Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,23

rich, gated neighborhood outside of Dallas? Shouldn’t he be in Hollywood?

I hear some boxes fall over, and I jump out of the beanbag—not easy to do—stepping over stacks of paper to get to him. Ted is still standing, holding on to a wobbling bag of golf clubs. He’s a little spacey. Victor brushes past me and puts his arm gently around Ted’s shoulders. “I think it’s time for you to rest.”

Victor leads him out of the room, and I’m left wondering what to do next. I can barely organize the apps on my phone. I hit the beanbag again and feel my pocket vibrate. There’s a text from Max: Dude. What is going on?

Max is my best friend. We met at the back-to-school mixer at the Dallas LGBTQIA Center last year. I’m still shocked that I went to that dance alone. Sometimes I can surprise myself with my courage. Max and I instantly bonded over playing pool, being too shy to talk to girls, and being transgender. It’s been helpful to have a friend who is going through the same things as me. He also introduced me to his queer circle of friends.

I text back: Currently at dying actor’s house making a few dollars . . .

MAX: Excuse me, what?

PONY: And I think I have a crush

MAX: On the dying actor?

PONY: Ha. No.

MAX: Drop a pin, man. I am on the way to save you!

It’s true. If I needed anything at all, Max would be there to help.

PONY: How’s your week going?

MAX: Planning a takeover of the Plano community board Monday night!!! The bullying will be addressed!!! You in?

PONY: I would! But I have to work . . .

I don’t have to work on Monday night, but I am excited to have a valid excuse to get out of things now.

MAX: You suck. What is this job? What is this crush?

I’m not doing this over text.

PONY: IHOP at 8?

MAX: YASSSS!

And another text with ten pride-flag emojis.

I peel myself out of the beanbag chair and immediately knock over a stack of film canisters.

What did I get myself into here? I weave around boxes and trash bags of clothes, trying to find some order in this chaos. A padded envelope filled with yellowing Polaroid photos catches my eye. I fish my hand in, grab a handful of photos, and start flipping through them. A tanned Ted London at a fancy pool party. A satisfied Ted London leaning on an expensive car. A tuxedoed Ted London at a formal event. The people who surround him are all beautiful and happy and rich. What a life.

I get to the last photo of the pile and see someone I do recognize. I say out loud to nobody, “Holy shit, John Travolta!”

“No, just me, Victor!”

I turn around and see Victor standing behind me with an iced tea in each hand.

“Thanks,” I say, still in shock. I reach for the drink and kick over a bag, photos spilling all over the carpet.

“Mr. London was quite famous in his time, yes he was . . .” Victor crouches down and pushes around the photos while sipping his straw. “He knew everybody. Started getting bigger movie roles. He was on his way.”

“Then what happened?” I ask.

Victor stops and stands up, looking me dead in eyes. “Not everyone gets to the top, Pony.”

“I think I read that in a fortune cookie,” I say.

Victor ignores my joke and picks up a photo from the ground. “He had the most beautiful wife,” he says, handing me the Polaroid. It’s an elated Ted London kissing a blindingly beautiful woman.

“What happened to them?”

“Divorced.”

“Too bad. So my payment is two hundred and fifty dollars per room, right?”

“Correct. With my final inspection. I’ll pay you at the end of every other week.”

I do some quick math: $25,000 (the cost of the surgery) divided by $250. Shit, that’s one hundred rooms. “And how many rooms need to be organized?” I ask.

Victor shrugs. “Ten?”

My heart sinks.

He claps his hands twice and says, “OK, get to work!”

I spend an hour stacking boxes and having a panic attack about how much money I need to have my surgery. I sneak out of Ted’s house undetected by Victor, but it doesn’t matter; I don’t have set hours.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the IHOP parking lot at eight on the dot. As usual, I’m on time, and Max is late. He goes to a liberal arts high school in Fort Worth, about an hour away from me, so we meet in