gender politica ii

Try not to

Panic.

The tip of the thinly rolled joint glows the way blood might when caught in just the right amount of moonlight seeping into the room from beyond the open window.   A bath towel is stuffed into the space between the bottom of the room’s door and the carpeted floor.   The darkness in the room is interrupted by a battle between the lunar light and the consuming ember of the joint pressed to someone’s lips.

     “So what do I do?” a shape is asking me in a kind of vague and emptily urgent voice.  

Suddenly, as quickly as the itching in my eyes sweeps over me, I can’t seem to remember how I got here.   It’s like picking up in the middle of a movie, a book, life.   Something has been misplaced, forgotten, lost along the way.   You can feel its absence and a longing for what has been lost, but that emptiness has no name.  

“So what do I do?” a voice that belongs to Christian repeats, passing the joint to the person sitting Indian-style on the carpet beside him.   It’s Jack, who breathes next from the joint and then sparks at the tip with a lighter, inhaling again.

I’m blinking wildly, trying to self-focus my eyes to this thickening darkness.   I’m lost.   “Wait, wait.   Whoa.”   My voice sounds strange and alien coming from my mouth.   “Explain this all to me again,” I say, faking some kind of concern.

“Yeah, do it again,” Jack sighs, finally exhaling a thick plume of smoke.  

I’m wondering if maybe he doesn’t care either.   If maybe no one does, ever has, or ever will.   Jack passes the joint to me and in the lacking light, I burn a finger in the exchange.  

Christian clears his throat and in a low and almost whispered voice, I hear him say, “She’s like, I love you, and then I have to say, I love you, too.”  

Calmly, Jack leans back, pillowing his head with his hands.   “You don’t have to,” he says closing his eyes, perhaps preparing for a nap.  

“Yeah, I do,” Christian shakes Jack with the panic in his voice, “if I don’t want to look like a dick.”

“But you are one,” I feel obligated to inform him.   I take a long hit off the joint, taste the strangest trace of copper, and hand it off to Christian who doesn’t take it, so I give it back to Jack instead.  

What does copper taste like?

“I know,” Christian is almost yelling, “but I don’t want to look like one.   I’ve got to at least appear respectable.”

We all laugh and Jack replies, “Understandable.”

Christian drones on, “And she’s a senior in high school, so she expects me to go to Homecoming, or some shit, with her at the end of the month.”

“But you don’t like her,” I remind him.

“No, I like her,” Christian rubs at his fresh facial stubble in a puzzled manner.   “But at the same time, I mean, I don’t like her that much.   Not enough to dance and, like, be seen in public with her.”

“Isn’t it a little late in the year for Homecoming?” Jack asks the room.   And then to me, “Did I tell you what happened between me and Kathy?”

A flash of anger washes over me suddenly and dissipates just as fast.

“I don’t know,” Christian looks worried.   “Its Homecoming or Prom, Barn-Raising Day or some other shit like that.   You remember high school, there were dances for stupid reasons like every time the groundhog didn’t see its shadow.”

“Alright,” Jack oozes with disdain.   He climbs up to a sitting position, hunches over towards the ground, and starts to give birth to another joint.

A thought comes to me, “And you don’t want to be tied to a long distance relationship like that with someone like…yeah.”   I get off the train at the wrong station.  

I think about Jack and Kathy.   Heard he gets whiskey-dick.   I think it was Sally who told me this.   Pillow talk.   How could Kathy, or anyone with ovaries, be into him.

“Right,” Christian agrees.

“Yeah,” Jack mumbles, licking at a rolling paper, keeping it moist.

“I can’t tell her we need to take a break, because Homecoming is at the end of the month.”   He’s frantic again.   “It’s this month.”

“Wait, what day is today,” Jack asks.

The smoke is thick.   My eyes itch.   I’m blinking again.  

“Wait,” I’m saying, “I’m missing the point.   Why do you have to go?”

Christian is taken back by this.   He has to think.  

“I think I’m her…” he pauses again.   “Boyfriend, so…”

“So end it before that,” Jack says in monotone, not looking at Christian, but instead examining his blunt, and satisfied, he proceeds to spark it.

“Confession,” Christian says and I try not to notice him adjust his crotch.   “I had sex with my ex-girlfriend this weekend.   Okay,” he swallows hard.   “Just wanted to get that out there.”

Pressing the joint to my lips the conversation starts to blur… and voice, noise, and feeling follows.

“I hate the taste of papers.”   Christian.

“You prefer the taste of dicks?”   Jack.

“Glass, you ass.”

“I’m a bastard.”  Christian.

“Bastard: got it.”   Me.

“He wants the novel version.”

“I want the novel version.”

“So I met this girl at a party: the high school girl.  Now… wait before that, my girlfriend cheats on me in June.”

“Let’s give people names,” I insist.  “So I can keep up.”

“I don’t care,” Jack mumbles numbly.   “Whatever.   Keep going.”

“So Christie cheats on me.  Towards the end it wasn’t going so well and at a party, I meet this girl… Samantha, the one in high school.”

“Yeah, high school.  We got it, she’s in high school,” I chew at the inside of my mouth, bored, annoyed.

“Not a big deal.   Me and Christie break up, I went to the beach, and I hooked up with like some people there.   That was fun.”

“Whore,” Jack chortles.

“This isn’t something that happens to me often,” Christian is reminding him.

“I’ve noticed,” I confirm.

“So I meet this girl again.”

“The high school one?”

Laughter.

“The high school one, Samantha, at a party.   We hook up there.”

“Why don’t we have parties like that here?”

“We do, you’re just too drunk to remember,” I say.

“We hook up. I leave.   But I end up thinking that I really like this girl.”

“The high school girl?” Jack asks.

“Yeah, Samantha,” Christian’s nodding.

“Try to keep up, please,” I groan, but not really.   “High school.”

“So while I was at the beach hooking up with Samantha, Christie breaks into my house.”

“She broke into your house?”

“Leaves everything I ever gave her on my bed.”

“That was nice of her, I mean, in a kind of stalker-ish way.”

“That’s a song, right there.”

“In my mind, it’s a good idea to forget about Christie and start a thing with Samantha.   She’d be waiting for me back at home, for when I came back from school.  Like a little puppy.   Waiting by the door.”

“Yeah.   Puppy.   Got it.”  

My high is drifting.   I feel tense.   Grip on the surroundings loosens.   My heart races.

“Then like the first week here, I get with Sally.”

“Oh yes.  The slut.   How could I forget?” Jack speaks.

“I feel bad,” Christian laments.

“But deep down, you don’t give a shit,” I’m telling him.

“Bingo.   So I go back home, surprised Samantha for her birthday, but I’m not getting any.   And, you know, that’s not right, especially when I gave and she didn’t.”

“Oh.”   The word slips from my mouth with surprise.

“That’s fucked up.   You gave?” Jack suddenly seems interested.

“It was her birthday.   I gave.   She didn’t.   You know, I don’t like that.” Christian is getting a little worked up, maybe we all are.

“I would have flipped out,” Jack stews.

“It was her birthday, though,” I remind him.

“You know what?” Christian asks, ready to answer himself.

“How do you not flip out?” Jack’s interrupting.

“So earlier today…” he continues the story.

“This morning,” I correct, gnashing my teeth at the mindless drawl.   Hope there’s more pot. 

There isn’t.

“Right.   Christie and I get together again and it was good.   Oh, boy was it good.   I fucked my ex-girlfriend and it was good.   No, it was great.   This one, she’s not the best looking ever and that’s fine, but damn does she know how to fuck.   And High School doesn’t put out.”

“Should be laws, man,” Jack mutters, disgusted.

“I know.   What a bitch.  Selfish, little bitch,” I don’t think it’s me saying this, but it might be.

“But Christie says she loves me and I believe her.   In fact, I may actually mean it when I say I love her.   But she wants me to choose and gave me an ultimatum.   The sex was so good.   She wanted it so bad.   I fucking flung her around.”

The smokes starting to clear and the weed’s run out.   The calm I was once feeling has evaporated fast.   Complete.   My annoyance amplifies tremendously.

“So what do I do?” Christian asks for the fourth, or maybe fifth, time. “so what do I do?”

He nudges me.

“Fuck you,” I’m braking.   “Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, you’ve got too many girls in your sad fucking life.   You’re boning your ex, random whores here, and you‘re complaining cause some chick, who’s hundreds of miles away, is too fucking nervous to put out.   Jesus fucking Christ!”

My fists are clenched tight and I can hear my finger knuckles crackle and pop.   The muscles in my arms bulge, arteries big and almost pulsing, sleeves of my t-shirt about to tear.  

“I got my own problems,” I fume.   “I don’t need your shit.”

Stand and head for the door.

The opened door casts foreign light onto the Christian and Jack’s faces.   Smoke rushes out, into the hall.   Their eyes are red and wide, staring in confused awe.   The former can’t stop rubbing his face and the latter fingers the carpet nervously.  

“Jeez, man,” one of them says.   “What’s the matter?”

“Yeah,” starts the other, “What’s your problem?   What’s wrong, man?”

“You want to know what to do?” I’m fuming, red-faced.   “Cut them both loose and then you can go and fuck yourself!”

When the door closes with a wet snap, I stop and lean, or more like collapse, against a wall in the hallway.   No one rushes out to check or chase after me.   They laugh behind the door.   I think I’m shaking.   I tell myself it’s the drugs, a bad blend or something.   Reefer madness.  I laugh, too.  There’s this sudden realization, or more likely a lack of realization.  

What is the matter?

What is your problem?

Panic.