Know Not Why: A Novel (17 page)

“How ‘bout you?” I ask, not really wanting to be
the only one forced into special confessions time.

“I just got out of a two and a half year
relationship a month ago,” Arthur replies, “and am now living with
two teenage girls who like to have Drew Barrymore movie
nights.”

“So technically, we could both plead insanity on
this one.”

“I think so, yes.”

I can’t quite figure out whether pleading
insanity means calling it quits. If it does, then I’m not sure I’m
such a fan. Sure, it’d be the smart thing to do – no one could ever
know about it, and he’s my goddamn boss, and also, ya know, minor
detail, he’s a
dude
, he’s a dude, he’s a dude.

Really, all the whole being-with-Arthur thing
has going on for it is that I’ve never really felt this good about
anybody before.

“I don’t know,” I say again. Real fucking
helpful. “I really just … don’t.”

“Okay,” he says. After a few seconds, he sighs.
We keep on sitting, keep on saying nothing.

I start to wonder what ‘okay’ means. Does okay
mean done? This whole thing, is it done now?

All of a sudden, that just seems like the most
incredible fucking waste. I didn’t – I dunno, get kissed by a guy
and have my whole life turned upside down just so it could all be
nothing
. Get labeled the side effects of douchey Patrick and
Drew Barrymore.

And so, not even feeling like me, I decide to do
something about it. I look down at the tabletop, and I bust out all
the bravery I’ve got, plus more that I definitely
don’t
got,
and I say, “I like you, though.”

It’s quiet for a few searing, excruciating
seconds.

“You do?” he says then.

“Of that I am sure,” I reply, real gravely. I’m
not sure if it’s jokey seriousness or the real deal. Artie, he
doesn’t help me out at all – he just keeps sitting there, staring
at me, saying exactly nothing. It’s the kind of thing that’s gonna
make a guy feel nervous, and eventually, I add, “Unless you don’t
like me, in which case, I’m just bullshitting you—”

“Nikki has good taste.”

I don’t even really know what to do with
that
completely irrelevant little gem. “In what, music?”

“Cute guys,” he says, all deliberately.

Ohhhhhh.

Well. Okay. I can be down with that.

“Are you flirting with me?” I ask. I’m pretty
sure he is, but hey, that doesn’t mean I can’t rub it in.

“Maybe a little,” he replies, eyes all slyly
glinting.

“That,” I say, “is really unprofessional.”

“Of course,” he agrees. He holds up one hand,
this ‘my apologies’ gesture. I’d almost think he was serious if it
weren’t for the sly eyes and the way the corner of his mouth is
just barely twitching. “I’ll back off accordingly.”

“No,” I say, a little softer than I mean to.
“Keep doin’ what you’re doin’.”

I watch him start to smile as the words sink in.
Then he leans in and puts his hands on my face and kisses me. I
kiss him back, which is definitely gay. And wouldn’t you know, at
the moment, I don’t even fucking care.
+
“You know,” I tell Kristy when I go back out, “I’m not so sure
getting involved with Nikki is the best idea.”

“Really?” she asks, in the most profoundly
unconvincing imitation of shock I’ve ever seen. “Why not?”

Luckily, I’ve got a nice, practical explanation
all worked out. “It’s just … you and I work together, and she’s
your best friend, and it’d maybe be awkward if I, ya know, got with
her or whatever, and then it didn’t work out, but she might have to
come in here sometime to see you—” (Number of times that Nikki has
been in here to see Kristy, just for your information: zero. That
part, let’s ignore it.) “—and then
I’d
be here, and it’d be
weird, and I think it would really be better if we just didn’t let
things … get weird. With her. And me. Even though,” I throw in
generously, “she’s totally hot.”

“Well,” Kristy says, her eyes starting to go
into sparkle overdrive, “that’s too bad.”

“It’s a real shame,” I courteously agree.

“But I totally understand,” she continues,
starting to work a little bit of bouncing in now, “and I’m sure
Nikki will too!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I say pleasantly.

“Oh, eeee,
Howie
!” Aaaand she throws
herself on me. “I’m so
happy
for you.”

Okay, whoa, this wasn’t part of the plan.
“Because I won’t date your roommate?”

“
Yes
!” she squeals. “You and Arthur and
eeeeee!”

“Whoa, wait, I don’t really know what
you’re—”

“I just meant that you’re
such
a
courteous employee, and Arthur should be happy that he hired you.”
She pulls away and looks at me, mischievous as hell. In a harmless,
Disney princess kind of way. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

Good girl
, I think. “Exactly that, KQ.
Exactly that.”

She beams and kisses me on the cheek.
+
It’s a good week. I’m not gonna lie.

+

On Friday, as ordered, Arthur and Kristy and I
make plans to go see Cora in Rocky Horror. I feel bad for a couple
seconds climbing into the back seat of Arthur’s car, because I told
Amber about the Rocky Horror thing ages ago, and she’d immediately
insisted we go. But, hey, they’re doing another performance
tomorrow night. She and I will just go to that one, no big. She’ll
never even have to know about me going tonight. This, this is just
supposed to be a coworkers thing. It’d be weird to mix Amber with …
Kristy.

So I text Amber about seeing the play tomorrow
night, trying not to think about the fact that Dennis comes home on
Monday, that I should probably be here for her right now. I push
that gem of a thought into the back of my brain, and then I take
off with Kristy and Arthur. We stop at the flower shop first,
because Kristy insists we have them at the ready to bestow upon our
little actress. After some contemplation, we finally settle on a
bouquet that’s violently orange and pointy and a little
scary-looking. Just seems right.

Performance space isn’t amply available around
here, so they’re putting on the show in the high school cafeteria.
And I dunno, man, it just seems like there’s something not quite
right about watching this festival of cross-dressing
extraterrestrial debauchery in the same place where I used to copy
Amber’s math homework while scarfing down soggy ham sandwiches.

But a festival of cross-dressing
extraterrestrial debauchery it is: we step inside to find a bunch
of tables set up around the room, and, against the far wall, a
makeshift stage. In terms of being the old room that I once so knew
and … lunched in, there’s not much that’s similar: the lights are
turned down low, and there must be some dry ice at work, because
the whole place has some creepy fog going on. An instrumental
version of
The Time Warp
is pulsing away in the air. A
couple of people (guys? Girls? Guys who do a great job of looking
like girls?) in feather boas and fishnets are mulling around,
carrying trays with shot glasses on them. I get the sense that I
should probably be afraid.

It doesn’t take long for one of them to descend
on us. It’s a guy – or at least, that’s what the facial hair wants
us to think, no matter how violently the eyeshadow tries to argue
otherwise.

“Wow, you can walk in heels better than me!”
Kristy exclaims, totally undaunted. “Ooh, is this juice?”

“It’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s Intergalactic Sexy
Space Juice,” Makeup Man reports. He’s looking at Kristy in this
way I don’t like. Garters or no garters, he’s man enough to want to
tap that. And, sure, on the surface it might seem a tad
hypocritical, having a bit of a Want To Tap That history myself,
but I’m still feelin’ the urge to fight for her honor or bite my
thumb at him or something. Besides, just between you and me, I’m
starting to wonder if my Want To Tap That history counts.

“Is there alcohol in it?” she asks, wrinkling
her nose a little.

“It’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s Intergalactic Sexy
Space Juice,” he repeats indignantly.

Kristy blinks up at him innocently.

“… Yeah,” he finally relents. “There’s alcohol
in it.”

“Eep, too bad!” And then, like she’s worried
about hurting his feelings: “I’m sure it’s very good.”

“You wanna try some and find out?” He leans in a
little closer, and somehow, that plus the low lighting plus the
smoke makes all of this feel weird and sort of gross, like the
cafeteria’s got this double life as a creepy opium orgy den.

Kristy takes a few steps backwards for his step
forward and chirps, “I’m nineteen.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Oh, I am so gonna
take this sonuvabitch on. My thumbs, they’re just itching to be
bitten. (Okay, fine, I don’t really know the specifics of the whole
‘I bite my thumb at you, sir’ deal.)

Kristy gives him this ‘You’re very sweet, but
well now
really
’ look.

“But hey!” she adds on a stroke of inspiration,
sliding one of her arms through mine and the other through
Arthur’s. “They can try it!”

Which gets him to turn on us.
Swell.

“Space juice, fellas?” He wiggles the tray, like
that’s somehow tantalizing.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing a few just to shake him
off. Kristy beams at me. Meanwhile, some more sorry bastards come
in, and our humble drink-server leaves to harass them.

“Cheers,” I deadpan, handing one of the shot
glasses to Arthur. He squints down into it, skeptical. I can’t
really blame him. It’s a pretty suspicious shade of
highlighter-yellow.

“You know,” he finally concludes, “I suspect I’d
regret drinking this.”

“Oh, come on,” I urge. “Spirit of the
evening.”

He makes a face, but finally nods. Bwahaha,
triumph. I down the shot. My taste buds, throat, and lungs
immediately threaten to disown me. I’m pretty sure I taste some
bleach in there, and that’s one of the more mild ingredients. There
might also be toxic piss. A little lemon. All of a sudden, I really
remember why I’m not so into the whole getting-wasted thing. Then I
forget it, because conscious thought is for people lucky enough not
to have just imbibed bleach and toxic piss.

As for Arthur:

“I thought you were going to drink it, too,” I
rasp, staring in dismay at his shot glass.

“I did,” he replies, looking grossed out enough
that I believe him. “That was horrifying.”

“It’s still in the glass.”

“I took a sip.”

“A sip? You took a sip of a shot?”

“A small sip was sufficient.”

“Laaaaame.” I prod at the glass with my finger.
“Finish it off.”

“No.”

“Finish it.”

“Are you trying to get me to succumb to peer
pressure?”

“You know, this, right here, this whole
shot-sipping deal, it’s a real pansy-ass thing to do.”

“Says the man who is openly weeping in
public.”

“My eyes are watering,” I correct (and throw a
little bit of furious blinking in there too, even though it’s
totally unnecessary because I am
so
not weeping). “There’s a
difference.”

“Wait.” Arthur starts to rummage around in his
coat pocket. “I think I might have a tissue here somewhere, if you
need to wipe your tears away—”

“Are you sure it’s not a handkerchief,
Gramps?”

“I …” He dwindles off, and I follow his gaze to
Kristy. She’s staring at us with jubilant adoration just, like,
shooting out of her eyeballs and bursting into tiny heart-shaped
fireworks. Her hands are actually clasped in joy
.
“What?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “what?”

“You guys are so
cute
!” she squeals. I
take a step back from Arthur by default and she quickly,
oh-so-unconvincingly adds, “As friends.”

“Move on, Kristy,” Arthur instructs, smiling a
little.

Fortunately, we get help in this department,
because at that very moment, a guy’s voice calls out, “Kristy!”

We all turn around to see Cliff sitting at one
of the tables, looking like he’s trying to somehow collapse in on
himself.

“Oh!” Kristy bounces over to him. “Hey you,
you’re here already!”

“Yeah,” Cliff replies, looking numbed by the
horrors he has seen. “I’ve been waiting. For like ten minutes.
Alone. Here.”

“It’s
spooky
, isn’t it?” Kristy
beams.

She kisses him hello as she sits down next to
him, and he pulls her into a hug. Or maybe it’s just desperate,
traumatized clinging. Either way, there’s something really nice
about it. To just be able to, I dunno, be with someone, and have it
be that easy. To not have to even think about who sees.

But, whatever, I drank Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s
nasty-ass space juice, I’m done with suffering for the night. No
angsty thoughts.

“Cute?” I mutter instead, going back to Kristy’s
little outburst. “We’re not cute, are we?”

“Lord, no,” Arthur murmurs. “That would be so
unmanly.”

I get the sense I’m being made fun of.

“Speaking of unmanly,” I say, not about to get
bested in banter, “you gonna be a man and finish your space juice,
boss?”

“Under no circumstances,” Arthur replies
crisply. “You want to do the honors?” he adds, holding it out to
me.

And, well, I’m not really keen on experiencing
round two of all-consuming liquid torture, but he’s smirking at me
a little bit in this way I don’t undig, and, hell, why not?

Our fingers fumble into each other as I take the
glass, and neither of us really rushes to change that. Once he’s
pulled his hand back, I take a deep breath (in a totally cool way,
in the way of a man who has drunk many a man under the table), and
I down the once-sipped shot.

“See,” I announce triumphantly, in between all
the agony, “
that’s
how it’s done.”

“Enlightening,” Arthur remarks, laughing.

We sink into a nice silence for a few seconds,
but that just gives way to instrumental Time Warps and some nearby
person howling out “Holy
shit
!” after getting space-juiced.
Instinctively, I find myself looking over to the far corner of the
room, where Amber and I used to sit pretty much daily. “Does it
seem, like, really weird to you that they’re serving alcohol in the
high school cafeteria?”