Upgrade

“George, I just made a serious impulse purchase,” I say on the phone, driving back to my house.
“You’re supposed to call me before that happens. How bad is it?”
“I went out for salmon and came home with a bed.”
“How? Where were you? What store sells fish and bedroom furnishings?”
“I pass this flea market every time I go to the farmer’s market, and today I was on my way to get salmon for dinner, just decided to stop by… long story short, I bought this big giant bed, and now it’s tied to the roof of my car.”
“What about the salmon?”
“George, the salmon is so not the point of this story.”
“I’m just wondering what you’re going to eat for dinner.”
My last bed was a hastily acquired when I left The Ex and moved into my own place three years ago. Actually, it was just a mattress and box springs I kept propped on cinderblocks. Very post-frat house bachelor pad. I might as well have had a poster of Jenna Jameson above the damn thing. After stubbing every toe on those damn cinderblocks, I went and bought one of those little metal frames on wheels. It felt like a step in the right direction.
But I’m approaching thirty. I’m getting married next year. I’m a homeowner. Hanging on to what was intended to be a temporary fix isn’t doing me any favors.

It’s really time for my big boy bed.
A few days later, I give a furnishing update when George calls again.
“Our mismatched nightstands looked so wrong with the new bed. So I replaced those too. But now I need new lamps. It’s Pandora’s freakin’ box, George, I’m out of control.”
“Well, darling, introducing a new item into décor can be a slippery slope. Next it’ll be new drapes and pillow shams.”
George is an expert on the subject. He spends his days clad in Prada and Gucci, hawking high-end Italian sofas to the wives of professional hockey players. The job pays well, but I’ve never known him to be particularly excited about going to work. I don’t think you’re allowed to be excited when you’re wearing Gucci. You might break a sweat. Better to be bemused and just leave it at that.
I don’t think George ever expected to be at his job as long as he has been. For months, he’s flirted with the idea of leaving and just starting over- a fresh start. But those aren’t as easy to pull off as countless made-for-television films would lead us to believe.
It’s a tricky thing, figuring out which things in your house, or in your life, are in need of an upgrade. Even more of a pickle can pop up when you try to determine when and how that change needs to happen. Because if you remove the temporary fix before the replacement is ready, it leaves a gaping hole.

And we all fear the hole.

We’ll hang on to the wrong job, or boyfriend, or bed on cinderblocks because it keeps that space filled and we don’t have to deal with the hole. What we fail to see is that it really delays the joy of finding something better.
“You know,” I say to George. “Now that you mention curtains, I’m really not crazy about the shades in our bedroom. You should come over and help me figure out window treatments. I need a professional’s touch.”
“Then you’ll have to ask someone else, darling. I’m not going to sell furniture anymore. Beginning next week, I am moving the designer wardrobe to the back of the closet and starting work at a cupcake bakery.”
“You’re kidding. Cupcakes?”
“Picture it, Topher. The worst thing that could happen in the course of my day is ‘Oh my stars! We need more cupcakes!’, or ‘Someone burned the cupcakes!’ Either way the solution is still just baking more fucking cupcakes. After three years of stressing over ten thousand-dollar end tables, that sounds like the Promised Land.”
“I’m very proud of you, George.”
“Well, we’ll see if it turns out to be a temporary fix or my big boy bed, but for now it’s an upgrade, and that’s good enough for me.”
“My sentiments exactly,” I say as I lie down on my new bed, picturing all the free cupcakes I’m gonna score.

Can I Quote You?

It was around eleven, and I was sitting on my bed looking at paint samples when my phone rang. It was my pal Slutty Mandy, who was supposed to be on a date.
“Well, this evening was a complete waste of my Arbonne skin care products,” she said. “That shit isn’t cheap. If I’m going to go to the trouble of having silky touchable skin, I expect to get touched.”
“So the date with the sports writer didn’t go well?”
I’m useless in setting up my girlfriends on dates, because I don’t know any straight men. So one of Mandy’s gal pals fixed her up with the sports writer for a local paper, and apparently she was underwhelmed by his company.
“It wasn’t that he was just a sports writer, it was that he’s a sports FAN. And I’m not talking casual, oh look, there’s a game on. I mean the crazy, screaming, make a drunken ass of yourself at a bar and ignore your date kind of fan. I was not amused.”
“So what’d you do?”
“What the hell do you think I did? I grabbed my purse and went home. I’d rather be ignored by my cats than by some inebriated jackass. I don’t even think he noticed I left. Lucky me.”
The next day, Sporty sent an e-mail ASKING IF HE’D DONE SOMETHING WRONG. Tee-hee. Silly man. Seldom are we afforded the chance to give a date the bad review they deserve, and Slutty Mandy seized this rare opportunity to make her displeasure known. She sent him an e-mail detailing his actions the previous night, and closed with:

“I’m all for being silly and a bit eccentric, but there is a far cry between that and just acting a fool … unfortunately you fell into the latter category.”
Zing!
I was very proud of her. Moments like this remind me that “Slutty Mandy” does not in any way mean “Indiscriminate Mandy”, or “Treat Me Like Shit Mandy”. Also, “Ball-Busting Mandy” is more than happy to make an appearance when the situation warrants. Sporty was very contrite. He even sent flowers to her office, which I thought was a courtly touch.
Then on Sunday morning, my phone rang at some ungodly hour, like ten.
“Wake up,” Mandy said. “Get on the internet. I’m in the motherfucking paper.”
And sure enough, in the Sunday sports column, was a picture of Mandy taken on National Talk Like a Pirate Day, swiped from her MySpace page. She was wearing a little pirate hat with the appropriate “Arrgh” facial expression. And below was the following:
…regularly featured in Topher Payne’s weekly column in the local gay publication David Magazine, “Mandy’’ ain’t afraid to tell you like it is, and she did so last week in an e-mail describing my previous weekend behavior among friends…
And then he printed the text of her e-mail. He also said she was “like a lava lamp; fun to look at, but not all that bright.”
Slutty Mandy was livid. Pissed about being outed as “Slutty Mandy” in the sports section of a free weekly. Furious about the lava lamp business. And beyond words about the pirate picture. I really was truly angry for her, I was just unable to express it until I stopped laughing.
“Damn it, Topher, this is not funny.”
“Oh, darlin’. Ask me twenty years from now. This shit will STILL be funny.”
The fact is, when Mad Mandy makes an appearance, most straight boys tend to tuck their little tails between their legs and make a hasty departure. The traits I find fabulous in her tend to be viewed as intimidating or castrating by my hetero counterparts. But Sporty actually showed a little backbone, and fought back. I thought the pirate picture was a masterstroke.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “But this is the first guy I’ve seen you date in a while who might actually be able to keep up with you. I am very impressed.”
“Well. I will take that under advisement. But come on, can’t I make a single move without it being reported by some local columnist?”
Here she paused, her tension rising.
“Oh crap,” she said. “You’re not going to write about this, are you?”

Dry Spell

My sister Shannon’s got a broken husband, and I have a broken fiancée.

Preppy was at work last week and managed to fracture a rib while moving a shelf. Meanwhile, Shannon’s husband injured his shoulder at work, then waited too long to see the doctor because he’s a guy and that’s what we do. Now her husband’s scheduled for surgery, followed by a three-week recovery period at home.
“I’m worried,” Shannon says on the phone. “I can only play caregiver to someone for about two days before I lose my patience and just start demanding they get better.”
“But you used to work in an intensive care ward,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I quit. Those people would stay sick for like weeks, you had to do everything for them. It was awful.”
I pause to say a silent prayer for the people in ICU who were subjected to my sister standing over them demanding they get their own damn pills and stop bothering her.
“How’s Preppy?” she asks.
“He says his rib pretty much hurts all the time, it’s really a matter of getting used to the discomfort.”
“Our poor men. They’re strugglin’.”
“I know,” I say. “I just want him to feel better.”
There’s a long pause.
“You’re not getting any sex either, are you?” she says.
“No. Not at all.”
It’s really a very simple thing. I will agree to absolutely anything and accept any scenario as long as I’m getting laid consistently. But if you remove that crucial aspect of my existence, things start going downhill with startling speed. If I find myself in a particularly pissy mood, all I have to do is take a moment and count the days in my head, and there’s your answer. I know people talk about “settling in” with relationships, when you reach some comfort level and the sex suddenly drops off , sending you into lengthy dry spells. Well, so help me Baby Jesus, I will fight tooth and nail to prevent that from happening.
What I didn’t realize is that this is a family trait.
“I am a very creative woman!” Shannon says. “I can think of sixteen different ways to contort myself that don’t involve him moving his shoulder at all! I know it might hurt a little, but he went to war! He’s tough!”
“We are horrible, hateful, evil people. They deserve compassion right now. Our men are bruised and broken. You and I are going to learn how to be sympathetic.”
“I know, I know,” she sighs. “But I don’t get it. I had a broken collarbone once and I still wanted to get laid.”
Shannon and I were both in lengthy relationships prior to meeting the men with whom we settled down. Incidentally, we were both with gay men, which she didn’t know at the time- she just knew she wasn’t getting any and that sucked. When I was with The Ex for five years, I knew we were in real trouble when the sex went away. So it’s possible that we connect having sex consistently with everything being okay. Conversely, a dearth of nookie spells destruction and doom.
Or maybe I’m just pissed because I’m not having sex… but my cousin Nelson is.
After going through endless fix-ups courtesy of Preppy and me, and being subjected to the E-Harmony profile created without his knowledge, my straight boy housemate managed to find a lady all on his own. She’s English. He loves that.
“It’s so cool hearing her passionately say my name with a British accent,” he told me.
I asked him not to tell me things like that.
“Maybe it’s some sort of cycle,” says Shannon. “We’re not getting laid, now Nelson is. It’s like there’s a finite supply of sex in the world, and everybody has to wait their turn.”
“So, if I can stop someone else from having sex, the supply will replenish and I’ll get to go?”
“That sounds like dangerous karma. I think our best bet is just waiting this one out and letting our husbands heal.”
“But what do we do with all that free time?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Charity work, maybe? Or we could just bitch about Nelson getting laid.”
“You always have the best ideas.”

The F Word

I was checking my e-mail this morning, and discovered I’d gotten a note from Mama. There was no file attachment, which meant it wasn’t pictures of my nephew. That was odd. The only reason my mother has internet at all is to send people pictures of Baby Jack.
What follows is the letter she composed.
My Dear Son:
It is that time of year again, when your Mama tries to "guilt" you into doing my will. Yes, Mother's Day is approaching, and even though I’m batting a thousand in getting from you what I want, I thought I would try one more time.
My wish for this year is simple: I would like for you to remove the “F” word from your vocabulary.
The only time, and I mean only, this word was deemed appropriate, was then that f***ing duck ran into my car resulting in thirteen hundred dollars worth of damage; but that is another story. Trust me on this, Son; no Mother of a heterosexual, homosexual or even bi-transgender wants to hear that word! I know in your obstinate way, you think you can justify saying it but I ask you... Have you ever had a duck attack your car?
If at any time, I can help you with substitute words please give me a call. I know in my heart, that my son the Motivational Speaker, Actor, and Writer can find another one.
Remember this is just a little advice from your #1 fan. I love you. And remember not to leave dirty dishes in the sink at night. It attracts bugs.
Love to Preppy and Nelson.

Mama

I loved the wording on “duck ran into my car”, instead of the other way around. Mama’s version of events was that a duck the approximate size of a German Shepherd appeared out of the blue, maliciously dive-bombed the hood of her car, and sacrificed his own life just to piss her off. When I was a kid, a horse snacked on my mother’s Maxima, leaving gaping holes she struggled to explain to our mechanic. She’s got odd luck with animals and cars.
But I’m digressing.
You remember when you started saying fuck? It was so liberating! The standard-bearer for all dirty words, the one with absolutely no chance of appearing on broadcast television. A word that would scandalize goody two-shoes classmates. A word that, when used properly, can draw shocked stares and stop all conversation. I remember being thirteen years old, when Will Albee slammed me into the lockers for, I don’t know, looking in his direction or breathing, calling him a “Redneck Fuckface” under my breath and feeling quite pleased with myself. The forbidden word was an instant relief. (Will’s in prison now, by the way. How awesome is that?) We place “having sex” with someone and “fucking” someone in separate categories. The former implies that you engaged in intercourse and everyone had a nice time. The latter conjures up images of screaming orgasms, broken furniture, and complaining neighbors. It’s not just a dirty word.

It’s a filthy, raunchy, glorious word.
But now I use it a dozen times a day to describe everything from deadlines to traffic. I think over time, I became so enamored with the power of the word that I’ve subjected it to severe overuse. Nobody raises an eyebrow when I say it now, and I don’t have any words left in the vernacular that have the same level of impact. That’s kind of a shame.
As much as I hate to concede Mama has a point, I’ve decided to try and honor her request… in part. I’m not eradicating it entirely, but I am going to make an effort to return “Fuck” to its former place of rightful glory. It’s the big gun I’ll keep tucked away for just the right moment. That way, when I choose to fire it off as I yell at the people from the bank, or start unbuttoning Preppy’s pants, there will be no question I mean business.
Also, of course, if I happen to cross paths with a suicidal giant duck.

TOPHER ON TOPHER

The cover of the April 2, 2008 issue of David Magazine was devoted to the "3 by Topher Festival" at Process Theatre Company. To celebrate the event, the magazine decided to have Topher Payne be interviewed... by Topher Payne.

Q: So, Topher. Beginning April 10th, Process Theatre Company will be presenting the world premiere of three of your plays in the 3 by Topher Festival. I’m sure the question on the minds of all our readers is: What makes you so fucking special?

A: I’m glad you asked. I’m not really special at all, other than doing a fairly decent impression of Rick Astley. You know, the guy who sang Together Forever?

Q: I always liked that song. But come on, three plays? Somebody must think you’re a great writer.

A: Not a great writer, just a prolific one. I pay attention and take careful notes. I like how people talk. But I haven’t premiered a new play in two years. After I saw the production of my last one, The Attala County Garden Club, I decided I’d better take some time off.

Q: Because it was terrible? Were you humiliated? Did you drink?

A: No, it was a good show, a good production. I saw it maybe four times during the run, and then again when it was produced in Mississippi. I realized I had all these people paying to hear the story I’d created, but what was I saying? After seeing the play, did they understand the world, themselves, any better? If I’m not really using that chance to communicate with people, then it’s a sadly wasted opportunity. I think the new plays are a lot closer to that goal. The material’s tougher, raises some real concerns.

Q: Oh. So you’re not funny anymore.

A: I am too! Every single harsh moment in my life has some funny story attached to it. That’s how life is. Last week my fiancée Preppy and I went to his grandmother’s funeral. And it wasn’t easy, you know? But then, at the visitation, these two old ladies were standing at the casket paying their respects, and this crazy spinster sneaks up behind one of them and goes, “BOO!” And our jaws just hit the floor. You don’t frighten the elderly while they’re looking at a dead woman! I started laughing, and I could not stop. Had to leave the room. And I’ll never ever forget Grandma’s funeral because of that. If you really want to leave a lasting impression, all you need is a good laugh. That’s something I always adhere to as a writer.

Q: You mentioned Preppy. What’s it like for him, or Slutty Mandy, or the other people you talk about in your columns? Are they okay with you using their private lives as popular entertainment, or do they secretly hate you?

A: My loved ones know that for me, nothing is off the record. I’ve got a column to do, people. But the plays are where I work out the big stuff- the things you can’t wrap up in 700 words. There are things I’ve always wanted to say to someone, but can’t. So I let a character say it in one of my shows. I think my characters are a lot braver than I am. I know they’re a lot smarter.

Q: Are any of the characters in 3 by Topher based on your life?

A: Even though each play is inspired by events I was in no way a part of, who these people are comes from the crazy voices in my head. Perfect Arrangement is about that point in your life when you decide between staying comfortably closeted or living out in the open, despite the inherent dangers. Every gay person has to make that choice, and I was intrigued by making that internal struggle public. Above the Fold came from whenever I see a reality show, and wonder what life is like for their spouses, their coworkers. So we follow a woman after she loses a plastic surgery beauty pageant, then goes home to West Virginia with new face and finds nothing else changed. And in Don’t Look at the Fat Lady, I wanted to force the audience to examine someone they would normally ignore. So I put them alone in a room with a 500-pound woman and make them listen. Now, I’ve never weighed a quarter ton, but I’ve been around shirtless guys on a dance floor who made me feel like I did. It’s just that sense of being too much, yet not nearly enough. I think we can all relate to that.

Q: Thank you, Topher Payne. Playwright, Columnist, Rick Astley impersonator. This was the best interview I’ve ever done.

A: Yes. I like that I was able to do it in my underwear while lounging in bed.

Q: Isn’t that how you do all your interviews?

A: Oh, yeah. Actually it is.