2005-02-18 - 5:45 p.m.

chapter one in its entirity

You people think you're ready? Am I ready? Well, what the hell, to prove that I'm not making up this "working on a novel" shit, here's Chapter One posted in its entirity. Yes I know it sucks and no it hasn't been spellchecked. If you find anything that sucks even more than you had expected, e-mail me and I'll consider fixing it. Just know that the rest of the book isn't this gay and none of the characters in any way are directly styled after you.

Chapter one, narrated by Drew (this is signifigant because each chapter is narrated by a different character):

So yeah, I was born into a world already full of music. I�d probably be dead without it.
My name is Drew. My parents came over the border and had my brothers and me. Now Mom�s dead and Dad�s in Vegas pretending to be a mariachi for rich drunkards. Half my brothers left and the others got sent to jail. All that�s left is Marco and me. We live in a pretty crappy house together and he works at a convinence store down the street. I got fired from Pizza Hut about two weeks ago and I really don�t want to find another job. I do odd jobs or play my guitar in coffee shops and on streets and I get enough money for beer, bus passes and Top Ramen, so I�m pretty happy. I think I just want to live like this forever. I don�t have a future, I don�t have a past, all I have is music.
Then, one day, I walk into Joe�s coffee and the stool in the corner has some other guy with a guitar on it.
�Who the hell�s that?� I ask the barrista.
�I dunno. He just walked in and started playing. I figured I�d let him; He�s really pretty good.� She tells me, and then, turning to him she shouts out �Hey, man!�
He stops playing abruptly and looks up.
�Uh, yeah?� he replies, reaching for his tip jar with the awarness he�s about to be kicked out.
I walk over to him and extend my hand as he starts to get up.
�I�m Drew, hey, you�re pretty good.�
�Eh, I just practice a lot. It�s nothing someone else couldn�t do better. Oh, and I�m Simpson.� He grabs my hand and shakes enthusiastically.
�So,� he gestures to my guitar �you usually play here?�
�Afraid so.�
�Sorry, man. I was just real broke, so I figured I�d set up wherever they�d let me.�
I laugh �Me too.�
�You from around here?� he asks.
�You not?�
�Dude, I�m from Texas.�
�Wow, what the hell are you doing broke in L.A.?�
�I just graduated high school. I was on a road trip with my friends, but my POS car broke down. We�re just trying to pick up some cash so we can get back.�
�Wow, that�s awsome.�
�I guess.�
With that I buy a cup of plain black coffee and plop down on the couch. He does the same and we start talking. I don�t know why, but this Simpson guy just has somthing about him that makes me want to hang out and follow him and be his best friend forever. Not to sound gay or anything, but he�s charming. The way he talks and holds himself... it�s fascinating. He�s a tall and way too skinny dude with a mess of red hair and a great big Roman nose, but somehow he takes the crappy genetic hand he was delt and plays it really well.
�So you got a place to stay?� I ask him after a couple hours of caffine and conversation.
�I got my car, that�s where I�ve been sleeping.� he says, scratching his head in embarassment.
�Wow, you got balls,� I tell him, �I wouldn�t wanna sleep on the street in this town.�
�I get by okay. Besides, I have my friends with me.�
�You sleep in the same car? That must be uncomfortable.�
�Oh you don�t even know.�
�Look, I know this is dangerous and all, since you�re a total stranger, but you wanna sleep on my couch?�
�Oh, I couldn�t,� Simpson shakes his head.
�Why?�
�Couldnt leave my friends alone.�
�I guess that�s noble.�
�Hey, you wanna meet �em?� He asks with sudden enthusiasm.
�Where are they?�
�Oh, well I dunno about Alex, but Augy couldn�t find anything to do today so she stayed back at the car. She�s reading or something. She does stuff like that- she got accepted to the University of Texas for the fall, so she wants to get back home. Seriously, I feel like I could just stay here forever. There�s so much culture and so many freaks. I was the weirdest person in my whole little town. Or like, my friend Alex? He�s Asian- or okay, half- Asian. His mom�s from Japan, but whatever. Just to give you an idea what my hometown, Abberville, was like, Alex was the only Asian kid in the whole high school. It�s that un-diverse. Oh, and there were only two black kids. I read once that we had, like, the lowest minority drop-out rate in the state, and I was like �duh,� miorites can�t drop out when they aren�t there in the first place.�
�Wow,� I laugh, �my high school was like, 70 percent minority.�
�I know,� He says �Isn�t that crazy?�
�Well hey, where�s your car?�
` We walk a few blocks down and see a tall blonde girl in jeans and a tank top reclining on the hood of an old tan Honda. She has a Houston Astros baseball cap pulled down over her eyes.
Simpson walks up and pokes her.
She jumps.
�Fucking fuck! You scared me!� she squeals.
�You�re sleeping on a car in the middle of the city,� he replies �did you think no one would bug you?�
�Well until now no one has.� She says, sticking out her tounge.
�I want you to meet someone,� he tells her �this is my new friend Drew.�
I wave politely.
�Oooo, sexy.� She replies, raising an eyebrow at me and then turning back to Simpson �May I breed with him? May I?�
Simpson laughs, and she winks at me.
�Uh, yeah, Drew, this is typical August,� Simpson tells me.
�Oh, there�s nuthin� typical about me, baby.�
�Well I guess that makes two of us,� I reply.
As I�m trying to figure out what to make of her a guy I assume to be Alex walks up. He has spiked black hair and cheekbones you could cut diamonds with.
�Who�s this?� he asks, gesturing to me.
�This is Drew,� Simpson responds. �He�s cool.�
�Cool,� Alex says, �I�m Alex.�
�Cool,� I reply.
�Well, I made some cash doin� day labor today.� Alex says, turning to his friends. �Any of ya�ll do anything?�
�I met Drew.�
�I slept.�
�Uh-huh. I suddenly feel less like sharing my make.� Alex says flatly.
�Don�t blame ya,� I say �cash is tight these days. I know if I got some money I wouldn�t share with nobody... of course I do kind of mooch of my brother, but him giving me money is fine.�
�I like this guy,� Alex says, �he�s as much of an asshole as I am.�
I check my watch. It�s 5 but the sun is still bright.
�Looks like happy hour,� I remark.
�Wanna buy me a beer?� Alex says digging in his pocket.
�You�ve got money- why don�t you buy it?�
�Uh, maybe Simpson didn�t tell you, but we�re all 18.�
�Damn, you look older,� I tell him. �But yeah, there�s a place- it�s actually on the way back to my house. It�s a bar, but a real shitty one. I bet they won�t even card you and at happy hour everything�s a buck.�
So we go. This big hairy punker named Glenn is working the bar and doesn�t even look up when we order. We head for a table and make ourselves comfortable. I notice a flyer on one of the seats for an open mic night here. I come sometimes, but the flyer gives me a different idea. I turn to Simpson and ask if he wouldn�t mind jamming together sometime.
�That�d be cool,� August says, �Hell, if you got some drums you got a whole band.�
�Whatdya mean?� I ask her.
�Oh, Simpson didn�t tell you? We�re a band. He sings and plays guitar and Alex is bass and I play drums.�
�Really? You don�t see many girl drummers.�
�I know, but I�m a damn good one.�
�She totally is,� Simpson interjects.
�Well we�ll see- my brother Marco plays the drums and he�s really good.�
�So you got a kit?�
�Of sorts.�
�Why didn�t you say so in the first place!� August exclaims. �I mean, here I am, I haven�t played in like two weeks and I�m dying! Lets go back to your place!� She urges, jumping up.
�We just got here,� Simpson whines.
�-And we have beer.� Alex continues.
August sighs and plops down.
�Okay, but we�re totally going back there tonight, right?� She turns to me �This Marco guy won�t mind, will he?�
�He�s too stoned to mind much of anything.�
�Sounds like my kind of guy.� Alex says, raising his glass as if in a toast.
We have a couple more drinks and then cut through a few backyards and ditches to get to my house faster. I open the door and see Marco slouched on the couch, chin touching chest, in a state of complete atrophication.
�Hey, bro, I brought some friends home.�
He turns to look at us.
�Hey.� he greets them limply.
�Mind if we use your drums for a sec?� I ask him.
He rolls his eyes and informs me that then he won�t be able to hear the tv.
�You got it on mute already, dude.�
�Fuck you.�
�Wow,� Simpson interjects, �this is exacctly like every conversation me and my stoned brother have.�
�Oh, you got one too?�
�Totally. His name is David. I don�t think he�s had a coherent thought in the last four years.�
I laugh and open the door to the practice room. It�s where we keep our equipment. It used to be a bedroom, but then we stapled shag carpeting to the walls and ceiling for acoustics, so now it looks like a fuzzy music cave.
August sees Marco�s drums and runs to the stool. I had noticed earlier that her sloppy blonde bun was twisted around a pair of drumsticks, making her look like some insane anime character. Now she grabs the ends of the drumsitcks and yanks them out with a flourish. Her hair spills down her back and she begins to play. She starts out simple- thump-thump-thump from her foot, thumpada-thumpada-thumpada-wham from her lightning fast hands. Then a cymbol crash and she picks up speed, getting more complex with each thump.
�Isn�t she something?� Simpson asks rehtorically.
�Damn.� Is all I can say. August plays the drums like how little kids dance- joyful, focused, and apathetic to everything else.
�That girl is amazing,� I finally say.
�You don�t know the half of it,� Alex says with a letcherous grin.
�Oh, shut up,� Simpson says, giving him a punch in the arm.
�Jealous.� he replies.
�No I�m not. And it doesn�t matter anyway ever since you cheated on her with Holly.�
�Hey, Holly�s awsome too.�
�I have no clue what you guys are talking about.� I point out.
�Oh,� Simpson explains �this guy here was dating August but then he fucked it up-�
�Okay, look,� Alex says, reaching for his wallet, �look at this picture and tell me if I�m out of my mind.� He extracts a bent polaroid of a little woman with unnatural red hair and a sweet round face.
�She is cute,� I reply.
�Yeah, this is Holly.�
�Yeah, and last I checked Augy was still kinda pissed about how it all went down.�
�Whatever- she�s a fucking Amazon,� Alex quips, �She�s got a heart made of cold, unfeeling fruit roll-ups.�
�Huh?�
�Well I thought it was a cool metaphor.� Alex says, crossing his arms.
�That�s the reason we don�t let you write lyrics.� Simpson says.
These guys are strange. They laugh and bicker and banter a lot, but there�s just something right about this. Like the next morning when Simpson and I play together. We just click.
Finding the perfect band is like falling in love.
So a week passes and another, and there�s still three very strange people in my living room. They can leave now that Alex�s mom sent them some cash through Western Union, but Simpson refuses to yield.
�Look, Drew has gotta be the best fucking rythm guitar ever.� I overhear him telling Alex one day, �This is gonna be it. I can feel it.�
�Simpson, you�re so naieve. You know what our odds are? You�re gonna wind up being one of those sad 40-year-olds who still thinks he�s gonna be a rock star, but it�s not happening. Playing music is fun but it�s not something you can just decide to do with your life. I�m sorry, man, but I�m going to college. I can�t just not leave California.�
�But this is our dream come true- this town is a mecca. There are people like us here- there are skaters and surfers and goths and morons, not to mention about a million neon lights. This is what heaven looks like. Hell, with the sea and flowers and resturants it even smells like heaven.�
�And other times it smells like sewers,� Alex replies, �Simpson, you might be my best friend, but I�m gonna be honest- you are fucking delusional.�
�Am not.�
�Are so- California isn�t heaven- it�s just where you wind up when you�re riding into the sunset but then you run out of continent.�
They keep arguing like that so I slip out onto the porch. August is sitting in an old lawn chair smoking a cigarette. I probably forgot to mention that too- August smokes a ton.
�What�s up?� She asks.
�Eh, guess I�m just nervous.�
�Oh, about what? The part where you�re playing a gig tonight with people you�ve only known a month? What could possibly go wrong?�
�You are the sarcasticest girl I�ve ever met.�
�Well that�s exactly as it should be.�
�I bet you�re nervous too.�
�Amazons don�t get nervous.�
�Well then I�d like to sign up to be an Amazon.�
��Fraid we�re not accepting any new applicants at this time.� She says, lighting a fresh cigarette from the still smoldering butt of her previous one.
I sigh and ask if I can bum off her.
�I didn�t know you smoked.�
�I don�t, usually- I�m just worried about tonight. I gotta calm down.�
�Dude, it�s just a show.� she says, handing me a cigarette. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a lighter. I expect her to hand it to me, but instead she lights my cigarette for me.
�Well aren�t you a gentleman?� I ask her, laughing.
�What? Never had a girl light your smoke for ya?�
�No, I can safely say that while I�ve done that for girls, I have never had it done for me.�
�Well that ends today. All gender barriers shall be broken down before your very eyes.�
As the sun is melting into the ocean we arrive at The Dead Surfer. It�s a bar I used to go to a lot, especially on Friday nights. I still do, actually, but this is the other reason I was nervous. You see, there�s this girl. I know- that�s always it. There�s always a girl fucking things up. But she comes to The Dead Surfer every Friday night, and now, even though she�s way too hot for me to talk to, she�ll see me play. Maybe she�ll be charmed, but maybe she�ll be disgusted. I mean, what am I supposed to do? What can I do?
Fortunately, though, our set goes well. We play a handful of songs Simpson had written previously and a cover of �Today� by the Smashing Pumpkins. Everything is smoothe- without a hitch. I breathe a sigh of relief.
After our set Video Girl Rachel takes the stage. She�s a favorite here for reasons I could never fathom. She has platforms, purple clip-on dread falls, a guitarist, a bassist, a drum machine and no musical talent of her own. She�s just a really, really pretty new-waver/techno-raver type.
Colors and strobe lights overfill the little bar in time with her pseudo-lyrics and orgasm-moans. It makes me literally sick to my stomach.
August and Alex announce that this sucks and leave, but Simpson wants to stay and throw back a few beers while looking cool. Of course since he�s 18 he has to have me buy them for him. At least being part of the band kept him from getting those stupid magic-marker X�s on his hands.
�Would you go to the bar-� Simpson starts out, but I�m not listening.
She�s sitting there, perched primly on a bar stool. She has hot-pink hair that falls down to her chin and partially obscures her narrow, slanty black eyes. She�s like one of those really hot little Asian girls who knows she�s gorgeous and all the white boys want her, but she dooesn�t dress in that neon-indie way like most of her type. Tonight she�s wearing a baggy baseball shirt that identifies her as number 666 and an equally baggy pair of khaki cargo pants. She�s wearing Vans with no socks and holding her drink delicately, with a pinky in the air.
�You like her, man?� Simpson asks, pointing in the direction of my stare.
�I dunno,� I reply, �she looks like she�s enjoying this �music� a bit much-�
�Yeah, she�s cute, but probably not your type.�
As I quietly agree with Simpson�s accurate assesment she turns like she�s looking right at us, but of course it�s too dark in the booth for her to see our faces. I swallow hard and stick my hand out of our cocoon of darkness and into a red patch of light.
I bet flagging down a coctail waitress is like flagging down a taxi, but I�ve never done the later.
I get another pitcher, but Simpson drinks two glasses for every one I drink. When you�re as young as he is you never know where your next drink is coming from so you tend to go a little wild when you get the chance.
By the time that pitcher is empty Simpson is more than a little wild. He proposes that it�s a good idea for him to go talk to the pink-haired creature by the bar. I disagree strongly, but of course he�s beyond reason.
Simpson gets up and walks over to her. I see him gesture in my direction. She of the pink hair squints and presses her equally pink lips together. She turns to him and I can tell she�s asking Simpson repeat himself. She gestures to her ear and Simpson tries to say something again. Finally he gives up and comes back to the booth and I bury my head in my arms in humiliation.
�What just happened?� I ask him, my face still pressed against the table.
�You don�t know how much louder it is at the bar,� he replies, fingering the red pleather back-rest of the booth �I think these things must be sound-proofed or something.�
�What did she say?�
�Not sure. She didn�t seem very interested. We need another pitcher.�
�God I hate you,� I mumble through my hands.
�Nah, don�t hate me. Hate women. I do- I figure the feeling�s mutual. Well, I mean, except for August. I like girls as people, but if you can ever find one other than her who would give a jerk like me the time of day-�
�Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?�
�Hey, look, there�s a biker hitting on your girl!�
I turn, and sure enough, there�s a biker leaning on the bar. She�s acting coy and he�s leaning in so close that his beard practically touches her beautiful, golden cheek.
I think I�m going to die.
But as his first whisker rubs her skin, I see the strangest look come over the biker�s face. He draws back and looks at her in horror for a moment. The music keeps whirring and in the pink light that makes her look most beautiful the biker strikes her. Like fist-to-face, black-eye strikes her. He shouts something, the bartender shouts something, and Simpson turns to me and grins.
�This is your golden oportunity!� He shouts, jumping from the booth.
He�s right, and I couldn�t have planned it out any better.
I come up behind him and smack the biker�s ear to get his attention. He whirls around to hit me. I jump back. I may be small, but I�m strong and fast. I duck under his arm and land my first punch in his eye. He gets my nose. I try to get his kidney, but I wind up just hitting squishy gut.
By now Video Girl Rachel has stoped singing but the drum machine keeps pumping. Against this throbbing backdrop the biker punches me in the chest. I shove him against the bar. He kicks. I take another swipe at his eye. I fall foreward, missing. He punches me in the stomach. I wheeze. He whaps my back and I�m on down the gritty bar floor. Broken bottles and stink permeate my flesh. I try to get up. Simpson kicks the back of the biker�s knee. The biker falls. One of the biker�s friends has come up behind Simpson as I pull myself up. A random Emo kid wants in on the action and punches this other biker. Now there are twenty guys fighting instead of just two.
Suddenly Simpson grabs my arm and pulls me tword the door. I struggle against him, but he�s too fast. He pushes me outside into the surprisingly cool air and tells me that the bartender called the cops.
�You look like shit.� I inform him.
�That makes two of us.� he grins.
In the distance I can hear the sirens- there�s still banging and swearing coming from inside the bar.
The door behind us swings open, but it�s just her.
�Um, thanks,� she says in a voice too blue for her pinkness.
�We really don�t have time to talk,� Simpson reminds me, jerking a thumb in the direction of the sirens.
My battered, drunken frame stumbles back a step.
�I�ll walk you home,� she offers quickly in her too deep voice.
�Works for me,� Simpson says �You take his left I�ll take his right.�
Next thing I know I�m stumble-running through back yards and drainage ditches with them supporting me from either side. Since none of us are exactly sober we keep tripping, and since we�re all linked together one person can�t fall without taking the others down too.
Tomorrow morning this will seem really funny, but for now we�re dirty and sore.
Back at my house Simpson fumbles open the screen door. Marco is slouched on the floor beside an empty bag of Oreos. The living room smells... herby, to put it mildly. August blinks at us from the couch where Alex is flopped over on her shoulder.
�What the hell happened to you?� she asks.
�Just a little fight,� Simpson says, flopping down on the other side of her. She licks her palm and wipes some dried blood off his cheek.
�Sexy.� she deadpans.
�Isn�t it though?� he replies, nuzzling up against her neck. I envy the mutual love and respect my three stray dogs seem to have for one another.
Marco mumbles something about going to bed and gets up to do just that.
From his blonde pillow, Simpson mutters �and do something about that gash, man.�
I look down and realize that I�m bleeding badly.
�You need to sit down,� the pink-haired thing tells me.
I stumble into the bathroom and sit down on the toilet lid. I�m asked if there are bandages in the medicine cabinet. I reply that there are, but after a pause I can�t resist mentioning that she has an awfully low voice.
�Um, duh.� she tells me, turning on the tap and wetting a towel. She wipes it along my bleeding chest. I reflect that it was stupid to unbutton my shirt after playing. Maybe the cotton-poly could have stopped the flying bottles and pointy biker rings from reaching my skin.
I wince.
�Don�t worry,� she murmurs.
�You should sing with a voice like that. I�ve never met a girl who sounds like you.� I say, trying to take my mind off the pain and maybe, since she�s here anyway, flatter her in a bedroomy direction.
�Are you serious?�
�Deffinately. You�ve got a very unusual voice.�
�Okay, let me rephrase that: Are you willfully oblivious?�she asks as she reaches for the hydrogen peroxide and wets a wad of toilet paper with it.
�Huh?� I ask as she touches the toilet paper to my chest. It foams and bubbles and she sighs.
�Well, I didn�t know you hadn�t figured this one out yet, and now you�ll probably make me leave- I just wanna let you know, I only wanted to thank you for defending my honor and make sure you got taken care of and I didn�t mean anything homoerotic or anything-�
�Whoa, whoa, whoa- wait a second,� I squint at her, trying to get a better look, �are you a drag queen?�
�Drag queens are usually cuter and more glamourous. I�m just a confused dude... and I think there�s some glass lodged in your chest.�
I am dumbfounded. I just sit there for a second.
Finally I ask if I�m going to have to go to the hospital.
�Maybe.� he replies.
�Fuck.�
�Well I could get it out. You don�t mind?�
�Beats the hospital.� I tell him, �that place freaks the shit out of me.�
He dabs some more hydrogen peroxide on my chest and studies it intently.
�But seriously,� I begin as one of his deft little fingernails prys at one of my wounds, �is that why the biker hit you?�
�That biker hit me because he thought I was a woman. Then he got a closer look and figured I�m the opposite, so he screamed �fag� and... one second... hey, I got one.� with that he triumphantly shows me a small, green chunk of beer bottle covered in my own gore.
�I feel sick,� I murmur.
�From the blood or me?�
�The blood.�
�Oh, that�s easy to fix- just don�t look down and I�ll be done in a few minutes.�
�Does shit like that happen a lot?� I ask him.
�You mean me getting my ass kicked? Yeah, but girls love me.�
�Wait... does that mean you�re straight?�
He raises a carefully groomed eyebrow at me.
�I�ll take that as a no.�
�Got another one- wait, no, don�t look down, it�s gross.�
So I don�t look down.
�And you�re really sure you�re not a girl?� I ask him.
�What,� he laughs, �did you want me to be?�
For a second our eyes awkwardly and earnestly lock.
�Oh,� he sighs.
�Yeah.�
�Well, the good news is that I�m done,� he says, putting a last chunk of glass on the counter. �Now I just have to get you all bandaged up and everything and you�ll be good.�
�Thank you.� I mumble.
�No, it�s cool. I�m just sorry to disapoint.�
�I�ll get by.� I tell him.
But then, the strange thing is... I don�t. He sleeps on the floor that night and the next day I drive him home. He lives in a downtown loft with a couple of girls who ask his advice on shoes. As I drive I tell him he�s proably the bravest dude I�ve ever met.
�Nah, I�m just stupid.� he replies.
�Seriously- you just put yourself out there like this- it�s like you don�t worry what people think.�
�It�s both a virtue and a vice,� he sighs.
I drop him off and he waves to me before mounting the stairs sandwitched in between the buildings.
Then I drive home.
Then I throw up.
Then I re-bandage myself.
Then I throw up again.
I plop down on the couch next to Simpson.
�Barfin�?� He asks.
�Yeah.�
�That�s pretty gross- I can hear it out here.� he responds.
�Fuck you, you�re not even the one puking.�
�Hungover?�
�Not really. You?�
�Sorta. If you�re not hungover, why are you barfing?�
�I think I�m just weirded out.�
�Over what?�
�Getting the shit beat out of me. And that dude.�
�Which one?�
�The one who came home with us.�
�Huh?�
�You know, the one with the pink hair?�
�Oh, her-�
�No, not her. I mean, her, but he�s not a her.�
�Wait, that was a guy?�
�A really, really pretty guy, yeah.�
At this Simpson starts laughing hysterically.
�So lemme get this straight-� he giggles �your dream girl, the one you�ve been all watching and stuff, is a dude?�
�Basically.�
�Damn, man- you know how to pick �em. So are you pissed off now that you got beat up for another guy?�
�A little. Could we stop talking about it?�
So we do, but then the next day I wake up still feeling like shit. I take the bus to the beach and try to surf. I fall off and don�t really feel like going on, so I just lay on the sand. I spread out my arms like Jesus and imagine myself, this sandy, crucified surfer boy. It�s a really absurd mental picture. I fall asleep like that for a few minutes until I�m rudely awakened by a kid who was dared by his friends to spit a loogie on my forehead. As I get up the kids run away screaming. Normally I�d be game for a good chase, but today I just don�t care enough.
I take the bus home. When I get off I see August walking very slowly down the block. I catch up with her and ask if she�s okay.
�Yeah, just a little light headed- I gave plasma at this place downtown. I got 25 bucks though, so it was totally worth it.�
�Being broke sucks.�
�But getting a real job sucks so much more.�
When we get to the house August doesn�t go in. Instead we sit down on the porch. One of these days I�m sure the rotting lawn chairs will cave in underneath us.
�Wanna smoke?� she asks.
�Are you sure you should be smoking when you�re still woozy?�
�Eh.� she shrugs, lighting up.
At length she asks me if I�m okay.
�I dunno, I just don�t feel like myself.�
�Yeah, you�ve been moping ever since that show.�
�I know.�
And then I explain the pink-haired man-girl.
�Oh,� she replies.
�You have any thoughts?�
�Well, I�m not a liscenced therapist or anything, but I am a Virgo, so that�s the next best thing. We Virgos are very compasionate and good at helping with other�s problems, you know.�
�Coulda fooled me.�
�Ha ha. You�re funny. I�m inherently compasionate, I just work hard to squelch that so I can get by in this cruel modern world. Now, for this one-time counseling experience, I shall let my Virgoness out.�
�Virgo- were you born in September?�
�No, late August. My parents were hippies. I have a little brother who was born in November, so that�s his name- but that�s not the point. Let�s talk about your situation.�
�Okay.�
�So to review, you had your eye on this pink-haired man-girl for how long?�
�Like, months.�
�And that whole time you believed he was a she?�
�Yeah. I mean, in retrospect, she has a bit of an Adam�s apple and no boobs, but I thought, you know, Asian girls usually don�t have really curvy figures anyway, and he wears baggy shirts usually, so who knew what was under there?�
�I follow. But now there�s this problem.�
�Which one?�
�The one you keep not saying.�
�Not following.�
�The way you talk- the way you act- the way you seem perpetually grossed out at yourself to the point of barfing? You�re still atracted to him and don�t know how to grapple with it.�
I slump down, head between my knees.
�You okay, man?�
�Not really.�
�Ever been atracted to guys before?�
�I dunno... and he�s not really a guy.�
�He has a dick, right?�
�Probly.� I reply, head still between my knees.
�Sorry, but dick equals dude, no matter how effiminate the bearer is.�
I feel the bile in my stomach coming up again. I rock back and forth, trying to breathe. I think I hear August ask me if I�m okay as I lurch forward to barf on the patch of dirt we call a lawn. When I finish choking out the last of my breakfast I feel her cool hand on my back. She had run inside when I started and now she has a glass of water and a paper towel. She wipes a chunk of something off my cheek and hands me the water. I take a sip, gargle the grossness out of my throat and spit into the lawn.
�Thank you,� I say.
�I just know how to deal with sick people.�
�Maybe you really are comassionate.�
�Somewhere underneath all this.�
�So....� I ask her after a long pause, �does this make me queer?�
�Well, are you attracted to me?�
�Not really,� I laugh.
�Then deffinitely. If you can resist such a perfect example of womanhood you are the queerest guy ever.�
�Wait, does that mean Alex is gay?�
�He�s the gayest of the gay. He�s like, fucking Boy George and Liberachi all rolled into one. And how do you know about that?�
�Oh, Simpson and Alex were talking. But seriously. What does this mean?�
�Well, I�ve heard that your friends usually figure out you�re gay before you do, and in my professional opinion, my gaydar went off the day I met you. I mean, I wouldn�t have pretended to hit on you if I had the faintest expectation of you reciprocating.�
�I don�t believe you.�
�Here, lets get a second opinion,� she says. Leaning backward she shouts through the screen door to Marco.
From the living room Marrco shouts back �Yeah?�
�Is your brother gay?�
�He�s the biggest fag ever!�
�See.� August says, turning back to me.
�That�s just Marco. He calls everyone a fag. It doesn�t mean anything.�
�Or maybe it means Brittish slang for cigarette. Speaking of which, you want a fag?�
I accept her offer. The way things are going lately I figure I need one.
The sun rises, the sun sets. Then it rises again, then it sets again. Then it rises, then just to fuck with me it rises twice more and then sets.
�Happy Friday,� August anounces as she brews coffee at two in the afternoon.
�What�s so happy about it?�
�We�re goin� out tonight- me an� you.�
�How? We�re broke.�
�Nah, the plasma people say I can give as much as twice a week. Think- that�s 50 bucks. Talk about a sweet job.�
�You sure that�s safe?�
�Hey, I figure my body keeps oozin� stuff- I might as well make money off it. And the people at the clinic say it�s fine. I think they get happy everytime they see me, like �look, it�s someone who�s not doing this to buy smack!��
�I guess I�m glad we don�t have to worry about supporting real drug problems like that.�
�I know. We just have our beer and cigarettes and coffee- speaking of which, you want some?�
�Sure, especially if we�re gonna be having a late night.�
�Oh, we will. We�re going to the Dead Surfer and we�re not leaving until some shit is sorted out.�
�Sounds traumtic. Pass me the cream.�
Through the layers of shag carpet I hear the uncertain humming of Simpson�s accoustic guitar. He stops, plays the same thing five times over, stops again, and plays it again. Then he plink-plucks one string. Then he grunts. Then he comes into the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee.
�Somethin� new?� I ask him.
�Something stupid.� he replies.
�Story of my life.�
�So you outa tha closet yet?� he asks nonchalantly.
�Fuck you, man.�
�Just asking.�
�Leave him alone,� August commands, �and anyway, we�re going out tonight and you�re not invited.�
�What do you mean �not invited?��
�I mean, we�re having Augy and Drew time, and Simpson can�t come.�
�But I�m fun to be around.�
�Very. But this is our night out. And if you were ever gonna be invited in the first place, you just totally ruined your chances with that gratuitous stab at Drew�s sexuality.�
�Aww, I was joking.�
�Quit whining- maybe you and Alex could hang out or something.�
�But I�ve known Alex my whole life. I�ve only known Drew for like, two months- or no... not even that long. This guy�s been my buddy for less than two months and now I can�t even chill with him? This is so not fair.�
�You don�t care about me that much,� I rell him, �you�re just pissed to be left out of something.�
�Damn straight. I�m Simpson. Simpsons don�t get left out of things. We�re cool. We�re exciting. We�re awsome.�
�Excitingly, awsomely not coming with us tonight.� August says, sticking out her tounge.
�Fuck you.�
�Fuck you as well.�
�Hey, I wanna say it too: fuck you all!� Alex says, coming into the kitchen. �So why are we fucking?�
�Oh, Alex, we�re not invited tonight.�
�What? How dare they!� Alex gasps in mock horror.
�Good God you people are sarcastic.� I state.
�It�s the greatest skill to have,� August says, hoisting her mug, �it allows you to say what you mean without getting hurt.�
I should work on that- saying what I mean and not getting hurt.
Like how the afternoon flys by and suddenly we�re in the Dead Surfer again. I tell myself I�m gonna say what I mean and not get hurt. But no, I can�t do that because I don�t even know what I want to say or what I�m thinking. The air feels weird- like maybe it might rain and maybe it might not. If it does rain it�ll be one of those summer thunderstorms.
I think I see lightning over the ocean.
August walks in ahead of me. I stay close behind her and slide into a booth. I�m nervous about being recognized by the bartender and thrown out for that fight last week. I mean, the biker started it but then I hit the biker, so kicking me out might be justifiable. I gesture for the drink girl and she brings us a pitcher. August lights a cigarette as I scan the room.
Then the crowd breaks and I can see him. He�s leaning on the bar with cute girls giggling all around him. Stupid Video Girl Rachel has her arm around him. From a distance they look like cartoon characters. They look like little bright, glowy anime girls- barely post-pubescent best friends who have come together to save the universe from the forces of evil while wearing short skirts.
But no, he doesn�t wear short skirts.
He�s a he.
This is all monsterously fucked up.
I raise my hand, trying to get his attention in the least noticable way possible. At length he sees me and makes a gesture like he�s taking leave of the girls for a second. They all make faces like they�re cutely disapointed to be deprived of his company.
�Hey,� he says, slidding into the booth next to me.
�Hey,� August says extending her hand, �I�m August.�
�And I�m Sam.� He replies.
That figures. It�s like Pat on the old SNL skits. Is Pat short for Partick or Patricia? Is Sam short for Samuel or Samantha? Is it a girl or a boy?
Then he turns to me and says �I�m sorry I never really introduced myself- and what�s your name?�
�Drew.� I sigh. Yup, I�m Drew- the guy who is being fucked over by life right now.
�Nice to meet you for real.� He laughs, �And I wanted to thank you again for last week. That was really sweet.�
�Nah,� I respond.
�You healing up okay?� he asks.
�Pretty much,� I tell him.
�Actually- pull up your shirt Drew-� Augy comands �see that one there? That�s definitely going to leave a scar. You shoulda gotten stitches for that one.�
�I hate hospitals.� I remind her, �Besides- Sam did a good job with me.�
�Eh- you get the shit beat out of you enough, you develop some mad first-aid skills.�
Then there�s an awkward silence.
I fucking hate awkward silence.
August looks at me very meaningfully and then says �One sec- I gotta go to the bathroom.�
In my brain I scream �don�t leave me alone with him!� but since I�m not opening my mouth she doesn�t hear me and probably thinks she�s doing me a favor.
After August is out of earshot Sam points in her direction and asks if she�s my girlfriend.
�Nah- she�s just someone who�s been sleeping on my couch. Remember that big red-headed dude who was here last week? She�s friends with him. I dunno if you remember the set we played, but she�s the drummer in the band.�
�Yeah, I remember. And that other guy was the singer- but you play guitar really good.�
�Nah,� I tell him, intently studdying my glass. He�s still sitting right next to me. I know he originally sat there because August was taking up her whole side of the booth, but now she�s gone and there�s an empty spot accross from me where Sam could be sitting. Instead he�s sitting right next to me. He�s so close I can smell him. I think he�s wearing women�s perfume. I think it�s Clinique Happy but it�s really subtle and mixed in with the smell of sweat and stale beer that�s always hanging in the air. I think he smells a little like sweat too- he�s probably been dancing with all those girls. He looks like he knows how to dance. No wonder women love him.
�You okay, man?� he asks.
�Not really.� I reply.
�Why?�
�So you�re sure you�re a dude?�
�Last I checked, yeah.�
�Then why the fuck do you look like this?�
He glares at me.
�You know,� he begins, �it�s not like I fucking chose this. If I could be like you I would. But I�m fucking not. I�m not and if I tried to be like you I would die, okay? This is who I am-�
�Like me?�
�All butch and shit.�
�Butch?�
�Or whatever it is.�
�So you don�t think I�m gay?� I ask, brightening up.
He gives me a very quizical look.
�Are you gay?� he asks.
�That�s what I�m trying to ask you!� I practically scream back.
�Why would I know better than you?�
�Because you�re queer! Can�t you people like sense it or something?!�
�Dude, if I could then I wouldn�t get beat up so much. Most of the guys I go after turn out to not be and then things get all complicated.�
�So you don�t know if I�m gay?�
�Shouldn�t you be the one who knows?�
�I am so fucked.� I mutter, putting my head down on the table.
�So you don�t know?�
�I don�t know...�
�And you thught I could help you with this?�
I sigh.
He sighs.
�Well are you attracted to men or women?�
�I have no idea.�
�Are you attracted to anything then?�
I look up. Our eyes lock.
�Oh...� he whispers at length.
�Yeah,� I whisper back.
�So I�m the problem?�
�Look,� I tell him, �I�ve been watching you come in here for like, months now, and I�ve been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you. I thought you were gorgeous, but the whole time I thought you were a girl. Being attracted to a girl is normal. The fucked up thing is that after I found out you were a dude I was still attracted to you. Like- it didn�t change anything... and I think I�m gonna barf.�
I don�t see his reaction because I�m grabbing the empty pitcher on the table. I quickly turn my back on him and throw up into it. I finish and put the pitcher of puke on the floor so we don�t have to look at it. I wipe my face on my shirt. I�m scared to turn back to him but I do.
He�s looking very, very worried.
�I�ve been throwing up a lot lately-� I explain.
�I�m sorry-� he says, turning his eyes away.
�It�s not your fault,� I mutter.
He gestures to the drink girl and she brings back a glass of water for me. I take a couple of sips and wish there were some crackers or something here that I could actually put in my stomach.
�You gonna be okay?� he asks.
�Probably not.� I reply.
�You need to get some fresh air?� he asks.
�Probably� I reply.
I pull a sharpie from my pocket and write on a napkin �ME AND SAM WENT FOR A WALK... LOOK OUT FOR BARF UNDER TABLE� and put it under August�s mug.
With that we get up and leave the bar.
Outside the clouds are orange-brown-gray-black and foaming like the shore. Like the hydrogen peroxide on my chest. They are alive, dangerous.
We walk a couple blocks in scilence. We pass by a hooker who is far past her prime.
�I hope I never look like her.� Sam remarks.
�You never will,� I say studying his face. �No matter what you do- even if it�s as much drugs as her and you get AIDS and are dying, you will always be young and beautiful.�
He pauses and studies my face.
�You too.� he says.
I sigh.
He sighs.
�So are you feeling better?� he asks me.
�Yeah- there was too much sweat and smoke and everything in that bar. I bet it could make anyone sick.�
�Yeah,� he whispers thoughtfully, turning his face up to the sky. The wind is blowing his pink hair into a halo around his head. It�s so vibrant under the streetlights- all these long pink tentacles whipping against his cheeks. To take my eyes off of him I turn my face up to the sky too. A great big raindrop plops on my cheek. Then one lands in my eye.
�Fuck!� I say, rubbing the water from my eye.
�Acid rain�s a bitch,� Sam laughs.
�Hell- I don�t even know if it was acid- it just like, fell 3,000 feet to land in my eye- it�s like dropping a penny off the fucking Empire State or something... ow.�
He giggles and the rain begins to fall harder. For some reason we�re still walking- further from the bar but not in the direction of home. Great big drops are falling. People scuttle under awnings and into buildings trying to stay dry. Suddenly we are on a deserted side street. I turn my head behind me to be sure that no, there is no one in either direction.
I stop walking and turn to Sam.
�What if I�m neither?� I ask him.
�Neither?�
�Not gay or straight. What if I�m just a guy?�
�A guy who doesn�t like either?�
�No- a guy who doesn�t like either. I think I finally found that third option people are always looking for.�
�Which is?�
And then, in the single corniest moment of my life, I whisper �you.� I whisper it so quietly I don�t think he hears, but he reads it on my lips.
�You�re sure?� he asks.
�I�m sure,� I whisper back.
He leans against me. I lean against him. I wouldn�t say I�m completely at peace, but I�m closer than I had ever been before. It feels good to finally give in. To finally just be and not fight it. I realize I know what he meant when he said that fighting himself would kill him. I figure I�ve been killing myself for years now. I wrap my arms around him and the rain just pours down us. My back is getting cold but where we�re touching is so warm. I blink and my entire sex life flashes before my eyes and it�s full of things I didn�t like and people I didn�t like. About a million awkward kisses but never any romance.
�Fuck, man,� I whisper, �why didn�t I figure this out sooner?�
�Cause you just didn�t.� He whispers back. Then, taking my hand in his he tells me we should go home.
We do. We go back to my house. Marco, Simpson and Alex have all disapeared somewhere. August gives me a smug wink before going into the practice room.
What, does she think I�m going to make out with him? Probably so, but that�s not in my immediate plans. We sit down on my bed and talk. We talk about life and love and God and all the usual stuff you talk about on a rainy night with someone you think you care about but don�t know too well yet. At some point we fall asleep next to each other. We aren�t touching when I wake up, but we�re close. I wonder if it�s creepy that I�m watching a guy sleep.
Finally he wakes up and we eat breakfast. No one says anything. I�m bracing myself. All around me are the usual bouyantly sarcatic comments, but none are directed at me. I wait, I wait, but nothing. No one is making fun of me.
I glance at August.
Yeah, she deffinitely said something. She probably threatened to kick everybody�s asses if they said anything about my new friend. What�s even funnier is that I think she could do it. In a house with four men, this girl could beat the shit out of all of us.
Later that day I ask Sam if he wants to go home.
�Not really.� he replies.
So he spends the night again. I would tell you more, but that would just be way too gay.

The last thing I wrote before this thing. The next thing I wrote after this.

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