Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (9 page)

“Fine, I won’t touch you then.” Yet, I want to touch him. Underneath his camouflage tee shirt, I want to know what he has tucked away. Dirty thoughts enter my mind. Like would he allow me to play peek-a-boo with his belly button? Does he have an innie or outie?

Crossing my arms over my chest, I grab each side of my rib cage and squeeze. If I let go, I’m bound to grope him. My hands have no conscience.

“So, where are we headed?” I ask. In the distance, downtown lights sparkle, and I wonder if dad has learned about my disappearing act.

“Where do you want to go?” Eric asks.

The backseat sounds nice.

“Um, I don’t care, wherever,” I say.

“How about Twinkies?”

“Um....”

“Is that cool?”

“Yeah,” I lie, sinking in my seat. If dad finds out, I’ll be minus a social life in the morning, but that’s all right. Technically Jenny is my only friend anyway.

Hitting the “dead after midnight” downtown district, we head beyond a historic movie theater sprinkled with punk-rock teens smoking cigarettes, and a fleet of butterflies takes flight inside my belly. They long to be free, I tell myself. I long for freedom as well. But then why am I panicky? Why are my palms clammy? And why is the idea of going to Twinkies freaking me out? Who knows? Maybe it’s the tall-tales associated with Twinkies that scare me so. Like the one about the guy who drank the wrong mixed drink there on New Year’s Eve and developed lactating breasts the next day. Ridiculous, I know, but it still scares me.

“Why so quiet?” Eric asks.

We pull into the jam-packed Twinkies parking lot and a striped cat races behind a dumpster to escape the headlights. Suddenly, I remember what Jenny once said.

Never go with a boy behind a dumpster
.

“Hey, are you still with me?” Eric says, snapping his fingers.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You were zoning.”

“I’m just excited.”

“You should be,” he says, slowly navigating the car along the pebbly parking lot. Locating a spot, he pulls the car up to the curb and takes off his camouflage hat. “Out of all of my friends I picked you to hang out with me tonight.”

Am I supposed to be flattered?

God, you’re hot. But you’re not that hot. Well, maybe.

“So, you ready to party?” Eric asks. In the Lincoln parked beside us, I grimace at a gray-haired fellow sucking on the lips of a pimply-faced teenage boy.

I think no, I’m not ready. I’m really not.

“Eric, I’m not sure...” I begin. He doesn’t hear me though. Already out of the car, he greets the parking attendant: a bald, muscular fellow wearing jean shorts and a leather jacket with silver chains around the breast pocket.

Me, I’m not moving. Not yet. I’m perfectly fine in the increasingly hot Mustang. I’m perfectly content waiting for Eric to display some chivalry by opening my car door. “Are you coming?” he calls. Refusing to budge, I stick my chin up and grin. “Hot damn, what are you doing now?”

I’m smiling for the camera but there’s a sadness lurking below. Maybe this isn’t the date I thought it might be. Maybe Eric just wants to be my friend. Or maybe he’s just completely clueless about the concept of being a gentleman. Who knows?

Puzzled, Eric frowns before knocking on the passenger-side window. “Ok, what’s the matter?” he asks.

I point to the door, pretending I can’t get it open. Eric lifts the handle. “Thank you. Now take my hand,” I say.

“What?”

“My hand, take it.”

“What’s got into you?” he asks, guiding me out of the car. I lose my footing and kind of, sort of, accidentally fall into his arms. I’m not sure if he wants me there. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe he likes the subtle approach.

“I’m sorry,” I flirt.

“You’re not drunk, but you’re acting weird.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“You like it?”

He thinks for a second, looking down at me, stone cold, and says, “I might.” And for now, that’s good enough. For now, I’m just happy someone is brave enough to hold my hand.

Twinkies is the spunky stepchild in the family of old brick buildings comprising the local arts district, and whereas a large portion of downtown became trendy and cosmopolitan during the condo boom, Twinkies has remained one of last untouched Rivershore relics, right down to its colorful façade. So colorful in fact, each rectangular brick on Twinkie’s exterior is painted just the right shade of wonderful to create the illusion of a rainbow. And while dad says such a pride symbol is just that — an illusion — I believe the rainbow represents hope for us all, that when we admit our true nature, we are bound to discover a pot of gold waiting at the end of the journey.

“You sir, are a wishful thinker,” Eric tells me. Hand-in-hand, we head to Twinkie’s front door — a wooden barrier coated with stickers.

Eric thinks he’s got me all figure out. “That’s what I like about you,” he says. “You expect a lot from a guy and refuse to settle for less.”

I’m not sure what he means, but I’d settle for earplugs. Entering the crowded and smoky bar, the pounding beat of a fast-paced dance song hits me in waves. I tell myself I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel so young, so out of place, like I should be carrying a safety blanket or selling Gay Scout cookies at the door. Faces turn and look at me. Most of these men are old enough to be my dad; some even look like dad except they wear ther clothes.

Eric squeezes my hand. “Are you ok?” he asks. I nod but I’m not. “Come on, I want you to meet Chess.” Chess is the doorman. Seated on a chrome stool, he wears a penguin suit and holds fort beside a cash box on a glass table where silver jewelry is for sale. To me, he resembles a well-to-do grandfather, like in a parallel universe he’d be more apt on a putting green, working his short game while bitching about a hemorrhoid problem.

Eyeing Eric, Chess takes an exaggerated drag from a super-long black cigarette, and I notice his red fingernails are flaking. “Evenin’ darlin’. How is my dinner doin’ tonight?” he inquires. His loud southern accent battles the thumping dance music.

“Not too bad,” Eric winks. He reaches in his shorts pocket. “What’s the cover?”

“Ten,” Chess replies. His tongue carries an air of sophistication. “But I’m certain you and I can work out a discount.”

“That’s my Chess, always on the prowl,” Eric jokes. “But once again, I must refuse.”

“Tease,” Chess hisses.

“Besides, I have a guest. Promise you’ll be nice to him?”

“Scouts honor,” Chess purrs, holding up his hand.

“Good man.” Handing Chess twenty bucks, Eric turns his attention back to me. “Stay here, ok? I’ll get our drinks. Don’t worry. You’re safe with Chess.”

I am?

You mean the old man undressing me with his eyes?

You mean the old man with the bowl of multicolor condoms resting beside the cash box?

How come I don’t feel safe?

Eric disappears behind a cluster of chatty gay men clutching martinis and I think, I’m no scout. I’m standing alone in a dark, foreign territory and I didn’t even bring a flashlight.

“Let me guess. You’re new in town,” Chess says. Me, I’m too startled to reply. So I simply gaze at his silver toupee and wonder why it seems to be glowing. “Do you talk darlin’? Or do I have to pull a string?”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m Tye.” I extend my hand.

Gripping it, his clammy fingers tickle my palm and tug me toward him. “Ah, a man with manners. We don’t get many of those. Can I tell you somethin’ darlin’?” Reeling me in close, his breath smells like tobacco and tuna. “I’d take out my false teeth to suck your dick.”

Ok. Time-out.

Whatever happened to being a southern gentleman? It’s one thing to have a cute boy talk dirty in my ear, but Chess? That’s just disgusting. “Sorry, I’m not that kind of boy,” I say.

“Really?” Chess’ face wrinkles as he puckers his lips in a lame attempt to belittle me with a baby voice. “What kind of boy are you then?”

“The kind with taste,” I reply.

“Pardon me?” Flicking his cigarette to the ground, Chess rises from the stool. “Would you like to repeat that?”

“Uh….”

“You’d better work on that mouth, hun.”

Ok. Maybe being fresh was a bad idea. Maybe I should play nice with the locals. Maybe I should run.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” I begin, backing away.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve slapped men for less.”

Great, I’m a newbie. This is my first night at the bar, and I’m about to be bitch-slapped by a man who insulted me first.

“I really am sorry,” I repeat. However, it’s not good enough. Leaving his post, Chess trails me like a light-heeled gunslinger with a faint limp and twitching hands. Me, I want to disappear into the crowd, into the darkness, but I’m afraid of what might be there. So I go toward the light, under a faux Tiffany lampshade dangling above a pool table across the room. Headed that way, I navigate through a cluster of hands and faces, scraping by a pinball machine with flashing red lights. At the clearing, a middle-aged man with dark copper skin whacks the cue ball against a trio of colored balls. Sending a yellow ball into the corner pocket, he raises his white cowboy hat and grins at me. Does he find me cute? Does he think I’m legal? Oh who cares? I pick up a pool stick and hide behind two other spectators, both large, bearded men wearing Hawaiian shirts. They tell me it’ll be some time before I play.

Here I am panting.

Here I am clutching the pool stick to my heart.

I hear Eric call my name. “Tye!” he hollers.

“Over here!” I yell. I flag him down with one hand.

He approaches cautiously with two drinks. “What are you doing?”

“Perfecting my Vaudeville act?” I dance the pool stick on the ground like a cane.

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I freaked out when you left.”

“Well drink this. It will make you chill.”

“All right,” I say, accepting a glass of neon green fluid. Then glancing around, I make certain the coast is clear. Over Eric’s shoulder, I see some slick, young guy with a tan, probably the bar owner, point Chess back to his station. This is when I know I can’t get out through the front door. Maybe there’s another way. I don’t care how I leave. Right now, I just want to go home. However, that all changes when Eric takes away my pool stick and orders me to pound my first, second, and third drink.

Soon, he has me on the dance floor, where I begin to shake my butt to a seductive song with a Latin beat. In a cloud of cigarette smoke, shirtless old men and shorthaired ladies who look like men surround me, but Eric is the only one on my mind. Slugging a beer, he doesn’t dance to the DJ but rather rocks his body steadily. I’m totally loose and I want to shake my moneymaker. Who knows? Maybe it’s the second or third drink that makes me go wild. The third drink tastes like a combination of blueberries and metal, and Eric says it should mess me up. He’s right. Soon, I don’t care where I am. I just hope someone will take advantage of me. “Let’s go. Shake that tight Patrick Swayze butt,” I tell Eric. “Come on, you dirty boy. I know you want to dirty dance with me.”

“Who’s Patrick Swayze?” Standing like a statue in a sea of moving art, Eric is riddled by my madness. “Man, are you drunk? Dude, you can’t be drunk already.”

“I’m not drunk,” I say. My glass slips from my hand and shatters on the floor. “Oops!”

“Damn, you are such a lightweight.”

“Well, I have been on a diet. Thanks for noticing.”

Taking his compliment as my cue to pounce, I begin grinding my butt against his knee. As I do, he starts to complain about the people this, the glass that, but I don’t hear him. I’m dancing like a fierce vixen and this very moment the club feels electric.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Eric suggests. Yet I’m already miles away, sailing along the dance floor and anchoring my body into the arms of every available man that comes across my path. I don’t know why I’m being so random. First, I just wanted to be with Eric, but now I’m ready to explore.

Dreaming open-eyed, I imagine Billy is holding me. That he is the one spinning me around and around.

“Tye!” I hear Eric call. “Come back here!”

Dancing before me is a Latin male stripper. Performing a routine on a wooden box in the room’s center, he wears a white thong and hypnotizes the crowd by circling his hips. Dollar bills pour from his pubic region. Admiring his wardrobe, I can’t help but fall under his spell as well.

“Snap out of it. He’s straight,” Eric shouts.

“Well, everyone has a flaw.”

Eric doesn’t find me funny. Flustered, he grabs my hand and escorts me to the back door, where a drag queen is smoking a short, black cigar in a nurse’s uniform. “Let’s go,” he huffs.

“What about Mr. Stripper? I didn’t even say hello.”

“You’ll live,” Eric replies, leading me to a vacant gated patio outside. Barely lit, the area is decorated by a long string of multicolored luau lights. Tiki torches flicker in the corners, altering the tint of a cedar totem pole with painted faces and wings in the patio’s center. I think of Hawaii, and to mark the occasion I perform the cutest belly dance.

“Aloha,” I sing.

Eric has a seat in an orange beach chair with plastic seashell handles. “Ok, dancing queen. Give it a rest.”

Joining him, I look to the sky in silence and ponder if I’m truly drunk or just faking it to avoid being held responsible for my actions. Above, a shooting star, a UFO, or a plane, dances across the horizon, and I realize that if I were truly drunk I would have taken this as a sign. I would have told myself it’s written in the stars. You are supposed to be with Eric. Let go.

I just can’t though. So I sit here, and I don’t make a move, and I don’t make a sound. Taking my hand, Eric asks if I’m ok, and I tell him that I am. “I like the club. The stripper’s hot,” I state. I want to make him jealous.

“You really think he’s hot?” Eric asks.

“Totally,” I say, rubbing it in.

“Ah, you’re nuts. That guy’s a joke. I’d rather do a girl.”

Do a girl?

Ok breathe.

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