Message of Love Page 16

  Set before us was a series of recreated curbs and sidewalks. “Folks have to learn how to navigate,” he huffed as he hopped his wheels up and down the ramps and curves. Finally finished, he wheeled over to the edge of the roof.

  “Come ‘ere.” He waved me over until I was beside him. “Closer.”

  I understood, leaned down for a kiss, bashful for a moment. Our breath escaped in misty trails.

  “It’s okay. There’s nobody else up here.”

  I felt his comfort there, his sense of being, and understood how it energized him. We kissed some more, and he toyed with my ears. “Cold.”

  “Good cold.”

  I could have stayed with him there until the shivers overtook us, but he had other plans.

  After we left, Everett pulled out of the parking garage, steered carefully onto the street, and said with a casual air, “Do you know anyone who smokes pot?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Um, to get high?”

  At first I thought he was joking, but Everett explained.

  “It might help us with the back end merchandise.” Another euphemism for ‘the butt sex.’

  “I don’t need to do that.”

  “But I want you to. You get … amorous.”

  He was right. I did get more excited under the spell of a pot high, but I sometimes lost myself and forgot to be careful with him.

  “Well, it works on you, at least.”

  He did have a point. But I dismissed it, at first. “You should have gotten some from Kevin when we were in Greensburg. We can’t smoke it in the house anyway. Mrs. Kukka would smell it.”

  “I know. Just. Okay, whatever.”

  A few minutes passed, each of us looking at the traffic and passing buildings as we drove through downtown and back to the house.

  Then, not at all unrelated, but chirped by Everett in a bald-faced attempt to make it seem so, “How’s your friend Devon?”

  “Wait. You think Devon knows how to get pot because he’s Black?”

  “No. Your implied racism contravenes economic probability.”

  “What?”

  “He lives in West Philly. Statistically, it figures. Plus he’s my friend, too.” Everett braked at a light, the van lurched to a halt.

  “I haven’t seem him in months.”

  “Neither have I. He doesn’t go to Magee anymore. He doesn’t play basketball. That’s my crip crew. I don’t– Just…”

  “Fine. Whatever. I’ll call Devon.” He drove, humming some tune I couldn’t recognize.

  We shared code words in front of guys we considered befriending, or whose company we preferred to leave, like when some drunk guy would half-sob out a sympathy pity-patter Everett couldn’t stand. And, there were a few out-and-out jerks. It was college.

  There were also guys who withheld their pervy intentions, so we cautiously befriended a few. We hadn’t sorted that out yet.

  But the real stares were in the gym. I spotted Everett, helped him hold steady as he grunted, pushed and pulled on bars and weights. Other athletes looked on, admiringly or just curious.

  Some of those fit guys got to see us naked together, me in the next shower stall, or sometimes with Everett, between transfers to and from his chair. Guys sometimes stared at us from a distant stall.

  Training gave me an excuse to touch him. We enjoyed being seen. Despite the exhibitionistic tickle we both shared, being naked together offered a feeling of liberation, Everett refusing to hide, and me with him. And that had an allure, sometimes made clear by the pointed interest aimed at us by certain guys.

  One of those guys befriended us as we left the gym. His point of entry was being in Everett’s Poly Sci class.

  With a few casual introductions that dodged his having cruised us in the gym, Rodger “with a D,” told us he lived off campus and he and his several housemates were hosting a party that Friday night. What kind of party it would be left me confused.

  “A lot of creative types’ll be there,” Everett repeated one of our inside jokes. “It’ll be fun.”

  Everett seemed to be waiting for my response.

  “What?” Everett blurted as I stood, waiting for him to continue rolling until after he’d stuffed a piece of paper with Rodger’s phone number and address into his backpack.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just fascinating to watch as some ‘creative type’ hits on you right in front of me.”

  “It’s just a party. I should invite Gerard.”

  “Sure,” I shrugged it off as we continued on our way.

  “Besides,” Everett added. “What makes you think he was just hitting on me?”

  Blondie’s “Accidents Never Happen” blared from the house as we approached the daunting porch steps. Neighbors in the nearby row houses in the run-down off-campus area didn’t seem to mind the noise.

  Since the house was only six blocks away on Pine Street, and our intended goal was to get drunk, stoned, or both, we decided not to drive the van.

  As we reached the steps of the row house, he said, “Are we ready?”

  “I suppose,” I sighed as I backed up toward his chair. Everett wrapped his arms around my neck. I pulled him up behind me, spied a ratty lawn chair on the porch, placed him delicately onto it, then trotted down the stairs to retrieve his chair.

  Two other guys entering the house offered curious stares, then a too-late, “Need any help?” to which I replied, “I got it. Thanks.”

  After we entered, to a few more glances, Gerard gave us a friendly wave, amid a cluster of green and red-dyed hairstyles on girls who smoked cigarettes. The guys varied, from overdressed imps to generic frat types (“The theatre techies,” Gerard later explained to us. “They’re all hot; and straight.”)

  Even though the music continued blaring, the cigarette and marijuana smoke filling the air, conversations halted for the briefest moment, until Everett rolled ahead of me into the main living room, where he found some space beside a sofa after I slowly pushed back an end table.

  There seemed to be an air of contrived bohemia among the party guests. I noticed a few other daring fashion attempts, and a few of the more high-pitched laughs and hoots were coming from men as well as women.

  We sat, established our space. I’d learned not to rush to get drinks, knowing I’d be left hovering nearby as a cluster of curious new fans would have already gathered around my boyfriend.

  And, as anticipated, our host Rodger happened by and offered to get us drinks.

  Everett’s attention was drawn to a coffee table in front of the sofa, where a small pile of sifted marijuana, papers and a small bong sat atop the cover of a Soft Cell album.

  Some chubby guy finished with his sincere yet unoriginal compliments about Everett being “cool” for “getting out” despite his “handicap,” words that made Everett veil his mild annoyance with a smile.

  Not bothering to wait for an invitation, I retrieved the bong, stuffed it, lit it, and handed it to him as Rodger returned with two plastic cups of beer.

  “Digging in already, huh?”

  “It seemed the polite thing,” I smirked as the smoke escaped my mouth. Everett toked, handed me the bong, then puckered his lips, signaling me to lean in for a shotgun kiss.

  My lips were dry, so I took a gulp of beer, quietly happy inside to feel comfortable enough, or carefree enough, to kiss him. We toasted. The high settled around us like a blanket.

  Everett generally let others circulate around him. People were kind, offering yet another beer, a slice of pizza, a napkin. He took it in with thanks. I endured the same questions, or the conversations that skirted around their most basic avoided inquiries, some of which had been clarified by our kiss.

  “Let me know if, you know if you need to cut in the bathroom line,” I offered.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Just one more beer.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Our figures of speech for bodily functions had become rather expansive. Everett, a few times, despite knowing
beer would do it, had offered various whimsical code words for our need to excuse ourselves at gatherings, or his sudden rush to the bathroom. “Time to see man about a horse,” became “the dogs have left the kennel,” and the more succinct, “Shit happened.”

  As the evening grew on, someone put on the television and we watched a series of music videos on the new station, MTV. Gerard plopped himself down beside me on the sofa. His eyes were as pink as his skinny tie.

  “Oh, here’s a new show I’m coordinating next Saturday.” He handed me a red flyer with black text and graphics, zigzagged magazine clippings photocopied alongside the barely legible words for a show at some nightclub on South Street.

  “Thanks,” I said, putting the flyer on the coffee table. “But we’re both gonna be up at the crack of dawn for this race event.”

  “Oh, Everett’s going to cheer you on?”

  “No. We’re both competing. There’s a wheelchair race, too.”

  “Oh. Quelle butch. Anyway, you guys having fun?”

  Everett saluted. I nodded. We began to loosen up, and offered a plastic cup salute.

  “Oh, I love this song!” Gerard hooted as the B52s’ “Private Idaho” induced someone to raise the volume.

  We nodded along as the roomful of heads bobbed, and Gerard began rattling off the upcoming concerts he’d be going to, to which we could be invited, it seemed, if I played nice.

  “Everything’s happening now. It’s so,” he gestured toward the TV screen, some muted new music video. “Fast.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I mean, sure; Reagan’s in. But people are fighting back, making change…”

  There had been several anti-Reagan rallies on both the Temple and Penn campuses, but I didn’t see what good they would do. I offered a dismissive comment. “With flyers for art rock fashion shows?”

  Gerard offered a withering glare. “You know, I know you don’t like me. I just don’t know why.”

  “Wait. What?”

  I didn’t add how surprised I was that he hadn’t tried to squeeze himself next to Everett on the sofa. I simply never got up.

  I faced him, spoke softly. “Look. I like that you’re our friend. Just know that I think you’re fabulous and we really like being out and everything, you know … out. But Ev and I are together, like, really close, and you have no idea what it took to keep that, for both of us.”

  “I’m sorry. I–”

  “It’s okay. Just…” I simmered. “Just be our friend.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now tell me more about this rock fashion show or whatever it is.”

  But as Gerard unspooled a series of talented acts, amid some pedantic assessment of “cultural zeitgeist,” as he called it, I was really half-listening to Everett talk up to a guy standing beside him. He was telling yet another artful fib, and had cued me in when he’d crept his hand across the sofa like a spider to tickle my exposed lower back.

  I tilted my head as Everett wove another increasingly fanciful tale to explain his injury; a train derailment, wild game hunting, and a new one, “Blimp wreck. Oh, the humanity!” Watching their befuddled reactions was his form of sport.

  I turned to him, grinned sarcastically, “I love that story.”

  I excused myself to find the bathroom, after Gerard spun off to some late-arriving friends. A random girl who parked beside me inspired a seesaw-like reaction. “Save my seat, please?” She nodded consent.

  As I considered my ability to relieve myself in such a tiny bathroom, with a line of people waiting, Rodger sidled up to me in the hallway line.

  “You guys having fun?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, it’s just…” I really had to use the toilet, and didn’t care to explain.

  “Hey, there’s another bathroom upstairs,” he said, tugging at my sleeve. I followed Rodger, and turned back to see Everett chatting with the girl who’d scooted in my place on the sofa. He saw me, offered an apologetic shrug. I nodded my head, then rounded the stairs to follow our host.

  After using the bathroom, I found Rodger waiting for me in the hall. He led me to another room; his, I guessed.

  He didn’t waste more than a minute after the door was closed before his mouth attached itself to mine.

  It did feel good to kiss a guy while standing, almost dancing around the room, he trying to lead me toward his bed, me diverting his moves. He didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand, how different it felt, why I consented, allowed this, knew this was inevitable.

  Finally pulling apart, he surveyed me, pawing under my shirt. “You guys were so hot in the gym.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You a couple?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We should get together.”

  “What? You want me to haul him up here so you can–”

  “That’d be hot.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  He pressed himself close again, reaching, grabbing. I wanted to kneel, feel the banal thrill of clamping my arms around a guy’s legs, full muscled legs, risk being thrown off-balance. I didn’t.

  “I should–” I pulled away.

  “Lemme know if–”

  “Yeah, that’s probably not gonna happen.”

  As I trotted downstairs, I adjusted my pants and the contrary opinion of my erection.

  Everett’s new friend was still doing most of the talking when I returned to his side with a fresh beer. He took it, leaned up and, with a single brief kiss, pretty much gave her the cue to exit.

  “How we doin’?” I asked.

  “Uh, the music’s good. The beer sucks. What was that?” Everett nodded toward the stairs.

  “Our host wanted to show me his etchings.”

  “And?”

  “You’re right again. He’s definitely…interested.”

  “Oh, well, shut my mouth.”

  “Let’s go out on the porch. The smoke’s getting to me.”

  “Hmm.” Everett adjusted himself into his chair.

  The air was brisk, but our jackets sufficed. We sipped our beers. I sat on the rickety lawn chair beside him.

  “You know, we need to set some parameters.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “If you want to… explore some purely recreational options.”

  “Like what? Bowling?”

  “Sex. Other sex.”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” It would have been perfect timing, what with me washing down Rodger’s tongue action with the beer. “I’m not– He’s not– I was joking, and he’s really drunk.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Drunk or joking?”

  I simmered, felt more exposed for having tasted the possibility. I just wanted to protect Everett from any difficult reactions from a guy like Rodger.

  “Fine. You wanna go back in, grab a guy for the night? I’ll see you at home. You know the apartment we moved into? Together?”

  “It’s not like we’re married. We can’t even get married.”

  “Yeah, but we should trust each other.”

  “That’s exactly my point! You’re my everything! Mon raison d’etre! Anything else would just be like …dessert!”

  A few other people had come out on the porch, and gave us a concerned glance.

  “You’re shouting.”

  Everett leaned in, softened his voice. “It’s just… Things are getting a bit predictable.”

  “What do you want to do? It’s not like we can just sneak into a museum or the woods like… before.”

  “Wow.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re right. You’ve been so great. It’s just… it’s just sex, Reid. It’s not love.”

  “Which is my point.”

  “Okay, but I just think it’s gotten a little…”

  “Predictable. Got it.”

 
He shrugged.

  “Well, maybe next time, you can give me some pointers instead of just chowing down on my dick and shoving me off you when I want to get you off, too.”

  “Fine. Let’s go. Me and Mister Pee Buddy should get home.”

  As I helped Everett out of his chair and into the lawn chair, the others on the porch intervened, offering assistance. I directed him to take Everett’s chair down the steps, placed him back onto it, and we rolled off down the street. All the while, I secretly wished I could abandon him for the night, walk off in a huff.

  That was when we saw her, on some dark side street. Still a bit inebriated, I at first mistook her for some sort of shaggy dog foraging on hind legs in a garbage can. But when she turned to face us, a ragged homeless woman in dirty clothes, we both were stunned by a ravaged, crazed stare in her eyes.

  She took one look at Everett, shivered or convulsed, and uttered some unintelligible shriek of fear.

  “Cripple! Cripple, cripple, goddamit!”

  “Fuck!” Everett shouted back. “Fuck you, bitch!”

  I didn’t know what to do; protect him, shove his chair away from her, or scream back with him. I chose the latter.

  But before we could shout back again, she’d already waddled away in a babbling trail of profanity.

  “Damn. What a buzzkill,” Everett offered in an attempt to gloss over our confusion.

  “That was … odd.”

  “These are the people in your neighborhood!” he sang, as he adjusted to yet another bump in the cracked sidewalk.

  After the night of the party, we swore off anything unhealthy for the next week.

  My nearly abandoned competitive spirit saw a small surge as I eyed the competition, dozens of people warming up in Fairmount Park for the Runfest.

  Even though the race was for charity, and all in good fun, my high school memories of cross-country races flooded back. Runners of all kinds stretched, flexed their legs and sipped last gulps of water as more than a hundred runners clustered before the starting line. Behind us the Museum of Art and its imposing staircase loomed.

  The early morning chill had many others rubbing their hands and trying to keep warm. With my sweatpants still on, I cautiously wove my way through a crowd of wheelchair racers, who would start later. Everett was in the middle, chatting with a few others.