Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (17 page)

Billy speaks of frivolous things on the drive home from the restaurant. How he plans to pay more attention to his blocking during filming tomorrow, and how he can’t believe that Halloween is almost here, and that this year he really wants to attend the Monster Mash.

Me, I listen and nod but my thoughts are elsewhere. Right now, they say I’ll always be alone. That truly, no one will ever be brave enough to date someone like me, that maybe people like me are best left hidden.

Arriving home, Billy drops me in my driveway, and I want to kiss him. Really, I do, except he’s not ready for me. Not now. And me, I’m not ready for another letdown. Not tonight. So I bid him farewell and thank him.

Billy says he’ll see me tomorrow and departs with the same smile dad greets me with inside – the “life is peachy” smile.

Beside mom in the living room, dad thumbs though a photo album, reminiscing about my youth. “This is when he was a Cub Scout,” he tells mom. Rolling my eyes, I crash on the ottoman and sulk. “Back then, Tye could barely fit into the uniform. But he loved wearing it.”

Mom and I exchange glances. Her eyes ask, should I laugh? Will you be offended?

Pointing to another photo, dad jokes about my punk rock skater boy phase. He tells mom he caught me applying black eyeliner that year. “I told him not to waste his money. I’d give him a free black eye if I caught him doing it again.” This is dad wooing back mom. Me, I’m the butt of the joke. Me, I’m the bait.

With a grin, mom says she recalls seeing the pictures but I sense she’s saying that because she’s afraid to admit otherwise. Seated next to dad, her discomfort is obvious. Her legs are pointed away from him and her arms are crossed like a cadaver in a casket. Crystals still hang from her neck but her pathetic pigtails are gone. Instead, curly brown hair falls in thick bundles along the back of her pink dress.

“Are you hungry?” she asks me.

“No, I ate.”

“Oh.”

Discovering another priceless moment, dad interrupts by holding up the photo album. “Remember this one, bud?” he asks, citing a picture of me graduating from the fifth grade.

Pizza-faced and pig-bodied, it’s a year I’d rather not recall. Often, dad uses the photo as blackmail to force me into finishing my house chores. One time when I refused to mow the lawn, he threatened to print the photo in the classified section of the Rivershore Gazette. Will work for leftovers – that’s what the caption would read.

“How could I forget that picture?” I grumble. “You won’t let me.”

“You’ve been through a lot of phases,” he says, glancing at more photos. “Of course, I prefer the old phases compared to the phase you’re in now.”

“And what phase is that?”

“You know.” Holding up his hand, his wrist goes limp.

That’s it, I tell myself. Dad’s gone bonkers. Joking at my expense for being a fat pig is one thing but finding humor in my homosexuality is quite another. If he wants to go overboard he better be able to swim with the sharks. “Oh, mom’s heard enough about me,” I say. “Let’s talk about you, dad. Remember your insensitive asshole phase? Oh, my bad. I forgot. You’re still in that one.”

Dad’s smile evaporates. “Tyler,” he warns.

I don’t back down. Dad won’t show anger, not with mom here. “What’s the matter, dad? You can dish it, but you can’t take it?”

“Talk like that again and you can go to your room,” he says.

“Ok, how about dessert?” mom suggests. Standing, her dress hangs like a curtain between dad and me. “Tye, did you save room for ice-cream?”

Dad answers for me. “Good idea. Get him ice cream. Maybe that will cool him off.”

“Sounds like a plan,” mom says, nudging me to stand.

Walking mom and me to the door, dad asks if mom has plans for lunch tomorrow. He knows a great Mexican place on Central Avenue near downtown for just the two of them. Noncommittal, mom rattles off some nonsense about a hectic schedule. Between psychic readings and her clown act she doesn’t think she’ll have time. My crystal ball tells me she won’t.

In the car, mom attempts to lighten the mood by blabbering on about anything that isn’t directly related to dad. She speaks of her love for strawberries, the ocean, and the changing of the seasons in the north. “That’s the reason I never cared for Florida,” she reveals. “In the fall, I love to jump in piles of leaves. In the winter, I yearn for snowball fights and the smell of a wood stove.”

I yearn for a subject change even though that doesn’t seem to be on the horizon. Mom is determined to convince me that the best things in life are free, even though she’s driving a new BMW. “It’s my manager’s car,” she insists, when I point out her hypocrisy. “I hope you get a chance to meet him. You’d really like him.”

“I don’t like men in general right now,” I say. But I refuse to elaborate. Mom doesn’t need the intimate details of my life. Like Billy would rather contract chicken pox than be seen on a date with me. And that dad wishes for me to impregnate a girl someday.

“Well, there’s no problem ice-cream can’t solve,” mom says, reaching Dairy Queen. In front of the store, we eat our cones, seated on a bed of green grass beside two empty wooden benches.

Mom refuses to be conventional, preferring the grass. I wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the ants. Feeling one crawl up my butt, I squish it as mom licks her cone, talking metaphysics. “Can you feel the earth’s energy coming through the ground?” she asks.

“Not really.”

“You don’t feel anything?”

“Just the sensation of a fresh ant bite,” I say, flicking the little bugger into obscurity. Finding me funny, mom chuckles, covering her mouth. “Can’t we sit on a bench like everyone else?” I ask.

Mom turns to view the benches as a group of poppies from school sit down. Sipping milkshakes, they giggle, taking pictures of each other on their phones. “I don’t want to be like everyone else. Do you?” she asks.

Trick question. The answer is yes and no. I want to feel safe enough to publicly hold my lover’s hand like the rest of the kids, but I don’t want to be straight to do it.

“Fine, I’ll stay here,” I tell mom. “Just relax on the mother earth bit.”

“I’ve missed you, Tyler,” mom says, not missing a beat.

“Whatever,” I say, coating my face with my hand. “Forget what I said earlier. Feel free to talk about the earth, the rain, the stars. Just please, don’t start.”

“But it’s true.”

Then why did you leave?

Why didn’t you say good-bye?

Oh, I’m tired of asking why.

“What was your father saying?” mom asks. “Something about a phase you’re in?” I don’t know why but I decide to go for shock value here. To make mom squirm, that’s my plan. Think of it as small potatoes compared to the family she mashed.

“He was talking about my ‘I’m a huge fag and loving it’ phase,” I tell her.

“Oh,” mom replies. Standing up, she dusts grass blades off her dress, walking off. I realize that the comment may have been too much. However, how dare she desert me when I’m not finished eating my dessert!

“That’s just great,” I say, chucking my cone. “Now you’re mortified to be seen with me too.”

“What? No,” she responds, tossing her melting cone in a trashcan. If she wasn’t so sweet, I can tell she’d be offended. I can see it in her eyes. How could anyone assume Mother Earth had but one bad seed in her body?

“Well, it’s not a phase,” I say.

“I know,” she replies, returning to her seat on the grass. “Believe me. I’m not your father. I applaud love in any form. This world needs more of it.” Warming my knee with her palm, her touch feels tender and tells me not to fight. My anger retreats inward and depresses me.

“He still loves you,” I say.

“I know,” she says, rubbing my knee. “I know.”

Accepting her gentle touch, an overwhelming and uncharted feeling engulfs me. I feel grounded and the inside of my chest has that soothing sensation I get from drinking cold milk. Mothers have that special way of kissing a child’s cut to make it feel better. The same theory applies for invisible bruises, I guess. Still, my heart urges me to resist allowing her back inside.

Pulling away, I force myself to stand. “I can’t do this. It’s not that easy. You missed a lot.”

“You’re right,” she says. And suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I see Eric exiting the side entrance of Dairy Queen, carrying an extra-large drink. Clutching his skateboard, he wears a large black Nirvana shirt and camouflage shorts. I attempt to cover my face, but it’s too late. Nursing his drink through a straw, he scans the crowd and finds me.

“Sup, man?” he says, approaching. “What’s your deal?”

“Oh you know me. Just partying,” I reply.

“Whatever dude. You wouldn’t know how to party if someone pulled down your pants.”

Completely embarrassed, I attempt to gloss over the rude comment by quickly going into introductions. “This is Eric,” I tell mom, who stands to offer her hand.

“How nice to meet you,” she says. “How do you know Tyler?”

“We’re...” Eric begins, dropping his board to shake her hand.

“Friends,” I interrupt. “Just friends.”

“Yeah, friends,” Eric mimics in a stale manner. The revelation seems to taint ‘meet the parents’ night. This is evident the instant Eric releases his hand from mom’s grip. Wiping his hand on his shorts, he reacts as if he just touched something foul.

Sensing Eric’s negative vibe, mom comes closer to my side. “There’s darkness surrounding this one,” she whispers.

“Not now,” I tell her.

“So can we talk?” Eric asks me. “Alone?”

“Uh....”

“Go ahead,” mom answers for me. “Take your time. I’ll be waiting in the car.” No. Don’t leave me. I’m too young and far too cute. This scavenger has a sexual appetite that can’t be satisfied. I’m easy prey.

Well, I’m not that easy.

Well, maybe for the right guy.

Taking large strides to the car, mom fails to pick up on my discomfort, saying a lot about her ability to read minds. Nevertheless, I can’t blame her for not wanting to stay. Tonight, Eric’s unpleasantness feels contagious.

“Is that your mom?” he asks.

“Sort of.”

“Didn’t she skip town? Run away with the circus or something?”

“Yeah.”

“She looks like one of them.”

I feel my chest burn, and I’m surprised to find myself growing angry. “What does that mean?”

“Forget it,” he laughs. “Listen dude, this is the deal. I’m going to find a trashy chick around here. Bang her. Then I want the main course.”

“Well, don’t let me get in your way,” I say. Feeling nauseous, I hear laughter coming from the table of poppies and think maybe I do want to be like everyone else. “I have to go,” I tell Eric.

“Wait,” he says. Drinking his milkshake, he bobs up and down on the straw as if mentally fixated on something fleshy. “You want to be my dessert?”

Gross.

“That will be a no.”

“Hey, why so guarded tonight?” he asks, running his thumb down my arm. “Calm down. It’s all good.”

“Listen Eric, I was looking for a friend when we started hanging out. Not sex.” I know. I know. Here I go again, throwing a perfectly good chance of getting laid down the drain. It’s sad. I don’t know why I refuse Eric’s advances. Something just tells me he’s not for me. Like his idea of a romantic gesture would be wiping the seat before screwing me on the toilet bowl in the Dairy Queen bathroom.

“Quit living in the clouds,” Eric says. “You’re so busy being the perfect couple with Billy Greske that you can’t accept a good cock when you get offered one. Well, here’s the grim reality, Tye. Fags don’t date. Fags don’t have relationships. Fags fuck.”

Turning to walk away, I refuse to hear another word. Eric’s not worth my time, I think, as the air feels chilly on my back. From behind, I hear Eric catcalling, mumbling about me being a penis prude, but I don’t acknowledge him. I deserve a relationship I tell myself. As raindrops begin to trickle, I head toward mom.

Seated in the BMW, she turns on her headlights, and I’m hypnotized by the glow. I stare too long and the shine blinds me. Or have I been blind all along? Does love truly exist? Eric says no, not for us. But I have to believe. Life’s too hard to endure alone. True, here, now, my sight may be blurred, but my eyes follow cute boys for a reason. I just wonder if that reason will ever be clear.