The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,28
the underwear on her.
I have this urge to scream. It’s so weird. It’s just my wives being silly. But the treadmill is still running, and anyway, I said no. They do not have my permission. It’s like they just came in and took over, and suddenly I want them gone. That’s never happened before.
But I can’t say that. So I sit down on my bed and say, “So how do I play this thing with Max? Us both being gay and all?”
Pam succeeds in getting my underwear on Dorcas, who looks both ridiculous and pissed. My stomach turns. I was kidding earlier, when I said they were objectifying her. But now I sort of feel that way. I want to protect her from being dressed against her will. I can’t. I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
“Just forget he’s gay,” Kayla says. “Not just because he’s a dude blow. Ha! Dude blow! Classic! You just — you don’t shit where you eat. And you eat on that food truck.”
“I don’t eat there,” I say.
“Um, hello, Captain Oblivious. I meant it as a metaphor. You need the food truck to work in order to eat. So don’t, like, shit there.”
“Ew,” I whisper. “Stop.”
Pam says, “Or maybe eat just a little. Like, no strings attached. Because he’s hot so it’s okay. God do I wish I were a gay guy. You have all the fun.”
I don’t even respond to Pam’s messed-up-ness with a look. Instead I can’t help but think about the point-counterpoint they’ve given me. First off, they’re jumping the gun. But yeah, Max is kinda hot. And we’ll be spending all this time together, and now the barrier is gone because we both know the other is gay, and I wonder: What would he think of me? If I had to guess, he wouldn’t. Think of me. I’d be like this annoying skinny dude with acne that he has to spend time with. But it isn’t like he’s been dismissing me, exactly. A couple times, I’ve actually wondered why a guy like him would listen to a guy like me as boss, because I’m so — I don’t know. Not boss-like, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and everything he does is so — masterful. Like he belongs in the world, whereas I belong on some heretofore uninhabitable planet that dude bros have been taught to avoid like the plague.
“Careful,” Pam says, elbowing me in the ribs. “Your brain just exploded. You’ve just married Max, haven’t you? Where are you two living?”
“Have not,” I say, but I suppress a smile because, yeah. I could imagine that fantasy, at least.
“Who the hell buys a Choco Taco?” Zay-Rod asks as we scan the ice-cream freezer at my local Circle K. It’s late Friday afternoon, the day before the new and improved Coq Au Vinny gets reintroduced to the world at the Gilbert Farmers’ Market, and I’m trying to make sure to enjoy every second of my free time.
“I thought that was a Mexican thing,” Betts says, and Zay-Rod and I share a look.
“It’s a Mexican thing like Taco Bell is Mexican food,” Zay-Rod says.
“Oh come on. Doritos Locos? That shit’s the bomb!” Betts says as he grabs a Klondike.
We don’t even need to comment on that one. I grab a Twix, because caramel. Zay-Rod, an ice-cream purist, picks himself a Drumstick.
After we pay the lady with the scratchy cigarette voice, we unwrap our treats and start the walk back to my place. We’re pooling. My mom is the favorite mom; she grills the best hot dogs and makes the best tamales, so it’s usually our pool where we hang, and we usually wait until she just happens to be home from work. There’s that sizzling summer noise that’s actually cicadas but sounds like the sidewalk is blazing, and I can feel the sun attacking the skin on the back of my neck as we walk up Noche de Paz toward my street. My Twix ice-cream bar is immediately softer than it should be due to the heat, so I snarf it down in two bites. Olives that have fallen off trees and have been ground into the sidewalk dot the asphalt, and we have to step over an occasional gray and dying palm frond.
“So here’s my imitation of Zay-Rod doing a slam poem,” Betts says, handing me his Klondike. He keeps walking and he clasps his hands in front of his chest, which is actually what Zay-Rod always