| dewy decimal |
2004-08-08 - 5:41 a.m.
Driving to pick up Brandon, I smoke three cigarettes. BackToBackToBack. The distinct nausea of anticipation is making me feel like puking .
I'm parked across the street from his work place when he comes out with a group of his co-workers. I try waving to him with my arms flailing all over the place and I'm in sheer disblief when he doesn't see me. Then I start wondering if he's embarrassed to be seen with me, so I just sit in my car, waiting till he acknowledges me... until I start feeling like a stalker that is silently watching him smoke a cigarette with the free hand that isn't holding the lunch bag with Tupperware inside.
With his eye glasses on, he looks like a smaller version of Clark Kent, wrapped up in that type of insulated parka that only people who work in chilly offices wear. Or maybe Clark Kent's teenage brother. The unassuming alter-ego.
As a large red truck drives between us and I lose sight of him, I realize how silly this is. This waiting shit. So I call his cell phone that he retrieves from his Tupperware bag and tell him that I'm right in front of him. I feel even sillier when he sees me and he's all smiles.
He says bye to his colleagues and pours his little body into my car. I think about hugging him but don't because that's what the fuck sobriety does to you, man.
I drive him to his house so he can freshen up, "Right there's my house. The Freddy Krueger house," he points to the lopsided shanty which is visibly undergoing some much needed renovations. Scaffolding and flimsy butressing. I park near the stacked lumber.
The inside of his place is dim and humid with quaint, homely touches. He apologizes for the mess but if he'd seen my room before he'd know that he didn't need to apologize for shit and I tell him how small animals sometimes get swallwoed up in my rooom.
There are movie posters all over his walls, mostly horror flicks like Halloween. I ask him if he's a fan of Hitchock, he says, "Not so much."
I stretch myself over his bed as he undresses. I don�t even try to hide my hard-on.
Heading over to Indigos for Happy Hour Martinis takes all of five minutes, which is long enough to calm down and learn that he�s never been there before.
Our waitress is pretty nice and we tip her far too generously considering how poor we both are and as we get drunker, he tells me about his hard life. The kind of life that just makes me feel like the biggest brat in the world. The place starts filling and I find myself staring at him, feeling amazed that this adorable, sweet boy is here with me. But what makes him most endearing is that he is an utter dork. That he is so proud to be by my side. It's the nervous laughter that he uses to fill the akward silences. His sniffles. A shaky leg.
Part of me is in disbelief. Another part is waiting for the other shoe to drop before the first shoe is even loosened.
When Happy Hour is over at Indigos, we make our way to Hulas. He�s singing along to Missy Elliot songs in my car, all heart-felt and tone def with the facial expressions typically reserved for 'alone moments'.
It�s kind of a sad thing that when I go to Hulas, the bartenders all know what I�m going to order before I even order it. My pitcher of Miller is half poured by the time I even get to the bar and it occurs to me that I�m officially a regular.
A regular.
In the cozy corner with the floral sofas, we light up our cigarettes near the no smoking sign by my head and continue our conversation until Brandon puts down his Smirnoff Ice and tells me he�ll be right back.
When he returns, he hands me a red rose that he's bought from the old Chinese lady that sells flowers and leis at all the gay bars. Holding the rose flatters and scares the goddamn shit out of me. I tell him that it�s the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for me, which is a lie that doesn�t feel like one.
He buries his face in my hands and in my lap and I start to think about how this kind of public affection would never fly if my friends were around or if we weren�t in the fledgling stages of our romance. I start thinking of the day when he'll inevitably learn this. The day when he�ll either have to reject or accept the fact that I�m not down with PDA if it doesn�t involve blowjobs.
When I drop him off, he gives me a pleading hug. It plunges. It pulls. It makes me feel like a teenage boy who's adjusting to an akward growing body and the frustration and wonder in that kind of discovery.
I�m driving away and he�s giving me a sympathetic gaze through the lifted insides of his brow. His big, deep, dark eyes pulls me closer, and ever so lightly, pushes me away.
And I float off to where I'm the most comfortable.
I float off all on my own.