The Tipping Point

I found this YouTube video, taken from a security camera, of an office drone working in a cubicle maze. Some guy comes along and accidentally knocks a bunch of papers off his desk. The drone notices, and he makes the guy pick up the papers. And then, for reasons unknown, the drone takes his computer keyboard and smashes it on the guy’s head. Thus emboldened, the drone throws his computer monitor across the room. And then he really cuts loose. He leaps from desk to desk, wreaking mayhem on various pieces of office equipment for three minutes, until someone finally tasers his ass, and down he goes. And the whole time I was watching it, I kept picturing the drone, sitting at his desk thinking, “If Glen knocks those profit and loss statements off my desk one more time, I’m gonna go fucking psycho.”
Then Glen knocked the papers off, one last time. The tipping point. I’ll bet it was a really freeing moment for the drone.
I watched it again and again, following the individual reactions of the drone’s co-workers during the flipout. Some made a run for the door, but a large number stayed. With their camera phones. They didn’t intervene; they just… documented. The drone’s breakdown became more explicable- He worked with assholes. It’s the little things that really define your day, you know? Then you hit the tipping point.
“I’ve figured out what causes a nervous breakdown,” I tell my sister Shannon on the phone.
“That’s a hell of an opening statement,” she says. “Go on.”
“Everywhere I turn, people tell me I’m not doing enough. No matter how hard I work, something gets left out or overlooked, and then people say I’m letting them down. Preppy says I don’t clean the house enough, my boss keeps finding things I didn’t do, I gotta raise money for Cotillion… last night I decided to stay in to get some sleep, and two people called me from the bar all pissed off. Even drinking is an obligation now. And I really want a miniature cow! And the batteries in the TV remote are dead, but every single time I go to CVS I forget to buy new ones. For three months!”
“And that’s what causes a nervous breakdown?”
“I think a breakdown is just your brain saying fuck it all,” I say. “Forget work, cleaning, batteries, just go to the nut hut, sit in a padded room and play Connect Four.”
“They wouldn’t let you play Connect Four in a psych ward. Choking hazard.”
“Oh, great, Shannon. Way to ruin my breakdown.”
“I don’t like all this conversation. Are you planning on having a breakdown?”
“It’d be too much work for Preppy. And I could never schedule a psychotic break.”
“Good for you,” says Shannon. “You figured out two things. Breakdowns are caused by constant nagging, and prevented by schedule conflicts. Now, if you really think you’re about to go on some sort of Tatum O’Neal downward spiral, say so. Otherwise, I gotta wake up my kid or he’ll nap all day.”
“Go. I’m fine.”
So she does. I’m not fine.

For the rest of the day, I wonder if the little things just add up, the demands and e-mails and voicemails under the general heading of “Not good enough”, until one cannot help but throw a fax machine for a little release. I wonder what you’re supposed to do keep that from happening.
That night, Preppy and I go out for drinks, and he tries to make me laugh, but I’m too close to my tipping point to let go and have fun. So on the drive home, he removes his shoes. Followed by all of his clothing.
“What are you doing?!”
“I’ve been trying to make you smile all night, but nothing’s worked. So when we get home, I’m going to jump out of the car and run around naked until you get the front door open. And if that doesn’t make you laugh, there’s no hope for you.”
He’s as good as his word, and I try to unlock the door, but I can’t stop laughing long enough to get the key. As I cackle, I feel myself tipping back in the right direction. Like I said, it’s the little things that define your day, and this day is no longer defined by everyone barking demands at me. It’s defined by the image of my fiancée’s ass in the moonlight, and me wondering if the neighbors are up.

Nesting

My fiancée Preppy and his best galpal went to a house party in Smyrna, where Preppy learned that he may never become a Guitar Hero. It was his first time visiting the house where the party was held, and apparently he took exhaustive mental notes. When he got home, he had grout on the brain.
“You know, between the tiles in the bathroom,” he said. “Their house is just as old as ours, but their bathroom had beautiful grout. So I asked about it, and she said they’d re-grouted the whole thing right after they moved in. I was really jealous of their grout.”
He’s telling me this while sitting on the edge of the tub in the master bath, examining the floor, which was just fine yesterday but now is dingy, embarrassing, and simply won’t do.
“All you need is a little saw and a chisel and you’re in business,” he says, surveying the expanse of tile in front of him. “Why aren’t we doing more stuff like this? We’ve had the bedroom paint picked out for two months. We could crack stuff like this out in a weekend.”
“Because we rarely have weekends. We’re busy people. I’m proud when we manage to fold the laundry.”
“We’ve been in the house for six months. We need to nest more. Help me nest, Topher.”
“If I agree to help nest, will you let me have Clarabelle?”
“No.”
Clarabelle is my fantasy pet. She is a miniature cow. I caught less than a minute of a segment they did on Animal Planet about exotic pets, and since then I’ve been desperate for a miniature cow. I keep a picture of one on my Blackberry, so I can show others unfamiliar with, as far as I’m concerned, the greatest animal ever.

It’s a cow the size of a German Shepherd.

They’re very loving and come when you call them, and they produce up to two gallons of milk a day. We’d never have to buy milk again! I’d build one of those cobblestone walls, like you see in the rolling hills of Ireland. She’d live there. Sometimes I’d walk her in Piedmont Park, beaming with pride as everyone ignored Dalmatians and bulldogs, fawning over Clarabelle. Even that guy with the pig would be jealous. I could charge for photos.
“She’s no trouble,” I’d say. “She’s a contented cow.”
At Christmas, I’d send pictures out of Preppy, Clarabelle, and me, all in Santa hats. Cute. I know, I used to say the same thing about dogs until I had to live with two of them while we were closing on the house. But this is totally different from that. A dog is just a dog, but a miniature cow is… well, there are no words. Plus, they live outside.
“I love that you claim not to have time to fold laundry, but somehow you’re going to build a wall and work daily milking into the schedule.”
“I could do it before work,” I said. “It’s just a few gallons.”
“Topher, you grew up in Mississippi. You know what cow pastures smell like.”
“That’s if you have lots of great big cows. But Clarabelle is just one tee-tiny perfect cow. And she can learn tricks.”
“Really? Can you teach her to keep you warm at night? Because you’re gonna need someone for that if I come home and find a goddamn cow in the yard.”
“Okay fine. But if I don’t have time to take care of Clarabelle, I don’t think I have time for grouting, either.”
Later, Preppy was online, Googling various home improvements. Just to tempt me, he went to a site that sells truckloads of rock.
“Ooh,” he said. “Those are pretty rocks.”
“Stop teasing me.”
“What if we buy your rocks, and build that Irish rock wall you want so badly? No cow, just the wall. And in exchange, you help me with a few projects around the house?”
I could live with that. I agreed to assist in painting a few rooms, and to do my part in chiseling away at the bathroom tile. He would help me lift rocks on Sundays, building my wall. It served as further proof that we could both budge a little and compromise, which was satisfying. Especially to the part of me that could still hear a faint cowbell in the back of my mind.

Let Me Do It

The phone is ringing, and I don’t know what to do. I try pushing what I think is the “Talk” button, but somehow that opens my e-mail. When I try to go backward, I start a game of Brick Breaker. The call rolls over to voicemail, which is worse, because I don’t know how to check that either. Last time I tried, I took three photos of my hand.
I got a Blackberry. It seemed like such a good idea at the time- so sleek and stylish, filled with little technological wonders that would change my life in unexpected ways. And it has. I am no longer capable of answering the telephone, a skill I guess I’ve just taken for granted for the last quarter century.
Last night I came home, and apologized to my fiancée for not returning his call earlier in the day.
“Oh, you did,” he said. “You just didn’t realize it. About an hour later I got a call from you, but you were driving and singing along to the new Madonna. I kept yelling your name, but you were really into the song, so I just let you sing for a while and then I hung up.”
That is really distressing. I can’t have my phone calling people without my knowledge. It’s one thing for Preppy to catch me warbling about the four minutes I have to save the world, but what if it decides to call my mother while Slutty Mandy and I are swapping sex stories?
“Just lock the keypad,” says Preppy, a Blackberry veteran.
“Um, yeah, I have no idea what that means.”
“Didn’t your phone come with an instruction manual?”
“Well of course it did, but really baby, who has the time?”
I hate instruction manuals. They feel like school. When something new is introduced to my life, I want it to integrate seamlessly, without any hassle. I always report that I learn best by doing things on my own, which is true. There’s just usually a lengthy period of humiliating failure before I actually learn how to do it.
I’ve been attending an Episcopal church of late, which is similar to my own Methodist upbringing, so I can generally play along without much trouble. The prayers they recite are slightly different, so whenever we get to a part I don’t know I just mumble. I’ve been offering up eloquent tributes to our Creator like:
“I believe in God the Father Almighty, ma moo hum hooba Earth, and in Jesus Christ, hee hidey ho la la.”
I know God understands that my heart is in the right place. They offer classes at the church where they apparently teach you the intended words, but I haven’t gone. There’s an actual book right there in the pew with every word printed, but nobody else is using the instruction manual, so I feel like I’d stand out. I really wanna do this on my own- just last Sunday I figured out how to perch my behind on the pew when on the little kneeling thing so I wouldn’t fall into the person next to me.

It was a major breakthrough.
Last night, after Preppy stopped impersonating me singing “I’m outta time and all I got is fo’ minutes… fo’ minutes,” he showed me how to call my sister, who I hadn’t talked to in two days because I didn’t know how. She was doing laundry.
“Which is ALL I do now,” she said. “We’re trying to potty train Jack and he’s not really cooperating with the process. He’s going through like five pairs of underwear a day. I am not amused. All the books say this is supposed to be a natural process, take away the diapers and he’ll get the hint. But all he knows is that when he goes like he used to, he ends up with wet underwear and gets all pissed off. Then he just does it again a few hours later. I try to teach him, but he doesn’t want my help.”
My nephew is learning a lesson I’ve picked up on myself lately- introducing new behavior can be very messy and frustrating. If you insist on doing it all on your own, you gotta accept the mess and stick with it until you know what you’re doing.
I tried to tell my sister that, but I accidentally hung up on her and took another picture of my hand.

Pomp and Circumstances, Part Two

“Where’s your life partner?” asks the headmaster of my old high school.
I’ve never been a fan of that phrase, “life partner”. It’s such an antiseptic expression, like how you’d describe your relationship to a homo-nervous loan officer.
“Under that tree,” I say. “He promised my Mama he’d take pictures.”
“We’ve got someone for that,” says the headmaster. “Bring him over! There’s a place for him at the head table.”
I was asked to come to Idyllwild, California, to give a speech to the graduating class about what life is like as a grownup. The most distressing aspect of that request is the implication that I am a grownup, which totally flies in the face of how I see myself every day. I’ve spent weeks thinking I’m in absolutely no position to tell them anything. I’m still questioning my presence as Preppy leaves his grassy knoll and takes his seat next to me. And then the Class of 2008 begins filling the amphitheatre.
“Oh my God,” I say. “They’re babies.”
This makes me very anxious. Whenever I have an attack of nerves before facing an audience, I become absolutely certain I have a booger in my nose. This thought invariably hits as soon as everyone is looking in my direction. I become utterly obsessed with checking for it, but because everyone is looking I have to do a series of brushes with my hand and modest twitches.
“What are you doing?” Preppy asks through clenched teeth as the program begins.
“I’ve got a boog.”
“No you don’t, you’re just panicky. Stop doing that. You look like you’re on coke.”
So I switch my interest to shuffling my notes and inspecting the crowd. In the front row there’s a cluster of girls sitting with rapt attention. Behind them are the cool artsy guys, sketching in their little books and occasionally glancing up. And in the very back, there’s a lanky boy in overalls and green nail polish whispering to his companions, who are all stifling laughter.
Ah, yes. There I am.
I was expelled from this school when I was seventeen. Afterward, I got a job and my own apartment. I didn’t even know how to balance a checkbook. I just did what I had to do, figured things out, and I kept working. And now, looking at these kids, I wonder how on earth I did that.
“So, please welcome our guest, playwright and columnist Topher Payne.”
Scattered applause. I stand, twitch my nose again, and walk to the podium. I tell them that everyone will say this was the best time of their lives, but that isn’t always true. I hated my teens. My early twenties were no picnic either, but things started looking up around twenty-five. I tell them they should enjoy the last few years of their parents paying for stuff, and try not to fuck that up. I warn them about bad relationships, credit cards, and coming out of the closet on Mother’s Day. I reveal they don’t have to go to college to succeed, but trying to do without it is much more nerve-racking.
I tell them high school provides them with skills, but they have to provide themselves with opportunity, and if they don’t there’s plenty of people who are hungry for it and more than ready to pass them by. So be ready to fight for what you deserve. That one took me a long time to learn. I hope they listened.
Afterward, a bunch of the kids come up and shake my hand, including the one in the overalls and nail polish. I compliment his color choice. I watch them go- kids released into the wild. And then my “life partner” and I head back to the bed and breakfast to drink beer and watch Desperate Housewives in our underwear.

I wish I’d told the seniors to value the moments when you get to do stuff like that, because eventually careers and life make it harder to take time for doing nothing with the people you love. I still don’t feel like a grownup, but I’m aware of the time that’s passed, and I’m learning to appreciate what I have. What I shared today didn’t feel particularly like wisdom, just notes on hard-earned experience. But heck, that may be all wisdom is.

Pomp and Circumstances, Part One

“Alright Mister Payne, we’ve got you booked in the Oak Tree Suite for four nights,” says the woman on the phone. “We call it that because of the beautiful view of an ancient oak tree outside.”
“Clever,” I say.
“There’s a delicious breakfast every morning, which we can pack up to go if you’ll be hiking to the summit while you’re here. Have you stayed in Idyllwild before?”
“Yes, but it’s been a little while.”
Last year, as some sort of grand cosmic punchline, I was asked to deliver a speech at a New York fundraiser to the alumnae of the boarding school in California that expelled me at age seventeen. Theresa, the Director of Alumnae Relations, had followed my writing career with interest, and had determined I would be a wacky choice to address the crowd. I figured chances like that don’t come along that often, so I just let it all hang out at the podium. I said the school was training brilliant artists who were unprepared for the world in so many ways. No one bothered to mention what a FICO rating was, in case we ever wanted to buy a house. No one mentioned we’d better make sure you have health insurance, in case you come down with a bad case of cancer at age twenty-one. But boy, could we ever talk about some Shakespeare.
The response was extraordinary. Afterward, my former classmates were shaking my hand, saying what I did was brave and unexpected. Theresa asked for a copy of the speech to share with the faculty back in California. And the headmaster of the school presented me with a diploma. That night, my pal Erica took great delight at announcing to bartenders that I’d just graduated high school. I felt a little more legitimate as well, coming back and showing my boyfriend my diploma.

He was no longer dating a high school dropout. I was Class of 2007, baby, with the paper to prove it.

I framed it above my desk.
And then, about a month ago, I got a phone call from Theresa again.
“When you said someone should be telling the students what to expect in the real world, did you mean it?”
“Of course I did.”
“Good. Then you’ll be happy to hear this...”
And that’s how I ended up being booked as a speaker for the Class of 2008 commencement exercises at Idyllwild Arts Academy. My fiancée Preppy just got a promotion, so he’s been living at his job lately, occasionally coming home to shower and sleep. There was a question about whether he’d be able to get the time away from work for the California trip.
“You’ve got to be there,” I said. “I can’t do this without you there.”
“That’s silly. You did the New York speech by yourself.”
“I had Erica in New York, and I was talking to people my own age! This is me standing in the amphitheatre in front of a bunch of kids in caps and gowns I never got to wear, trying to tell them what the world is like without terrifying them! Not to mention, I hate teenagers. I try to avoid talking to anyone between the ages of thirteen and seventeen because they give me that LOOK. I hate the LOOK.”
“What look?”
“Oh, you know the damn ‘I’m sixteen and I know everything, you’re old and know nothing’ look. I didn’t even know who Miley Fucking Cyrus was ‘til that drag queen did her at the Ruby Redd show.”
“Darlin’, these are not normal teenagers. These are freaky artist teenagers like you were. Just be real with them, and chill out.”
“But you’ll go?”
“Yes, I’ll find a way. I’ll be there.”
So it’s official. I’m off to California to shape the minds of tomorrow. Fancy that. Not bad a guy who just graduated a year ago. I begin compiling a mental list of pointers, like that guy from the “Everybody’s Free to Wear Sunscreen” song. Credit cards are not free cash. Don’t get a gym membership if you’re not going to actually go. Don’t come out to your parents on Mother’s Day. Don’t name your children after objects or U.S. states. Buy real pasta, not Ramen noodles. And most importantly, when a chance in life comes along that absolutely terrifies you, DO IT.

The Topher's Crown Affair

Dawn may not have been the prettiest girl my Mississippi hometown- that honor went to Sheri, a cheerleader who drove a red Trans Am with T-tops and married at a very early age. But there was something compelling about Dawn’s beauty, which seemed to have been achieved through sheer force of will. She’d done pageants her whole life, walking runways all over the state in hand-beaded gowns made by her florist father.
When I was in sixth grade, Dawn managed to work her way into the Miss Mississippi Pageant. The whole town was buzzing about it- Miss Mississippi had managed to snag the national title a few years prior, and with Dawn now in the running, Kosciusko was basically two steps away from being the hometown of an honest-to-God Miss America.
At her farewell party and "trunk show" in the Methodist Church Fellowship Hall, Dawn modeled all of her outfits for the upcoming week: Luncheon, interview, and of course evening gown, with her father at the podium providing commentary and insightful tidbits on his careful construction of each ensemble. Then Dawn sang some opera and we all had cake. It seemed so strange, watching Dawn taking delicate bites of cake and shaking hands in a bugle bead strapless gown, her face a mask of Mary Kay and her hair teased within an inch of its life. There wasn’t exactly a surplus of glamour in Attala County, so having this momentary insight into the life of a beauty queen was all rather exotic. There was a look in her eyes I’d never seen before- sort of a glazed expression of sanguine contentment which I now associate with all pageant girls and people tripping on mushrooms.
Sadly, Dawn was not destined to become Miss Mississippi. She had the will, but at the end of the day she lacked the genetics. Miss DeSoto County (who was freakin’ gorgeous) grabbed the crown, and went on to place 4th Runner-Up in nationals, but nobody was allowed to talk about it around town. The wounds were still too fresh, us having gotten so close and all. But even years later, after Dawn was working for the post office and her pageant days were behind her, she was forever cemented in my mind as the girl who might have been queen.
Dawn’s been on my mind lately, as I’ve accepted an invite to throw on a pair of size fourteen heels and work the runway as a debutante for this year’s Atlanta Cotillion. It’s a tremendous fundraiser for AID Atlanta, with a half-dozen fellas hosting events all summer long to raise money. There’s a ball in September, where Preppy has to put on a tux and escort me down the aisle, like a practice run for our wedding only I’m in a big dress. Then they announce who raised the most dough, and YOU GET A CROWN. Not a little tiara from Party City, mind you. I’m talkin’ a proper, glittering crown that Dawn from Mississippi would tackle me and try to steal.
I’d initially signed on as kind of a lark, thinking it might be a fun story. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized… I want that damn crown. How many times in life does a big awkward gay guy have the chance to be crowned anything?
“You realize you have to host big fabulous events, darling,” said my buddy George when I told him of my debutante status. “Like pool parties with DJs. You have to host events you wouldn’t necessarily be fabulous enough to attend.”
“If I show up somewhere in a swimsuit, people will start taking their money back. How do non-fabulous people raise money?”
“How on earth would I know what the non-fabulous do with their spare time? Cake walks and tag sales, from what I’ve seen on television. It’s not pretty.”
George was right. I’m not fabulous. Semi-fabulous at best. I don’t know what DJs people like, or enough guys who look good in Speedos. If I’m gonna win, it’ll take some serious creativity. Because I’m not just doing it for me. I’m doing it to send a note back to my hometown paper letting them know one of their own finally scored a crown. And following Dawn’s example, I will do it by sheer force of will.

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.

Label Maker

It is stunning to me that this far into my relationship with Preppy, we’re still introducing each other to significant people in our lives. A few nights ago we met up with old friends of his from out of town to grab a few beers and maybe play some pool. Everyone else was already in a booth when we arrived. After the girls squealed and the guys gave Preppy firm handshakes, he introduced me.
“Y’all, this is my fiancée.”
This was followed by more squeals and handshakes, but my head was already elsewhere entirely. A few months ago, I proposed, gave him a ring, he said yes. That means I’m a fiancée. Shit. I didn’t change his label. I’ve still been calling him my “boyfriend”, which sounds like we’re going to prom together, not like we have a mortgage and are currently planning a wedding.
Over the next few days I tried to use the new label, but every time it sounded like I was trying to awkwardly drop a foreign expression into my speech, like when Madonna says she and her family were “On holiday” instead of “On vacation”, like any other woman from freakin’ Michigan would say.
I’m a very pro-label person. I know that’s not a popular standpoint, because labels box you in and all that stuff. My buddy Scott, the transgendered performance artist, has built an entire career writing on the subject of how you can’t label him. I tried to be open-minded about that, but in the end I’ve just labeled him “Scott, the transgendered performance artist who doesn’t like labels.” He has become defined by his resistance to definition. That’s heavy stuff.
Preppy and I have been trying out churches, to see if we can find a good fit for both of us. I fell in love with an Episcopal parish that was very polished and ornate. That sense of formality happened to be what I liked about it. I don’t want a just-folks minister who tells everyone to “Just call me Debbie.” When it comes to who has Jesus on speed dial if I need some answers, I’d prefer someone I call Reverend or Preacher over Debbie. It just sounds wrong to me, like when I hear a nine year-old call his parents by their first names. If I’d ever tried calling my father “Cleve” when I was a kid, there would have been dire consequences. Authority figures have labels, like “Dad”, or “Senator”, or “Mistress of Pain”, as a sign of respect and a nod to tradition. And darn it, I think it really helps clear things up for people if you can give them a few keywords to associate with you.
For example, I label myself as “a writer”. That lets you know I spend a lot of time in a room by myself transcribing imaginary voices, that I probably smoke and/or drink lots of coffee, that I’m a little narcissistic, and I have no money and bad credit.

All of these things are true.

I am also “gay”, which is different from saying “queer”. I called myself “queer” when I had sex with women too. Eventually I retired from that, so I updated the label. I recently acquired a car and had to stop calling myself “a pedestrian”, which marked a huge change in my life, more significant in my mind than giving up that whole sleeping-with-ladies thing, because I actually miss being a pedestrian. The ladies not so much.
And now, another label is updated. I’m a fiancée, which doesn’t quite roll of the tongue because it’s this totally unprecedented event in my life. As we set a budget, and begin making plans about locations and attendants (did I mention my wedding is going to be fucking huge, or did you already guess that?), the label begins to feel more real. It’s very likely I’ll get used to it just in time to switch again and start calling him my “husband”. And when people hear that label, it’ll tell them something very specific about the two of us and our life together, and I like that. Just like “writer”, or “gay”, or “Southern”, it’s not really a label. It’s a TITLE- proof of who I am, and what I demand the world recognize.

Like a Good Neighbor

“You’ll never guess what happened,” says my mother on the phone. “You know that big old scary house out off Highway 80 in Edwards? Someone bought it.”
“Who? The Munsters? Gomez and Morticia Addams?”
“Even better,” she says, delighted. “We got gays!”
Edwards, Mississippi is the nearest “town”, and I’m using that term loosely, to the little lakeside retreat where my parents now reside. It’s got around a thousand people, so statistically they’ve probably had a few gays silently peppering their Podunk for a while. But these gays are different. They’re out and proud, they’re from New Orleans, and they’re apparently interested in restoring stately old homes in the middle of nowhere.
“Two of the girls from church saw them at the Stop-and-Shop the other day. One of them’s older, looks American, the other one’s younger. He’s Spanish or possibly a Latin person, and he wears those tight t-shirts like your friend George. Why do they do that? It can’t be comfortable.”
“Did the church ladies actually speak to them?”
“Well, no. The girls didn’t want to bother them. We all assume the gays are just going to keep to themselves.”
“Now, Mama. If it were any other new couple in town, you’d be over there with a housewarming gift before they signed the closing papers.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she says. “But I’ve never visited any gay people outside the family. You know, you and Preppy, or one of your cousins.”
“Come on, don’t you wanna be able to say you were the first one to meet them? And at the very least you can find out their names and stop calling them ‘The Gays’, which is really tacky.”
“Well, I could do a little basket. I have some pear honey put away, and there’s homemade bread in the freezer…”
Preppy and I have lived in our house since November, and nobody’s stopped by with a freakin’ bread basket. When my next door neighbor had a tree cut down in her back yard last month, Preppy and I did stand on the back deck and watch. Preppy also gave her a nod of greeting, which is something. The small-town boy in me cries out for neighborly interactions- borrowing of cups of sugar or various forms of yard-related equipment, or checking in on household pets while someone’s visiting their sick aunt in Delaware. My parents helped their next door neighbors capture fifty or so feral housecats which had taken up residence in the neighbors’ renovation-in-progress. My sister’s neighbors brought over heavy machinery to get her yard ready for a vegetable garden.

I want stories like that.
But after a decade of urban living, I’m just at a complete loss on how to get that ball rolling in the suburbs. I briefly consider the possibility of putting together my own gift basket and knocking on doors, but come on, y’all. That’s REALLY gay. I mean, like Clay Aiken-level gayness. I just don’t know if I can muster that kind of energy. I remember once when I was living in Midtown all the neighbors came out when a house caught on fire, and we all introduced ourselves. Someone showed up with beer, and it was a pleasant evening.

But I think my boyfriend would frown upon me resorting to arson just to get a block party started.
So basically, barring some sort of unifying disaster, I’ve gotta wait for a motivated lady to come knocking. I wish there were some way to get the word out to straights that it’s better for them to make the first move.
The next day, Mama calls me again.
“Well, get THIS,” she says. “Rodrigo, the one in the tight t-shirts, is an actor and model, though I don’t know what in the world he plans on doing with that in Edwards. Our entertainment industry isn’t exactly thriving, but I did tell him about the community theatre in Clinton. And they couldn’t have been sweeter, said they’d wanted to meet the neighbors but couldn’t decide how to approach it. And the other one, Frank, is a famous landscape architect. He designed Ann Rice’s private garden, and he’s coming over to look at our yard! I’m so EXCITED!”
“Well,” I say. “That sounds downright neighborly.”

This Is Woman's Work

We’ve seen Obama's “Hope for a brighter tomorrow” campaign before. Our very own Jimmy Carter was another idealistic Democrat who ran a campaign based on optimism and dreams for America’s future. Carter’s election was part of America’s recovery from Watergate- a complete changing of the guard in Washington. Carter didn’t play those political games. He was a plain-spoken peanut-lovin’ God-fearin’ sweet Southern gent who was gonna shake things up.
It didn’t work out that way. Those political games continued to be played, only he wasn’t qualified to participate. They handed him his ass and he was out of office in four years.
Idealism is all well and good, but we need someone who can do the damn job. I mean come on y’all, anyone who’s ever had fumbling, awkward sex with a virgin will tell you: experience does matter.
This year, we have the option of an experienced candidate: Senator Hillary Clinton.
Hillary has been stigmatized for her years of public service as First Lady. The comparison has been made that by Hillary’s standards, Laura Bush would be ready to lead our country on Day One. Well, no. Hillary used her position to further public policy, including broadening our reach internationally and her attempts to revolutionize the American health care industry. Laura has spent eight years sneaking Parliament Lights in the Rose Garden and perfecting an expression of glazed compliance Pat Nixon would have envied.
Hillary’s not perfect. No politician is. Hell, no person is. But she’s an advocate for us, and for so many other Americans who have spent the last eight years being completely ignored.
And then there’s Barack.
In one of the first Democratic debates, back when there were still like sixty people onstage vying for the nomination, the moderator brought up the subject of AIDS. Senator Joe Biden stressed the importance of everyone being tested, as both he and Barack Obama had done. Obama jumped in, clarifying that he had been tested for HIV with his wife, not with Senator Biden. Everyone onstage had a good chuckle at this, except for Hillary, whose face seemed to mirror my primary thought: “Was that really necessary, dickwad?” I mean, was there an actual risk of anyone thinking Barack and Joe had a little something kickin’ on the DL? Is it not okay for two straight guys to get tested together?
Oh, I get it. He was kidding. One of those little “gay panic” jokes which give people permission to laugh at us. I remember those from junior high. They’re an expression of fear and ignorance. Ha fucking ha.
Hillary Clinton has been the punch line of an endless number of dyke jokes over the years, and yet she doesn’t treat them as insults. Childish and pointless, but not hurtful. She still marches in our parades and defends our community. Plus, her fundraisers don’t include entertainment by a gospel singer who preaches about God delivering him from the “curse” of homosexuality, unlike Senator Obama’s tacit approval of Donnie McClurkin.
Like many of the straight people in her generation, Hillary’s still learning about us, and acknowledging mistakes of the past. Based on analysis from military advisors, her husband enacted the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy in our armed forces during his administration. The result was a disaster, and Senator Clinton is the first to admit it. It is far past time to honor the patriotism and sacrifice of gays and lesbians serving our country.

As Clinton herself said, “Soldiers need to shoot straight, not be straight.”
I don’t think Obama’s The Great Satan. I think he genuinely loves this country and has a lot of good ideas. But I fear that’s all they’ll ever be. We need a woman of action, with proof of her dedication.
Hillary fought to extend the Victims Compensation Fund to the partners of those who died in 9/11, an unprecedented act recognizing the lives we lead together have value. She piloted the mission to stop Republicans from writing discrimination into the Constitution. She intends to grant full federal benefits to same-sex couples (while leaving marriage laws up to individual states), and will assure nothing stands in the way of us adopting children in need.
She respects us. She represents us. And if all goes well, she’s got my vote.

Match Game

I’m sitting at my desk, on the phone with my sister Shannon.

We’re both reading personal ads on the internet.
“Ooh! This one sounds perfect,” says Shannon. “Stephanie likes NPR, Red Stripe, and Gators games.”
“The Gators are football, right?”
“Yes, you big mo, Gators are football. I like Stephanie. Go look at her picture.”
I click on Stephanie’s picture. She has 80s mall bangs, like Joan Cusack in Working Girl.
“Shannon, I refuse to consider any woman whose bangs require a round brush and a half hour of Aqua Net application. Just on principle.”
“I think you’re being too picky.”
“I liked Monica better,” I say. “She’s a single mother. That means lots of dates at her house. And Stephanie doesn’t smoke. Nelson smokes.”
“Wait, let me go back and see if anyone responded to our flirt messages.”
My cousin Nelson, who lives with my boyfriend Preppy and me, has been treading water in the dating pool for the last few months. I’m not sure what happens when he goes to a bar by himself, but lemme tell ya what doesn’t happen: fucking. Preppy and I figured that since all of our gay friends have at least one straight girl on speed dial, we’d have Nelson paired off with a hot chick in no time, but no such luck. So Nelson’s been spending a lot of time at home going stir-crazy, asking Preppy what he’s doing every thirty-five seconds and preparing elaborate sushi dinners at nine in the morning.
It’s not his fault. He went to an all-boy’s school, which my buddy Zack says sounds just heavenly, but did little to improve his game with the ladies. He’s a nice guy who happens to struggle with the initial approach.
So, inspired by my Aunt Trish’s recent foray into online dating, Shannon and I have opened a personal ad in our cousin Nelson’s name. I know I’ve said I’m against matchmaking, but the situation called for desperate measures. We answered the questionnaire as honestly as possible, determining how Nelson would describe himself, and then improving that statement ever-so-slightly. I also edited his profile pic in Adobe Photoshop. Nothing on the Mariah Carey scale, I just fixed the lighting a bit and gave him a tan.
A few nights later, I report our efforts while I’m out having drinks with the boys.
“Hi, my name is Topher,” says my buddy George. “And I have serious control issues.”
“I do not! I’m trying to help him meet people! Preppy will tell you, Nelson needs to get out more.”
“It’s true, he does,” says Preppy. “But not if he’s gonna be hanging out with chain-smoking single mothers from E-Harmony just so we can have a night alone. And what will these girls do when they find out all the great e-mails they’ve been getting are really from you and your sister?”
“We’ll work it out. It’ll be like Cyrano.”
“Darling,” George concludes. “You can’t assign a plotline to Nelson’s life.”
“Damn it George, I’m not assigning a plotline. I’m just introducing new characters.”
Back at the house, as I inspect the desperately eager faces of the girls who’ve responded to our carefully-constructed personal ad, I begin to feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe Nelson should be getting a girl on his own, even if it takes a little longer and I’m apprehensive about the results. Plus, if I remember correctly, both of the guys in Cyrano wound up dead at the end of the story, and that’s not promising.
Unless…
What if I found him a girl, and TOLD her that we’d created a fake profile for him? And then I could introduce her to him as some friend of mine, whom I’ve never mentioned before for a reason I can’t determine just yet.
“Dear Stephanie,” I write. “I know this will sound strange, but I’m not the man whose picture is posted on this profile. I’m his cousin. But you seemed really nice…”

Like a Prayer

For about four months in sixth grade, I was in the school band. I played the clarinet. Badly. I was encouraged/forced to join the band because I didn’t participate in sports, and my parents felt it was important I be part of some sort of extracurricular. I eventually stopped going to band practice, and spent that period sitting in Mrs. LeVert’s classroom, writing stories. That was the real bitch of it all: I actually had an outside interest, it was just one that involved me sitting by myself and transcribing the voices in my head.
After the failed band experiment, I was led to the school chorus, which was made up entirely of students who had displayed no ability with musical instruments or athletics.

Our first concert was held at the same church where my sister would marry a gay man just a few short years later.

During a medley of Disney’s movie hits, I fainted. Marie Osmond passing out on Dancing with the Stars may have led you to believe that everyone gracefully wilts to the floor when they lose consciousness. Not so. My thirteen-year old pudgy body fell face-forward in to a display of potted mums. It was broadcast on local cable access, so I was able to relive it several times.
Having exhausted all after-school activities with humiliating results, I turned my attention to the Methodist Church. I did Sunday School, Wednesday night fellowship, mission trips, youth retreats to exotic locales like Camp Lake Stephens and Biloxi, and pretty much anything else they were up to when the doors were open. First Methodist was MY church. I’d explored every inch of it and knew where everything was, so if I ever needed a snack I’d help myself to the grape juice and tasty wafers they kept in the downstairs kitchen for communion.

Yes, I used to snack on the Body of Christ.
Church was the only place I really felt comfortable being myself. I believed in what I was told and found solace in the acceptance of God and The Church. As a teen I considered the possibility of one day becoming a pastor, if I could get over that passing-out-in-front-of-crowds thing. I loved the idea of spending my days helping people love and support each other. Aside from those stolen communion wafers, I’d thought I was on pretty good terms with God.
So color me surprised when I found out I’d grown up to be a sinner, or at least a tragic error. Don’t get me wrong- I was never actively dismissed from my hometown church, and still maintain close ties with a few people there. But I could never be fully embraced, because their doctrine made it quite clear that who I feel compelled to be is just plain wrong. My boyfriend Preppy had the same experience with his Southern Baptist congregation (where he was, I kid you not, the head of their puppet ministry), and we both made the same decision:

Love the sinner, hate the sin was not good enough. We walked away.
So for the last ten years, it’s just been God and me. It’s a more casual relationship, and much like the other people in my life I can go long periods without communicating. But since I proposed to Preppy, I’ve had church on the brain again.
“I want a real minister for our wedding,” I said the other night. “Not somebody ordained on the internet, I mean a real live person of the cloth who visits sick people in hospitals and stuff.”
“We can do that,” said Preppy. “I can Google gay-inclusive churches.”
Preppy just got a new laptop computer. Now he likes to Google everything.
“You know, if you find one that looks interesting, we could go to a service. Put on our Sunday best and check it out.”
“Aw, darlin. You wanna go back to church?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Old feelings begin to stir- that hope of belonging to a community again. It feels a little like a homecoming.
God, I hope I don’t pass out.

Leader of the Pack

The first problem is just the mere fact that I’m driving, which always leads to trouble. My brain isn’t wired to process information while traveling at high speeds. I was meant to experience the world on foot. But here I am, driving Preppy’s car, completely lost in Buckhead on a Sunday morning.

My parents have one of those GPS thingys that tells you where your next turn is and how close you are to a Piccadilly, which they refer to as “The Woman”. Driving with them is really entertaining since “The Woman” entered their relationship, as my mother views her as an ally, and my father believes the disembodied vaguely British voice is in cahoots with his wife to undermine his authority.
“Cleve, take the next exit,” Mama will say. “The Woman said there’s road construction on I-55.”
“Will you just let me drive? I know what I’m doing. (long pause) Well, damn.”
“We told you, Cleve. Why won’t you listen to The Woman?”
“Hush up, both of you.”
I could sure use The Woman right now. Barring that, I go with my next best option and call my pal Slutty Mandy.
“For God’s sake,” she says. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Topher, there’s a little something single people enjoy called Saturday nights. Think back and you’ll remember.”
“I’m lost in Buckhead, and I’m gonna be late for a birthday party. Can you MapQuest an address for me?”
“If you must know, I’m not even at my house. Just follow Peachtree ‘til it turns into something else, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I can’t be late. It’s an eleven year-old girl I used to babysit, and a bunch of girls from Morningside Elementary got bumped from the guest list so I could be there. And if I don’t find it soon, all the Jesus People are gonna clog up the road and I’m screwed.”
Slutty Mandy heaves a great sigh.
“Preppy really shouldn’t let you drive alone. Tell me the next intersection you see.”
With Slutty Mandy’s reluctant assistance, I make my way to Atlanta Rocks, an indoor rock-climbing facility nestled in the back of an office park. I enter to the strains of a dozen squealing preteen girls rappelling from the ceiling, which is really quite startling if you haven’t braced yourself for it.
“Mister Topher!” says the guest of honor. “You’re gonna climb, aren’t you?”
I’m fitted for my harness, and take my place in line, looking quite conspicuous amongst my fellow party guests. The pecking order within the bunch is quickly obvious- all the girls are following edicts issued by a red-headed girl named Brantley. She keeps casting me furtive looks as she whispers to the other girls. I think she’s wearing lip gloss. I instantly dislike her.
One of her minions runs over to me.
“IS YOUR NAME GOPHER?”
“No. It’s Topher. Mister Topher.”
“Brantley said your name is GOPHER.”
“Sweetie. Don’t listen to Brantley. In fact, just make that a rule for living.”
She goes back to report this encounter to her queen. I knew a Brantley when I was eleven- the girl who always had the latest clothes and was French kissing boys in Junior High before she hit her teens. Theirs is a much more indirect form of bullying- a quiet, calculated delight in other people’s misery combined with an unerring sense of stylish superiority. What the Brantleys of the schoolyard fail to realize is that the sissies they make fun of are carefully studying their behavior, in order to emulate it in gay bars a decade later.
I couldn’t stand those little girls when I was a kid, and I don’t much care for the bar bitches they inspired. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m always dubious of the leader of the pack, seeing as I’m the son of a man who doubts the wisdom of his GPS navigator. But there’s a lot to be said for breaking rank and following your own path.
“You’re only supposed to climb on the red ones!” Brantley shouts at the birthday girl as she scales the wall.
“Shut up, Brantley, I like the yellow ones!” she hollers back, and continues climbing.

I beam with pride.

Smart girl. I’ve taught her well.

Playing Cupid

My Aunt Trish recently shed three hundred pounds in a single day. She got rid of her absolutely worthless husband. And by “got rid of”, I mean she divorced the son of a bitch, not that she killed him. Although if she had killed him, I would have happily driven to Mississippi with a shovel and a tarp to take care of that body.
You know those people you really, really hate, but you have to be polite because they’re married to someone you love? Well, her husband wasn’t one of those people. He was an ass, and I was never shy about making certain he knew that. He’s one of those straight guys who are so completely terrified of gay people that it has festered into a powerful hatred. I knew this, and I delighted in and took advantage of his fear whenever possible.

Ours was a relationship of mutual distaste.
And now, like a bad dream, or a bout with Chlamydia, he’s gone. Poof! Ding Dong! Every time I think about this, I do a little dance inside. It will take a while to completely erase him from my memory, but I’m more than happy to work at it.
Aunt Trish called this week because, suddenly sixty and single but still sassy, she’s decided to delve into the world of internet dating. After discovering most men won’t talk to a woman without a photo to offer, she enlisted my aid.
“I wish I could put a picture of Sigourney Weaver. She’s very attractive,” she said.
“True, but it’d be awkward explaining that when you actually meet.”
“Well, do you have any good pictures from Christmas? Something where I look young? The men my age all date women in their forties. I guess I’m supposed to date men in their eighties. They won’t be any fun.”
“It’s a Viagra world now. Everyone can still be fun.”
“Well, I don’t the bastard to die on me before I’m finished.”
Isn’t it neat when you’re grown up and you find out which of your relatives talk dirty?
Trish has turned to the internet because she has no interest in the widowers and divorced men her Mississippi matron friends have been suggesting. I’m always doubtful of people playing Cupid. Matchmaking is inefficient because we’re all unwilling to admit whatever it is we’re REALLY looking for in a mate. My sister Shannon was attracted to her husband because he seemed like a jerk on the outside, but turned out to be a big softie. She wanted a man who was unafraid to tell her “No,” and she’d respect enough to listen. But how do you tell that to a friend? “Jennifer, go find me an asshole who bosses me around.” I liked Preppy instantly because he knew what he wanted (in that case, me), and was direct in getting it- we kissed before even exchanging names. But if you told me you had a friend for me, and that was how he introduced himself, my inner Julia Sugarbaker would be appalled by his lack of social decorum.
Maybe you want a spineless type who will fulfill your demands without question, or a fella who’s a little less attractive than you so you’ll always feel pretty. These are not the traits you’re going to list when a friend asks, “What kind of guy are you looking for?” And that’s why matchmaking usually doesn’t work.
But in Aunt Trish’s case, we have a glorious opportunity. There’s no risk involved in being forthright on an internet chat, and none of your friends have to know what you’re into. I tell her she should go ahead and be very clear on what she’s looking for when she writes her profile.
“Very clear in what way?”
“Well,” I say. “I’d definitely put it out there that you expect them to survive sleeping with you. If there’s doubt there, you’d wanna know.”
“Oh! That might intrigue them, let them know I’m a hellcat.”
That’s something she’s unlikely to share with the Mississippi matrons. I like her style: Just throw some dirty talk out there and see if any healthy boys bite. Sometimes the tried and true methods really are best.

As You Like It

Preppy and I are dining out, having a fine time. He’s having pasta. I went for the duck. As I’m going on about the week in celebrity tragedies, I notice he keeps glancing at my plate.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Remember that time we went to Piedmont Park and fed the ducks? Remember how cute they were?”
“Eat your pasta.”
“I’m just sayin’. You think your dinner knew those ducks? Maybe they were friends.”
“I wonder if his friends are this savory and delicious.”
I return to my meal. Until Preppy starts throwing pieces of bread at it.
“Quaaaack.”
I threaten him with my fork. We return to the meal.
When I first met my boyfriend, he described himself as a “pretty much vegetarian.” I found this compelling, as I was unaware there were varying degrees. I thought it was like being “pretty much pregnant.” That is to say, you either are or you ain’t. But Preppy explained that after many years of being unable to order anything at fast food restaurants, he’d amended his vegetarianism to allow for creatures of the sea. So these days, he just doesn’t eat anything with feet.
Years of working in restaurants left me mystified by people’s requests. When I was a server, I’d get the occasional vegan asking what their options were on the menu. I’d offer them a refreshing glass of water. Or people asking if there’s dairy in the mashed potatoes. Of course there is. Why on earth would you think otherwise? No self-respecting potato below the Mason-Dixon Line would allow itself to be mashed without copious amounts of butter and milk. And swear I never even heard of anyone allergic to gluten until the mid-nineties. Is that a new thing? How do you create a new allergy? Gluten’s been around as long as there’s been food. Why the sudden trouble?
This is why I wasn’t a very good waiter.

Because when I’d encounter such people, I was unable to suppress my need to know more, and I’d ask them to explain themselves. And then I’d offend them by saying something like, “Why does it matter where the chicken was raised? It’s a little late to worry about its quality of life now,” and they’d get offended, my manager would have to give them a free dessert, and I’d get a stern lecture about not interrogating the customers.
Preppy’s diet left me deeply troubled when we were first dating. Why fish and not pork? Is it because it’s easier to picture a mammal having a personality? I saw “Finding Nemo.” Fish are very droll and observant creatures with extraordinarily eventful lives. And for that matter, look at those “Veggie Tales” characters I keep seeing on posters at bus stops. You can anthropomorphize anything if you put a pair of googly eyes on it and give it a few witty lines of dialogue; I see no reason to let that ruin your dinner.
Living with him has been a really healthy development for me in this arena. My attachment to Preppy forces me to defend his self-imposed dietary restrictions, despite the fact that were it anyone else, I would consider it patently absurd. When I first explained it to my mother, who would kill a cow with her bare hands if it was the only way she could make brisket for Sunday dinner, it just blew her damn mind.
“But why?” she kept asking, and no explanation would suffice.
“Because that’s what he likes, Mama,” I said finally, and she had no argument for that.
Actually, “Because I like it,” is a pretty solid justification in any awkward scenario. Picture it: “Why do you only eat raw food?” “Why do you smoke?” “Why did you paint this room orange?” “Why do you have sex with other dudes?”
“Because I like it.”
Sure, they could exhaust themselves with inquiry or implore you to change your mind, but when it comes down to it, if you stand firm with that simple explanation it’s a tough one to topple. As I finish my delicious duck, and my boyfriend flaps his arms and quacks at me, I decide to use it more often. Feel free to do the same.
Try it, you might like it.

Shut Up and Drive

I’m in a parking lot, on the phone with Preppy’s mother. I’m enlisting her aid in some undercover work.
“Oh, Topher darlin’, I just don’t know,” she says. “I know his shoe size, I used to know his waist size, but this… I just don’t know.”
“Well, there’s no way I can ask him without him knowing exactly what I’m doing.”
“Just let me think, honey. Okay, I can tell him we’re going through some of his Granddaddy’s things, seein’ if there’s anything he might want, and work it into the conversation. I’ll be real subtle.”
There’s a tap at my window. A humorless, boxy woman stands with a clipboard, looking impatient.
“Gotta go, Mama B. Make me proud.”
I hang up the phone and roll down the window.
“Please turn on your left turn signal,” she says, and I oblige.
I’ve spent a thrilling day at the Department of Driver Services, which was called the DMV the last time I was here. They changed their name, I’m assuming, to distance themselves from the DMV’s less-than-stellar reputation for customer service. Well, they could call themselves the Department of Unicorns and Blowjobs if they wanted to, but they’d still be a big pain in the ass.
I stopped driving several years ago, in part because I lived a block away from work and the hassle just seemed silly, and in part because of my belief, and this is an actual quote, that “Nobody in their right mind would pay $1.75 for gas.”

Silly me. If only I’d known.
So for roughly six years, I’ve walked or caught MARTA, or bummed rides from friends if we were going somewhere out of the ordinary. This worked just fine until our adventure in homelessness last fall, when Preppy and I stayed with friends in Smyrna, and he had to cart me back and forth to Atlanta every day. And he began to go a little crazy, like my mother when she’d tell my sister and me that her name was not “Taxi”. It was then that he suggested it might be convenient if I joined the ranks of licensed drivers once more. I resisted.
“Atlanta drivers are out for blood,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stamina to keep up anymore.”
“I know it’s scary, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re brave and bold and you can do it, now I'm gonna need you to go get your fucking license.”
I want to make something very, very clear: I do not want to drive. The whole image of the open road representing freedom and possibility? It does nothing for me. I don’t think cars are sexy. The whole enterprise just feels unsafe and expensive. But I cannot deny the appeal of a twenty-minute trip home by car, versus two interminable hours on MARTA. Besides, I can still convince Preppy to do most of the driving when we’re together- he just wants the option of not always being behind the wheel, maybe occasionally having a designated driver on a night out. But I know what this will lead to.

I’ll get the license, and then I’ll end up getting a car. And then I’ll have insurance to deal with, plus gas, which I think is like sixteen bucks a gallon now.
I can stress about it, or I can go with the flow. It’s a small concession I’m more than willing to make if it removes a little hassle from Preppy’s life. And that’s how I choose to view it: I’m in the car with this very stern woman, attempting to parallel park without wetting myself, as a gift to the boy I love.
That night, as I stare in slight disbelief at my driver’s license, my phone rings. It’s Preppy’s Mama.
“His ring size is ten and a half,” she says, delighted. “Did you already pick it out?”
“I saved a picture of it on my computer. I look at it ten times a day.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little. But we did just buy a house together, so I feel like it’s a safe bet, you know? I guess tomorrow I’ll drive over and get it.”
“Aw, you’ll DRIVE. That’s exciting! Things are certainly changing for you two!”
As I look at the ring with which I plan to propose, I realize Mama B has just made the understatement of the New Year.