Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (8 page)

Cradling my script, I look out the passenger-side window and focus on the signs of Halloween sprinkled along each street as we near home. Black cats and broomsticks: this seems to be the preferred outdoor decor of the season. Some homes host scarecrows.

On the radio, a car salesman tells WFART listeners that each vehicle must be sold. “Today!” he hollers. “Each vehicle on the lot must go!”

Why? Why must every vehicle go? Why can’t they be happy in the car lot forever? Tell me. Why does life spin so fast? If people were meant to travel, wouldn’t we be born with wheels? Why is everyone, everything in life always on the go, go, go? How much love is necessary to make someone stay?

I miss mom.

No, I don’t.

Yes, I do….

No, I don’t miss her at all.

This is my no-frills bedroom: four white walls, three lava lamps, two retro rock posters, and a window overlooking mom’s overgrown vegetable garden in the backyard. True, you’d think it’d be more glamorous, that I’d have glitter and gold sprinkled on the ceiling along with my very own bidet, but that’s not the case. Dad doesn’t permit showy décor and according to him boys shouldn’t be showy anyway. Like dad has a clue. If I had any say in the matter, there’d be a revolving dance floor beneath my bed and a silver disco ball hanging from the center of the ceiling. Plus, the walls would be covered in porno-pink velvet and there’d be a gulf-view beyond my window where Brazilian boys would shuffle by in Speedos. Then the world would be a shiny, happy place.

“Lights out,” dad calls.

James is over and they’re in the den watching the game dad had taped. Me, I’m studying on my bed, but I’m totally having an ADHD moment, and I keep losing focus. Maybe my spat with Billy is bothering me. Or maybe the TV in the next room is distracting me. Better yet, maybe it’s the thought of hot Brazilian boys in Speedos.

“I can’t go to bed yet!” I yell. “I’m studying for my psych test, and I’ve barely looked over my script.”

“I said lights out!”

“Ooh, I’ll give you ‘lights out’,” I mumble, but I dare not argue. When the game is on, dad can be rather undiplomatic, especially when his team is losing. So I crawl under the sheets, toss my books on the carpet, and turn off the light. Still, I can’t sleep. Not with dad and James arguing over mundane matters like football stats in the next room. So I raise the volume on my stereo. Over the speakers, Belinda Carlisle soothes the setting, reminding me, with her beautifully wobbly voice, that heaven is a place on earth. Yeah, so is hell I think as dad yells touchdown the instant I close my eyes.

“That’s it!” James cheers. “The Bucs are bringin’ it home tonight. Our boys are bringin’ it home.”

Bringin’ home what? A headache?

“Oh, I’ll never sleep,” I complain. Then to entertain myself, I tuck my stuffed black cat, Puddy, under my arm and pretend he’s really Billy. “Why Billy, you’re so attentive,” I say. “Ooh, I love a man with whiskers.”

Suddenly there’s a ring, ring. It’s the phone. It’s after ten. It’s Jenny. “Hey Bub, studying your lines?”

“I told you not to call this late. You can text instead.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah oops.”

Then after five seconds of silence....

“So what are you doing?” she asks.

“Making love to my imaginary boyfriend.”

“Oh, screwing Puddy again?

“Quit it, I’m trying to fall asleep.”

“Really? Why?” To Jenny, sleeping is optional and meant for boring people who have nothing better going on. “Sleep when you’re dead” is her theory, and this has caused a major strain in our relationship. I mean, every time I’m about to close my eyes, she calls and wants to talk about the most random crap. Like just last week, she phoned me in the middle of the night to tell me that her walls were talking. Apparently they had nothing good to say.

“Jenny, I’m tired. Can this wait ‘til tomorrow?”

“Fine, sorry I’m an inconvenience.”

“You’re not an inconvenience.”

“Sorry that what I have to say is never important.”

Taking a breath, I count one, two, three. “Well, what do you have to say?”

“Nothing! I never have anything to say!”

Here we go again.

This is Jenny when she’s mad.

Late night calls with nothing to say.

“Babe, I have to get my rest.”

“But I need a favor,” she says. A favor? This isn’t good. The last time Jenny asked for a favor, she had me help her look up the side effects of her medication on the Internet at school. The next thing you know, she had me signing up for free pics on a pop-up Harry Potter porn site.

“What kind of favor?”

Jenny doesn’t respond right away. In the den I hear dad and James comparing war stories. Who arrested the biggest scumbag this week? Who wrote more tickets? Who is the real man in the room?

“I just want you to stay on the phone until I fall asleep,” Jenny finally says. A strange request, but then again we are talking about Jenny.

“No problem,” I sigh. Then silently, I stare at the spinning blades on the ceiling fan and smell buttered popcorn. Dad must be “cooking” again.

Just then a voice, a male voice, comes across the phone.

“Jenny, are you alone?” I ask. I hear heavy breathing, a faint gasp. She’s talking to someone, but it’s not me. “Jenny? Are you ok?”

“Yeah, that was just dad. He came in my room to say goodnight. I told him I was on the phone with you. Now, shut up and keep your mouth on the receiver so I can hear you breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“Just…please Bub. If I don’t get at least two hours of sleep tonight, I’ll spiral. You know the doctor told me to sleep, at least a little bit.”

I don’t want to be rude, but I have no choice. Strange requests are one thing but now I fear I’ve entered the twilight zone, and truthfully, I don’t feel like tuning in. “Jenny, did you take Ralph tonight? Remember, you’re supposed to take your pill three times a day.”

“Shh, go to bed.”

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

“Goodnight. I love you.” Great, Jenny loves me and I’m alone in bed making advances toward a stuffed animal. Look at me, I’m pathetic: a poster boy for why abstinence doesn’t work.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oh God, there’s somebody knocking at my window at 10:30 p.m.

What now?Placing the phone down, I wonder why Billy can’t give me this sort of attention. At the window, I open the blinds to see who my mystery guest is. Oddly enough, it’s a boy. “Sup,” Eric says, waving at me. Blending into the night, he wears a camouflage tee and a matching hat.

Now, I’m not lame enough to turn into a jellyroll just because I have a gentleman caller but I can barely contain my excitement. After all, I’m a sucker for a man in a uniform. Pin a uniform to a tree, and I’ll have splinters. “Hey there,” I say, lifting up my window.

Outside, the humid night air warms my face and grasshoppers chirp like birds in the shadowy distance.

“Hola sleepy head,” Eric says. “Get your ass dressed.”

“I am dressed.”

“Get dressed to go out.”

Hold on. Is this the date I’ve been waiting for? Is this my chance for dinner plans? Has my knight in shining armor finally arrived, or is Eric just another toad trying to get laid along the way?

“We’re going for a ride,” Eric says.

Jingling a set of keys, the half-moon paints a milky-white glow along his forearm. His beautiful buzzed head is equally iridescent.

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” I tell him.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Hot damn, stop being a bitch,” he barks. “Grab your balls and realize you’re a guy. You want to go. You know you do.”

Of course I want to go. It’s not every night that a boy shows up at my window. But what kind of damsel in distress would I be without putting up a little fight? I’ve always wanted to be a tease. It’s magical, and I hear it makes guys nuts turn blue. “But my dad,” I plead. “He’ll kill me.”

“He’ll never know. Now, hurry your pretty butt up and meet me out front. I’m not leaving without you.”

Ooh, the dominant vibe. I get it.

Now comes the hard part. What’s a boy to wear? My outfit needs to scream I won’t be slut tonight, but I might be one tomorrow. In my closet I scan my tees. Each shirt seems so common and boring. There’s nothing that will make me stand out. What’s a boy to do?

Wait. What about my boy scout uniform? Sure, I haven’t worn the stupid thing in like five years, but nothing says loving like a brown button-up with a billion badges on it. God, I’ll be so sexy.

Let’s see....

There’s my purple camping badge.

My yellow leadership badge.

And tonight, I’ll earn my rainbow slut badge!

“I’m so naughty,” I tell myself, buttoning my uniform. Then surveying the room, I notice the phone resting on my pillow. Jenny is going to castrate me for abandoning her, I think. Oh well, I’ll never tell. Still, I can’t leave her alone so I press Puddy’s ear to the receiver, figuring he can baby-sit her for the remainder of the night.

Then I run a preventative checklist through my mind.

Door locked. Check.

Light out. Check.

Stereo set on low volume. Check.

My bases are covered, and speaking of bases, I wonder which one I’ll reach with Eric tonight?

Here I am being ever so bad. I’m crawling along my soggy front lawn, careful not to make a sound, careful not to alert dad, and my right hand lands on a patch of sand spurs. “Ouch,” I yell.

“Dude, you ok?” Eric asks, snug in his mom’s green, vintage Mustang.

No, I’m not ok! My knees are soaked. I’m prying thorns off my palm, and suddenly the neighborhood dogs are on high alert. Barking in the distance, they come across like four-legged tattle-tales beckoning dad to the scene of the crime. I swear, with all of the commotion I might as well shoot a rocket ship out of my ass to alert everyone about my secret rendezvous. At least, then I’d go out with a bang.

“Hurry up! Let’s get out of here,” Eric calls.

“All good things come to those who wait,” I reply, blowing him a kiss. Then standing with caution, I glance back at the house to ensure all is well.

Along the bay window, the light from the TV casts a rainbow of color, informing me that dad is still tuned into sports land and James is along for the ride. Great! I think. Then without another second spared I climb into the white leather passenger seat of the Mustang.

“Safety first,” I state, putting on my seat belt. With the car reeking of tobacco and beer I assume that safety is the last thing on Eric’s mind.

“Dude, what’s with the duds?” he says. His mocha eyes scrutinize my body, head to toe.

“It’s my boy scout uniform. Isn’t it cool?”

“If you say so,” he smirks. Scratching at his chin-pubes with his fingers, he takes a moment to fall in love with his own reflection in the rear-view mirror. “Listen, you want a beer?”

Before I can reply, he reaches in the backseat, cluttered with library books, DVD’s, and empty fast food bags. He hands me an unopened bottle.

“But I really don’t like....”

“Don’t complain. Just drink,” he says, hammering on the gas. Then lighting a menthol cigarette he smiles triumphantly, like he knows he’s in control. Like I’m his little bitch and he expects I’ll obey his every word. And I will. That is, if he’s man enough to give me a compliment.

“So, I’m waiting to hear how cute I look tonight,” I say.

Eric grants me a wink but otherwise ignores my request. He’s more interested in other matters like exhaling perfect smoke doughnuts with his smelly cigarette and jotting down journal entries at every stop. Me, I won’t stand for such neglect. I’m risking my freedom for this journey; at least he could tell me how cute I am.

Annoyed, I return the beer. “Thanks, but no,” I say. I’m not about to get drunk, not when Eric doesn’t seem interested enough to take advantage of me. Besides, beer tastes like horse piss. I’ll keep that to myself though. I don’t want to seem dainty.

“You’re not drinking?” he asks, insulted.

“Sorry, I just don’t do beer.”

“Then what do you do?”

Give me a compliment and you’ll find out.

“I do what I want,” I say.

“I bet,” he replies, aligning the bill on his hat with his nose. Then taking the beer bottle to his mouth he attempts to show me his badass side by hammering it down. This is how a real man drinks, I gather. He takes in every drop with one long gulp.

“Just for your information, driving with an open container can cost you a pretty penny in fines,” I say.

Braking, Eric nearly spits up his drink. “Damn, you ARE the son of a sheriff. Seriously, will you chill out?” Agitated, he shifts gears and veers onto the vacant highway. Along the roadside, large wooded areas have been cleared for future deed-restricted developments. “Listen, we’re young. The palm trees are chillin’. The moon is sparklin’. Just sit back and feel the motion of it all.”

Motion? Where? I look out the window and everything seems so eerie, so still. I wonder why Floridians hide away at night. My gut gets that pre-hurricane feeling: the tight, painful sensation associated with the thought of being blown away.

Near the local Dairy Queen, Eric lowers his window and flicks out his cigarette. Behind us, red ashes flash and fade and I find myself thinking of mom, how we used to sit in the grass and share licks off the same ice-cream cone. Strawberry ice cream is her favorite, but still, she always insisted on trying new flavors. As for me, I like boy flavor. Gay boy flavor.

Then why am I sitting in a car with a straight guy? Wait. Is Eric straight? I can’t figure him out. I mean, yes, he screwed around with Jenny behind a dumpster in the 7-11 parking lot, but who hasn’t?

Oh, I give up. You never can tell what anyone’s preference is these days. Sexuality has become a blind-sighted smorgasbord.

“Two down,” Eric boasts, finishing his second beer. We’re cruising toward downtown with the radio tuned into some grungy rock crap, and Eric pulls up his sleeve to flex his bicep for me. Tennis ball-sized and circled by a faded barbed-wire tattoo, his thick upper arm region is sexy yet incompatible with his lanky body.

“That’s two beers too many,” I joke, poking his side.

“Don’t do that. I’m ticklish.”