Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Parsley garlic

JoAnne and I hang up and then I'm sitting on the new carpet remnant I put over the old shag carpet in my empty room because the landlord wouldn't let me tear it out and it's disgusting, talk about allergies. The straightboys are yelling in the other room and I'm thinking about the first time I met Abby at Glad Day or not the first time but the time when I was putting up my roommate flyers that no one ever responded to, I mean I called myself a vegetarian faggot so they wouldn't get confused but, anyway, Abby who was Abe then, the fag behind the counter, said guess what, some friends and I found a place in Dorchester and we need someone else to join the lease. I didn't even know where Dorchester was, but I went over and I couldn't believe this enormous place: two floors, starting on the second floor with a living room and dining room, huge kitchen and even an extra area in the front like a study or something. One bedroom on that floor, and then seven more rooms upstairs, not to mention the bathroom with a separate vanity area. All for $975 a month. You couldn't beat that.

So it started with four of us. I barely even knew Abby, just that she was friendly and had recently escaped a Christian Fundamentalist family in Bel Air, Maryland. Then there was Siobhan, a classic pothead dyke with droopy eyelids. The last one I met was Brian Marshall, seventeen going on forty—tanning salon, frosted hair, overalls with one strap undone, even in the winter. I could tell he already hated me. At least we were all queer. Or something. Then Brian from the Coast Guard moved in—he's Siobhan's friend. Everyone calls him Straightboy to distinguish him from Brian Marshall, but I think that’s tacky. At least he's not in town very often, he just needs somewhere for when the boat docks or whatever. And now Sean and Bobby and Billy are practically living here too, they might as well start paying rent.

Bobby's calling me—Miss One, you're missing the party. She’s the most ridiculous person on earth, but I go into the living room anyway. Everyone's fawning over the straightboys and what's playing now? Led Zepellin—"gonna squeeze the lemon 'til the juice runs down my leg." One of the straightboys is doing air guitar. I thought it couldn't get any worse than the Priscilla soundtrack. I introduce myself and Bobby says aren't they all so cute? He's disgusting.

Apparently the Coast Guard boys have been drinking since 10 a.m. when they were painting the dock of the boat; now they're so drunk they look like they're swimming, one of them's cute I guess but whatever. His name's Calvin. They all want me to have some beer; they're drinking Milwaukee's Best and I only drink vodka. Billy's giggling and Sean and Abby are chain-smoking and Bobby's perm is looking greasier than ever and he's talking about all his gowns. He says: It's hard for me to hang out with anyone who doesn't know the difference between Armani and Versace. Nobody's ever seen Bobby’s gowns, apparently her daddy took them away when they had a fight. As far as I know, Bobby's never even put on a dress, but he talks like he's the mother of the House of Wehhhhhhhhbstah, Mass., don't make me reeeeeeeeeeeead you, Miss One.

I go into the living room to move my stuff. Brian stumbles in all red-faced, pats me on the back and says can you get me some coke? I say not unless we're in a club. He says can we go somewhere? I say I've gotta move my stuff, but you can head over to the Combat Zone and there will be plenty of people selling. It's kind of a joke—three smashed white straightboys looking for coke in the Combat Zone, yeah here's some fifty-dollar laxatives, sure—but boom like that they're all up and out the door and the music's off. Bobby starts cleaning up the cans and dumping out the ashtrays, saying oh what a mess, Miss One, then sighing like she's the richest housewife in the world, saying: It's what a mother does.

I'm sitting on my futon, trying to focus, and Bobby turns on the Priscilla soundrack. She's singing along and I'm about to smack her, then everyone's on my futon and I've got that smile that hurts my jaw. Sean’s wearing that overcoat, does she ever take that overcoat off? Whining about how she needs cocktails and doesn't anyone want to go to the Eagle and Bobby grunts, comes over to pinch Sean's cheeks, and says oh, my messy daughter. Bobby shakes her Fendi keychain, looks at me and says: It's what a mother does.

They all say meet us there, okay? Abby looks me in the eyes like bitch you betta, and then four kisses for me, luckily three sets of lips and Bobby's cheeks, and then they're off. I'm fantasizing about car crashes and then I realize Priscilla's still on. I think about throwing it away, but instead I just press eject. Back to the living room and I pick up my boxes, one by one—into my room.

I put some water on for pasta and wash spinach for a salad and then I hear someone at the door—already? Sure enough, it's the straightboys falling up the stairs. I'm stirring my pasta, and it couldn't be more than a few minutes later when Calvin comes in. He's coked up for sure, looking at my pasta like it's the most amazing thing he's ever seen. I say it's just parsley garlic fettucine. He says oh I eat a lot of pasta, you need loads of carbs when you're working out and I'm trying to bulk up, you know—parsley garlic, I'll have to try that.

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