Novel excerpts
selections from P Town Boys, The Gory Guide to Dating series, and Chasing Madness
Novel excerpts
P TOWN BOYS
an excerpt from the upcoming novel coming in Spring 2020
​
CHAPTER 4
MacMillan Pier, Provincetown.
Next week is David’s birthday. He’s going to be 35, and the poor thing is not taking it well. The week after is Brett’s birthday. He's turning 30 and has been reveling in the fact that he's so much younger. Lately, I've been starting to fear David might do him in before Brett has the chance to even reach his 30th.
I can’t say I blame David for being upset since turning 35 in Gay World is like crossing over to 50; and if you’re 50, people treat you like you don’t even exist anymore. It’s not so much how I feel, but something I’ve noticed. I also experienced a small taste of it myself when I turned 30 last year and nearly every twentysomething upon discovering my age treated me like I were there elderly grandfather. Ungrateful little shits.
As much as I love our LGBTQ community and how far we’ve come when it comes to demanding the respect we deserve from others, we still have a long way to go when it comes to respecting each other within our community.
I know this may come as a surprise to some, but being gay isn’t all pride parades and blowjobs. I mean, that is a large part of it, but the other half of the time most of us are busy trying to live up to the ridiculous ideals we’ve imposed on ourselves. The biggest one being that we’re somehow supposed to simultaneously have the endurance of a preschooler, the youthful glow of a teenager, the body of a 25-year-old weight lifter, and the bank account of a wildly successful businessman. With unfeasible goals like this, it’s no wonder David’s dreading the big 3-5.
For the rest of our friends, it’s been a wake-up call that’s forced us to take stock of our own lives since we’re not too far from the other side of that horizon. For me, it’s become the push I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life. Damnit, that was so Brett of me. I apologize. Here I am going on about myself when this is supposed to be David’s big intro. I didn’t mean to make it all about me, I was just trying to-
“SURPRISE, BITCH!” someone screams from behind me as they grab my waist and I jump up screeching like some teenager who just stepped through a spider web. I quickly spin around, ready to attack in a stance I learned in a self-defense class. “Stand down, Bruce Lee, it’s just little old me,” David says, whipping a polka dot scarf off from around his head and lowering his undeniably dramatic red sunglasses.
“Oh, you crazy bitch, you almost killed me. You know I hate being scared.”
“I know, that’s why I did it. Do you need a change of panties, Miss?”
I reach around the back of my jeans and jokingly pat them down. “No, I think we’re okay since I’m wearing one of the Depends undergarments I bought you for your birthday.”
“Okay now, fight fair, bitch. You can’t be starting with the age jokes already.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to laugh as I make my way over and wrap myself around him. “You’re right. It's not nice to make fun of the elderly.”
“Okay, you best stop right there because I have no qualms about pushing your ass overboard,” he says, breaking our hug and gesturing to the water. “Besides my birthday’s not until next week, and I plan on milking 34 for all she’s worth.”
“Oh, I know you’re going to,” I say as David reaches for my knapsack, and I stop him.
“What? I don’t mind helping.”
​
“No, it’s fine, I got this,” I say, quickly slipping the pack over my shoulders.
​
“What are you smuggling drugs in that thing?”
​
“No, but if you insist on being helpful, you could take my suitcase.”
​
“Fine, but only for the half the haul,” he says, pulling the extend-an-arm thingie out as far as it’ll go.
​
“Now be careful, I don’t want you breaking a hip or anything,” I say laughing.
​
“Laugh it up all you want, but I’ll have you know that yours truly got carded last evening.”
​
“No?”
​
“Oh, yes,” he says as we start rolling down MacMillan Pier, headed for town. “This baby of a bouncer asked for my ID, and when I handed to him, he had the nerve to say, ‘Get out, I can’t believe you’re this old.’”
“Oh no, he didn’t,” I say as we pass a toe-headed kid pleading with his parents for a shark tooth from one of the little wooden tourist shacks littered along the dock.
“Oh yes, he did. He tried to backtrack and everything, ‘Oh, I meant you look so young for your age.’”
“Ooooh for your age,” I say, flinching in pain as I grab my chest.
“What started as a compliment quickly turned into a backhand to my youthful face, so I said to him, ‘You know I’m only going to be 35,’ and he looked at me as if I said I was 52 and a motherfucking Golden Girl.”
“Well, except they didn’t have any black friends on that show.”
“You’re right. They should’ve called that show Old Racist White Bitches cause Shady Pines wasn’t the only thing shady about those ladies,” he says, and the two of us crack up as he slips his arm through mine and we turn onto Commercial Street.
THE GORY GUIDE TO THE 80s
CHAPTER 1
Centereach, NY. 1985.
York was the first person to make me realize I was gay and all he had to do was look at me. Up until then, I had no idea. …Okay, maybe I had a clue. I mean, Burt Reynolds doesn’t show up naked in your dream one night when you’re 13 without trying to send you a clear message. And although at the time, I was left confused by his appearance and naïve to the glaring symbolism of it all, my Spidey senses and raging hormones knew something was most definitely up. A few months later, that same puzzled feeling would return that fateful day York ran into my life.
I am sitting on the bleachers in my teal sweatshirt trying not to gag from the rancid smell of old sweat that seems to be forever trapped in the gray prison paint coating the walls of our drab middle school gymnasium. I quickly pull the blank piece of paper from my pocket, that I’m never without, and unfold it. I stare at it intently, studying its imaginary details while pretending not to notice the simpleminded boys below making fun of me. Again. My paper trick is a survival tactic I’ve recently adopted with the hope that if I look busy and keep to myself, then maybe people will just leave me alone. It’s also meant to motivate me to fill the paper one day, but with everything that’s been going on lately, I just haven’t had it in me to draw. As far as its success rate in warding off Neanderthals, it has yet to prove itself impervious to douchebags since our schools biggest one, Jerry Cahill, is flailing his pasty arms over his head and shouting up at me. His delivery is so ape-like it’s tough to decipher what he’s even saying. It’s just as well since I’m willing to bet it isn’t, “Hey Josh. I love your hair.” And, honestly, if it isn’t about how totally awesome my hair looks today than I’m not in the least bit interested.
“I said,” he hollers again, a bit clearer this time, “nice hair, dude.”
Oh, so it was about my hair? In that case, I’m all ears! I slowly turn my gaze toward him curious to hear what he has to say.
“Where’d you get it cut?” he asks, unusually interested. I contemplate giving him my stylist’s name at The Lemon Tree since he’s in dire need of a makeover, but just as I’m about to answer, he delivers his punch line. “Fags “R” Us?”
The rest of the guys explode in a fit of laughter oblivious how lame his insult is since Toys “R” Us doesn’t even do hair, they’re strictly toys. What a moron, I think as my eyes dart over to the gym door. I scan the gang of girls for Stephanie, but no such luck. I wish she’d hurry up and get out here already. Stephanie (who insists I call her Stephie, even though she’s more of a Steph and not even close to being a Stephie) is my friend. She’s my only friend, actually.
She’s also the only person I know who hates PE more than I do. And that’s saying a lot since Gym class is like the number one thing I hate most about my new school. Well, besides Jerry Cahill.
Although Jerry currently holds the title, “the bane of my existence,” his type is nothing new to me since there were guys just like him in my old school. The only difference is this mullet wearing, greasy looking, waste of space in ripped up jean shorts and a Ratt T-shirt happens to be one detestable step below them. Jerry and the rest of the guys begin to stir again, but before they can launch another feeble attack, I slip my headphones on and hit play on my yellow Sony Walkman. The wheels of the tape hiss and squeak until the first few notes swim up through the cords and rescue me. It’s a mixtape Stephie gave me that's loaded with, what should be, an illegal amount of Police songs. It’s not that I don’t enjoy Sting and his fellow countrymen; it’s just that Stephie has a knack for choosing the worst songs. That I’m currently getting pummeled by lyrics like “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” only proves my point. When all the de-do’ing and de-da’ing thankfully subside, ‘Til Tuesday’s “Voices Carry” begins. I stare down at the blank white page in my hand as I imagine it filling before me with drawings and snapshots of the last few months. The first image to come is of Dad’s beige Buick station wagon.
It stops in front of the welcome sign to our new town, and he snaps a picture with his trusty Polaroid. I focus on the sound of the camera gears turning, as it spits out the film, hoping it’ll drown out my father who all too jovially exclaims, “This is it! It all starts here.” He’s been saying shit like this all day. I get that he’s trying to make us feel better about the move and tearing us away from our friends, but if he wants to spew that kind of hippy-dippy crap, it doesn’t mean I have to listen. My mother forces a smile while impatiently shaking the film back and forth. It’s my sister’s reaction though that is most telling since Dana, who’s prone to fits of brown-nosing, rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, come on you guys, how bad can it be?” he asks, gesturing to the sign. “We’re in the Heart of Long Island, Centereach.” The car is quiet for a moment as we consider Dad’s proclamation and then all groan in unison.
THE GORY GUIDE TO LOVE
CHAPTER 12
Smithtown, NY. 1989.
Per usual, I am late for my shift at The GAP. My manager, Ping is in the window fixing the mannequin
that she and I nicknamed Crazy Mary since her wig is always on crooked no matter how often we fix it. “12 on the dot,” she says, staring at her watch as I walk in.
“Technically, I’m not late.”
“Technically, you’re supposed to be on the floor at noon,” she replies.
“Well look, I’m standing on the floor, aren’t I? And it’s noon. Tada!”
She shakes her head at me as she fixes Mary’s wig. “Go clock in and hurry back out here, you poor excuse for a Bowie lookalike.”
That afternoon when Vincent joins us at 2, he gets the same round robin store tour that I got on my first day, except when it comes to my turn he gets a little more as he unexpectedly pushes me into one of the fitting rooms and jumps me. Vincent pushes me up against the back of the fitting room door and plants one on me. He’s much more wild and adventurous than I would’ve thought. “Oh my God, we’re so gonna get in trouble,” I say as I reach for the door. “We have to get back out there.”
“No one’s going to know,” he says, pulling me away back toward him and kisses my neck.
“They’re all going to know in like two seconds. I’m a pretty loud moaner.”
He stops somewhat surprised by my announcement. “You are?”
“No, I’m kidding, let’s go,” I say, quickly kissing him and then pull him out into the hall just as a customer comes around the corner. After showing the woman to a fitting room, I whisper to him, “Okay, that was way close.”
“And way hot,” he says with a grin.
“Yeah, totally,” I respond and then excuse myself, so I can adjust my jeans.
Thankfully Vincent and I are both scheduled to close the store this evening so we have the whole day together. After we clock out, Ping stands by the door with her hands on her hips with her lips pursed waiting to let us out. “Have a good evening, boys.”
“Oh, we will,” I reply.
The mall is just about empty since all the stores close at 8 on Sunday. I’m starving and convince Vincent that we should quickly run over to the food court to see if anyone's open late. By the time we get there, all the good places are already shut down, but the old guy who sells sweets waves us over to him. I grab a bag of popcorn while Vincent grabs a bag of Skittles and we head back towards the GAP since Vincent’s Jeep is parked that way. The two of us sit on one of the benches outside the shop since neither of us is in a hurry to get home and share what is clearly day old popcorn. “So it isn’t so bad this place,” he says, looking up at the glowing blue and white sign letters.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fun, for a job that is.”
“Ping’s awesome. You totally told her about us, didn’t you?”
​
“Ummm, I might have.”
​
“Not that I care, but anyone else?” he asks, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
“Ummm, just June and of course Paige and Evan and Gwen and-”
“Oh my gosh, are you serious?”
“No, never,” I say, throwing a piece of popcorn at him.
“Sooooo...I have a question for you.”
“Okay, well, I have an answer for you.”
“...Have you ever had a boyfriend?” he asks, and a huge grin spreads across my face since I have a feeling where this is headed. “Well?” he asks grabbing some more popcorn.
​
The answer is, of course, no. Especially since neither York nor Pete, after the hell they put me through, could technically be counted as boyfriend material. “No, not really,” I say and then decide to have a little fun with him. “It’s okay though; I don’t mind. I hear they can be a lot of work.”
“Yeah, but I’ve heard if you find the right one, they can be really great.”
“I guess I should get to kissing some toads then, huh?”
“Or just one,” he says, throwing a handful of popcorn at me and then kisses me. I suddenly tense up and pull away since we’re sitting right out in the open. “What? This place is dead. Look, there’s no one around.”
“You’re right, sorry, old habit.”
“Well let’s break it together, let's break all the rules. What do you say?”
"...Okay,” I reply as the darkness inside that’s held me for so long slowly starts to dissipate.
“So that’s a yes then? You’ll be my boyfriend?”
“Will you take a ‘yeah, I guess so?’” I ask, teasing him.
“Yeah, that’ll do,” he says and then leans over and kisses me and this time not a thing in the world could stop me from kissing him back. I finally have a boyfriend, a real one; one who isn’t afraid to say how he feels, one who can admit who he really is, and one who’s a hell of a great kisser.
Vincent smells of Polo and tastes of butter, and I can’t help but open my eyes for a second just so I’m sure to remember this moment. The soft blue light of the GAP sign reflects off his face making him look even sweeter as my favorite Roxette song starts playing over the mall speakers. I close my eyes again soaking it all in and knowing this is what genuine happiness must feel like.
Suddenly, someone is standing over us clearing their throat. Startled, the two of us jump back. “Excuse me,” Ping says, “but this is not the necking section. What are you two trying to cause a scandal?”
“Oh definitely,” Vincent replies as we stand.
​
“Well hot damn, we could use some excitement around here that's for sure. Come on, let's get out of this shithole,” Ping says, taking my arm as the three of us head for the exit.
THE GORY GUIDE TO THE 90S
CHAPTER 4
Wilmington,NC. 1997.
D is for Daniel, who shrieked, "You go, girl, you go!"
We all know “Daniel”. That overly effeminate, fiercely flamboyant, humorous Homo that keeps
us all laughing, as we thank God that we're not that gay. (Or at least pray we're not.)
I am cast in the coveted role of Peter Pan in a local production in North Carolina. Except for the overly snug tights, I am thrilled. My good friend Vivian has been cast as the only woman Pirate.
After our first rehearsal, our director Doug, a sweet grey-haired elderly gentleman, pulls her aside, “Listen, Viv, I know you can be pretty tough when you have to be. Do me a favor and toughen up the rest of these pirates, would ya? They’re a little too minty.”
Vivian, unable to help herself, laughs in his face. “Well, what did you expect, Doug? You wanted dancing pirates.”
Somehow it was up to this 45-year-old woman to show these boys what it was like to be a true swashbuckler. I had faith in her though, knowing if anyone could do it, Viv could.
However, after a long week, even Vivian's hard exterior is broken. “Doug, these guys are just too nelly to be scary.” It's soon after that Viv lovingly dubs them, “The Swish-bucklers.” The guys love it. They revel in it actually, making rehearsals even more fun than usual.
Leading this brightly lavendered lot is none other than the 22-year-old Daniel. Vivian’s worked with him before and tells me he used to be straight, but last year he burst out of the closet leaving the wreckage behind him in a powder pink debris of flames. Although we've yet to talk one on one, I can tell from rehearsals that he's a riot. With his big sweeping mannerisms and his heavy Southern accent, it’s as if someone’s thrown Harvey Fierstein, Jack from Will and Grace and Ms. Scarlet into a Play-Doh dispenser and Daniel is what got squeezed out.
Our first interaction during our second week of rehearsal is funny, albeit odd since Daniel refuses to come out of character and addresses me mainly in pirate speak. Who knows, maybe he’s a method actor?
“Well, well, welllllll, shiver me timbers, what have we here?” he asks as he saunters up to me cockeyed.
Although he's in a pirate cap and traditional pirate pants, for some reason he’s wearing suspenders with no shirt underneath and flip flops. “And who might you be, ya scallywag?”
“I be neither scally nor wag, I am Pan,” I tell him, playing along although he really should know who I am by now since I am the lead after all.
“Arrrrgh, methinks you doth look familiar?”
“Ahhh, well,” I say, dropping the play speak, “I’ve been in a lot of shows around town.”
“Ayyyye, no it isn’t that, it's something elsssse,” he hisses as he starts circling me so closely that I'm afraid he's going to start sniffing me any minute. “I can’t quite put me finger on it. Methinks I’ve met ya before."
“Okay,” I say, laughing not quite sure what to make of him, “well let me know when you figure it out."
He quickly switches from Pirate speak to an English accent, “I’ll be sure to crack the case yet,” although his southern drawl still comes biting through, “my dear, Watson.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”
One of our very blonde and clearly very white Indians from the show, who fittingly has been nicknamed Paleface, interrupts us. “Hey Daniel, you wanna join us for a smoke?”
“Oooh girl, you know I’m down for that,” he responds, magically shifting from Pirate to Ladyboy in an astonishing two seconds. “Later, Panny Pan,” he says with a wink and then scurries off.
As I watch him prance away, there’s suddenly something familiar about him, although I’m not quite sure what it is. Maybe he’s right; maybe we have met before.
THE GORY GUIDE TO THE MILLENNIUM
CHAPTER 24
Manhattan, NY. 2014.
“So this has to stop. We can’t go on anymore.”
This is what he says as he stands by the door clutching two giant Duane Reade bags and a can of Coke Zero under his arm.
This is the face, this is the wink, and the okay sign I give him knowing there’s nothing more to say. This is the smile I give, knowing this final kindness is a parting gift, a smile he can take with him to remember me by. It’s not because it’s how I feel, it's only because if I don’t do my best to act like I’m okay, I’ll break.
This is the simple gray suit with the stupid gray tie that he bought me two birthdays ago that I’m in since its 8 am, and I’m about to head out the door, the door that Todd is standing in front of…our door…our former door, so I can run off to another meeting that means nothing to me while the only thing that matters…mattered, still matters, runs away.
I want to stop him, but I know, we both know there’s nothing left of us, and even less left to say. We forgot who we were, and what we meant to each other months ago. Still, we remained side by side, masks carefully in place, as we took turns hurling the tiniest of poison-filled darts at the other when least expected. The two of us pausing but only for a moment to inventory our cuts and stock up again on ammunition; never taking a moment to let the old wounds heal.
“Okay, I have to stop," I mumble, setting my empty glass back down on the bar. Before I go any further, before I’m forced to face the world’s gayest couple, before anything else can happen, I need to get away, and there’s only one place in NYC that you can ever be alone, the bathroom. The 9th Avenue Saloon is without a doubt, not the most glamorous spot for some solitude, but it’s my only escape from everyone that knows nothing of Todd and I's split since I’ve yet to tell any of my friends.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble to Brook, and then make my way through a group of overly cologned young boys mixed in with a flock of older men who've apparently given up on smelling good a long time ago.
So this is the moment, I think as I turn the corner toward the bathroom. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, this is the moment I was beginning to doubt would ever come. The moment that should have hit me two days ago as I watched Todd leave and then stood there waiting for the door to open again, waiting for the knob to turn, waiting for Todd to return. Except he never did. And most likely never will.
I pull the bathroom door open and close it behind me and twist the lock. This is it, I think staring myself down in the mirror. “Whatever you got, bring it,” I say to my reflection, knowing if I’m going to lose it that it needs to be now and that it better be two minutes tops before someone starts beating down the door, rudely interrupting my breakdown.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I stand with my legs strategically spread to avoid the puddle beneath me from the rusty pipes and leaky toilet. Feeling as if I might breakdown from the aftermath of Hurricane Todd’s departure two days ago, I wait out the tears that have been threatening to free themselves all day.
I can’t lose it in front of all my friends since I haven’t told them yet. I know they’re just going to wind up thinking, ‘Josh fucked it up again.’
Although I’m beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic in this tiny bathroom, it doesn’t matter since, in my mind, I’m back in Coney Island listening to the waves break against the shore instead of the steady drip of the corroded faucet. It’s summer 2011 and Brook has convinced me, that despite the heat and bajillion sweaty tourists, we should hit Coney’s famed boardwalk. Four trains, three panhandlers, and two crying children later we’ve arrived in the once-magical land.
Brook and I spend the afternoon walking back and forth and stopping for a treat after each stroll from one end to the other. Several Coronas, a handful of Nathan’s hot dogs, and a melted ‪Ben & Jerry’s Chunk Monkey cone later we plop down on a bench feeling like we're going to hurl.
A guy I eyed during our last runway strut takes a puff of his cigarette as he wanders up next to us and leans against the railing giving us his best James Dean. He’s surprisingly cute. I say, surprisingly, because he’s blonde and I rarely go for blondes.
“So I’m Brook,” she says, yelling over to him.
“Brook,” I mumble, horrified.
“Well, staring at him like a stalker is only going to scare him away.”
“Hey,” he says, sliding closer to us.
‘You’re a smoker, and umm," she pauses, sizing him up, “I’m thinking...a Capricorn.”
“Nope, I’m Gemini,” he says, exhaling.
Oh God, not a Gemini, I think. It’s not that I have anything against the Twins sign since I happen to be one myself, but 4 of us in a relationship might be a bit much.
“I’m Brook, this is Josh, he’s usually pretty mouthy, but he always gets tongue-tied around guys that he thinks are cute.”
“Broooooook,” I say, having no idea what’s got into her.
“Okay, well I’m going to get a beer,” Brook barks. “You two talk….or don’t talk. My work here is finished, I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, I’m Todd,” he says, with a grin, offering his hand as he sits down next to me. “Soooo?”
“So,” I reply, “you, um, you, you…
“You son of a bitch,” I scream as I find myself jolted back to the 9th Avenue Saloon as water from the puddle soaks through the hole in the bottom of my sneaker and as fate would have it, the hole in my sock as well. Damnit. 9th Avenue toilet water is the worst. To quote CC Bloom in Beaches, as I'm often prone to do, I mutter, "I hate my life."
CHASING MADNESS
CHAPTER 8
The screen door slams behind me as I spill out into the night. The cold slaps me hard.
There is a person I left behind.
James is still upstairs.
I can feel the blood racing through my fingers as I squeeze the phone in my hand. What am I going to say to this woman? What can I possibly tell her that’s going to clear me of everything that happened that night three weeks ago? I know deep down no matter what I say she sees me for what I am...the monster who hit her son. I turn my hand to the empty moonlight. I can still see the last traces of the bruise around my knuckles.
It is mid-February, a week before Valentines, and although I should be picturing candy conversation hearts and overflowing boxes of chocolates, I’m expecting the day to play out more like a reenactment of the Saint Valentine massacre, except this time there will be no saints involved.
It’s only 9:30. We should still be out sloppily painting the town, but James’s “party of one” started at noon today so tonight’s festivities have been cut short. I wouldn’t usually mind being home this early; my favorite thing lately is to curl up in bed with him and let the day wash away around us. But that’s not going to happen tonight since my partner in crime collapsed into the sheets a half hour ago. It’s just me now, alone. I don’t mind being by myself; I never have, it’s just that for once I need someone to be there for me tonight. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to escape the fact anymore that it’s time we start facing the truth of the people we’ve become.
There is a person that I’ve left behind.
I turn back to face the two-story house that over the past year has transformed itself into something out of a Tennessee Williams play. It has as much character now as the people who inhabit it and who are as equally fucked up. The subtle beauty of the southern exterior I once took solace in, now looms over me and threatens to swallow me whole. I take a step closer to the street and stare at the phone. I have no other choice but to call her. But I can’t...not yet.
I look to the sky for comfort, but the moon has turned its back on me; but not the stars, I can always count on them. They take turns smiling at me and seem to scream like a blazing road map telling me what to do. I am completely overwhelmed. My legs tingle as they struggle to hold the weight of everything I’ve been carrying for the last year and more than anything else I want to lie down on the dead grass and disappear. I can’t do it alone anymore. It’s time to call the Mom in for backup. She needs to help me shoulder James; I am clocking out. My shift is over. I’m giving up...just like he knew I always would. It’s time for her to take her son back. Her son who can only love with dangerous limitations, her son who can put them away faster than the bartender can hurl them, her son whom I can no longer love even if I still want to.
I stand on the edge looking over and instead of taking a moment to catch my breath, I dive head first as I hit the call button. Once she answers there’s no turning back, the final chapter starts. One that I hope will have a sequel, but one that I know after this, the only thing left for me to do is exit.
“Hello,” she says, answering.
Oh God. Everything in my stomach rises to my throat. Nothing comes. Oh God, hang up.
I can’t help but wonder does this How did this happen? How did this become my life?“Hello?” Her voice is thin, but the tone direct. I picture her sitting in their Midwest ranch house propped up on the couch with a highball in one hand and the remote in the other. Carl, James’s father, sits quietly staring over the television asking himself, gentle man who has dedicated himself to supporting his family take joy in anything anymore? Or have they left him to bleed out while they reach for another glass and toast? “Hello? Is there anyone there?”
It quickly starts to add up before him. All the wasted hours at the office, the endless days showing foolish and overly enthusiastic newlyweds houses just outside their price range, all the empty months filling out endless piles of papers and then finally sealing the deal, what it’s all been for? For fistfuls of dollar bills that they can swill down and then literally piss away. Has he worked this hard only to keep their shelves stocked? He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes and dreams of somewhere else realizing there’s a person he left behind.
It’s hard to make out the voice I hear next, “...I can’t do it anymore,” but after a moment I realize it’s mine.
“James? Is that you?”
“No Mrs. Buchanan, it’s me, Paul.” It’s too much. My legs finally give and I lie back on the cool grass. It helps soothes my fever. I close my eyes and wait for the ground to open up and take me, but no such luck. I look to the sky. It’s peaceful. For the first moment in a long time, I feel a sense of tranquility. It’s short lived though as I sense a rustling in the grass to the left of me. I turn and there he is...James’s father, Carl. He’s right next to me. He tries to smile but his heavy frown can only force the corners of his mouth awkwardly up. His eyes look through me. He knows me. He can guess everything I’m about to say before I say it because he’s said it before.
He points towards one of the stars and I follow his finger. “Right there, let’s go, let’s get away.”
I whisper, “I can’t. I have to do this."
“What was that?” Her voice reaches out and strangles me.
I turn back to Carl. His head slowly turns back to the sky and his eyes finally give to the tears that he’s been holding back for years.
“Paul, are you still there?” she cries.
I am thrust back to the current situation and sit straight up. Carl takes hold of my hand. There is no way through this. Nothing I say will matter. I have no credibility anymore. I’ve become the Lifetime one-dimensional villain she’s seen on TV time and time again, but doesn’t she realize it’s all a matter of perspective, of who is telling the story? Carl wraps around my waist, holds me for a moment and whispers, “You can do this.” I turn back to him to say, ‘I can’t,’ but the earth has swallowed him whole and he’s gone. I am alone.
“Paul, what’s going on?”