You Are An Object:
A place to treat bros like girls.
The Greeks used to do the same thing, only in caves and with sculptures and stuff--there's books about it. It's like a whole thing or whatever. I Googled it.
There are stories. Click here. Read them.
Send hate, subpoenas, love, rainbows and unicorns to:
fishbelly619@gmail.com
twitter.com/iamcolander
See also: Fraternity House Massacre
(sailingfree: Home by Saria Dy)
Well, turn it off.
I am. I’m unplugging it.
You probably just have to turn it off.
How do you know? You don’t know what’s wrong with it.
It’s smoking. There is smoke coming out of it.
You ignore him. You unplug the microwave. It makes you feel better, cutting things off. You do it to people, perhaps too often, and, so help you, you’ll do it with this goddamn microwave. You feel betrayed by it, the little frozen panini things your idea, for lunch, the cheaper alternative to his idea, of driving into town, to one of the quaint little eateries this village seems to be littered with, but, really, the cowardly alternative, which he knew, going along with your little paninis anyway; you did not see the microwave turning against you. You almost want to shake its hand, this inanimate heating vessel. Well, played, beast. Well, played. You open a window to let out its slowly collecting plumes of dark-gray smoke. It stinks. You are now associated with all of this. You accept it with slouched shoulders and deep thoughts of a remedy.
Does this mean we can go? That place looked good, dude. Come on.
Well, I mean…there’s the toaster oven…
Come ahhhhhhhn.
You snort. You walk to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Look at him. You want to do whatever he wants, you realize/remember. You open your mouth to say some not-too-submissive-sounding version of this when there is a knock on the door. You both turn to it—you standing in this entryway, him lying on that couch, both looking at that front door, which gets knocked on, once again. Too quickly between knocks, you think, but that’s you. Everything’s too something when it’s new to you. You and Darren do not even really live here, is the thing. Whoever’s knocking on this door either has business with someone who isn’t here, or simply has business to share with whoever’s willing to open a door for them, and you’re up.
What do I do?
Darren laughs. Open the door, dude. I’m right here. Relaxing, though; if it’s a murderer take it outside, please? Not here for all ‘at.
This is your Uncle Neet’s place. It’s in a colder town than you actually live, and much farther away from anything you know, anything you owe, which is part of its worth, to you, the idea behind even being here. You found yourself done with school, and Darren finds himself with some kind of proper job, that offers entire weeks off, apparently, and you know he wanted the chance to be someplace where you are, someplace where only you are, and you told him about your Uncle Neet, this place, and your family loves Darren like the you they never had, practically planned the trip for you, and, so, here you are, getting your door knocked on, in this vacation place, a cold sense of knowing this was coming descends on your heart, an always-there sort of dread, ‘vacations’ apparently not in the box of things you feel you deserve. You look over your shoulder, at the microwave, like maybe it was expecting guests, but it’s still just unplugged, and so you walk to the door, and you open it, without asking who it is, or checking the peephole, only confronting the reality of these options while swinging the door back, kicking yourself, mentally, within the few seconds of it, Darren peering over the top of the couch, as you reveal a thirty-something man with a huge backpack slung over both shoulders, khaki shorts, construction boots, white t-shirt, sweated through, despite the tepid temperature being shrugged off by the still-young day. He is bearded, this man, is nodding at you, happy you’re so easy to get to do things, he looks you in the eyes, and you do him, but your mind immediately notices something about his face—that it is symmetrical, easy to look at in a masculine way, a boyish father—the type, anyway—with cerulean eyes, willing to pull things in, maybe even destroy them, once they have them, and so you look away, which, you know, means he’s free to look at whatever he wants; can case the joint, can deduce how weak you are, can write you off as not worth the trouble…whatever he wants.
Hey, man.
Um…hey..?
I’m sorry if I’m… *sighs* …I know this is maybe a little off the wall, because I’ve run it through my head a couple hundred times, trying to come up with a not off the wall-sounding version, but there just is not one, and so I’m just gonna ask…
Okay…
Do you have a computer here?
Hell, no.
Darren says that last part. He says it in the quiet way where the guy obviously heard him but knows he wasn’t supposed to hear him. You turn to look at him—Darren, stilling eyeing you from the couch. He shrugs. It’s up to you, this means. Or maybe you’re meant to do what he would do, or maybe he knows you hate lying, especially to strangers, and isn’t in the mood to force you to do it anyway. You turn back to the man, and try to imagine the way he’s most likely to kill you, but come up blank, and, so, you nod. Yeah, we do.
You can hear the man’s piss stream hitting the bowl of toilet water like an extended punch, even through the closed door. You and Darren sit in the living room, twiddling your thumbs, literally, in your case. There’s a brief, curious sound, from within this room—an inquisitive croaking. That was my stomach, he says, like a warning, tonally. He grins a little, though, looks at the empty TV, empty because there is no cable, something you did not miss until now. You hear the toilet flush, and, thankfully, the sink run, for quite some time, actually. We’ll go eat after? After this, I mean. Whatever it is… This is you talking, and he nods. Okay, he means, and you say, Okay, and he wipes a hand across your hair, and the bathroom door opens, and you look at the blank TV, also. You look behind your reflection. You see the man padding down the hall, his bag now held at his side, and you run your hands through your hair, stand, turn to face him (being sure to only sprinkle him with crumbs of eye-contact), go, The computer’s right over there, point to the desk in the corner, with Darren’s laptop sitting atop it. Your computer’s a piece of shit, so you both just use his. The man smiles, nods, I see. He walks over to it, puts his bag down, turns to face the two of you. Darren is smirking at him. You’re staring at his tattered shorts, you guess? He exhales. I’m going to explain myself. You didn’t ask, but I feel like I would ask, and so I’m just going to do it, answer, as if you’ve asked, just so your permission feels earned. If that’s okay.
This guy’s name is Johnny, and he’s lost. He’s hiking to another state, from two states over, to stop the woman he loves from making the biggest mistake of her life, in the form of marrying the only man willing to help her pick up the pieces, after Johnny walked out on her, all those years ago—a man she’ll wake up one day and realize deserves, maybe, an award, for longest-lasting rebound piece, but not the award of her heart, of her body, every day, forever, with every other man left out, dying without her, alone, every single moment she’s not around, even when he’s in the arms of another. No, he’s got to get there, but he lost his map—if you’re asking, he thinks he left it in the bathroom of a gas station, in Flagstaff. He just needs to get a new one, walking directions from this very location, so he can get there, get to that house, and look that woman in her eyes, and remind her—remind her body what invented its longing; what it’s dreams are based on—to look at the only thing he’s ever loved that ever loved him back, and make it so that he’s got someone to talk to again; someone to do things with, someone to think of when he hears the word ‘friend.’ He sits down in the desk chair, still facing you guys, his eyes as lost as his body. That’s all I need, he says, then I’ll be outta your hair.
Darren nods. We don’t have the internet, though.
What…?
Darren smiles, hands you his iPhone. I’m fucking with you, he says, and you pass along the phone, explain to the man that there is no actual internet connection in this fancy home of yours, but there is illegal 3G tethering, and Darren is more than willing to risk a third-strike warning from AT&T in order facilitate the actualization of a desire that might lead to the ruination of what sounds like a totally solid, healthy, preexisting relationship. You can’t take anyone with you when you go, not in any way that matters, so you may as well go for who you really want, no matter what. You might get punched, or laughed at, but those are the kinds of stories people are jealous of, when you tell them; stories that prove you’re braver than they are. Darren puts his arm around your shoulder as Johnny starts setting up his internet thing, getting his road map, and you pull away, in a manner you think is smooth, like you just thought of something, but that is in fact abrupt. You go, I’ll get you some water, and you walk toward the kitchen—walk away—feel Darren behind you, following, feel the heat of the mood you’ve put him in, as you grab the handle of the refrigerator, pull, as he juts out his arm, forcing the door to slam closed. You don’t turn around.
What?
Look at me.
The Brita…
Fucking look at me. Don’t—
You turn to look at him. His jacket, really. Yes? He snorts, shakes his head. People are going to know we’re together, he says. You can’t eat ‘in’ the rest of your life, or try your best to look alone so that strangers don’t know what it looks like when you’re not.
He was drinking the faucet water! you harsh-whisper. I’m just getting him fucking water! He’s walking states, dude.
Then get him the water. And meet me in there. And if I put my arm around you, I don’t want you suddenly realizing he might want some crackers, too, or some shit. And when he’s done, we’re gonna go out to fucking eat, and get wine spritzers, and share a goddamn dessert, alright?
People don’t eat dessert with lunch.
Homosexuals do. Starting today. ‘Cause I’m not walking states if you fuck up and I leave, or I fuck up, and you leave.
I’d walk states. For you.
Then act like it. He walks back to the living room, and you pour the stupid glass of water since it’s like the star of the show now, and you go back out to the living room, hand it to Johnny, who is drawing a map, in a notebook he pulled from his bag, since he’s figured out there is no printer here. Just two guys, in a lovely vacation home, without cable, or the internet, each with only the other to make them feel entertained.
(via broux)
