Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (3 page)

Much like dad fries up dinner in the kitchen....

Today, he’s making his “special” sauce.

The secret: it’s from a jar.

“Are you eating?” he calls, setting the table.

“In a minute,” I say, opening my eyes. I know there’s no way to sleep, not with dad cursing at his made-from-scratch meatballs for burning on the skillet and the television blasting ESPN twenty-four hours a day. I get up and a stack of mail on the wooden coffee table catches my attention. Most of the mail is addressed to Rudolph Edward Morris, which is dad’s full name. One letter though, sealed in a bright pink envelope, is addressed to me. That doesn’t mean I’ll open it.

You see, I know what a pink envelope means. Basically it’s a telltale sign that mom gives a shit all of a sudden.

I can see the opening lines now.
Honey I have so much to tell you. The ocean’s been talking to me again. Tyler, did I mention I’m clairvoyant
?

I’d continue but mom would sound really messed up. She’s really not though. She’s a free spirit. At least that’s what dad says. I wouldn’t know though. When I was six mom ran off to be a clown and now all I get from her is an occasional phone call and these letters. Two years ago I stopped reading them.

“Your food isn’t about to eat itself,” dad yells. “Get your butt in here.”

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” Ripping the pink envelope in half, I stuff it in my pocket and join dad in the kitchen. “Chef Boyardee, eat your heart out,” I joke, as he stirs the pasta in a silver pot.

Choosing to ignore me, dad adds a pinch of oregano to his meatballs and samples a taste. “Ah, now that’s perfection,” he says, clad in his dark green sheriff uniform.

Now let me share few words about dear old dad before we eat. Dad is a massive bear of a man with more salt than pepper on his head, and being a man, he finds it necessary to always be in control. This is why he became a cop. He likes the rule of law, social order, and having people obey him. This is where he and I have a problem, especially when it pertains to dating boys.

You just haven’t met the right girl. You want to take the easy route in life. You’re not responsible enough to be a man
.

This is what dad tells me time and time again.

If you’d only try dating a girl, you might actually like it. Tits are great
.

This is coming from a man who hasn’t been on a single date since mom left.

He’s not bitter though. No. Not him...never.

Joining me at the glass dinner table, dad sprinkles Parmesan cheese on his pasta as the scent of spicy tomato fills the air. “What took you so long to get home?” he asks.

“Jenny took the long way. You know, through every store at the mall.”

“Call next time.”

“Buy me a car and I can drive myself.”

“You know the deal.” The deal is dad promises to buy me a used car if I manage to graduate high school with a B+ average. However, graduation is nearly two years away. Talk about an unfair world. Jenny’s dad bought her a new car, no strings attached, the day she turned sixteen. Why can’t my life be that easy? “Call me on your cell next time,” dad warns. “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“Whatever.”

Oh, I just can’t deal with dad. He is so neurotic. He has to know the five W’s, who-what-where-when-why, about every aspect of my life. Unless who pertains to a boy. That he just can’t grasp.

“C’mon, you’re not eating,” dad says, noticing my barely scraped plate of pasta. Just then the house phone rings, and he gives me the death stare. “Damn it. I told you no calls during dinner. Tell Jenny to quit calling.”

Now, Jenny calling at the most inopportune time is almost expected at my house, and though dad pretends to be peeved, you can always see a glimmer of hope wash across his face when the phone rings. This is because dad thinks Jenny and I are more than friends. According to dad’s theory, Jenny is my woman.

“Here, she’s not going to stop until you answer,” dad says, retrieving the black cordless off the kitchen counter. At this point, the phone has rung twelve times. “Tell your woman to make it quick.”

“Ugh. She’s not my woman.”

“Oh my God, your dad thinks we’re dating?” Jenny asks, overhearing the conversation. Drowning in laughter, Jenny quickly goes into her Hi-I’m-A-Total-Bitch mode. “Shouldn’t he be working anyway? You know, there’s just never enough cops on the road.”

“Quit it.”

“Tee hee! What are you doing?”

“The usual. Dinner and then small talk about women.”

“WOMEN?” Jenny laughs. “What do YOU know about women?”

“Enough to keep them away.”

“That’s the truth!” Jenny agrees. Listening to every word, dad taps his water glass with a fork, prompting me to get off the phone. Before I can, Jenny devises a plan. “I rented
Hope Floats
. Can I bring it over?” She leaves no time to answer. “Before you say you’re busy, remember, you don’t have a life.”

“Jenny –” I begin.

“Good! See you at 7:15!”

Here we go. Jenny’s invited herself over again. Simply forget the fact that I’ve never seen her house. There are very good reasons why.

Daddy doesn’t want company. Not tonight.

Mother is in a mood.

Daddy says mother in a mood is plenty of company.

There you have it. Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.

Just the tip of the iceberg as to why Jenny hates being at home. I only get bits and pieces regarding the specifics during her meltdowns. During her latest crisis, she confessed that each month her mother intentionally forgets to pay the electric bill just to make the house dark so she does not have to look at her father’s face.

I hang up the phone. “Jenny’s coming over tonight,” I inform dad.

“You two have a date?”

“Oh dad,” I sigh, dancing my fork around my plate.

“So what’s up? What happened at school today?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

I’m excited that I finally talked to Billy. I think he might really like me. Forget the fact that he might be straight; I’m playing dumb too. I shredded a letter from mom again. It’s sitting in my pocket. I know you still love her, but I don’t
.

“Nothing dad, nothing is on my mind.”

“You’re not eating,” he observes, sliding aside the salt shaker to get a clear view of my plate. “Are you still on that diet?”

“I’m just not hungry.”

“I know. We’re eating a little early, but I got to get out of here soon. I’m working the night shift.”

“Again?”

“Don’t worry. You and Jenny can heat something up later if you get hungry. But Tye….” He gets serious here.

“What?”

“Make sure that’s the only thing you two heat up? You hear me?”

I can’t help but squirm in my seat, sensing the urge to vomit. “Please. I’m pretty hard up, but I haven’t resorted to women yet.”

“Eh, don’t worry. They’ll grow on you one day.”

Dad and denial have an intimate bond. Each is blinded by the other’s ignorance and both are damn proud of it. My psychology teacher promises me this is normal though. “Denial is just the bottom rung on the ladder of acceptance,” he stated last week.

Well, that’s just great.

Too bad dad’s afraid of heights....

Fed up with his foolishness, I push away my plate and tell dad, “I’m done listening to this ridiculous nonsense.” Seriously, how would he like it if I kept pressing him to sit on some hot stud’s lap? Oh, that growing pressure on your butt? Don’t worry, dad. It’ll grow on you one day.

“What nonsense?” dad asks.

“You know.”

With a subtle grunt dad chooses to end the discussion. He knows I’m upset and he knows exactly why. Still, he doesn’t have the balls to admit it and I don’t have the heart to fight him. He’s a good guy, as far as fathers go. It’s just this one area, this boy on boy debacle, where he can’t seem to budge. The problem is, neither can I. I’ve witnessed true love, like the kind dad had for mom, and now I won’t settle for less. True, sometimes I want to scream at him, but this time I sit quietly in fear of having him drop the atom bomb: his ‘God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve’ lecture. Yet instead, he bows his head, studying his pasta like it’s so interesting, like he’s discovered a new periodic element soaking in his secret sauce. Circling his fork around his plate, he proceeds to eat with caution, as if a noodle might explore.

Or I might explode.

Picking up my plate, I walk it to the sink, clogged with dirty pots, and set it down. I’m not going to let dad ruin my evening. All I need is to stress and have my brown curls frizz on me. All I need is one more reason to isolate from dad.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

“To take a nap.”

“You mad at me?”

“Just tired….”

“Tired of me?”

“No dad, I’m just tired.”

It’s 8:15. The stars are twinkling in the black sky and Jenny’s running an hour late. I should have expected as much. She’s rarely on time. It’s part of her charm. She likes to keep boys waiting. Well, unless it pertains to sex; then she’s a sucker for punctuality.

Still, I won’t let this upset me.

I’m keeping busy while I wait.

Perched on my front lawn, I’m counting stars and searching for Mars. That’s the planet where men are from, according to some relationship guide I found at the public library. Not that I read much or want a man. A boy will do, thank you. At least a boy who understands the concept of dinner plans. God, if only some boy had the nerve to ask me out, to hold my hand. I would make such a great date. Manners, etiquette, and poise — I have it all. Plus, I eat light. A salad, maybe a breadstick, that’s all I require. I won’t even throw it up to stay in shape afterward. I’m low maintenance. At least I like to think so, though I’m sure Jenny would argue the point.

Speaking of Jenny, where is she? I look down the road but see no car, just well maintained shrubs dictating property lines, along with trash cans and recycle bins lined up for their morning pick-up.

At night, Rivershore Heights can be quite a spooky place. Rarely will a soul come out, and when one does it looks as if it should have been buried years ago. “But that kind of tranquility gives this neighborhood its essence,” dad tells me.

He’s wrong though.

The only saving grace to our ho-hum habitat is a little lightning rod named Eric Bryant.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m totally into Billy, but Eric is my guilty pleasure. He’s the neighborhood bad ass, and I can’t help but wet my pants thinking about him soaring down my block on his skateboard.

I know. I’m pathetic. I’m always talking about boys, boys, boys! I just can’t help it. Eric makes my nipples scream. He’s a super tall, wiry Italian with dark, mystifying eyes and a husky voice. Plus, he’s a writer. He carries a journal with him everywhere and says he wants to be the next great American author.

“That’s a lofty goal for a loser,” dad always says.

You see, dad thinks Eric is nothing more than a small-town thug with big-city dreams and little discipline. Me, I can understand dad’s point. The reason: Eric dropped out of high-school last year and that’s a big no-no in the small town of Rivershore. A drastic move like that makes people talk. Take Sergeant Dogshit for example. Just last week he told dad that trying to get boys like Eric on the right road in life is like shoveling shit against the tide. “Them kind of boys always return to ground zero,” he said.

I, on the other hand, have not interacted with Eric frequently enough to form such a sour opinion. Generally, I only spy on him from my bedroom window as he makes his nightly rounds.

Tonight, I’m on the outside though and the instant I hear the pitter patter of his feet guiding a skate board along the sidewalk I make my way to the street in hope of conversation. I don’t know why I’m being so bold. Maybe I’m lonely. Or maybe I’m just mad at dad for being a jerk at dinner. Surely, conversing with Eric is the best way to spite him.

“Going my way?” I joke, extending my hitchhiker thumb.

Caught off guard, Eric skids to a halt and casts me a suspicious look. Sizing up his body, I can’t help but be aroused by the manly scruff around his chin and the way he squints when he’s getting ready to speak. “Beautiful, right?” he says. The bastard, he’s looking up at the sky instead looking of me. “Hot damn, you have to love those stars.”

“Yeah, I guess.” To be honest, I’m too preoccupied with the bulge in Eric’s banana-colored board shorts to admire what the sky has to offer. But this is normal I tell myself. I’m no pervert; I’m sex deprived.

“Man, life gets so stagnant around here,” Eric says. He scratches his buzzed head and I notice a dark sexy mole rests just above his right temple. “Sometimes I’ll just spread a blanket in my backyard and unhook the stars with my fingers.”

Whoa, I think to myself. An emotional abyss lurks below this beauty school dropout. Interesting.

“Yeah, the stars are awesome,” I agree.

Taking a journal from his pocket, Eric jots down a few notes with a pen. “So, how do you pass the time?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The usual, movies, music, the occasional suicide attempt.”

Eric chuckles, and I notice his teeth are uneven and a mild shade of cigarette yellow. “Have you ever been to Twinkies?” he asks.

Twinkies is Rivershore’s premiere gay bar. Actually, it’s Rivershore’s only gay bar, located on the outskirts of downtown, behind a local artist colony. Though I often ponder what goes on inside, I’ve never had the nerve to enter.

“No, I’m too young for the bar scene,” I confess.

“Are you kidding? The old fags at Twinkies thrive on young guys like you.”

Ok, I’m confused. How does Eric know what it’s like inside Twinkies? He’s straight, at least according to confirmed sources. He’s been with lots of girls, including Jenny. What’s his fascination with gay men? I know we’re glamorous and whatever but get a grip.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll go bar-hopping one night,” I say.

“Right on,” Eric winks. Hearing the grating sound of angst-rock radio, I turn to see the approaching headlights of Jenny’s car.