29
MAKE THE MAN 2.4 | What a Heartfelt Vow
Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part One, Section Two: "The Dress Sock"
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"Oh," I fumed. I was pissed, pacing around Allison's room, Bud Light in hand. "All he said was, 'oh.' I tell him I'm leaving, and all he says is 'oh'? Who says 'oh'?"
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. A simple 'don't go' would've been nice."
"Passive-aggressive shit like that never works. Besides, what would you have done if he'd said to stay? You still would have run."
"No. I wouldn'tâ" I couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, I took a long, deliberate sip of the brew in my hand. It was cold, delicious -- and finally starting to affect my brain. "I'm not running."
"So is that why you're leaving, then? Him?"
"No. I don't even know what I'm doing any more. God."
"But he's not enough to keep you here."
"Allison, it's not about him. You know that. I... I care about him. A lot."
With a laugh I hadn't heard her use before, she said, "Well, super for you, Mr. Care Bear. You sure do like your boyfriend a lot. Ex-boyfriend, I should say."
"Whose side are you on, anyway? And he's not officially my ex, yet."
She stood up from her bed and glared at me. This was enough to halt my pacing and we stood, face to face.
"'I'm leaving for good. I need time. I don't know what I want.' You broke his heart because what he heard was, 'I'm leaving you. I don't know if I want you.'"
Shrugging off the confrontation, I finished my beer and grabbed another round from the mini-fridge for the both of us. "What do you care about Duncan? You never were crazy about me and him together anyway."
"And apparently neither were you."
I handed her a Bud. "Ally, this isn't about me and Duncan, is it?"
"Why are you changing the subject?"
"This is about you and me."
"You leaving your boyfriend has nothing to do with me." Now she started pacing.
"But I'm not just leaving him."
"What about him isn't good enough?"
"I'm leaving Rhode Island."
"Not cute enough?"
"Leaving URI."
"Not enough of a baseball superstar?"
"Leaving Hopkins."
"Not good enough in bed?"
"Leaving the crew."
"Not the imaginary dream man you've pinned after for years?"
"Leaving you."
She stopped her pacing, and we finally looked at each other, finally listened.
Her face was flushed. I'd never really seen her like this. And she wasn't even drunk yet. "The fact that you can't love another human being has nothing to do with me."
"What are you talking about?"
"Are you that incapable of love?"
"Incapable? That's a very harsh word."
"Truth hurts."
Oh, we were in a fight now. "It's not the truth."
"You said it yourself. You never loved Duncan. You've never loved anybody."
"I have and I do."
"Who?"
It was a no-brainer. I quickly said: "You."
"Then say it."
"What?"
"That you love me, asshole."
"I do."
"Say it."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Say it!"
I looked at her for a moment. Angry. "No."
"No?"
"It's silly. You know I do."
"I told you so."
I sighed.
"You sure like to play the part of Mr. Sensitive, Mr. Gay Best Friend, Sam," she said, "but you are such a typical male. Those three words terrify you."
"I am not incapable, not afraid of love. I'm not typical. I'm normal."
"Prove it."
"I'm going to say it somebody. This summer. I am going to fall in love and say it before school starts."
"What a heartfelt vow. When August 31 rolls around, you'll be searching from the first schmuck you can find to whisper sweet nothings to. But they'll be nothing. Anybody can say I love you. Can you mean it?"
I stared at her for a long while. Then I finished my beer and threw the can away.
"Yes," I said and I left the room.
Hours and beers later, we'd cooled down considerably and regrouped. Tomorrow, tomorrow at sunrise, my mother would arrive with the family SUV. Tomorrow we'd pack and fight and deal with the aftermath. We'd cry tomorrow. But tonight -- we'd party. Sunrise would be here soon enough.
We soon found ourselves in Carly's forth-floor RA room. And we soon found ourselves on her balcony. Just Allison and me, in the pouring rain. And we screamed at the top of our lungs. We stayed out there until we were soaking wet and our voices died. When we came in, we were so cold, and our throats burned, but we were cleansed.
Everybody thought we were crazy. We couldn't stop laughing, but no one else got it. We understood. Would this be our last inside joke together? In that moment, I think we both realized what exactly we were leaving behind.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Posted on 04/29/05 at 4:29 PM | Comments (1)
Tagged: Make The Man
22
MAKE THE MAN 2.3 | Caught
Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section Three: "Caught"
« Previous (2.2: The Allison and Sam Variety Hour) | Next (2.4: What a Heartfelt Vow) »
The knock on the door was loud, insistent, and it surprised Allison and I so much we both jumped. We looked at each other with fear, knowing that this was not good. The knock was sinister, ominous, and both of us assumed it signaled the arrival of an RA or a cop to bust us, yet again, for underage drinking in the dorms. Though it was my last night there and I had nothing to loose, my guilty instinct -- a holdover from my first days experimenting with alcohol in middle school -- still took over in times like this.
We quietly, carefully, hid our Corona bottles (we'd moved past cider by then), careful not to clink them. There was another knock, louder, angrier. I glared at the door.
"It's your room," she whispered, motioning towards the door. "Answer it."
It was Duncan. And the instant I saw him, I wished that he were a cop, reading me my rights. He had a paper bag in one arm and a scowl across his face.
He knew. I could tell he knew.
I welcomed him in and, after he and Ally shared polite greetings, we all stayed in a long moment of extreme awkwardness. Here was my frat-boy-friend, my journalist girlfriend, and there was me, the coward who was leaving in the morning. I didn't know exactly what to say to anybody, but it seemed I should say something. I stewed in the silence -- well, silence except for the MP3 rotation on the computer -- contemplating that very difficult moment.
Before I could even try to speak, Rich arrived with Carly, both all smiles and afterglow.
Carly said, "Duncy, baby, you made it to the celebration!"
"Celebration?" he asked, knowingly. "Celebration of what?"
"Sammy's last night in town!"
"No, I just was dropping off some stuff," he said coldly, pointing to the paper bag he'd placed on my cluttered desk. "I have to get to study hall."
He took off for the door and I moved to go after him. "Duncan, wait â" But he was gone.
So he left in a huff, and I was left standing, with my two best girlfriends and roommate, to observe the pieces.
"Did we just break up? Was that it?"
Nobody made an attempt to answer.
"I hope not. You're in love with him," Carly observed. She was the optimistic, pseudo-hippie chick. Sometimes I wanted to strangle her for her earnestness.
"I am not."
Allison emerged from her silence on my bed. "Sure, you say that now, but you were totally obsessed with him not two months ago."
"Obsession is completely different that love. I like Duncan. I'm infatuated with him. Maybe I was even obsessed at one point. But I'm not in love with him."
"That's gloomy," Allison deadpanned. "But maybe you're right."
"You're getting better at admitting you're wrong, Ally. Must be all the practice I've given you this year."
I smiled. She hit me square in the face with a pillow.
"Ok, so you have this perfect boyfriend?" Rich pondered. "And you like him. But you're just going to leave things like that?"
Up until that moment, it all made perfect sense to me. Sure, I felt guilty, I was torn up inside, but I never once thought that maybe I was being stupid, that I was making the wrong choice. I never once questioned my decision, or my actions. Yet the calm words of Rich, the roommate who never seemed to notice or care about any of the details of my life, made me realize just how foolish I was being.
"Go after him," he instructed. "Before you regret it."
And so I did. I went after Duncan. In my head, it should've been the epic, climatic moment of the story, where our hero finally finds the folly of his ways and, with the sweeping score swelling in the background, runs after his true love, stopping them moments before they'd get on a train or plane and leave his life forever. I had to find him, before it was too late! -- even though I had no idea what I'd say or do when I did.
That reality set in quickly. I had barely stepped out of my building before I literally bumped into him. I found him outside of Hopkins, under the overhang by the main door. It had started pouring out and he was pacing, puffing on a cigarette.
Suddenly, the sweeping music died, as did the urgency of the moment. I forgot all the things I might've said.
"You're smoking?"
"I'm entitled."
"I didn't know you smoked."
"Guess we both have secrets." He was trying to be all badass, but it wasn't working. "You're allergic, aren't you?" he asked as he threw the butt to the ground and stomped it out. "I'm sorry. You know I never smoke. There was just a guy out here... and the moment... and I thought one wouldn't hurt."
He was kind of cute when he babbled, though he rarely did. It was characteristic of me. I guess we were at the point in our relationship where we'd adopted each other's characteristics. We were also at the point where I couldn't hide things from him anymore. He deserved to know the truth.
And so I sat on the cold, wet stone bench and he followed suit. We didn't face each other. He just waited for me.
"I'm sorry, Duncan."
That was all I could offer in that moment, and he knew me well enough to know that.
"You're really leaving in the morning. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Do you want to go for a walk, or a ride? To the beach maybe?"
"No."
"OK."
"When were you planning on telling me?"
"Two weeks ago. I just couldn't..."
"It's really not a big deal. You're leaving three days early. I'm sorry to be such a freak."
It was one of those moments where I felt I needed a cigarette, even though I'd never smoked. "Adam," I said. "It's not just that -- I'm not coming back next year."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm taking some time off."
"You're serious."
"Yeah."
"What? Why?"
"I need to. I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going... what I want."
"Oh."
"Come back with me. Hang out with us."
"I can't. I just..."
Those frigging eyes. Now I knew what all the fuss was about, all those songs.
"So this is â"
"Good-bye, Sam."
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Posted on 04/22/05 at 6:39 PM | Comments (2)
Tagged: Make The Man
08
MAKE THE MAN 2.2 | The Allison and Sam Variety Hour
Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section Two: "The Allison and Sam Variety Hour"
« Previous (2.1: Belongings) | Next (2.3: Caught) »
Allison Flannery is my Lois Lane. I never told her such, but in my mind, that is how I will always think of her. I'd heard a lot about Allison Flannery before I officially knew her. Preceded by her reputation, she was the big, bad sophomore Assistant News Editor for The Good Five Cent Cigar, URI's unfortunately named student newspaper. I was a lowly Freshman Journalism major, a cub sports reporter on the paper's staff, more Jimmy Olsen than Clark Kent.
I first met Allison on my second day on the staff of the Cigar, my fourth at URI. She walked in late, a little flustered, but ravishing. The blonde sat across from me at the staff meeting and I was instantly, homosexually smitten with this woman.
In staff meetings, we vaguely acknowledged that we lived in the same dorm, the same floor even, but never took things beyond the professional level. It was Columbus Day when we finally got over ourselves and got together. We were two of only a dozen people left in the hall over that long weekend. Most had taken the opportunity to go home or away for the first time all semester. There was a knock on my door around 11pm. I opened it to find her standing there, with my two favorite things in her hands.
"Do you like pizza and beer?" she asked with a grin.
I of course said yes and immediately invited her in. The pizza was pepperoni and black olives, and the beer was Cider Jack. Already, I knew the girl had taste. That night, we got drunk and watched Cary Grant's Arsenic & Old Lace together. We discovered that we had everything in common and, from that moment, became inseparable.
Our mutual love of old movies led to weekly trips to the video and liquor stores. Arsenic proved to be too slow for us, so we stuck to Hitchcock's old classics until we wore them out. After we rented Psycho, we both went out and bought clear shower curtains and chain locks for our bathroom doors. After The Birds, we visited a pet store and squawked at all the caged creatures. When we had watched all of Alfred's films at the campus video store, we decided to move onto more lightweight fare: Doris Day movies. The far and away best of all the movies was Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson. Ally, like Doris, was the bright and beautiful blonde and I, like Rock, was tall, dark, and, well, gay.
She said she'd known since the moment she saw my CD collection. No self-respecting straight guy would openly claim ownership to Natalie Merchant and Duncan Sheik CDs, she insisted. And yet the simple fact remained unsaid. My sexual orientation was always there out in the open -- I was out, potentially obvious -- but never stated. I never tried to "come out" to Allison, or Rich, or Carly, or any of my other friends at URI -- nor did any of them ask. I just lived my life, openly, but carefully, cautious not to explicitly let the cat out of the bag. Without a "very special episode" of Sam North's life, in which our hero gathers his friends and emotionally reveals, "Guys, I'm gay," they were left to ponder, speculate, and assume.
The stalemate continued for a few months. It was about two weeks before the end of the fall semester, right before the on-set of finals, and the gang gathered together for some late night drinking. Somehow, truth or dare came up, and somehow I ended up spilling my guts. I said the words they wanted to hear -- "Guys, I'm gay" -- and, with an audible gasp from Carly, all weight was lifted off our collective shoulders. Allison and I only became closer from there. I could finally be open about my crushes, and she could finally trust me as the gay best friend she'd always wanted.
I'd secretly wished that somebody would pick up on the gay guy-straight chick dynamic of us and dub us "Rock & Doris," "Will & Grace," or something equally moronic, but no one ever did. The closest we came to being truly campy was being called "The Allison and Sam Variety Hour" for one short week in February. To my dismay, the nickname didn't last.
We were close friends but the Object Of My Affection dynamic really never existed between us. On some level, I wanted to be in love with Allison, and I wanted her to be in love with me, on some level, in return. But that wasn't the case. We were just friends. Best friends.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Posted on 04/ 8/05 at 12:48 PM | Comments (5)
Tagged: Make The Man
01
MAKE THE MAN 2.1 | Belongings
Make The Man | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Two, Section One: "Belongings"
« Previous (1.6: Perfect Gentlemen) | Next (2.2: The Allison and Sam Variety Hour) »
The room was silent and largely empty for the first time in many months. A more typical dorm room had never existed. The small, 10x12' box had a matching set of everything: two miniature windows; two beds, bunked; two desks; two dressers; two cramped closets; and two roommates. The beds had complimentary plaid flannel comforters. Laundry baskets overflowed with dirty clothes from the bottoms of the closets.
The ugly eggshell colored walls were covered with posters. I glared at Rich's -- of Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead, and that special black light one of Jim Morrison, which seems just as uncharacteristic of him now as when I first met him.
I looked up at my additions to the walls -- the rare Dave Matthews one I special ordered for college cred, the Scooby Doo I got as a going-away present, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer (what the hell was I thinking with that one?). I removed the sticky tac from the back of my new-ish Guster poster while roommate Rich sat on the floor nearby, attempting to unhook the room's makeshift entertainment center, tangled in a mess of wires.
This was not how I envisioned my final night at the University of Rhode Island. The walls were depressingly bare, although I had only taken down that one single poster so far. And almost everything seemed packed up into boxes, ready to be hauled away the next morning -- but in reality, nothing was ready to go. It was 7p.m. -- and not a drop of drink in sight. Already, Hopkins Hall was far too quiet, far too empty -- like we didn't live there anymore.
"Shit!" It came from Rich and was followed by a loud crash. In his fooling with the stereo wires, he had accidentally knocked over our carousel of CDs, spilling hundreds of discs across the floor. Without a word, I quickly joined him on the floor to pick up. We sorted through our joint music collection, separating mine from his, without much chatter, aside from the occasional question or verbal jab.
"Blue Rodeo -- that's yours."
"This is your God Street Wine, right?"
"Here's your Sarah McLachlan," he said with a snicker.
While we were sorting, the door must've quietly crept open as she slipped in unnoticed. She remained invisible until she exclaimed, "Oh, boys, what happened?"
We turned to find Allison in the doorway, a smiling, blonde vision in her infamous tight red GAP t-shirt (my favorite) and a pair of well-worn (or is that worn-well?) comfortable khakis. Both hands were behind her back and she had a mischievous grin on her face.
"Hubba hubba," I commented.
"Yeah, what he said," Rich added.
"Want some help?" she offered.
"You don't have to."
"I've spent all year cleaning up your messes. Why stop now?"
I stuck out my tongue as she came in the room and closed the door behind her.
"I brought some friends along, for old time's sake." And with that, she revealed the surprise hidden behind her: four beautiful, chilled bottles of Raspberry Cider Jack. I was sick of the stuff after the untold gallons we had consumed during that year. Our desks, dressers, and floors were stained with sticky, reddish-purple rings left behind from various celebrations, like dorm parties or Tuesdays. My taste buds cringed at the memory of the overly sweet taste, and my stomach cowered with similar thoughts. But this was our drink, Allison's and mine. And, like she said, this was for old time's sake. "Hope you don't mind."
"Baby, you're the greatest," I told her.
She passed out the brews and joined us on the floor. She held up the extra cider. "Where's Carly?"
"In her room. Packing," Rich answered quickly.
"This is no time for packing. Go get her."
"We have to be out of here by Friday. It's the perfect time for packing."
"It's Tuesday! And it's Sammy's last night in town. There is no way she's wasting it up in her room!"
Rich, convinced, got up to leave. "I'll see if I can talk her into coming down."
"Tell her I miss her already," I said.
"And don't be too long. I know you two."
Rich left, smiling.
"Well, he's gone for at least two hours. They've got to practice saying good-bye some more."
"They're both here until Friday."
"Sick, isn't it?" I joked. "I get his beer."
"Bitch."
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
Tagged: Make The Man