twenty-something

« Last Post | Next Post »

Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Four: "I Know a Place"

« Previous (1.3: Perks) | Next (1.5: Curdled) »

In my mind at least, the flirtation continued for about two weeks after our "meeting." He'd always sit "next to me" and we'd always nod vauge acknowledgements. Later I'd always sneak glimpses of him during the lecture. But we never talked. I started noticing him in the dining hall and spotting him around campus. I stole his name from the class sign-in sheet and, unable to read his first, took to calling him by his last: Duncan.

Duncan's fashion sense had regressed a bit since my first sighting. Gone were the wool sweaters and white dress shirts. He'd taken to wearing beat-up jeans or cargos, long-sleeve tee-shirts, and sneakers most days -- a look which he pulled off well. At that point in the infatuation, he could've worn almost anything (or nothing, really) and I would've been pleased.

One Friday he removed his puffy North Face jacket to reveal a garish, gray sweatshirt emblazon with three Greek letters. I cringed.

I was having a mental relationship with a jock and a frat boy.

I'd spent enough idle time on the Internet to know that frat scenes were hot. And I had my share of frat boy fantasies -- but the man of my dreams? I was treading into dangerous territory here and I --

"Hey man."

It startled me back to reality, as I realized I was still staring at his chest and the letters on it. It was Duncan who'd said it, but I looked up to find that he wasn't talking to me. He was addressing another jock, a somewhat handsome, non-descript athlete who sat in the row behind us (on the rare occasions he made it to class). By this time, I had deduced that my guy was a baseball player, and his friend was on the football team.

I immediately snapped my head forward and just stared at the front of the lecture hall, for the first time wishing that Dr. Hagerman would start class on time. Caught again -- well, sorta.

Though I faced front, my ears tuned into the conversation. Boring jock chit-chat. After Duncan asked nonchalantly about his girl, Non-Descript (the football player) droned on about Nicky (or perhaps it was Nickie or, worse, Nikki).

"She's still a bitch, but I love her," Non-Descript repeated, ad nasuem, with small variations. I pictured a nasty brunette with attitude, from New Jersey, with a blue convertible of some sort, and a membership in some brainless sorority, the epitome of the URI girl I detested, if only out of jealousy.

Duncan remained silent during his friend's monologue, which disappointed me (he wasn't talking, ergo I couldn't hear his voice) yet gave me hope (there was no mention of a "bitch" of his own).

As Non-Descript was about to delve into the details of the hoops Nicky/Nickie/Nikki was making him jump through to make up for a drunken incident, Hagerman thankfully entered the lecture hall to save both Duncan and I from his drone. Five minutes late as usual, the joyless professor instructed the class to take our seats and listen up as she began her latest tangential tirade against the school's administration.

Non-Descript concluded his rant and Duncan, as he moved to face front, offered his friend an invitation.

"There's a party at the house tonight," he revealed.

He said it loud enough that I would've heard even if I wasn't eavesdropping, so I justifiably turned my head back toward the boys, finding a slightly different scene. Non-Descript was now back in his seat, rummaging through his backpack, and if he was listening, he gave no indication. And Dunc, facing front, had his head cocked slightly to his left.

He darted his eyes to meet mine. "You should come."

I blinked a couple times as I realized what was going on, and then the eye contact was gone.

"Thanks, man," Non-Descript muttered.

Duncan watched the front as I attempted to inconspicuously study his face. It was expressionless, offering no clues to whether what I thought had just happened really did. Finding nothing, I stared at his chest one more time, committing those letters to memory. I joined his gaze on the professor and kept it for most of the class, except for a few more stolen, fruitless glances at him.

That night I dragged my reluctant best friend Allison out to the party with me. It was our first official function as gay man and wife, as I had only officially come out to her at the end of the fall semester. Before that, she was often -- well, always -- my platonic date to parties like this one. This was the first time I had purposefully sought her out as my "beard." With such a beautiful blonde girl at my side, I was likely to slink around the frat party with ease, pretending to be one of them, effectively camouflaging myself amongst the breeders in the frat house, that averagely-handsome straight guy from my psych class with the pretty girlfriend. Hopefully the whole charade could score some cool points with my crush.

When I spotted him across the drink line, I got giddy. I tried not to act too gay in such a hetero-male environment, but in that moment I blew my cover and wasted my beautiful blonde façade. I just couldn't contain my excitement as I pointed him out to Ally.

"There he is. There's Duncan."

"Him?" she asked, incredulously.

"Don't tell me you don't think he's cute."

"Sam," she laughed. "That's Adam Duncan."

"So?"

"He's from Melrose. He graduated a year before me."

"No way." I smiled. "So what's his deal?"

"Sammy." She rested her hand on my shoulder. "I sorta dated him in high school."

In Allison's retelling of the night, I actually dropped my red plastic cup of nasty-ass frat-keg beer. I have no memory of that particular incident. I do recall being shocked by the revelation, feeling betrayed by my best friend. The irrational thought crossed my mind to toss the beer into Ally's face and storm off, throwing in a "You Bitch!" for good measure. But I contained it all, managed to control myself.

Still, I was shocked, disappointed. My mental relationship with the jock and frat boy was suddenly over, and it was because of my best friend. How could I not be devastated?

"Well?" I finally managed.

"Well what?"

I took a moment to take in my surroundings, the impossibility of my little situation. And, even though I knew she wouldn't have an answer, and if she did, I wouldn't like it, I asked anyway.

"Is he...?"

She chuckled a little bit. "Oh, I don't know."

I grilled her for details on our ex. Turns out she and Adam dated for almost exactly a month around prom time -- his senior year, her junior -- after he asked her to the dance. I knew she was a respectably popular girl in high school -- a basketball player and occasional student council member -- and I learned that Duncan was quite similar to his current persona.

Most of their dates consisted of prom preparation, although they did go out to the movies once, and spent some time together, both at school and outside of it, getting to know each other. The big night came and went, and apparently Adam was a perfect gentleman. They had a respectable time and went to a killer keg party afterwards. That night, like the rest of their brief romance, Adam didn't try to get in her pants and offered kisses only sparingly. He brought her home a good half-hour before her curfew and Allison knew that was the end of it. They were friendly to each other -- even went on another movie date -- but Adam was always busy with baseball or graduation.

My mind immediately speculated on the meaning of all this -- that two attractive high schoolers had not mated on prom night -- and I began to wonder if my Duncan had used my Allison the same way I was using her now, years before I had met her. Was she his cover? It was the first time Ally had ever considered the possibility. And it was the first moment I had ever truly thought that Duncan could be anything other than a straight, unattainable crush.

"That's it?"

"That's it." (I would find out later, however, that'd she'd held back key details about his kiss and how he looked in a tux.)

"Hmph," I said, just as its spelt, and let the topic die verbally, although Duncan remained at the back of my obsessive little mind the entire night, even as alcohol started to affect it.

Hours and beers later, drunk and desperate, I begged Allison to introduce me to her high school boyfriend. She was resistant, but eventually caved, of course, but I really don't think it was out of a desire to please me. I think she was just curious to see what would happen, if her high school prom date could be a homo, and if her gay boyfriend could make it further with him than she did.

We spotted him again, and she moved in for the kill.

"Hey stranger," she shouted over the beer line and loud music. They stood face-to-face, a little too close for my liking, and began their exchange. I loomed on the perimeter of their connection, an outsider looking in.

"Allison, hey." It wasn't the first time I heard his voice, but it might as well have been; its soft, deep timbre, even over the roar of the party, resonated.

I gazed upon the scene in jealousy as he offered Allison a hug and she accepted (a little too gladly for my taste). His strong arms wrapped around her, and he patted her back with the hand not holding a red plastic beer cup. Her breasts mashed against his broad chest and I noted, perhaps for the first time, that Allison had a great rack. As the hug lingered, I realized how much a straight, unattainable frat boy would love to have a rack like that to call his own.

They're going to get back together, I thought. I'm a re-matchmaker.

"How the hell are you?" he asked.

"Not much," she said without much thought. "You?"

"Not bad. God, I never see you any more. We should get together sometime."

I couldn't tell if it was one of those meaningless comments that you throwaway to long-ago acquaintances, of if he meant it, but I wasn't taking any chances. If Allison and Adam Duncan were to reunite, it wouldn't be without a fight from me. She had dibs on him from high school, but college was a whole new ballgame.

At that moment, I acted like someone knocked into me from behind, pushing me into Allison, breaking her exclusive little bond with Duncan. Don't judge -- if you had the balls, you would've done the same.

"Oh, sorry," I said to no one in particular. "So crowded."

I had not-so-seamlessly joined them. I quickly eyed him and admired his choice of attire for the party: a brilliant blue polo over a long-sleeve white tee-shirt, along with a pair of worn-out jeans that hugged his hips. Outside of class, this was the closest I had ever been to him -- and he didn't seem to be reacting to my presence at all. His face was expressionless, just as it was in class, giving no indication that he recognized me. Allison gave me a pitying look for interrupting. The three of us stood there, not talking, in a close, awkward triangle in the basement of his frat house. And I realized that nothing was going according to my fantasy.

He had invited me to this party, hadn't he? That look, those eyes -- it hadn't been all in my head. Had it? I realized, with some panic, that I was completely out of place. Duncan wouldn't know that I was friends with Allison, his high school girlfriend. And I, the gay boy from his psych class, certainly didn't know him well enough to join their conversation. I was just some freaky stranger interrupting their little chat.

Then it dawned on me. His non-reaction to my presence -- he gazed around the room, looking in every direction but mine, as he took tentative sips of whatever brew his cup contained -- was his uncontrollable reaction. His refusal to acknowledge me, to even look at me, was more suspicious than anything. He had invited me to the party, and he was terrified.

I cocked my eyebrow a little at Ally and pointed my gaze at the fratboy. Thankfully she took the hint as, thankfully, Duncan still refused to look at me.

"Adam Duncan," Allison presented, mocking me a little. He looked right at her. "This is my friend Sam."

He spun his gaze upon me and offered a nervous grimace. "You're in my psych class, right?" It was a fake gesture of sudden recognition, but it was a gesture nonetheless, so I nodded. He quickly extended a hand, which I gladly accepted. I admired his firm, albeit shaky, handshake. "Nice to meet you, Sam."

I took a moment to ponder my name, spoken in his voice. Sadly, it contained no syllables that could be enhanced -- or murdered -- by his slight accent, but still, I liked the sound. He broke our handshake, but not our gaze. He looked expectantly at me, with some combination of confusion, excitement, and fear, I supposed, and I suppose that the look I returned was a reflection of his. How had I really expected this moment to play out, our first official meeting? That he'd see me across a sea of faces and call out to me, proudly greeting his friend from class? That he'd find me in a dark corner and confess to me his deepest secrets? That he'd ask me out on a date, or at least up to his room?

"You too," I finally replied, a few moments too late. The silence had lingered too long. "Nice to meet you, I mean." And now, officially, I was a freak. My bumbling wasn't cute, like some love struck lead in a movie starring Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts; it was just embarrassing and truly pathetic. I quickly downed whatever was left in my red cup and then raised it slightly, for their acknowledgement, pretending to be drunker than I actually was.

"Oh, great," Allison sighed loudly, staring off into some dark part of the room at something neither Duncan or I could see. "I've got to go check on Lindsay."

"Lindsay?" I questioned. She was Ally's roommate, who had stayed in that night, drinking wine alone in the dorm, listening to Sarah McLachlan with only the Christmas lights illuminating their double room. Sure, Linds was stuck in a depressing scene, but there was no need to check on her. I knew that Ally was reluctant to return to her room at all that night.

"My roommate," she told Duncan. Then to both of us: "I just saw her over there. With some sketchy guy." My eyebrows crinkled with confusion, and then went up with revelation. This was a part of the plan we hadn't discussed. She was going to leave me alone with the fratboy. "She looked pretty tanked and probably needs to go home."

"If you want to stay," Duncan offered, "I can have one of the brothers –"

"No!" Ally protested. "No thanks. I have to get up early-ish tomorrow, anyway." She turned to me and, with a wink, instructed: "You stay here. You're good to get home, right?"

I nodded, sobering up from my exaggerated stupor.

"Adam, good to see you." She bid him adieu without any physical contact. "We'll get together soon," she promised. The good-bye barely caused a twinge of jealousy within me. She was off. And I was alone with Duncan.

I noticed that the basement suddenly seemed louder and more crowded, and I was closer to him than I realized. We both held our empty cups high, close to our chests, and, in Ally's absence, we drew nearer to each other, almost touching. I was surprised that he hadn't run off after her exit. But he stayed. And he even attempted small talk.

He mumbled something, completely inaudible over the atrocious hip-hop record the amateur DJ was spinning. The heavy bass beats made the floor tremble.

"What?" I shouted.

He repeated, in a slightly louder voice, what I thought was: "You know Allison."

"So do you," I answered matter-of-factly.

He leaned in closer and corrected me. "I said, How do you know Allison?"

"We both work for the paper. And she lives across the hall from me."

"Oh, cool." A moment later: "She and I went to--"

"I know. I mean, I didn't before tonight. Sorry if that was--"

"Is she your...?"

"She's my best friend."

"Great girl."

"That she is."

The lull returned, but he stayed. We both gazed around the room some, checking out the party, and then our eyes met again. He smiled nervous, knowing, and as the corners of his lips curled in acknowledgement of the awkward moment, my own mouth did the same. He was so damn cute and close to me that I didn't care where things went from there, as long as I could keep that moment in my mind forever. I looked into his eyes for really only the third time in the three weeks I'd been infatuated with him, for the first time allowed to. They told me all that I needed to know.

"Do you have any Guinness?" I asked, suddenly thirsty.

"Fresh out. But I need to go on a beer run, anyway."

"It's like 2a.m.. Nothing's open."

"I know a place." He looked down for a long, deliberate moment and then back up at me. Boldly, he blurted out, "Want to come?"

Within five minutes, we had wrestled our way out of the party and were reunited out in the cool night air on Fraternity Row. I'd forgotten my coat inside the house, but I dared not go back for it. I ignored the cold like I ignored my reservations. I didn't know this boy's intentions, and I didn't care.

We didn't really talk as we crossed the street and headed down the hill, through campus. I didn't mind the silence now that the sounds of the party faded behind us. We encountered random pockets of drunk people as we walked side-by-side to the mystery location, hands shoved in our pockets, breath steaming out in front of us -- but it was just Duncan and me. In my head, I practiced things to say to him on our trip, but ultimately I remained quiet, just like him. I let him lead the way.

"Bressler?" I questioned as we approached the destination. It was an upperclassmen dorm, not far from mine.

"This is the place. With the beer. My room."

So there we were.

"You made it tonight," he whispered. "I didn't know if you would."

"I did."

"I'm glad." And then he just went and blurted it out: "Come up?"

---

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.