As I See It

Preppy was digging through his closet, pulling out pants he hasn’t worn in about a year. I watched from the bed as he performed a sequence of stripteases, shimmying into a series of slacks. After three months of portion control and refusing all foodstuffs after eight in the evening, he’d slimmed down to his old pants. This made him positively giddy, greeting garments like old friends.
“Hello pinstripe pants!” he said, clutching the trousers to his face like he was in a fabric softener commercial.

Then he was back in the laundry basket, foraging. “Where are my Gap khakis? You know the ones, flat front, made me look like I have an ass?”
“Look in my closet. Top shelf.”
He went to my closet and grabbed the khakis, then paused to consider the stack of pants and pulled a few more.
“Hey!” I said. “You gave those to me!”
“No,” Preppy retorted. “You stole those from me.”
“See, that’s your problem, mister. In my version, you’re loving and generous. In your version, I’m just a petty thief. That proves I’m a nicer person than you.”
“You are a thief and a liar, and I’m taking back my damn pants.”
It’s moments like that when I fully comprehend the difference between my fiancée’s worldview and my own. He has an obnoxious tendency to remember events exactly as they happened. I am not encumbered by this trait. I will rewrite history without pause, casting myself in the role of the hero or victim as the story requires. My entire family does this, and most of my friends. My best gal Slutty Mandy and I will share an anecdote, and Preppy will politely wait until we’ve finished before quietly correcting a few major details that have been altered for the purpose of good storytelling. We’ll express legitimate surprise, saying, “Wow, is THAT what happened?”
Among my relatives, there’ll be nine or ten different versions of a single event, depending on whom you ask. God forbid a group of us ever witness a crime. They’d declare a mistrial after my Aunt Merry Ellen told the court all about the perpetrator’s earrings, and I recalled with fair certainty that the victim had been reading a copy of my book.
But if I’m a notoriously unreliable witness, Preppy is just as bad, despite his own sincere intentions. Because as long as I’ve known the man, he’s been pretty much blind. I’ve tried dropping hints about how sexy he’d look in glasses, but he doesn’t bite. With Hillary Clinton-level stubborn ferocity, he insists he sees just fine. And then he squints at his computer screen like Mr. Magoo. The color of our master bathroom has been a subject of heated debate between us for almost a year. I, along with everyone who has ever entered our house, say it’s green. Preppy declares it’s gray.

Because he can’t see.
While I was never so deluded to think that I would end up with a man who shares my love of rewriting history, sometimes even as it’s happening, there are still moments that leave me stunned by how different our vision of the world really is. Yesterday we had a little Extreme Makeover of our house, turning the den into my office because I wanted better light and more room. Then Preppy took over my former office, finally giving him a room of his own to do work, or get the hell away from me when the situation warrants. I spent the day setting up my new room, and he did the same. Late last night, we presented the results of our labors.
My old office had been transformed. To fully appreciate this, you have to understand that before Preppy was Preppy, he was Hippie. Hippie followed Phish on tour, selling burritos and handmade stash bags to the unwashed masses. Hippie wore tie-dyed everything and spent his days blissfully spinning around like Stevie Nicks. But that was a long time ago, so I don't judge.

I used to wear vinyl pants in public. We all have history.
What I didn’t realize was, under Preppy’s sweater vest-clad, hardworking exterior, Hippie was in deep hibernation, waiting to stage his return. And Hippie woke up in a big way, with posters on the wall, record player back in business, and a tapestry-covered sofa for lounging. There may have been a lava lamp involved. If there wasn’t, there should’ve been. I stifled my gut reaction, because I could see how delighted he was.
“Well,” I said. “How about this!”
“You hate it,” he said.
“I don’t… hate it. It’s very… young. It’s a happy room. A happy hippie room.”
“God, it’s been killing me having all this stuff in the attic. And now I can just come home, put on my records, and relax. This is awesome! You know when Lori and Coralie come to visit we’re just gonna spend all our time in here.”
This was likely true. Most of Preppy’s closest friends are former hippies themselves, now with careers and mortgages to maintain. But when they come to our house, they can step into the time capsule and remember the best parts of another time. And that’s important to have. As Preppy went over to arrange the Fraggle Rock dolls and Grateful Dead bears on his shelf with a spring in his step, I softened to the notion.

To my own surprise, I started to see things his way.

But I’m still right about the bathroom.

I Approved This Message

I was at my friend Jennifer’s house, babysitting her kids. Jennifer’s son recently entered the world of politics, running for representative of his fifth grade class. In his stump speech before the classroom, he promised to be responsible and represent his fellow students to the best of his ability. His opponent then stood and pledged, if elected, his mother would bring McDonald’s French fries every Friday.

The landslide victory went to French Fry Fridays.
Jennifer’s son was stunned that such a cheap ploy, which his opponent’s mother would never honor anyway, cost him the election. I told him that this experience was actually excellent preparation for the real world.
I took advantage of early voting this week and cast my vote in the Presidential election. I am one of those slightly begrudging Hillary converts who have thrown my support behind Barack Obama because I do believe he’s got solid strategies for fixing the current national insanity. I even considered putting an Obama-Biden bumper sticker on my car, but those look so strange after the election’s over, and I don’t want dated catchphrases junking up my vehicle, whether it’s “Yes we can!” or “Where’s the Beef?”
My father is less concerned with such things, so he didn’t hesitate to slap a McCain/Palin logo on the back of his truck. He’s never shown such specific support of a candidate before. I actually don’t know who he voted for any previous presidential election, because we generally don’t discuss politics. But the McCain sticker, as far as I’m concerned, means he’s willing to defend the principles of their campaign. He’s also saying that these people speak to his values, which I wasn’t expecting. And I was really surprised by how much it hurt.

I feel like my parents are falling for promises of French Fry Fridays, and I don’t understand why.
So I wrote a letter.

Dear Mama and Daddy,
I am writing you because I need your help. I don’t need money (well, I guess I’ll always need money, but right now I’m not asking for it), and I’m not in trouble. What I’m asking for may seem very trivial, but this is one of the most important requests I will ever make, so please just hear me out.
I am asking you not to vote for Senator John McCain.
I do not deny that Senator McCain has dedicated his life to the service of our country, first in our armed forces, then in elected office. I believe his decision with his wife Cindy to adopt a child in need of a stable and loving home speaks well of his character. His continued financial support of his first wife’s medical expenses resulting from a car crash, even after their divorce, was a noble gesture.
Unfortunately, John McCain does not believe I should have the right to make any of those decisions in my own life. He does not believe I should have the right to serve openly in the armed forces. He believes that if a homosexual is willing to fight for their country, they should keep their identity a secret. And if the truth is discovered, they should be sent home. Members of our own family have fought in the current war and said the unit already knows without discussion which members are gay or lesbian. Picture how much more pride those soldiers would have in serving their country if they could keep a picture of their partner back home, as a reminder of who they’re fighting for.
McCain does not believe that I should have the opportunity to provide a safe and loving home for an adopted child. And I wouldn’t be making medical decisions on behalf of my spouse, because he doesn’t support any sort of government recognition of same-sex partnerships, and worked against it in his home state of Arizona. Do you believe that despite finding a healthy, loving relationship with a man you have come to know and care for, I should not deserve to have that legally recognized? Is my relationship less genuine in some way? Do you believe I could not care for a child?
Sarah Palin has stated her belief that homosexuality is a choice. You know me better than anyone. You know the challenges we have faced as a family as a result of living my life honestly. Do you agree with her? Do you believe who and how I love is a choice?
Do you believe that hate-crime legislation is unnecessary, even as men no different from myself are beaten or killed just for being who they are?
When I came out to you, you said your greatest fear was of the hatred and mistreatment I might face that would keep me from living a happy life. Well, that’s what’s happening. I am being relegated to second-class status, and if you put a McCain sticker on your bumper, or cast your ballot for him in November, you are endorsing that.
Please, please do not do that.
I hope in my lifetime to see a day when I can vote for a president based upon their economic strategies, or defense plan, but that’s not the case right now. One candidate believes in the authenticity of my life, and one does not. I do not have the luxury of choice. You are my parents, and I don’t think you have a choice either when it comes to what is right for your child. When I was growing up, I could count on you to defend me when someone tried to bully or belittle me. Will you do that again?
Asking you not to vote for John McCain is not me campaigning for you to support Barack Obama. I am asking you to have the courage to support me.
I love you so much.
Your Son

Those Were the Gays

For the magazine's 10th anniversary issue, the editor of DAVID ATLANTA asked all of us to reflect upon where we were in 1998. This was my contribution.

My sister Shannon inherited my father’s ability to harness the power of the sun, producing a flawless golden tan that would last well into October. I, on the other hand, received the Scotch-Irish genetic makeup of my mother and her sisters- skin as pale as the belly of a frog which can redden to a third-degree sunburn if I have to stand in line too long at the ATM. As a child, I was always struck by the unfairness of it all- we’d go to the pool at the country club, and my sister would lounge about browning to perfection, while I bobbed in the pool slathered in SPF 50, a t-shirt stretched over my ample belly. Life was so unfair.
In 1998, I visited my Aunt Merry Ellen, and was greeted at the door not by a fellow pale-face, but by a russet-toned beauty that looked like she’d just spent a week in Gulf Shores. I was flabbergasted, and she couldn’t have been more pleased.
“It’s fake,” she said with pride. “They’ve got a new tanning booth over at Shear Perfection. You just step inside in your underwear, and it sprays the tan right on ya! Took me five minutes and now I’m gorgeous.”
I couldn’t argue with this assessment. Sure, if you examined it closely you’d notice the streaks on her neck and the orange fingernails, but from six feet away the impact was remarkable.

She booked me an appointment for that afternoon.
If you’d come to Jack & Jill’s, Jackson, Mississippi’s one and only gay bar in 1998, you would have found me there sporting my new look- bleached blonde hair, goatee and eyebrows penciled brown, and skin sprayed the color of an overripe carrot. I took to piercing anything that would support a steel stud, and amassed an impressive collection of YMLA stretch tank tops and wide-leg jeans. I’d found an oasis in a cultural Gobi where I could finally be myself, and promptly set about changing everything about me. I’d buy copies of OUT Magazine at Books-a-Million and try to emulate the fashion spreads. I was a divine style experiment, the entire decade of 90’s gay fashion piled onto one person.
In that persona I remained for the better part of a year- I’d come home from work, feed my incontinent Siamese cat, squeeze into one of my flammable shirts, and hit the bar until closing. By my eighteenth birthday, I was sleeping with the manager and drinking for free. It felt like an endless party, and in many ways it was. Because there was only one bar in town, we represented every rest stop on the QLGBTI highway, and formed a small community of revelers. All of us were filled with the optimism and possibility of the era- the first time a president had acknowledged the contributions of gay Americans to the national conversation, the first time the star of a TV series had come out while their show was still on the air, the hope that this visibility would naturally segue into a cultural viability. It was cause for celebration, and we sure as hell did.
But things were about to change.
We’d asked America to acknowledge us, and when they did, our increased visibility led to increased scrutiny. Those who once politely ignored us now looked directly at us, saying, “What is it you people want?” We were forced to define that. We wanted to serve openly in the armed forces. We wanted to be protected from discrimination in housing and the workplace. We wanted our relationships to be validated, and to raise families if we desired to do so. We wanted to stand equal as American citizens. Basically, we wanted to live our lives, thank you very much for asking. And in declaring this, our “gay agenda”, the opposition became fierce and organized. Progressive politics were shoved aside by a new faux cowboy president who believed that belittling, bullying, and demonizing us would make us go back into hiding.
Eventually the maintenance on those platinum locks grew tiresome, and I began to note that I looked a little, well, orange. My hair returned to auburn and my face grew pale again. I gave my vinyl pants to a grateful drag queen. I moved away, got a real job. But the regulars in that little bar with whom I drank, talked, danced, and occasionally got naked made me understand that my sexuality was not something to be ashamed of, it was actually pretty fun. And as the national debate grew increasingly personal and perverse, they were the solid foundation of community that reminded me of why gay is good.
Ten years later we’re in a political climate placing us in a fight for legitimacy. That means holding politicians accountable to the campaign promises that won our votes, and maintaining a community that isn’t broken down by infighting. The power to be a formidable force lies before us, waiting for us to grab it with our voices, our votes, and our refusal to be stereotyped or pushed into the background. Evangelical churches are organizing vans to take people to the polls on Election Day. Why not get bars do the same thing with party buses? The key to winning the culture war might lie in our roots, and for many of us that was the gay bar that first felt like home. Today’s eighteen year-old gay boys deserve to have the optimism and support that I experienced ten years ago. Hell, I guess I still want that for myself, too.

Then the party can resume, because we’ll really have reason to celebrate.

You Can't Take It With You

Watching the season premiere of Saturday Night Live, I realize that Michael Phelps is not the least bit interesting to me when he’s wearing clothes. While his accomplishments in this year’s Olympics were inarguably historic, I’m a little perplexed by this business of promoting him as a sex symbol. Sure, he’s got that crazy ripped body, but then you get to the face, and the contrast just confuses the hell out of my penis.
Preppy’s working an overnight doing inventory, so I’m hanging out at the house with my cousin Nelson, which I won’t be able to do much longer.
Nelson got an offer he couldn’t refuse, returning to the pricey fancy-pants seafood restaurant he used to work at in our nation’s capitol. Apparently the period of time between the election and inauguration of a new president is like Mardi Gras up there, and people who work in areas of the service industry catering to moneyed pundits spend those months rolling around naked in piles of cash. I can’t really argue with the choice.
Nelson’s straining the laws of physics trying to pack everything he’ll need for the next four months into his Prius. What must go with him, versus what must stay here in Atlanta, reveals a lot about the life he intends to have up there. He’s leaving his good suit, but taking his lacrosse stick.
“This is a challenge,” says Nelson, furrowing his brow and staring at the pile of pots and pans he’d hoped to include. “I want my saucepan, but do I need it more than my brown shoes?”
“Take the saucepan,” I say. “You’re straight. Doesn’t matter if your shoes match your outfit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s the trade-off. Gay guys don’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant, and straight guys don’t have to worry about accessorizing. We all get a little something special.”
“That’s fantastic,” says Nelson, as he goes to the Prius to remove the shoes.
The next morning, Nelson is on the road and Preppy’s sound asleep, and I’m sitting in my office tapping away at the next script that will take up six months of my life and make me no money. A little window pops up alerting me that I need to update my anti-virus software. I click “OK” and keep typing.
And that’s when the shit hits the fucking fan.
The desktop disappears. My blood pressure goes up ten points. Fifty pop-up windows fill the screen. A strangled screech forms in the back of my throat. Then the screen goes blue and a message tells me the computer is beginning a “system dump.” This is the entire spectrum of panic, including levels that only dogs can hear.
“Noooo!” I scream. “Don’t dump! Don’t you dare fucking dump you piece of crap I hate you so much! Eee-yaaaa!”
I remove the battery, and sit panting at my desk. You can’t dump if you’re not on, right?
I call my friend Joey, who’s good with computers. It’s important to have someone in your life at all times who’s good with computers. If you’re curious, you also need: A friend with a truck, a stylish friend who wears the same size as you, a friend who can talk about sex in graphic detail without getting weirded out, and a friend with tools. That’s just off the top of my head, I’m sure there are others.
“You fell for a Trojan Horse?” says Joey. “Really, Topher, have I taught you nothing?”
“Apparently not. So really, this is your fault, because you didn’t teach me.”
“I’ll look at it tonight. If you can access your files, get some CDs and save whatever you don’t want to lose forever. We might have to scrap your system and start over.”
I only have one blank CD. Curse all those mixes I burned from I-tunes! Did I really need Best of the 90’s Volume Three that badly? Well, yes I did. Sometimes singing along with Pearl Jam is the only thing that keeps my shit in one sneaker, okay?
“Alright, ya bastard,” I say, restarting the computer and entering the viral minefield that was once my desktop. “What do I really need?”
All of my writing is safely stored for just this scenario, so we’re really talking about photos, music, stuff like that. And much to my surprise, there isn’t all that much I can’t live without. I don’t actually NEED the crappy Nelly Furtado/Bon Jovi mashup, or the naked pictures of famous people.

Well, okay, maybe a few of those.
That night, I bring my sick Dell over to Joey’s perfectly staged home. He’s got it on the market now, following the recent demise of his six-year relationship. After all those years of nesting, he’s cutting his losses and hoping for a studio apartment to simplify things.
“Let’s see if we can save this baby,” he says.
“No worries if you can’t,” I say. “I’ve got what I need.”
It’s like that question of what you’d grab if your house was on fire. We live with an abundance of stuff in our hard drives and houses, which we really could walk away from if what’s important had to fit in a CD, a Prius, or a studio apartment. And that’s actually reassuring.
It’s been said that you can’t take it with you. But if you really examine your life, often you realize you don’t really need to after all.

The Scarlett Effect

“Okay,” I say as I rummage through the pantry. “I’ve got a few cans of corn, some vegetable broth, six cans of tuna...”
“Why the hell would you need six cans of tuna?” my sister Shannon asks.
“It was on sale, and it lasts for like thirty years.”
I’m on the phone with my sister, trying to come up with something for dinner. My fiancée will be home in an hour, foolishly expecting food. I emptied my wallet into my gas tank this morning, so I’ve gotta make do with what we’ve got. Six weeks into my great experiment determining whether I can make a living as an artist, my life has devolved into an extended episode of Good Times. Every time a bill arrives in the mail, I half expect Esther Rolle to amble into the kitchen saying “Damn, damn, daaaamn!”
But there are good things that’ve come from the whole scenario. I’m a much more creative cook than I used to be. I’ve found that you can mix just about anything in the world with sour cream and call it a salad. If you’re looking for a hot dish, just put marinara on top of it, call it “Italian-Style”, and you’ve got yourself a fine meal for two. And through it all, Preppy has not complained, which is really to his credit as a person. When he calls and finds my cell phone disconnected, or has to take cold showers for a week because the gas is turned off, he takes it in stride. I have a little manila envelope on the bulletin board above my desk, labeled “In Case of Emergency.” Inside are applications for Starbucks and Home Depot. So far, he has not let me open the envelope.

Preppy just tells me to keep writing, even if we end up eating Italian-Style sawdust while living in our car in Hobotown.
I’ve grown to despise several items in my home, because I now picture not buying those items and having the cash instead. The chief offender in my mind is a damn crystal decanter I paid forty dollars for in 2003. It seems absurd to me that there was ever a moment in my life that I was doing so well financially that I could blow forty bucks on a decanter I would never, ever use. Every time I look at it, I picture having the forty dollars back, as if I would have kept the cash in a little box someplace for five years, waiting for a moment when it was needed.
I’ve read stories about myriad problems having too much money causes for folks. Well, I gotta tell ya, that’s a risk I’m totally willing to take. Bring on the wealth-related stress. I would find a way to soldier through that hardship.
I think some people are paralyzed by lean times, unable to adapt to a scenario where they have to scale down there existence. For others, a previously unknown level of ingenuity kicks in- the part of you that needs a new dress, so you take down the curtains and get to sewin’. The Scarlett O’ Hara Effect rises to the surface, all your resourceful beauty is at full command, and then you figure out how to make a casserole using Ritz Crackers and whatever’s in the freezer.
My grandmother had the Scarlett Effect down to a science. She was widowed with six children, and would scrimp, save, and repurpose to keep them all afloat. She was like several Dolly Parton songs brought to hardscrabble life. Stuffed animals were made from old socks. A hand-me-down dress would clothe all four sisters before it was retired and sewn into a patchwork quilt. Once, my sister saw her accidentally pour orange juice on her breakfast cereal. Instead of throwing it out, she sat down at the table and choked down every bite.
The Scarlett Effect was passed down to her daughters.

My Aunt Barbara recently made a centerpiece out of a broken ceiling fan blade, and from all reports the results were just precious. And now I find myself tapping into my own Scarlett Effect, realizing that if I keep bubbling water in the Crock Pot on the kitchen counter, Preppy can still have a nice hot shave before he goes to work.
It seems like there’s a lot more people lined up at the CoinStar at the Kroger cashing in change jars than there used to be, and I can’t help but notice the number of people at the pumps putting two gallons of gas in the tank, so it’s not like I feel alone here. My old bar buddies stay home a little more than they used to, or cut themselves off after two drinks instead of six, which may not be such a bad thing.
But we keep the faith that all will work out in the end, and get creative whenever possible. And it does help one appreciate the minor victories.
“Holy shit, I’ve got RICE!” I shout into the phone, doing a little victory dance.
“Oh, you can do anything with rice,” says Shannon. “That’s a good find.”
She says something else, but I’ve stopped listening. My inner Scarlett is savoring this moment. I’m picturing myself backlit against an orange sunrise, clutching my tattered hat to my nineteen-inch waist and holding my box of Uncle Ben’s up to the heavens, swearing I shall never go hungry again.

Separation Anxiety

“She’s still out there,” I say, looking out the front window of the house. “Rolling on the doormat, lookin’ all cute.”
Preppy looks up from his work at the coffee table.
“Topher, I swear if you feed that damn cat she will never leave and there will be hell to pay. And don’t get any ideas about doing it while I’m at work because I already counted the cans of tuna in the pantry.”
“But she’s hungry, baby. And she’s adorable.”
“Of course she’s adorable, darlin’. She’s a kitten. That’s all a kitten knows how to be. But we’re not taking on some mangy stray, so let it go. You do this every time you see a stray cat or those orphans on TV, and you always forget how kids and animals get on your nerves after a few hours.”
All of this is true. Last weekend I worked as a technician on a film set. There was a baby in the movie. By the end of day two, I was fully prepared to become a parent.

Thank God I don’t have a uterus.

I know in my heart of hearts I’d be one of those trailer trash mothers who keeps getting knocked up just because she thinks babies are cute.
Even if I could talk Preppy into letting me feed the kitten, it’s not like I could take care of her. I’ve been cast in a play that’ll be touring the country for seven months, beginning in November. I’ll return just in time to get married in June, which I find more than a little alarming. I’d expected all of our wedding plans would be done spread out over the dining room table, the two of us carefully plotting each detail and arguing over cuts to the guest list. Now all that’s gonna happen via phone and e-mail while I’m lodging at a series of La Quinta Inns in minor Red State cities.
This is, quite simply, not the level of control I wish to have over the whole affair.
Being gone for so long worries me. This week, a couple we’re friends with broke up, and I honestly never saw it coming. It shook me up more than I expected. They seemed to really love and dote on each other, and I had every expectation that they were looking forward to a bright future together. When I found out, I asked way too many questions, because I needed to know what the cracks in their foundation were. Where did things go wrong? I couldn’t accept the trite explanation of, “Sometimes these things don’t work out.” I needed to know why. Those boys were seeing each other every day, and couldn’t make it happen. How will I maintain a relationship from hundreds of miles away?
I never got a satisfactory answer from either of them.
“You think you’ve got it bad?” says my sister Shannon on the phone the next morning. “My husband was at WAR, for God’s sake. For over a YEAR.”
It’s so unfair, Shannon being able to play the war card. No matter how bad things are for me, she’ll whip out that whole homefront drama while her husband was off saving America. How the hell am I supposed to argue with that? It’s like Sarah Palin with her damn special needs baby. Back that woman into a corner, and she’ll shift the topic back there somehow.

Jesus, lady. We get it, we get it.
“But how did you keep things stable while he was gone? And don’t tell me it was by thinking about his sacrifices and bravery, because that doesn’t make up for the fact that there’s nobody to watch movies with and it doesn’t make you any less horny.”
“Well, duh,” says Shannon. “That’s why you send naked pictures.”
“That did it? For a whole year? Adding photos to the spank bank kept your marriage alive?”
“Hell yeah. Get creative. The tricky part is getting into your pose in ten seconds, before the timer goes off, but I’ll bet you can do it.”
Since I met Preppy, I’ve placed a lot of faith in face-to-face contact smoothing just about anything over. If we argue on the phone, I know once we sit down and talk it out it’ll all be okay. And if I have a crappy day, I’ve got seeing him to look forward to. Taking this much time away from our life means giving up those things for a while, and having faith that everything will still be in place when I return. That whatever “doesn’t work out” in some relationships won’t happen while I’m not looking.
“I guess I’m just worried Preppy might forget why he loves me without me there to remind him every day.”
There’s a long pause.
“That’s so pitiful I don’t even know how to respond,” says Shannon.
“I don’t wanna leave town if it’s gonna hurt us. Preppy says it won’t, but how does he know?”
“All you know is what you want. And what the two of you want is to get married next June and grow old and ugly together. But you won’t find out what happens until you go. And you can’t stay in his face forever.”
“I know, but I was gonna try.”
I get off the phone and sign the contract for the tour. As I take it to the mailbox, I notice the kitten took the hint. She’s moved on, leaving me with the hope that she’ll be fine without me.

Thank You For Being a Friend

“So, I think Parker and Eddie are having problems,” I tell my buddy George on the phone.
“Who the hell are Parker and Eddie?”
“You remember, when we used to hang out at Mary’s, before I met Preppy? Parker was tall, had those really complicated highlights, never talked much? And Eddie was always drunk, I think he’s a florist or a doctor or something?”
“No idea who these people are,” says George. “But go on.”
“Well, they broke up yesterday, then they worked things out, but this morning there’s trouble again.”
“Why do you know this? Are they calling you?”
“No, it’s all right there on Facebook. Eddie went from ‘in a relationship’, to ‘single,’ then back to ‘in a relationship,’ and today it says ‘it’s complicated,’ which sounds like an understatement.”
“Just so I’m clear,” says George. “You don’t actually know these people?”
“I do too! From the bar, a few years ago.”
“Darling, this is absurd. Someone you knew from the bar back in your skinny days is not a friend, no matter what Facebook tells you.”
I think I’m developing a problem. After abandoning Friendster for MySpace a few years ago, last week I took the time to create a Facebook profile, since that’s apparently all the rage these days. I really just did it to keep up with the people in my life who now refuse to call, text, or e-mail. If you wanna know what’s up with them, you gotta read their “Wall”. I posted some photos, accepted a few friend requests, and had fully intended to leave it at that.
Within three days, I had two hundred friends.
I was not aware I knew two hundred people. But I hadn’t thought of my classmates from elementary school, or the next-door neighbor of a friend in New York, or the people I used to hang out alongside at bars before I moved out to the suburbs. Collectively, that adds up. And then, you start looking at those people’s friend lists, which reminds you of all sorts of other people you haven’t talked to in fifteen years, and within minutes, you’re caught up on every aspect of their existence since you last met, and you’re getting daily updates.
My friend Molly from junior high is hosting a poker tournament in Louisiana. There is not a single reason for me to possess this information. Until last week, I don’t think she and I would’ve even known each other if we were in the same elevator. I’m certainly not going to attend the poker tournament. But I know it’s coming along very well.
When I get friend requests from people whose identities I can’t quite place, I’ll click over to the photos to see if it jogs my memory. If it’s a cute boy, I’ll go through his whole album to see if he’s got any shirtless photos. It just gives my ego a healthy boost when attractive strangers want to be friends with me. Also, I like shirtless photos. Go ahead and judge, you know you like them too. It takes a minute to upload a picture, so it’s not like they put the picture up accidentally. I figure if a hot guy goes to the trouble of putting up half-naked pictures, the least I can do is observe, and decide what I think about it.
Then I have to check their relationship status, because I have several quality single friends who I’m always looking to set up with someone.
People keep sending me virtual plants, which is somehow supposed to save the rain forest, but I’m not sure how that works. Apparently there are also people “tending my patch”. Slutty Mandy recently told me she’d chased away a chipmunk that was eating my petunias, and the least I could do was send her a sunflower. I think that was the moment I realized I was completely immersed in a bizarre, foreign culture.
My cousin Nelson’s bedroom is across the hall from the den where I do most of my work. There are moments where both of us are on Facebook, messaging each other from ten feet away. We used to have actual conversations. No we send each other YouTube clips.
I don’t really worry about this scenario, because I know once the newness of it all wears off, I’ll move on. When I first discovered Xtube, my friend Greg and I competed to see who could find the most out-there, fetishy clips. But we reached a point where we saw a few things that I questioned the legality or physics of, and most of which I really wish I could un-see, so we abandoned the exercise. After that experience, plus exhausting the searches to find out if there were any clips of people I knew (and yep, there were), I haven’t really been back.
In the meantime, however, I’m enjoying getting caught up with the bartender who snuck me drinks in Florida when I was nineteen, and the guy who played a talking vending machine in the children’s show where I played a giant blue soccer-playing kitten.

And there are, of course, the unexpected benefits.
“I just got a request from some grad student who likes reading Austen and looks great in a swimsuit,” I tell George.
“Is he single?” George asks.
“Sure is,” I say. “I should introduce you. I mean, after all, now he’s a friend of mine.”

Sleepless in the Suburbs

It’s four in the morning. I wake up agitated. It’s too quiet. I realize the air-conditioning isn’t running. The bedspread is on the floor and the sheets are soaked with sweat. The room even smells hot. Confounded by this, I check the thermostat. It’s eighty-six degrees, which would be perfect if I was at a barbecue but not really ideal for a night’s sleep. There’s air coming out of the vents, but it’s warm air, mocking me. I throw on boxers and look at Preppy snoring contentedly.

I have no idea how he sleeps through stuff like this.
I’ve always been the person who wakes up at the slightest provocation, bolting up to seek the source of the sound. My father used to go to work at five every morning, and I’d jump out of bed when I heard him in the kitchen. I don’t really know why I did it every day. But I couldn’t keep myself in the bed, knowing there was something going on in the house that I needed to investigate. I’d find him at the kitchen table, eating Raisin Bran in his postal uniform.
“You should be asleep,” he’d say. “Everything’s okay.”
Then he’d give me a hug, and I would go back to sleep until I heard my mother moving around a little while later.
Standing outside my house in my underwear and flip-flops, I shine a flashlight on the air conditioning unit, which is currently not doing anything. This is a little panic-inducing, because calling a technician will require money we don’t have. Suddenly I miss having a landlord. Plus, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep knowing there’s a problem to solve. This is exactly WHY I wake up to every sound. Because there might be something I need to take care of, like a broken air conditioner.

Now, if only I had the slightest idea what to do.

Other than knowing the sound it’s supposed to make I’m at a complete loss.
Back when I lived in Mississippi, I dated a guy named John whose next door neighbor loved reggae music. John’s neighbor seemed to particularly love reggae music at three in the morning, played at a volume which managed to provoke a rage in me I wasn’t aware I possessed. I would toss and turn in John’s bed, pillow over my head, trying my best to avoid the inevitable confrontation. But it was no use. I’d inevitably launch out of bed, pounding on the wall with my shoe. The music would get louder. John was oblivious to all of this. Without his hearing aids John was profoundly deaf, an aspect of his existence which presented countless hurdles, but did usually guarantee a good night’s sleep.
So I’d have to throw on my boxers and a t-shirt, marching across the hall to his neighbor’s door. He’d greet me in a cloud of pot smoke, wearing a sarong, black lights glowing in the background.

Our conversations were never cordial.
“Jesus, do we have to go through this every night?”
“Dude, what’s your problem? Your buddy never complains when you’re not here.”
“Because my buddy is DEAF, you jackass. But I’m not, so could you turn it down?”
“I wish he’d fuck another deaf guy, then.”
I’d try to explain my frustration to John the next day, but he’d just tell me not to worry about it. How does one explain annoying sounds to a deaf person?
“It’s like if roaches were crawling all over you,” I told him. “You couldn’t sleep through it.”
Later, when John started having nightmares about bugs attacking him in his bed, he blamed me.
Still standing outside, I think of kicking the air conditioner, because that tends to work with vending machines when they won’t relinquish my Snickers, but decide against it. Then I follow a cable to a fuse box on the side of the house, covered in ivy. I start ripping the ivy off, delighted by a possible solution. That’s when I see the big spider. It’s one of those fat bastards, so big they look hairy. This launches me five feet back, having a small panic attack. Because I saw Arachnophobia at a particularly impressionable age, I have always seen spiders as malicious, calculating creatures, hell-bent on world domination. Even Charlotte’s Web gave me the heebie-jeebies, especially because she had Debbie Reynolds’ voice, and frankly I find that woman alarming. She’s like a garden gnome in drag.
Now the spider is the only thing standing between me and cool air, and by extension, sleep. I take off one of my flip-flops and run toward the fuse box kamikaze-style. I smack the hairy monster off the box, flip a switch, and the air conditioner returns to life with the sound I was hoping for. I feel quite pleased with myself as I go back into the house, having slain the monster and completed my mission. Back in the bedroom, Preppy is spread-eagle on the bed. I want to wake him and share my harrowing hero’s journey, but decide to wait ‘til morning. I give a little push to roll him over, but he won’t budge.
“Baby, move over,” I say, pushing harder.
He flings an arm out in protest, managing to punch me in the face.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell, a hand to my throbbing eye.
“Shh,” he says. “You’re being loud.”
He resumes snoring. I grab my pillow and the bedspread and head for the sofa, deciding I’ve fought enough battles for one night. I should be asleep. Everything’s okay.

Money Dearest

My neighbor Mrs. Richardson explained over our back fence that the neighborhood only uses one yard man: Walter, a man in his late thirties who lives at the end of the block. The system is simple: Whenever Walter feels like it, usually around the end of the month, he’ll drag his mower out and take care of your lawn. You can’t call Walter to schedule an appointment, because he uses prepaid cell phones and is always changing numbers. It’s also difficult to decline lawn service, because you never know when he’ll come by. So everybody just keeps fifty dollars on hand for when he comes to your door to collect.
I told Mrs. Richardson that didn’t sound like the best setup, and I might check around for something a little more reliable.
“Oh, please don’t,” she said. “We all use him. Walter lives with his poor mother, and he won’t get a real job. Only way she can get him to make money is by doin’ the yards. We do it to help her out.”
So I hired Walter. Gotta help his poor Mama.
I’m in the kitchen making dinner, which I do now because I’m home all day, and it’s important to have a few noticeable housekeeping things done when my fiancée gets home. Otherwise he begins to wonder what it is I’m doing. And I can’t say “I was writing,” because if I was actually writing all that time I’d have a novel longer than Gone With the Wind to show for it. In truth, I don’t do a lot of actual writing. But I spend a great deal of time staring at a blank document in Microsoft Word, begging my brain to actually come up with something. So then I’ll stop staring and have a cigarette or twelve, call my sister, maybe watch some clips of baby animals on YouTube. I love baby animal clips, particularly panda cubs climbing on things or sneezing. You wouldn’t think you can fill a whole afternoon watching those, but trust me, you totally can.
I can usually snap myself out of gazing at the screen slack-jawed about an hour before Preppy gets home, at which point I’ll start dinner and dust something in the living room. That’s key, because when he walks in the house and smells Lemon Pledge, his brain tells him I’ve been cleaning.

It also helps if I put a little Windex behind my ears, to complete the effect.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Preppy as I drain the pasta. “My domestic partner benefits provide the exact same coverage for both of us. Same health, dental, prescriptions, all of it. And I pay for that.”
“Oh-kaaay,” I say, not really sure where this is going, but really hoping it won’t interfere with my long-term plans to use these benefits to have all of my teeth capped. My ultimate goal is for it to look like someone’s turned on a fluorescent light when I open my mouth.
“So, if I pay for us to have identical benefits, how come you only let me have two movies on the Netflix queue, and you get four? Shouldn’t we each get three?”
Giving Preppy his own personal Netflix queue was a little gift from me last year. It didn’t cost that much more to upgrade my membership, and then he could pick out his own movies. I hadn’t thought of it as being in the same category as him providing my health insurance, but since the Netflix is considerably cheaper, I’m glad that’s how he sees it.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow,” I say, adding it to my to-do list. I’ve got a book coming out soon, at which point hopefully I’ll be financially stable again and Preppy won’t have to cover the bills. Until then, however, things are a little lean. I take pride in not having asked him for actual cash yet, but I had to take my change jar to the CoinStar at Kroger today, so that may be ending soon.
The next morning, the doorbell rings. It’s Walter the yard man, holding the check I’d given him the day before.
“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Payne,” he said. “But the bank said they couldn’t cash this check.”
Well, shit. So much for having my own money.

I go to my wallet and pull all the money I’d gotten from cashing in my change, and hand it over.
“I’m sorry about this, Walter. There must’ve been some mix-up and the bank.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, giving me a look that lets me know he’s completely aware I’m full of shit, but willing to spare my dignity and play along.
And just like that, I’m broke. I am officially completely dependent on my partner. The leap of faith I took in leaving my day job now feels more like a stumble. I call around, and manage to get a gig babysitting the next afternoon. Despite Preppy’s assurances that I shouldn’t worry, everything will be fine, I know that I need to contribute more than just the smell of furniture polish to the house. I can just picture Mrs. Richardson leaning over the fence, talking to the neighbors.
“You don’t even have to read the book,” she’ll say. “But everybody’s buying a copy. He won’t get a real job, and the only way Preppy can get him to make money is by writing those books. So we do it to help his husband out.”

Evidence Tampering

I’m in the drive-thru at Chik-fil-a, which I always feel a little guilty about because they donate money to Focus on Family, and I really shouldn’t support that. But damn, those fanatical fundamentalists sure do make a fine chicken sandwich. I’m mulling over this quandary and looking forward to my waffle fries when the woman in front of me pulls ahead to the trash can, discarding a bag from Wendy’s, and another from McDonald’s.
I’m left wondering if she’s conducting some sort of tour. If I followed her out of here, would she stop at Dairy Queen next? I saw a movie once where Meredith Baxter played a bulimic who’d go on drive-thru raids like that.
There are so many social problems I wouldn’t even know existed if Meredith Baxter and Judith Light hadn’t dramatized them for me.
Then, as I receive my own order at the window, I have to move an empty Burger King cup out of the holder. A quick look in the back seat reveals the evidence from my most recent late-night run to the Krystal on Moreland Avenue, where I’m willing to risk being assaulted just to have tiny hamburgers at two in the morning.
Shit. I’m just like the lady. Only I don’t even throw the bags away. So I’m actually worse than the lady, because I’m also a slob.
It isn’t as though I’m ordering every meal via drive-thru speaker, but it is disheartening to note the change in lifestyle that’s occurred since I got my driver’s license. When I was still a pedestrian, I ate at fast food joints only a few times a year, mainly because it was rare for me to even walk past one. They don’t market fast food to people who walk, because you never see anyone walking down the street stuffing their face with a triple bacon cheeseburger. That’s reserved for drivers, who sit in traffic and eat French fries by the fistful. Oh, and by the way, other people can totally see you when you do that. The image of a man in my rear-view mirror deep-throating a Moe’s burrito is forever burned in my memory.
One would think that my expanding waistline would’ve been enough to sound the alarms in my mind, but it’s actually the moment at Chick-fil-a that really scares the hell outta me. I get home and delay my lunch in favor of cleaning out the car. Every paper wrapper, every plastic cup, every little cardboard Krystal chick container, leave me feeling shamed.
I must destroy all evidence.
I tend to do that. Any physical reminders of an unpleasant incident must be completely eliminated. A photo makes me think of a bad moment? Gotta tear it up. The polo I was wearing the day I found out I had cancer ended up in the trash, because it would forever be my cancer shirt. I bought new sheets once on the day a boyfriend broke up with me, and eventually I had to give the sheets away because I felt rejected every time I opened the damn linen closet. I should let my fiancée know about this, so he’ll know to take me to an alternate location if he ever has bad news for me. Because if it happens at home, I’ll have to burn down the house to eradicate the memory.
My grandfather was an avid fan of Playboy magazine in the 1970s- he had the entire decade stacked on the top shelf of the guest bedroom closet. My cousin Nelson and I used to pull copies down and marvel at the centerfolds featuring women with frosted blue eye shadow and pendulous, pre-silicone boobs. Nelson was clearly delighted by what he saw, but I was always more interested in the staging of the photos. Who stands in their library reading Ivanhoe wearing nothing but garters and heels? Or, why was this woman standing naked in front of a blazing fireplace holding a poker? Wasn’t that dangerous?
Then one day, we discovered a promotional copy of Playgirl that had been sent to my grandmother in 1975. These men were sexy in the Burt Reynolds mode- big mustache, overly tan, a little thick in the middle, overgrown pubes the size and shape of a slice of Sbarro pizza. They lounged, on rocks and in hammocks, looking directly at me with a smirk that said, “Admit it, Topher, you like it.”
I stole it. I took it home and committed every page to memory, reveling in fantasies of these manly men and me doing… something. I wasn’t entirely clear on what, but I knew it was something very wrong and potentially fantastic.
The Playgirl had to be destroyed.
I cut every single page into tiny pieces, taking hours with the task. I put the resulting confetti in a paper bag, then walked six blocks to the Presbyterian Church and threw it in their dumpster.
And here we discover the flaw in my destruction-of-evidence plan: I still remember every detail of that macho man lying in repose on a rock with a boner. I vividly recall the cancer shirt and the rejection sheets. Getting rid of the actual objects didn’t make the memory go away. In fact, the ritual may have highlighted them in my mind.
Maybe the best way to learn from a shameful experience isn’t by trying to eliminate it- it’s facing it head on. With that possibility in mind, I try something new: I take one of those Krystal containers and tape it to my dashboard. We’ll see what happens.

Faithful

Okay, remember how my pal Slutty Mandy decided try something new and go out with a guy a few years older than her usual meat market? Well, she called me with an update, and it was a doozie.
“Wait, he’s WHAT?”
“You heard me,” she said. “He’s goddamn motherfucking MARRIED. As in, man and wife, rings and shared debt, the whole thing.”
“But you said he was divorced.”
“Because that’s what HE said,” she hissed. “Then last night he clarified that statement. Apparently when he said “divorced,” he meant “not really even remotely divorced.”
“Well that is just… tacky.”
“It seems that the only difference with older guys is that they’ve had more time to get really good at lying. I’m so fed up. The only thing worse than being a dirty mistress is being one without realizing it.”
“Maybe it’s time you try that lesbianism thing the girls are so wild about,” I say. “Lindsay Lohan seems to find it agreeable. I think I’ve got a brochure around here somewhere.”
“I’ve tried the girl thing,” she says. “Aside from it being less messy I really failed to see the appeal. Jesus, Topher, why do men do this? Why is one person never enough for a guy?”
It’s a question often asked. Statistics tell us that men wrestle with the concept of monogamy more than women. Although, I assume these reports are based upon interviews. It’s entirely possible that the men are admitting to their indiscretions, while the women are simply better at hiding it.
For most of the guys I know, finding the one and only remains the stated goal. Listening to them, one would assume they crave monogamous relationships. And yet in the moment, a nice option comes along, and suddenly a man can conveniently forget he’s married until after he’s been on a few dates and stayed over. It’s bad enough when there’s one man involved, but when it’s two guys attempting a relationship, surrounded by other horny gay guys… well, resisting temptation basically becomes your full-time job.
My friend Sammy used to hang out with a married guy, just as friends. There was a little flirtation, but nothing that spelled trouble brewing. Then one night, Sammy got a text from the guy that said “I wish I was inside U,” and attached to the message was a picture of his erect penis. Sammy was without words. He handed me his phone and waited for my response.
“Where is he right now?” I asked.
“I think he’s at Wetbar. Why?”
“Because this was taken in his bedroom. It’s a used dick pic. Not only is he trashy enough to try and cheat with you, he sent you a picture he probably took for his husband.”
“Oh my God,” said Sammy. “That IS trashy. I don’t even warrant a new dick pic?”
“If that doesn’t sum up the situation, I don’t know what will.”
Look, I’m no idiot. Monogamy is hard. I have cheated on boyfriends in the past. I had every excuse in the world, too: We hadn’t been dating that long, I was drunk, he ignores me, I think the relationship is going to end soon anyway, he won’t let me fuck him enough, he won’t let me blow him, or my most consistent, I just wanted to feel desirable. I was smart enough to know, sometimes in the moment and sometimes immediately after, that what I was doing was hurting the guy I was dating at the time even if he didn’t know. I didn’t realize how much I was fucking with my own head. That came later, when I actually committed to one person and finally respected how significant that is, and how unprepared I was to not solve problems in the relationship by going out and getting some strange.
We don’t really need statistics to know that men love the thrill of a new conquest. But a word of advice to those who might conveniently forget they’re married at the sight of a hot ass: Work to maintain what you were lucky enough to find, or know when to walk away. But don’t try juggling your commitments. You might get off in the moment, but at the end of the day all you’ll be is a used dick in somebody’s i-Phone, waiting to be deleted.

The Firing Squad

I’m on the phone with my best gal pal, Slutty Mandy, catching up on the events of the weekend. Mandy’s been out a few times with a slightly older guy. I mean, not AARP or anything, but a little above the age group with whom we tend to socialize. There’s logic to this, really. She hasn’t had much luck with guys in the late twenties-early thirties range, so she’s just leapfrogging over them and trying the next level.
“My date went surprisingly well. Spent the day on his boat…”
“He has a boat? That’s good. Means he pays his bills.”
“How so?”
“Because,” I explain. “If the bank starts taking things away, the first thing to go is always the boat. So if he’s managed to hang on to that, there’s probably a good credit rating on this one.”
As years pass, different things make a man appealing. Ten years ago, it was abs and access to a reliable dealer. Now it’s steady employment and a solid FICO rating. Although I suppose the abs and reliable dealer would still be welcomed. They’re just no longer deal-breakers.
“So,” I say. “When do I get to meet this fella? I could make dinner. I’m a housewife now, I do that sort of thing. I also do crafts now. Do you need an afghan?”
“I don’t need an afghan in July.”
“Well, I’m really bad at it, so it probably wouldn’t be ready ‘til around President’s Day. Now, seriously, when do I get to see this guy?”
“Um… you don’t get to meet him yet.”
“Why not? What are you hiding? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing is wrong with him, sweetness. I’m just not quite ready to put him in front of the Topher Payne Firing Squad. I wanna try this out a little bit longer before you show up and openly judge him.”
“I do NOT do that!”
I totally do that. Here’s thing: I am very protective of my friends. They’re quality people with much to offer the world. I also know that when people get into new relationships, they tend to completely ignore their friends for a lengthy stretch while they’re flush with dewy romantic encounters. Anyone who says they don’t do that is a damn liar. We all do it. I did it. Some of my friends claim I’m still doing it.
My point is, if you’re going to take this quality person with much to offer out of my daily life for a while and keep them all to yourself, I have the right to evaluate whether they are worthy of such an honor. And if they are not, am I not duty-bound to report my findings? What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t point out that the person my best friend is dating drinks entirely too much, or wears pleated pants, or has no chin?
And don’t think that I’m some shrieking harpy here. They all did it to me back before I met Preppy. When I was roommates with George, he would actually reject men on the doorstep. The unlucky suitor would arrive for our date, George would open the door, and make a guttural sound of disgust. Mandy would play it with slightly less subtlety, settling in with a glass of scotch and tilting her head in mock-interest. With careful precision, she would pick my boyfriends apart, leaving them lying in a heap on the floor before announcing they weren’t clever enough to run with me or my crowd. Preppy managed to disarm them all through a method no one had tried previously: He found them all hilarious. Their posturing and interrogation left him amused beyond words.

Which, incidentally, is one of the reasons I like them too.
“All right,” I say to Mandy. “You have your clandestine affair. Keep him to yourself for now. But eventually he’s gonna have to face the tribunal. You can’t hide him forever.”
“I know that,” she sighs. “But for now, let me believe I can.”
“Fair enough,” I say, already preparing my list of questions for the man who dares to win the heart of my best girl.

Make It Happen

“It’s right here somewhere,” I say, slowly driving through the streets of Candler Park.
“Do we need to turn Vera on?” asks George, reaching for my GPS. “Preppy made you get her for situations just like this.”
“No, I got it. It’s just past the golf course… I think.”
“Watch it, George,” Slutty Mandy says from the back seat. “You’re ashing all over me.”
We’re taking a post-brunch field trip, so my best friends can see the most exciting thing that happened to me all week. Possibly ever.
“There! Right there!”
I slam on the brakes directly in front of a 1920s Baptist Church, which was repurposed in the 1970s when it was purchased by the First Existentialist Congregation of Atlanta. Two days ago, it became the site of my upcoming wedding to Preppy.
“That’s not a little church!” yells George. “You said little. You said you were gonna have a tiny church like the one Slash played guitar in front of in the November Rain video.”
Slutty Mandy begins singing Guns and Roses behind us.
“Turns out those only exist in music videos and episodes of Little House on the Prairie. Besides, we needed a larger space. I’ve got a big family, and the guest list just kept growing. We’ve got sixteen attendants now.”
“Sixteen?” shouts Mandy. “Christ, who are you, Princess Di?”
“Look, y’all. I never had a graduation ceremony, I’m not Jewish so I didn’t get a bar mitzvah, I don’t even do big birthday parties. This is the one and only time I’m asking everybody to drop everything and come celebrate something, and I don’t wanna hear crap about it.”
“Down, Bridezilla, down,” says Mandy. “Nobody’s going to take away your special day. I’ll put the baby’s breath in your hair myself. I’ll carry a parasol. Whatever you and Preppy want.”
“Preppy wants what he always wants. Whatever makes Topher complain the least,” says George, examining the building with a critical eye. “God, I’m just wondering how in frosty hell I’m supposed to do flowers for a space that size.”
“I’ll help you,” I say. “We’ll do it together. It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know,” says George. “You don’t take instruction very well. And you never have free time.”
“I will for this! My last day at the restaurant is next week.”
“What?” says Mandy. “You quit your job to plan your wedding?”
“No. That’s just a benefit. I’m gonna try to be a writer. Full-time. And if I need extra money, there’s plenty of things I can do. Odd jobs.”
I know, it seems rash, but I really did think this through, in my way. I made a budget of the exact dollar amount I need to make each month, and then I just have to come up with creative ways to make that much money. So I made another list of things I might be good at that would still give me time to write. I came up with babysitting, photographing events, phone psychic, being one of those guys who gives out comment cards at movie screenings, hosting a talk show, and assembling products in my own home, among many others. My friend Vincent in New York does pretty well cleaning houses in suggestive outfits. If I got some abs maybe I could do that.
Poor Preppy. When he met me I had a nice, stable, full-time job doing very responsible, adult-type things. But once I convinced him to marry me, I up and decided I’d had enough of all that. He was a little nervous about the whole thing, but I promised him if by the end of the year I was broke, I’d go put in an application at Starbucks.
But you never get anywhere without taking risks. I could keep telling myself my day job doesn’t define me, but is that really true? Whatever you do with the majority of your day does define who you are, at least to some extent. If you spend ten hours a day being a bartender and two hours a week being a musician, then which one of those words really describes you better? There are two things I wanna be at this point in my life: A writer, and married to Preppy. As I drive away from the church, I feel like I’m finally making both of those things happen.

Rain on my Parade

“I will never, never be dry again,” I say to my best pal Slutty Mandy as we wring ourselves out under the Civic Center awning. We’ve just walked the route for Pride Parade 2008, apparently sponsored by The Wrath of God.

All that flooding and rainbows felt distinctly Old Testament.
“Preppy is so lucky he had to work today,” says Slutty Mandy, trying to bring her phone back to life. “Is your Blackberry working?”
“I’m hoping it will when it dries out.”
“Great, well there goes getting a cab. Fabulous.”
We decide to forego riding MARTA from Civic Center, suspecting that every single waterlogged reveler was headed in that direction. Instead, we simply return to the parade route and walk it in reverse, back to Mandy’s apartment in Midtown. To pass the time, I bitch constantly about how wet/chafed/tired I am.
“I’m sorry, didn’t you walk EVERYWHERE up until like six months ago?”
“Not in the rain. And not for like, miles. This is coming dangerously close to exercise, and you know how I hate that.”
“How do you think I feel? I had spin class this morning. My legs are killing me.”
“Oh, no, Soggy Mandy. People who exercise voluntarily are not allowed to bitch about having to engage in MORE physical activity. There’s nothing so obnoxious as people in great shape complaining about how sore they are. You’re supposed to like this sort of thing.”
“Your denial of your own history astounds me. You used to go to the gym.”
“I also used to breast feed. People change.”
We decide to cut through my old neighborhood.
“Oh, man. That’s where Neighbor Guy lived. He was my waist size, too. If he hadn’t moved away he could loan me clothes.”
“Sweetie, would you really stop at a former trick’s house demanding pants?”
“Yes. I would compromise myself in any number of ways for dry clothes right about now. Ooh! Charlie used to live over there before he got married. And Dean moved to Stone Mountain of all places, got himself a farm house. Over there’s where Criminal Mike lived until the cops found him. Aw, and that bartender with the tattoo of eyeballs on his lower back, remember? He lived right there.”
“Jesus, did you fuck all your neighbors?”
“I didn’t have a car. It was practical,” I say, really considering my surroundings. “Wow. I don’t think I know anyone in Midtown anymore.”
It’s only been about two years since I left my little apartment on Durant Place, and my fiancée and I almost always make it to a bar once a week, but a curious thing has happened: Right around the same time I packed up my boxes and headed out of the Midtown mix, a good number of my friends did too. No longer content with our tiny, overpriced apartments, yet in no way prepared to buy one of the area’s stately old homes, we took our leave. I got a house on a quiet street in Decatur, a car, a soon-to-be-husband. We have a yard. Now, I borrow lawn care supplies from neighbors instead of having sex with them.
And while the life I’ve built is a source of great joy, I can’t help but be a little wistful as I remember closing Blake’s and stumbling down this street, belting “Express Yourself” for the benefit of my sleeping neighbors. Let it never be said that I don’t have happy memories of my bachelorhood. Vague, drunken, happy memories. I recently visited my friend Nick at his new apartment in Ansley Forest, and of course already knew where his bathroom was.

Half the homos in Atlanta know the layout of those apartments. They’re an inevitable stop on our personal parade route through gay life in the city.
As Slutty Mandy and I approach Grady high school, a blonde guy in his early twenties passes us, drenched and happy, with a few of friends.
“Come on,” he says. “We’re almost home!”
He could be headed back to my old place, or at least somewhere I spent the night. But the thought is interrupted by my Blackberry coming back to life, albeit with a screen full of water droplets. I answer and catch Preppy up on the day’s events, walking away and leaving my old street to a new crowd.

Since U Been Gone

“Go. Point. Four. Miles and… Turn right. On. South. Atlanta Road.”
I’m driving in Roswell, which is so not my neighborhood, and that makes me very nervous.

I have a disastrous sense of direction, and I’ve only had my driver’s license for six months. Somehow the suburbs confound me twice as much as downtown streets- Downtown is on a grid, but outside the Perimeter streets twist and turn endlessly, changing names without warning.
When Preppy’s in the car, I can keep my panic in check. He navigates, and bolsters my confidence with words of encouragement. But alone, I teeter on the edge of a nervous breakdown. He knows this, having patiently talked me through hysterical phone calls from Marietta and Buford. But he can’t be with me all the time, which is why he introduced me to my new traveling companion.
“Continue to. North. Atlanta Road.”
I call her Vera, and she knows where everything is. When Vera is giving directions, I keep the windows rolled up and the radio off. I don’t talk on the phone.

Vera is in control, and she is a wise and patient leader.

She can even tell me where the nearest Starbucks is. She does everything Preppy does except hold my hand and tell me I’m a good driver. I have every reason to believe future versions of her will do that.
Preppy’s out of town, joining his family at the beach for a few days. I can’t go because I’m in a play, and my free time is being spent rehearsing a dance number for the Atlanta Cotillion Cabaret. In heels. My feet hurt.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I built a little fort next to me in the bed- a Pillow Preppy, if you will. It didn’t help, and it took me forever to figure out why. Then I realized: Pillow Preppy doesn’t snore. I’ve grown so accustomed to his nightly symphony of grunts and mournful moose sounds that without it, the bedroom was entirely too quiet. Creepy quiet, just the distant thump of the nightclub behind our house, curiously located between a plus-size clothing store and a 24-hour day care center.

Actually, the more I think about it, that makes perfect sense.
Anyhoo, I laid there in the dark, next to the eerily silent Pillow Preppy, wondering if for his next gift he could locate a device that would replicate his sleeping noises. Then when he goes out of town, I can just throw on the virtual sleeping fiancée and drift off without incident. Then it hit me: I used to be a fairly independent person. I didn’t require GPS navigators and fake bedmates made out of pillows. I didn’t even own a cellular phone until after Desperate Housewives premiered. I didn’t need such things. I made my way on my own just fine. Somehow, being in a relationship was turning me into a puddle of inactive goo, no longer capable of taking care of myself.
So back in the car, I decide to exert some of that old energy- a little of that self-sufficient can-do attitude that used to define me. I turn off the GPS. I’ve been to Roswell a few times, and I have the address.

I don’t need Vera or Preppy. I can do this.
A half-hour later, I pull over and turn Vera back on. I’m in Dunwoody. Don’t know how that happened.
I realize I have romanticized the old me quite a bit more than I realized. I knew I always picture the old me as thinner and less awkward- apparently I also fooled myself into thinking I was competent. I was never competent! I have always been just as bumbling and neurotic as I am now. The only reason I’ve noticed it so much while Preppy’s been away is because since he came along I’ve been ever-so-slightly more honest about it, and he was willing to help prevent me from getting lost or accidentally setting something on fire. He made it okay for me to admit that I can’t do everything on my own. Which is why he needs to come back, before I accidentally drive to Tennessee in a sleep-deprived haze and can’t get myself home.
“Please wait,” says Vera. “Calculating new route.”
You do that, sweetie. I’ll just sit here and wait for further instruction.

Why We Fight

Here’s a little pointer on European travel: Until George Bush is out of office, just tell people you’re from Canada. I learned that lesson in Ireland, when upon hearing my American accent, locals would accost me and demand answers regarding Dubya’s general incompetence. For a while, I tried to defend myself and my country against their tirades, but then I discovered the Canada solution, and my situation improved considerably. Everybody likes Canada- Good old genial, non-threatening Canada. It’s like the Ellen Degeneres of nations.
So I spent a summer lolling about the Irish countryside as a fake Canadian, never having visited the country I called home, and not actually knowing anything about it. But here’s another pointer: Nobody else knows anything about Canada either. I’ve wondered in the intervening years if any of the Irish people I met later traveled to our northern neighbor, and if they were surprised that the main thoroughfare in Quebec City is not named Celine Dion Boulevard, as I’d claimed.
In the village of Clonmel, I found a pub with internet access and quickly set up shop at a corner table, where I would end each day uploading photos and writing over an endless stream of pints.
It was in the pub that I met Danny, the owner of the local pizza parlor. He was around thirty, and the only gay man in town. He sniffed me out with relative ease, using that beautiful sixth sense that every homo in a small town has: Attuned to every gesture or pop culture reference, any indication that they’ve crossed paths with one of their own kind. He invited me back to his flat, to see the view. It was good to know that closeted or not, regardless of culture, every gay guy had the same few cheesy pick-up lines.
Danny wasn’t out. Not to his family, or his employees, or even the guys with whom he shared this flat. The concept of living a life where he could be out to everyone, even strangers, was beyond his imagination. When I tried to describe my experience of marching in Pride Parade, he couldn’t picture it.
“But you’ve seen movies, and TV shows, right?” I asked.
“That’s just Hollywood fantasy,” he said.
I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. In an age of the internet and gay marriage debates, people remain who cannot begin to fathom the concept of living their lives honestly. It made me profoundly sad, and a little angry.
“It’s not fantasy, Danny. It’s my life. And all my friends, too.”
“Lucky for you,” he said, and the subject was closed. I returned to my vodka tonic. And then he kissed me. It was startlingly intense- forceful and hungry. I followed him inside, careful not to disturb his roommates.
“You don’t have to hide, you know,” I said later as we lay on his bare mattress, naked in the orange light of dawn. “You could have this every day if you wanted.”
“Let it go, pally. My shop’s doing well here. Not a bad life.”
I rolled over and rested my head by the little V-shaped thing below his belly button. I forget what it’s called.
“But if you know something is a part of you- something that defines you… don’t you owe it to yourself to live honestly, and fight for it?”
Danny gave a heavy sigh.
“Some things you can’t fight by yourself.”
“Then move! Sell pizzas someplace else! You’re a great guy. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m used to it,” he said.
“You shouldn’t settle for getting used to it.”
We meant to exchange e-mail addresses, but it never happened, and I left the country a week later. But he never left my mind, and serves as a consistent reminder whenever people ask why Pride festivals are necessary. Pride is necessary because there are some things you can’t fight by yourself, so wherever and whenever we can gather to show the strength and validity of our lives, we are called by conscience to do so. Because there’s guys like Danny all around the world who believe that the life we have is some unattainable fantasy. It isn’t. It’s right here in front of us. And if we demand to be recognized, support each other, and are willing to battle for the lives we deserve, eventually people like him might feel strong enough to join us in the fight.

History Lessons

It’s Preppy’s ten year high school reunion, and we’re in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Preppy was class president his senior year, so he was responsible for planning the festivities. That was a little learning moment for me, by the way: I had no idea the responsibilities of class officers continued after graduation. Now he’s a dignified former president making an official visit, like when Jimmy Carter moderates peace talks. And that makes me, in a way, the former first lady of Porter’s Chapel Academy. I should totally be wearing a sensible suit and heels. Maybe a scarf.
At dinner, we’re seated between Jen, Preppy’s best friend from high school, and a girl named Betty, who was expelled her senior year. Betty was the wild child- she could always get liquor or cigarettes, and ditched her prom date to take the limo driver instead. It seems everyone at the table has a Betty story.
“Betty,” says Preppy. “What was the name of that guy you ran off and moved in with junior year? He had a trailer with a big screen TV?”
“Oh, shit, what was his name?” says Betty, sipping her White Russian and peering into the haze of her memory. “My mama wanted to have him arrested. Jim? Tim? Somethin’.”
“I remember that!” shouts Jen. “We went to visit you and you just threw a porn tape on while we were sitting there talking. I’d never seen some of those acts before. Scared the hell outta me!”
“I just wanted y’all to see the big TV,” says Betty. “Everybody knows the only reason you get a big TV is to watch porn life-sized.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say. “Preppy, did you know that?”
The conversation continues in this vein for a while: the teenage adventures of Preppy, Betty, and Jen, most of which involve small crimes or choices that would have shamed their families. So they sound a lot like my high school stories. Good times. Eventually, I start looking around for the cocktail waitress, and I notice Jen’s husband. He was amiable and animated earlier in the evening, but for at least the last half hour, he’s been sitting two chairs down, observing the conversation silently. There’s an expression on his face I recognize, and it does not bode well for Jen when they leave.
Several months ago I met a few friends of Preppy’s from his life in another city. As the alcohol flowed, so did the stories. And there were quite a few that somehow had never come up in our conversations. I tried to maintain a placid expression as my stomach tightened. My laugh became more forced and my glances at my fiancée grew increasingly severe. We did not have a pleasant drive home.
So when Jen’s husband stands and makes it very clear it’s time to leave, I know exactly what’s going on in his head: “Why haven’t I heard any of this before?”
The next day, Jen reports to Preppy that she did have a rather strenuous drive back to the hotel, which left her confused even after they’d patched things up. These events were a decade ago, when they were babies. What’s the big deal?
Maybe it’s just me, but I think there’s a protective instinct which kicks in when we hear tales of wild nights and bad choices from our significant other’s history. We wish we’d been there, to steer them away from a guy who treated them like shit or something they drank, smoked, or snorted. And there’s a small part of us that wishes they’d been there to do the same for us. It’s the part of you that really means it when you say “Where have you been all my life?”, and knowing you can’t change that can be frustrating.
You probably have to be a total control freak to really appreciate this.
Preppy advised Jen to tell her hubby the same thing he told me: Every choice they made before led them to become the people we now love. Not all of them were good, but they were all necessary. And the past we had apart pales in comparison to the future we have together.

Role Play

Preppy and I are in The Gap with my cousin Nelson, helping him pick out clothing that actually fits. Nelson, like many of the other straight guys I know, tends to wear shirts and pants three sizes larger than he needs. Somehow wearing your proper waist measurement has been associated with being Metrosexual, which I just don’t get at all. Nelson used to be a cross-country runner. Despite his habit of eating an entire large pizza for dinner several times a week, Nelson weighs about twenty pounds soaking wet.

He has the metabolism of a hummingbird. We hate him for this.

But some of the women in his life have told him the same thing I’ve been saying for years: He looks like he was either recently hospitalized, or doesn’t know how to dress himself. I say it, nothing happens. A chick says it, and we’re on our way to the mall. Go figure.
“Go try this on,” says Preppy, holding up a knit shirt.
“I’m not wearing purple,” says Nelson.
“It’s not purple,” I say. “It’s… Merlot.”
“That just made it gayer,” he says.
We manage to wrangle him into a dressing room with a few selections, then stand outside the door so he can’t escape. A woman with a very bewildered expression emerges nearby, wearing a little white summer dress with a flouncy skirt.
“Aw, that’s pretty,” I say.
“Is it?” she says, her desperation leaking from every pore. “I don’t know anything about this style. Is this cute? My hips are too big for this. I feel like a dust mop.”
“No, darlin’, it’s great!” says Preppy, and he’s off assisting her.
Then another woman is at my side, brandishing a pair of madras shorts.
“Excuse me,” she says. “What shirt would go with these other than white? My husband always gets stains on white shirts.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t work here.”
“I know,” she says. “I just wanted your opinion.”
Welcome to Queer Eye for the Straight Gap.
I’m always hyper-aware of scenarios like this. I can’t begin to count the number of baby showers, bridal parties, or lingerie shopping excursions I’ve been asked to attend over the years. At least once a month Preppy calls to say he’ll be home late because one of his girlfriends needs help picking out a dress or cute pair of shoes. For my friend Katie’s wedding a few years back, I did the makeup for the entire bridal party.
I am not a trained professional, and frankly there’s nothing about my wardrobe that indicates I have an excess of taste to share with the world. When someone hands me a bouquet of flowers and says, “Do something with these,” my only instinct is to throw them away. Somehow, somewhere, a list was compiled of traits everyone assumes you have if you’re a guy who likes to kiss other guys. It’s this damn chicken/egg scenario I don’t have a clear grasp on: Did I have a natural instinct about what shade of lipstick looks best with which skin tone, or is this something I cultivated because everyone kept asking my opinion on the subject.
Is this the by-product of integrating into the culture?

By increasing our visibility and relevance, we’ve been assigned tasks which all of us are expected to perform? Not once, ever in his life, has Nelson been asked for his opinion on what color to paint a room or where to hang a picture, although he’d have just as informed an opinion as I do. But he is consistently asked to help move furniture or change the oil in someone’s car, tasks I can perform just as easily, but I’m never asked. Which is just as well, because I hate doing shit like that.
I suppose the nature versus nurture debate is irrelevant, because either way here we are, playing fashion consultants to the dressing room. When Preppy walks away from the girl in the flouncy dress, she’s got a big smile on her face and a healthy boost of confidence, as does Nelson when he walks out with his bag of new clothes.
And that may be why I don’t resist the role the world at large expects me to play sometimes: When I’m approached and asked to pick out a shirt for someone’s husband, they’re identifying me as someone with authority to share. It’s an opportunity to forge a small connection and be the person who made their day a little brighter.

And that’s not a bad role to play.