The night after the cookout Boyd and I were alone in the house, sweltering in shotgun-mad-dog-August-heat-rash heat. His housemates were out bowling. As a going-away present, I gave him a pair of silver cufflinks, their oval faces embossed with bright blue, enameled fleurs-de-lis.
“I don’t have shirts with French sleeves.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It was just an impulse.”
I decided not to reveal the second, identical pair, which I’d bought with the notion that we’d wear them together through the years to weddings, christenings, and funerals. They were rolled in a pair of socks in my carry-on, tucked under a stairwell by the front door with my other two bags.
“I didn’t get you anything,” said Boyd.
“I don’t care. You’ve given me plenty.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re drunk,” I said, to shut down the matter of the blown gift exchange.
“No more than you, Kurt.”
“You’ve sucked down five to my two,” I said. That was our beer ratio that sophomore year, and the hell with you, I thought, for making me sound like some B-movie moll.
He shook the cufflinks in his hands like a pair of dice, then set them quietly in his ashtray. “Don’t go to Europe.”
I had been yearning for just this directive our entire, miraculous, only-come-up-for-air week between the sheets. I wasn’t certain Boyd would say this, but I had a first response ready.
“I have to go. It’s paid for.”
He’d thought about it too. “So get your money back.”
I flipped a pillow, still damp from our sweating necks. “Boyd,” I said, “when you run out of underwear, and you don’t feel like doing your laundry, you buy new in packages of three, don’t you? Don’t you?”
My vehemence was a surprise to both of us.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your parents keep you in underwear. They keep you in everything.”
“What are we talking about my parents for?”
“You don’t know the value of a dollar.”
“You’re going to Paris on your father’s money.”
“His life insurance.”
There was no comeback for that, so Boyd left the room, picking his way through the empties and the twisted bedclothes on the floor. I pulled on my polo and shorts. I listened to the moths beating against the screen under the deck lamp, to the closing of the refrigerator door, to the flip of a cap in the sink. He returned with beer number six.
“What are you getting dressed for?”
I shrugged, then kept still while he unbuttoned my shirt. Funny way to have an argument. I asked him whether he was going to miss me while I was in France.
He pulled my belt from its loops. “I’m planning to be miserable without you. You’re my best friend, Kurt. I love you. I even like you, which is saying a lot, considering what an asshole you are ninety percent of the time.”
He’d cleared a bar without knowing it, so I raised it again. “I want you to love me sober too.”
“Help me out here,” he said, fumbling with my fly. “I am drunk.”
I popped the placket on my shorts. “You better be careful, Boyd, or you’ll be a serious alcoholic.”
“Are there unserious alcoholics?”
I pushed his hands away. “You’ll make a lousy drunk. I know all about it.”
That last flew out of my mouth, and I felt rotten for it instantly. Back in high school, after dinner, my father would tour our subdivision with an open bottle of Cutty Sark. If he wasn’t back by the time I’d finished my trig proofs, it was my job to find out which neighbor’s living room floor he’d conked out on, and bring him home. I’d flick his ear with my index finger until he woke up. My mother said when they cut him open, his liver was the size of a Smithfield ham.
I mentally crossed myself for my flash of filial disloyalty and looked to Boyd, bent on the mattress now like a twisted-open paper clip. Drunk or sober, he was all I wanted or had or gone after and now we were going to be apart for ten months. I folded him against me, then laced my fingers through his on the neck of the beer bottle. In the heat the glass had already reached room temperature.
“I’m afraid of you, Kurt,” he whispered.
This was news to sit up for, but I stayed put.
“When you fell asleep on my floor, in April, and I realized that I loved you, I was terrified of what would happen when you woke up.”
“I’m sorry I made you fall for me,” I said.
Boyd rolled out of my grasp. “You didn’t make me love you. I mean sure, I fell in love with a man, but give me some credit here.” His laugh became a belch. “You’re the one who’s gay.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m bisexual.”
Boyd started laughing. “That’s what I used to say, remember?”
I did remember. That had opened a door for us at the end of freshman year.
“And then you came at me, Kurt, with all your might.” He swigged, belched again. “All your mighty might might.”
We were facing each other now, kneeling on the bed, naked, the mattress radiating heat like a portal to Hades. It had taken me sixteen months to get him to this position, but Boyd was looking at me like I was some idiot child. With clumsy fingers, he brushed my arm and said, “Came at me hammer and tongs.”
With no thought at all, I raised a half-closed fist and clubbed him in the jaw. Then, because I loved his face, I clubbed it again. Then a slap, which made a cleaner sound. He looked surprised more than anything. His hands, which he’d put up in front of his face for defense, suddenly, as if a toy spring had been pushed, flopped at the wrists.
Rather than handcuff him, as his pose suggested, I ran to the kitchen. I crouched in the light and the cold air of the open fridge, rattling my teeth on the lip of the pitcher of iced tea I drained. I can’t claim to have hurt him—my left hand probably smarted more than his jaw—but enjoying the violence had scared the piss out of me.
Eyes trained on a bowl of leftover salt potatoes Boyd had made for the house cookout, I rewrote fisticuffs into folklore. I must really love the rummy if I could also want to break his jaw. This was men loving men like men must love men, proof more positive than matching cufflinks. I closed the refrigerator and slumped against it, waiting for him to come fetch me from the kitchen. After five minutes, inflated with apologies, horny with reconciliation, I went back to the bedroom.
He had passed out on his stomach.
My rage returned when I realized that he wouldn’t remember the fight, remember and respect my violence. I wasn’t about to beat a drunk into consciousness, so, with a passion equal to my slaps, I began to jerk off onto his back. Strokes for being drunk, for being a drunk, for being rich, for having both parents intact, for forgetting, for being honest, for taking me up, for doing as he liked, for taking charge of himself, for getting out of hand, and—for—not—being—me.
I left him to dry and fell asleep.
I woke up flooded with remorse. Boyd had asked me to stay, and I’d cuffed him for it. I reached out my hands, gimme, but the air was empty.
It was already light outside. He was smoking at his desk chair, dressed and shod, watching me with an expression that increased my panic and killed all comment.
“Did you hit me?”
His face bore no marks of it, but he had remembered.
“I think you hit me, Kurt.”
I wouldn’t have the man anywhere near me for a year, couldn’t track his movements, couldn’t fill my days with him. You cannot leave this room, I thought, you have got to come back to this bed.
Interpreting my silence, but one beat ahead, Boyd ground out his cigarette, picked up his keys and left. The slam of the front door covered my wail.
His memory of recent events put it into my head that he was leaving me forever, and that his was an exit more final than airplanes. Not until I heard his car start and pull out of the turnaround was I able to mobilize. I ran out of the house at five in the morning after a blue Opel rustling through a stand of overgrown sumacs.
And as I ran naked down a rural route in upstate New York, I waved my arms and screamed, not caring who saw or heard me, I can cash my ticket, sweet Jesus, just stop the car, Boyd, so we can banish fear and live on love. I was running so fast I couldn’t sense anything but motion; I ran out the rest of the violence I thought I had reasoned away the night before by the refrigerator; I was so nuts I put on an extra burst of speed to outrun the coronary that had stopped my father and that I knew was waiting for me somewhere further up the blacktop. I don’t know how long or how far I ran in my bare feet after Boyd, but I was so jacked up that I didn’t notice that the car had stopped until I had nearly overtaken it.
He opened the passenger door.
“Don’t leave me like that,” I gasped, pulling it shut and slumping against the window. I jerked upright at the cold press of the glass on my shoulder. “Don’t leave me,” I said with all the air I had left for speech.
“I was going for cigarettes.”
Before the car could move again, we knew we would have to process the spectacle of my need. Boyd had sunk me this low; he could own that part of me, but not everything, still not everything. I rolled down the window for a view, gulped air, waiting reconnaissance. The birds were making a racket, but the trees and the wind kept their counsel.
Boyd reached over to touch my neck. I did not trust myself to look at him, so I looked down instead.
I looked down and saw that I wasn’t naked. Somehow in Boyd’s room, in the haste and terror I felt as his car spun the rocks behind it to hit the road, I had managed to locate my boxers and throw them on. One gesture toward modesty, at the last of the last of the last, let me know that there would still be further to fall.
“I don’t have shirts with French sleeves.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It was just an impulse.”
I decided not to reveal the second, identical pair, which I’d bought with the notion that we’d wear them together through the years to weddings, christenings, and funerals. They were rolled in a pair of socks in my carry-on, tucked under a stairwell by the front door with my other two bags.
“I didn’t get you anything,” said Boyd.
“I don’t care. You’ve given me plenty.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re drunk,” I said, to shut down the matter of the blown gift exchange.
“No more than you, Kurt.”
“You’ve sucked down five to my two,” I said. That was our beer ratio that sophomore year, and the hell with you, I thought, for making me sound like some B-movie moll.
He shook the cufflinks in his hands like a pair of dice, then set them quietly in his ashtray. “Don’t go to Europe.”
I had been yearning for just this directive our entire, miraculous, only-come-up-for-air week between the sheets. I wasn’t certain Boyd would say this, but I had a first response ready.
“I have to go. It’s paid for.”
He’d thought about it too. “So get your money back.”
I flipped a pillow, still damp from our sweating necks. “Boyd,” I said, “when you run out of underwear, and you don’t feel like doing your laundry, you buy new in packages of three, don’t you? Don’t you?”
My vehemence was a surprise to both of us.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your parents keep you in underwear. They keep you in everything.”
“What are we talking about my parents for?”
“You don’t know the value of a dollar.”
“You’re going to Paris on your father’s money.”
“His life insurance.”
There was no comeback for that, so Boyd left the room, picking his way through the empties and the twisted bedclothes on the floor. I pulled on my polo and shorts. I listened to the moths beating against the screen under the deck lamp, to the closing of the refrigerator door, to the flip of a cap in the sink. He returned with beer number six.
“What are you getting dressed for?”
I shrugged, then kept still while he unbuttoned my shirt. Funny way to have an argument. I asked him whether he was going to miss me while I was in France.
He pulled my belt from its loops. “I’m planning to be miserable without you. You’re my best friend, Kurt. I love you. I even like you, which is saying a lot, considering what an asshole you are ninety percent of the time.”
He’d cleared a bar without knowing it, so I raised it again. “I want you to love me sober too.”
“Help me out here,” he said, fumbling with my fly. “I am drunk.”
I popped the placket on my shorts. “You better be careful, Boyd, or you’ll be a serious alcoholic.”
“Are there unserious alcoholics?”
I pushed his hands away. “You’ll make a lousy drunk. I know all about it.”
That last flew out of my mouth, and I felt rotten for it instantly. Back in high school, after dinner, my father would tour our subdivision with an open bottle of Cutty Sark. If he wasn’t back by the time I’d finished my trig proofs, it was my job to find out which neighbor’s living room floor he’d conked out on, and bring him home. I’d flick his ear with my index finger until he woke up. My mother said when they cut him open, his liver was the size of a Smithfield ham.
I mentally crossed myself for my flash of filial disloyalty and looked to Boyd, bent on the mattress now like a twisted-open paper clip. Drunk or sober, he was all I wanted or had or gone after and now we were going to be apart for ten months. I folded him against me, then laced my fingers through his on the neck of the beer bottle. In the heat the glass had already reached room temperature.
“I’m afraid of you, Kurt,” he whispered.
This was news to sit up for, but I stayed put.
“When you fell asleep on my floor, in April, and I realized that I loved you, I was terrified of what would happen when you woke up.”
“I’m sorry I made you fall for me,” I said.
Boyd rolled out of my grasp. “You didn’t make me love you. I mean sure, I fell in love with a man, but give me some credit here.” His laugh became a belch. “You’re the one who’s gay.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m bisexual.”
Boyd started laughing. “That’s what I used to say, remember?”
I did remember. That had opened a door for us at the end of freshman year.
“And then you came at me, Kurt, with all your might.” He swigged, belched again. “All your mighty might might.”
We were facing each other now, kneeling on the bed, naked, the mattress radiating heat like a portal to Hades. It had taken me sixteen months to get him to this position, but Boyd was looking at me like I was some idiot child. With clumsy fingers, he brushed my arm and said, “Came at me hammer and tongs.”
With no thought at all, I raised a half-closed fist and clubbed him in the jaw. Then, because I loved his face, I clubbed it again. Then a slap, which made a cleaner sound. He looked surprised more than anything. His hands, which he’d put up in front of his face for defense, suddenly, as if a toy spring had been pushed, flopped at the wrists.
Rather than handcuff him, as his pose suggested, I ran to the kitchen. I crouched in the light and the cold air of the open fridge, rattling my teeth on the lip of the pitcher of iced tea I drained. I can’t claim to have hurt him—my left hand probably smarted more than his jaw—but enjoying the violence had scared the piss out of me.
Eyes trained on a bowl of leftover salt potatoes Boyd had made for the house cookout, I rewrote fisticuffs into folklore. I must really love the rummy if I could also want to break his jaw. This was men loving men like men must love men, proof more positive than matching cufflinks. I closed the refrigerator and slumped against it, waiting for him to come fetch me from the kitchen. After five minutes, inflated with apologies, horny with reconciliation, I went back to the bedroom.
He had passed out on his stomach.
My rage returned when I realized that he wouldn’t remember the fight, remember and respect my violence. I wasn’t about to beat a drunk into consciousness, so, with a passion equal to my slaps, I began to jerk off onto his back. Strokes for being drunk, for being a drunk, for being rich, for having both parents intact, for forgetting, for being honest, for taking me up, for doing as he liked, for taking charge of himself, for getting out of hand, and—for—not—being—me.
I left him to dry and fell asleep.
I woke up flooded with remorse. Boyd had asked me to stay, and I’d cuffed him for it. I reached out my hands, gimme, but the air was empty.
It was already light outside. He was smoking at his desk chair, dressed and shod, watching me with an expression that increased my panic and killed all comment.
“Did you hit me?”
His face bore no marks of it, but he had remembered.
“I think you hit me, Kurt.”
I wouldn’t have the man anywhere near me for a year, couldn’t track his movements, couldn’t fill my days with him. You cannot leave this room, I thought, you have got to come back to this bed.
Interpreting my silence, but one beat ahead, Boyd ground out his cigarette, picked up his keys and left. The slam of the front door covered my wail.
His memory of recent events put it into my head that he was leaving me forever, and that his was an exit more final than airplanes. Not until I heard his car start and pull out of the turnaround was I able to mobilize. I ran out of the house at five in the morning after a blue Opel rustling through a stand of overgrown sumacs.
And as I ran naked down a rural route in upstate New York, I waved my arms and screamed, not caring who saw or heard me, I can cash my ticket, sweet Jesus, just stop the car, Boyd, so we can banish fear and live on love. I was running so fast I couldn’t sense anything but motion; I ran out the rest of the violence I thought I had reasoned away the night before by the refrigerator; I was so nuts I put on an extra burst of speed to outrun the coronary that had stopped my father and that I knew was waiting for me somewhere further up the blacktop. I don’t know how long or how far I ran in my bare feet after Boyd, but I was so jacked up that I didn’t notice that the car had stopped until I had nearly overtaken it.
He opened the passenger door.
“Don’t leave me like that,” I gasped, pulling it shut and slumping against the window. I jerked upright at the cold press of the glass on my shoulder. “Don’t leave me,” I said with all the air I had left for speech.
“I was going for cigarettes.”
Before the car could move again, we knew we would have to process the spectacle of my need. Boyd had sunk me this low; he could own that part of me, but not everything, still not everything. I rolled down the window for a view, gulped air, waiting reconnaissance. The birds were making a racket, but the trees and the wind kept their counsel.
Boyd reached over to touch my neck. I did not trust myself to look at him, so I looked down instead.
I looked down and saw that I wasn’t naked. Somehow in Boyd’s room, in the haste and terror I felt as his car spun the rocks behind it to hit the road, I had managed to locate my boxers and throw them on. One gesture toward modesty, at the last of the last of the last, let me know that there would still be further to fall.