My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

At the end of the month, President Reagan announces his candidacy for reelection. There’s no way I’ll vote for him. He’s just so old.

I am invited by a college friend, Iris, to a Pink Party in New York, and I’m concerned about attending because I don’t have any clothing that is pink. She assures me that it isn’t necessary. I decide to fly to the Cayman Islands first, then up to New York. Amity loves that I am jetting off by myself, and I’m aware that I’ve ascended a notch in her book.

As an airline employee, I fly from Dallas to Grand Cayman for a total of twenty dollars. First class. Who needs family money? Though it is standby. I land at night and check into a moldy American franchise hotel. The turquoise carpet and drapes are sprouting penicillin, the sheets smell like someone’s dirty scalp, and the air

conditioner is spewing a damp Legionnaire’s breeze. I just want to get back on the plane and fly around the stratosphere in first class

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and prepare to wash my face by attempting to unleash the little bar of soap that is trapped in paper. I get so frustrated trying to un case it that I practically pop a blood vessel. Finally I smash it against the counter, rip it open, and take out little chips to wash with. Since the chips are with the oceanic tap water, I get no lather at all.

After brushing my teeth with saltwater and Colgate, I slip into the dirty-scalp sheets and pull the bedspread up to my chin. Traveling is so glamorous.

The next day I lie in the sun to disinfect. After hanging out the sand awhile, I take a walk down the beach. I soon sense I’m being followed, and when I turn around there’s a guy who big muscular legs walking twenty yards behind me in a S After the third time I glance back he says to me in a sexy “The farther you walk, the longer it takes us to get back to hotel room.” How can I resist that?

Our sex together is lingering, tropical, salty as if we’re in the sea. Our bodies meld into a gradual, steady, warm build arcs with the end of the afternoon. It’s weird, but I think of while I’m with him. I fantasize that she’s here on this island me and this hot boy with thick thighs. I know she likes and this is one I’m sure she’d love, so I bring her here in imagination. I’m aware that I’m starting to want to share

I do with her..” as if it’s not valid unless she’s a part of it.

As evening approaches the island, we sit by the pool and en a sunset that is the same pink and orange as the grenadine orange juice in our drinks. Turns out he’s a dancer from the ship anchored in the distance, and he has to return to the ship the nine o’clock show. Before he leaves, I suggest grabbing couple of cocktail napkins and using them to write down our numbers.

“I don’t do that,” he says casually.

“Oh, because you’re on a ship?”

“No, I just don’t give my number out. I’m not looking for a relationship.”

, “

‘ OK, I say, trying to be nonchalant. The truth is, my feelings are hurt, regardless of the fact that he’s a stranger. I suppose I am looking for a relationship. Why do I always have to pretend I’m not? Am I the only gay guy my age who’s looking for a steady thing? It’s not as if I want some boring suburban life in one of those tribe neighborhoods where everyone has the same red-tile roof and two-car garage. Believe me, I have no desire to drive a station wagon and cook casserole recipes that call for truckloads of cream of mushroom soup. I just want a mate who would live in a cool apartment with me, maybe even a house (slate roof), and share his life, his soul, his body. Someone who would make me laugh. Someone who’s smart. Someone who votes. Someone who would let me walk through the door after a long trip and say, “Honey, I’m homo!”

The next two days an island boy with body odor pesters me to let him experiment with his bisexuality. Not the relationship I’m looking for. I decline and depart the warm sands of Cayman for the icy insanity of New York.

New York is frozen. Solid. Iris and her roommates live in Hell’s Kitchen on a street that is famous for its rats the kind of rats that sit on top of the garbage cans and catcall women in high heels. If you carry groceries past them, they ask, “Got anything good?” Rats you could saddle up and ride to the Bronx. I always think I should bring a ham or a plate of enchiladas, which I could throw onto the sidewalk to divert their attention while I make a frenzied dash to the stairs of the building. Arriving from the islands, I have nothing but a half-empty container of Tic-Tacs. I pop the lid, scatter them onto the snowy pavement, and make a run for it before I realize there are no rats in waiting. They must have frozen to death.

Iris congratulates me for making it to her door, and though assures me my sunburned skin will qualify me for the soiree, or at the very least I can chew a piece of pink bubble with my mouth open, I return to the streets to buy a pink thinking it will be sufficient for my debut. Of course, arrives at the party in these incredibly pink, incredibly well-thou out ensembles that border on Broadway set design. The party thrown by an actor magician named Aaron, who happens to live Iris’s building, which is actually a funeral parlor on the floor. Aaron