Mike, Robert Malthus [read novel full .txt] 📗

Mike

Sanya usually went to sleep early. That night she wasn't feeling well so she was in bed by 9. I was still wide awake so I thought I may as well walk over to Freeburger. I was going through one of my phases, at least that's what Sanya said. I was drawing and sculpting and wondering how a lump of clay or an oil on canvas could generate emotions. I smoked and sculpted and drew, and never went to classes. Yeah, Sanya was right, it was a phase.

So I walked out into the evening. When I got to Freeburger, it was almost deserted. I went straight to the over-sized books section. That's where they kept the art books, the ones filled with color reproductions. I was flipping through a book on Impressionism. A hundred years ago everything happened. Darwin, Freud, Marx, Cezanne, Monet. I was looking at Cezanne's Boy In a Red Vest. The library was very quiet, all the windows were dark. I felt like I was the only one in the place. Suddenly this little slimy guy in a security guard outfit was standing there. Hi, how are ya

he said. Hi

I answered. His face was frozen in an oily smile and he was extending his hand. When I shook it I felt the fag handshake. That's what people called it - the middle finger folded into the palm. What are you doing tonight?

he said. Studying, exams ...

I replied feeling my guts tensing up. See ya around

he said as he strolled away, that smile still hanging in the air. I took the book, walked through the library searching for a desk, a little fortress. Couldn't find one so I walked down the stairs and out into the night air. But I had started thinking about other times that guys had done that to me.

I used to hitchhike almost every day. But after a while getting picked up by fags started to bother me. Do you have a girlfriend?

they would say. I didn't but after a few times I had learned to say yes. They would paste on a sickly sweet smile the whole time and answer Wherever you're going

when I asked where they were heading. Straight guys gave me rides too. Once I got a ride from three black guys smoking up. The car was so thick with smoke you could barely see out the windshield. They were laughing and toking. I passed the joint but when I got out I had a buzz. I liked hitchhiking but people stopped doing it around 1972. Everybody was safer but we were all living in an even more hermetically sealed bubble. Why do people make themselves lonelier than they already are? But I did meet a good friend hitchhiking. His name was Mike.

Mike had graduated from the university a few years earlier and he had read nearly everything that I had. But at 25 he was delivering pizzas. One summer he got me a delivery job at the same place. After work, 2 am or so we would hang out, have a drink or smoke a joint. We were high one night listening to some tapes in his car. He popped one in and, damn if it wasn't my favorite at the time. Flute and Piano. Most guys would have called it faggy but I listened to it every day that summer. I said You like this? ... I love this album.

He smiled and looked at me like he knew something about me that I didn't. I wondered about the feeling I had for him at that moment. Later that summer he told me that his father had died of Huntington's disease at 45 and that there was a 50% chance he had the gene. There was a test but he didn't want to know or at least he didn't have the courage to find out. I understood why he was delivering pizzas. I felt sad like I wanted to hug him. I guess I was confused because a straight guy couldn't love another guy.

I had walked a few blocks towards home with thoughts of hitchhiking bouncing around in my head. I thought Why not?, went to the side of the road and stuck out my thumb. A pair of headlights was approaching. The car slowed and I walked to the side to look inside. Shit! It was the creepy little security guard. I turned away and fell right into a full sprint. In the opposite direction. After a quarter mile I slowed down and jogged the rest of the way home.

When I walked into the bedroom Sanya made a funny sound. What's wrong, kid?

I said. Evan, my head ... I've got a splitting headache

, she was almost in tears. I sat on the bed beside her, gathered back her hair, put two fingers softly on each temple and began to massage. You'll feel better soon

, I said.

Publication Date: 08-24-2009

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