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Sir Ferret of Windbreakersham.
Dennis seemed like the kind of guy who spent an hour and a half waiting for a pizza delivery because the restaurant had forgotten his order. The kind of guy whose wife had divorced him by changing all the locks in the house while he was at work and just counting on him not to protest. He couldn’t credibly have told a dog to sit.
he looked like a genetic hybrid of Teddy Roosevelt and that guy who cut his arm off when it got trapped by that boulder.
And then marry me and become my forever companion—except don’t, because relationships are doomed and marriage is an outdated and restrictive institution and hope is futile.
Gould just had a face like he’d struggled to overcome some unthinkable obstacle in his past. Even though I was pretty sure the only thing he’d ever actually struggled through prior to a year and a half ago was God of War III in Chaos mode.
I would have accepted literally any other explanation for Bill’s presence in Riddle last night, from Spider-Man’ed up the side of the building to apparated.
People called me a twink, but Ricky made me look like Tom Selleck freebasing Rogaine. Vietnamese, 5’5, hairless, and so thin he could have worn a wedding ring as a belt,
“There was this mountain man guy there on Friday.” I fired up the laptop. “I, like, wanted to have his children and shave his face but also feel his mustache sanding my balls and have him teach me how to smoke venison. It was a bounty of contradictions.” Kamen’s brow knit. “You want to have children?” “No, not at all; I want to die alone and unloved. Anyway, I thought he looked familiar.
“Guys usually ask me how I am,” Kamen said. “Of course they do. Your profile sounds like little orphan Annie grew up and married the sun and they had a child made entirely of the unblemished souls of infant animals.”
“Take me home, sweetheart. I always wanted to get it from the Brawny paper towel guy.”
There is nothing more tragic, David, than the death of the American man.” “I’ll bet if you really tried, you could think of something more tragic.”
“I like being a modern man. I like being able to talk about my feelings and watch Pixar movies with my dude friends.”
I actually like ‘the Subs Club’ as a name.” Kamen nodded. “We’re like the Baby-Sitters Club. Except instead of babysitting, we’re face-sitting.” “Kamen, gross,” I said. “Now I’ll never be able to read the Baby-Sitters Club books the same way again.”
He stared at me levelly. Then headed toward the kitchen. “‘I am no man’s man,’” he said. “‘I bark at no man’s bid.’” “What?” “Davy Crockett.” He turned back to me. “Are you coming?” Probably not anytime soon if you’re gonna quote Davy Crockett at me.
“What is this?” I asked. “Breakfast for dinner.” He picked up a knife. “That’s not breakfast. That’s like you went Zodiac on Old MacDonald’s entire farm.”
“Whatever kale chips are, I cannot imagine they would improve my life.” “I hear Davy Crockett was a big fan.” “You heard no such thing.”
“Where do you work?” I asked him. “The Tent Pole.” “Pretty sure I used to go to a gay bar by the same name.”
“Do you look like Teddy Roosevelt on purpose?” “That was God’s fine doing.”
I grinned wickedly. “Don’t smile like that. It makes me nervous.” “It’s cute, though. Right?” “Unlikely animal friends are cute. You are terrifying.”
I walked to my car half in love with him and half wishing he’d go climb Katahdin again and fall off.
Gould’s parents were like Scooby Doo villains. They weren’t mean, exactly, but you could totally picture them haunting an amusement park in order to get ahold of an inheritance. They seemed kind of ruthless, but in an almost comic way. Like they could easily be thwarted by an unkempt pothead and his intensely phobic Great Dane.
he looks like a young Davos Seaworth mixed with Teddy Roosevelt from the Night at the Museum movies.” “And from history,” Gould said quietly. “Right.”
“Teased Miles about dressing like the girl from the old Footloose before she gets slutty,”
“Any reactions I should know about?” “I whine a lot. And yell that the agony of a thousand plagues is inside me. I sometimes also beg for the mercy of a swift death.”
I had suspected since our first meeting that there was more to him than bacon and silence.
Sometimes I wanted to tell my friends what it was like to love them. See if they experienced it the same way—like it was something rare and ridiculous and amazing and terrifying. I was always wondering if they were happy, or if they felt lonely. If there were things each of them couldn’t share, even with the rest of the group.
“I’ve been bad all weekend. Hung up on my mom. Kicked a puppy. Totaled a car. Slashed some kid’s trampoline. Shoplifted.” “You’ve had a busy two days.”
“Is a pteranosquid . . .?” “A pteranodon with gills and tentacles that terrorizes both air and sea, yes.” He didn’t look up from his phone. “And a pegasaurus is . . .” “A Pegasus that is part dinosaur. These things, David, are often exactly what they sound like.” “Just making sure.”
“A screenplay.” I wanted to make sure I’d heard right. “For a Syfy movie. About a creature called a crocopython—” “Shut up.” “—which terrorizes a group of people on a small island designated for scientific research.” “Oh. My. God. Where is the screenplay?” “Where you will never find it.” “You have to show it to me.” “I will do no such thing.”
“But that’s how low-budget monster movies work. Also, you can’t name your characters Tom, Alice, and Frank. What is this, See Spot Run? They need crazy names. Who’s the main character?” “Tom.” “Okay, he’s now Jake Mandragon. Frank is Tank Kevlar. And Alice is Dr. Brittany Sands.
“I want you to be an internet meme.” “I don’t know what that means.” “I don’t expect you to.”
How do you feel about manties?” “I do not know what you’re talking about, nor do I care to find out.” “They’re panties for men. Lingerie.” He reached for his mug and took a sip of coffee, never breaking eye contact with me. Then he got up, went to the counter and poured himself a whiskey. Knocked it back and stared at me once more. “I have erased your last words from my memory. Let’s go to the den.” “Uh-uh. I don’t care if you think you’re goddamn John Wayne. You are a modern man, living in the here and now, and you will accept that men sometimes wear panties and it’s awesome.” “Stop saying
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“I prefer dudes, okay? I’m just saying I don’t mind, once in a while . . .” “Playing with a lady.” He looked up and snagged a chip shard out of my salsa. “Right.” “It’s a little something different. It’s your summer home.” “My volunteer job on the weekends.” He licked salsa off his thumb. “It’s the expensive restaurant you treat yourself to once in a while.”
I wanted him to feel like I was right there in bed with him, annoying the living fuck out of him. But every time I texted, he texted right back,
“Son, you have a lot going for you,” D told Kamen. “A fantastic physique, a marketable brand of creativity, and a wide range of practical interests. You ought to start thinking of yourself as a ‘Matthew’ or ‘George.’”
“I don’t want to stop at six sessions,” I whispered. “Me either.” Okay. Okay, wow. Fine. Great, yes. Pornstache and Little d 4evs.
“We’re doing a table read,” I announced. “Of your script.” D whipped around to face me. It was possibly the fastest I’d ever seen him move. “What?” Oh God. Please don’t freak out. “I thought it would be fun for you to see your work brought to life.” “My . . .?” He sounded incredulous. I hoped in a good way. “Crocopython,”
I was scared of this huge capacity that I had for love, and for hope, and for forgiveness. And for hurting people.
Maybe, I thought, there was something at least a little brave, a little grown-up, about knowing what you needed and asking for it. About being vulnerable in front of people who could cover you with a new kind of strength. A strength that wasn’t about hiding your moments of fear and uncertainty and stupidity, but was about being a whole person, boldly.
“He’s been acting really weird lately,” Gould said. I yawned. “Maybe he’s a superhero.” “CIA,” Gould whispered. “A time traveler.” “Having an affair with a married man,” Kamen murmured from the floor.
“Hey, Dave. What if the most dangerous game . . .” He waited until I looked at him, his expression dead serious. “Is love?” We held the stare for a few seconds, and then we both burst out laughing. “You’re an idiot.” “Okay, but seriously, it might be.”
Oh my fucking God. Love really is the most dangerous game. And I want to play it. “I think I’m hard for danger,” I whispered.
This is it, Pornstache. We need to make some decisions. About wainscoting and test-tube babies and canes and how to give each other the best lives.
