, a large girl with a smile that was set to annoying, handed it to Tre Evans. Tre was a football beast. He’d later become the high school quarterback and suffer a well known herpes outbreak right after our senior trip to Cabo. This is pertinent information, as Tre was also an all-star asshole. Anyways, from him it went to Cole Winger, and from Cole to Bobby himself, who was at the dead center of the now silent circle. “OK, everyone knows the rules, right?” He asked the crowd. No one answered, and Bobby liked to hear himself talk, so He explained them anyways. “When the bottle spins, who ever it lands on has to go in there.” He never exactly said where ‘there’ was, but an ominous wooden door behind him stated the obvious. “Once you’re in, the bottle will get spun again, and somebody else will also go in. What happens from that point on, is between you, them, and the dark.” A big creepy smile pursed across his lips as he licked them. Everyone giggled. Shit, I think I giggled. The first round found Macy Sals and Derek Long alone in the dark. Five minutes seemed to race by, because they were out almost as fast as they had gone in. Upon his exit, Derek walked awkwardly from ‘heaven’ . His obvious arousal was causing all eyes to dart towards Macy Sals. I remember that the look on her face was nothing like the look on his. She looked judged, and more slunk across the floor as strode. When she sat back down in the vacant spot she had left a mere five minutes earlier, there neighboring girlfriends pleaded for details. I don’t think they got any. I can’t help but wonder what happened to Macy after those early years. God knows the shit that affects you is the shit that you never think would. “OK, who’s next?” Tre now had the bottle and was crouched all hidden dragon over a bare piece of floor. He seemed to be talking to the bottle as if it was a magic eight ball that would float answers to its top. He twisted his wrist and sent into a spiraling whirlwind on the wood. It stopped on Ben Folsom. He disappeared into the dark. Once the door was shut, Tre stood up and just dropped the bottle from a couple inches above the ground so that there was no spin at all. The opening made a bee line for Jessica Salt. “Tre!” She yelled at him. “Hey, the bottle has a mind of its own!” He said as he high five’d a couple of his douche bag buddies. “Five minutes, Jess. Do your duty!” He laughed. She didn’t even put up much of an argument. I guess had I been in the “in” crowd, I’d have known back then that Jess and Ben were an item long before that bottle didn’t spin. Thirty minutes went by, and pairs of unassuming victims entered and exited heaven via glass decisions. I was sharing small talk with a girl named Cameron Rousse. Every time the bottle would spin I would lean in to make some unimportant remark about anything I could think of so that most of my body was hidden behind hers and out of the bottle’s aim. Two people had just gone in, when Cameron turned to me and asked if I wanted anything while she was on her way to use the bathroom. I don’t remember if I answered. In fact I don’t think I ever spoke to Cameron Rousse again. She was one of those girls that was always there, but after that night, nowhere near. Last I heard she made it to the bathroom tho. Married a big shot lawyer and had a nice little family. Good for Cameron. Way to go to the bathroom! I was checking my pager to see if Mom was freaking out yet when I heard the bottle hit the floor. I frantically looked up and saw it spinning in slow motion. I imagined myself as the bottle. Twirling around endlessly so that the circle of on looking faces became a blur of indecision. What a Kodak moment when it stopped just to the left of me. “That’s you, Sam-ANTHA!” Tre the fuckhead quipped from his spot in hell. (Herpes, keep remembering herpes. They were visible in his senior picture for Christ’s sake.) “I don’t think it is.” I smiled back. “Let’s re spin.” “No dude, its you. It’s so you.” He wasn’t even looking at the damn bottle. Instead he was flirting with the girl sitting next to him, waiting on his turn in heaven. The whole room was quiet now and staring at me. I got from my butt to my knees to my feet. “OK, I guess it’s me.” I stepped over the legs of two people I didn’t know and the nervousness sparked. I hesitated and the pact smelled it in the air. “It’s five minutes, don’t be a pussy!” Someone yelled. You have to love the faceless nameless, who find words of wisdom when you least expect it. “I know!” I said confidently as I opened the door. It made an eerie creak that I will forever compare to all opening doors that cause lone neck hairs to rise, from then, to now, to beyond. It was at least thirty percent higher humidity when the door closed behind me. Empty hangers over head, stared down at their fallen clothes in angry angles. Jackets had been pushed to the right, and a lone blanket was in a spectacular ‘poof’ at my feet. My eyes were attempting to adjust but were not cooperating. I crouched down with my arms out in front of me like feelers. Then when I felt sturdy I inched my way under the hanging shields until my back was against the wall at the deep end of the square. Now because I was in there, I cant in absolute confidence state that I know exactly how the conversation went on the other side of that door. But four years of high school with a 3.75 GPA, two years at the Junior college, and plenty more chalk full of life experiences, tell me it HAD to have gone something like this: Asshole #1: “Bobby, let’s be real dickwads and do something super stupid that will probably scar this kid for life!” Asshole #2: Oh shit, I know exactly what we should do! Dar, dar, dar.” Bobby: (Showing very little resistance if any) “No guys, that’s fucked up!” Asshole #1: Don’t be a pussy/fag/bitch (You can actually insert any peer pressure word of your choice into the next five sentences, but do so on your own time, because I am simply going to describe them as: Blah Blah, Blah.) At any rate, a brilliant plan was devised. All involved considered it fantastic. And those who didn’t weren’t comfortable enough in their own skin enough yet to object. Such is my past. Did I mention I’m still in the closet sniffing sweat? The door jolts, but for a moment doesn’t open. A wave of relief flows thru me on its way to interruption. The creek again. It seems darker out there then it was before. The door shuts. I feel someone crouch down in front of me and the outstretched hand glides across my chest. “Hey.” The voice says. Startled, I don’t speak at first. It’s Bobby’s voice, plain as day. “You there?” His hand again hits me, this time in my knee, and I pull back. “Why are you in here?” I ask. “Cause the bottle landed on me.” (Please refrain from being mad at me. At the time this seemed like a perfectly reasonable answer to the question I had posed. Many drunken nights in my life have been spent punishing myself for being so quick to trust.) “It’s five minutes, I figured you wanted me to come in.” I never saw the smile on his face. Sometimes you can ‘hear’ a smile. I know you’ve been there, where you’re on the phone and it’s someone familiar. And your ears tell your brain to paint the exact picture of what you know to be their current facial expression. It’s usually followed with a knowing giggle. This smile was not. And I sure never ‘heard’ it. I didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t give me a chance. He inched closer and I could almost feel his breath. “Dude, I see you ALWAYS watching me at school. I’m not gonna tell anybody man.” The door creaked. After years of analyzing the facts, I concluded a door does in fact do that when twenty five teenagers are leaning against it. “Tell anybody what?” A flow of realizations and emotions were land sliding thru my body. Years of questions without answers became relevant in an instant and though every sense was heightened, they all failed miserably. “That you..” He cleared his throat. It was dead give away, that was never given to me. I sat in a pool of anticipation and fear, and lingered on his every word. “That you want me, dude.” They say that at fifteen years old your sexual aggression is finding its footing, mine slipped that night. Fell flat on its face, jack ass style. In what can only be described as a perfect storm of bad decisions, I lunged forward. Both my hands cupped Bobby’s shoulders and I pulled him towards me with a fury I’d fought against for years. Our upper lips bumped as our faces collided, and in the sloppiest of sloppy moments, I bludgeoned my tongue thru his lip locked barrier and attempted to tickle his tonsils with the tip. The rough part of his tongue brushed against mine, and my last thought before my life changed was that Bobby Santiole was a God damned smoker. How gross! With a fury that I’m man enough to admit might have toppled my original “fury”, Bobby pushed me off of him, and with the help of his legs sent me sprawling thru the dark and crashing into the wall. It was then I realized the importance of the creak. “Did he just fucking kiss him?” from beyond the door, was interrupted by a sound inches from my face. “You fucking faggot!!” Bobby screamed at me as he rose. The door whipped open and breathes were gasped out of mid air. I felt his foot sink into my stomach before the reality sunk into my head. “Fucking faggot kissed me!!” He screamed as he kicked again. Bobby’s father came barreling down the stairs in a drunken stupor towards the commotion. “What’s going on?” he yelled as he parted bodies like the great sea ahead of him. People stood off in awe. Bobby got in one last kick before his father pulled him from heaven. I was in the fetal position. Though everything in my mind told me not to, I was crying anyway. I could hear Bobby telling his father the tale of how this boy. His supposed friend, had just forced himself on him. Bobby was crying too. Mr. Santiole never even attempted to get me to give him my side of the story. He never addressed me in any way. Instead he herded the cattle up the stairs and into the backyards as he began to call parents. As I lay there, my cries stifled and things began to set in. In the most horrifyingly ironic, Keith Sweat’s Twisted kind of moment, without any deliberate intention, My Mother spoke from above me. “Samuel, it’s time to come out of the closet.” The rest of this particular story is sad, so I wont tell it. Just please let the point I was making resonate. That night, that exact night, is when my life became like “this.” Let’s go back to Justin, his insecurities, and that free flying frying pan.
Droplets of water flung from the vase and splashed me in the forehead. The flowers rose and then fell with an angelic ease that I would have admired on any other day.
“What the fuck?” I yelled at him. He was now standing with his arms draped to his sides, and an exasperated look on his face. Not quite sure how HE gets to be exasperated right now, but together well go with it.
“Where have you been?” He shrieked. He was so good looking when he wasn’t being psychotic. It was such a shame. His hair, usually spiked to accentuate the T in trendy, was now matted to the sides of his head. His complexion, usually impeccable, was now full of flaws and fear.
“You know where I was. I can’t do this tonight, Jus… Is that your first bottle?” I know it isn’t. Midnight is guaranteeing bottle number two, on rare occasions, bottle number three will be in eyesight by now.
“I know where you say you were, you piece of shit!” Whenever Justin got mad his voice would crack, and tonight was no different, I could have sworn the word ‘piece’ did NOT have two syllables.
“I was working. Along with five other people, Justin. I can tell you exactly what’s going to be on the shelves come Friday morning. You wanna know why I know that? Because I just spent the last five hours executing a god damn store changing plan-o-gram for it! Jesus Christ!” I put my hand down to slide out of my shoe and paused. “Sorry I couldn’t be here to witness the journey it took for you to reach this level of stupid.” Couldn’t help myself, slipped out.
He cried louder. “whoishe” Ran together as if it was one word, and he brought the bottle to his mouth and guzzled.
I stood up quickly and pounced towards him, scaring Gerry on my way. I grabbed the bottle gently and pulled it down. “Enough, Jus.”
He resisted for a moment and then let me over power him. Though it’s never been talked about, we have many gay friends, couples, who have gotten in stupid drunken arguments that have led to fists being thrown. I didn’t want to find out tonight, or any other night, who would win in that battle.
“Who is he?” He asked again sobbing.
“There is no ‘He’”.
“Let me smell you!” He demanded as he buried the better half of his face into the deep of my neck.
“I smell like sweat and ass, Justin. I’ve been working all fucking night.” I pulled my neck from him, in a flinching manner. He knew I was ticklish.
“Well your not fucking me, so you’ve got to be fucking somebody!” His eyes were partially rolled back in his head at this point and the stench of alcohol rising from his open mouth was overbearing. I shifted his weight into mine and felt him let himself come to rest on my shoulder.
“Let’s please just go lie down. That horrific couch looks so comfortable right now, does it not?” I began to walk us toward it. Setting the bottle of Jameson down on the counter as we wobbled.
“I don’t want to lay down.” He mustered as he fell crashing onto the couch with his eyes now closed. I turned around and surveyed the area till my eyes came to rest on a blue fleece blanket that was folded neatly by the book shelf. As I reached down for it, I realized that there was a book resting on it in the open position as if had been being read. The weight of the book had caused it to sink into the cushioning fabric, and it wasn’t until I was right above it, when the title became legible. ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’. Perfcet, an estrogen fueled bender. I didn’t know it had gotten that bad.
“I don’t need covers!” He barked at me as I approached him with the fleece. How he could possibly seen me coming is beyond me. Maybe he just knows me THAT well. Am I that predictable? That transparent?
“Then don’t use them. But there here anyways.” As I draped them across his legs, he reached down and with a sweaty palm, clenched the fabric and pulled it to his neck. I saw that his mouth was open, and the saliva was already beginning to accumulate. “I’m gonna go take a shower.” I knew he probably didn’t hear me.
As I walked across the room I bent down to our little Snoopy Christmas tree and flicked the lights on. Nothing happened. Off, and on again. Still nothing. I stood up feeling sorry for the tree, grabbed the bag of books I had brought in and headed for the sanctuary of a long, hot shower.