Tell Me It's Real (12 page)

“And he’s not your boyfriend?” Vince asked, his voice tight.

I was getting whiplash again. “No.”

“Good. Then he won’t be pissed when I do this.”

I was about to ask,
Do what?
But before I could, that fucker had moved quicker than I had seen anyone move before. One second he was near the door and the next he was standing right in front of me, his fingers going to the back of my head, his thumbs on my cheeks, and then his
mouth
was on mine. There was a bright flash and a
brzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzaaaaaap!
as all the electrical charges in my brain went off at once. But then he started to
move
his lips over mine and my eyes started to flutter closed like I was some kind of goddamn teenage
girl
. And even though my synapses had fired off all at once, I was able to think,
I can’t believe this is happening and this is not
even
a real thing and this. Is. Awesome!
Then it became even
more
awesome when he touched his tongue to my lips and I sighed, opening my mouth without even thinking about it. He was the cause, I was the effect. Action, reaction. And fuck if he wasn’t getting a reaction out of me. He tasted me gently, gripping me tightly, and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe. I either wanted to bring my hands up to grab him or push him away, I wasn’t too sure.

And then it was over. That first kiss. That tentative moment when there’s a connection like a gold thread stretching between two people, tenuous but hopeful. And it was done. Gone. Snapped. Nothing more than a memory.

Until he leaned in and did it again. And then stopped. And then kissed my forehead. For some reason, that put a lump in my throat.

“I told you,” he whispered against my skin, “I get what I want. You better be ready, Paul.”

And then he stepped away, winked at me, and walked out of the supply closet.

I stood there for a time, muttering to myself. “That’s just… well, I
never
. I don’t even… who does he think he is? Tasting like coffee and… bastard… this is my
work
… running out of Post-its and shit. I’ll show
you
until five o’clock on Wednesday. I don’t need no man. Fucking Kelly Clarkson. She ruins
everything
. It’s not going to happen, Paul. Not going to happen.”

But.

But….

Even
I
could not ignore that little teeny-tiny light that seemed to ignite within me like some kind of misplaced hope, a small ray of sunshine on an otherwise stormy day that maybe, just
maybe—

“Oh sweat balls,” I told the supply closet, close to panicking.

The highlighters did not reply.

“
W
HAT
the hell am I going to do!” I cried at Wheels that night as we sat on the couch.
Man v. Food
was on again, but even Adam Richman eating the world’s biggest hot dog didn’t do anything for me (to be fair, it
was
a repeat; I remember watching that episode for the first time thinking,
Yeah, you take it. Take it all.
I might be a bit of a perv).

Wheels snorted, cocking his head at me from his spot on my thigh.

“That’s all you have to say about it?” I scolded him. “That bastard
kissed
me! He wasn’t supposed to do that! I could have gotten fired.”

Wheels barked once, a soft sound followed by a guttural growl. He laid his head back on my thigh, his eyes never leaving me, calling me a fucking idiot in that way he did so well.

“I am not,” I said, sulking slightly. “You don’t understand.
Why
would he do something like that?
Why
is he trying to get my hopes up? Is this just some kind of fucking game to him?”

Wheels huffed and tried to roll on his side, away from me, so obviously disgusted with me that he didn’t even want to look at me anymore. His wheels were too bulky for him to be able to lie comfortably on his side on the couch. I undid the harness that kept his little cart attached and removed it carefully. Once this was done, he huffed at me again as if to reiterate his point and rolled over, curling his front two paws up underneath him, his ear stretched out on my thigh.

“Oh, now you’re going to ignore me?” I snapped at him. “What, gonna give me until
five o’clock
tomorrow to do whatever you say? You’re just a fucking jerk too, you half dog.”

He sighed.

I felt bad. “I didn’t mean that,” I said quietly. “I just don’t think any of this is real.” His bottom wiggled a bit, wagging his imaginary tail. I often wondered if dogs were like human amputees who could still feel ghosts of their limbs long after they’d been amputated. It always made me a little depressed to think about, because I couldn’t stand the thought of Wheels being uncomfortable in any way. “You forgive me?” I asked, scratching his head.

He rolled over and licked my hand just once, then grabbed ahold of it in his teeth. He applied a bit of pressure and shook his head back and forth once each way.
Don’t be a fucking idiot, you fucker
, he was telling me (in my head, Wheels cursed with the best of them).
Fucking man up before your balls fall off and you and the Period Ghost have something in common. I don’t need two wailing chicks in my house, so man the fuck up.

“Dammit,” I whispered.

I hated tomorrow already.

Performing CPR Is Just One Tongue Away From Making Out

M
Y
ALARM
went off, but I was already awake. I hadn’t slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I would remember that kiss, the feel of his hands on my face, the shine in his eyes that made me feel warm even though I was sure it was all a fluke. Even the talking-to Wheels had given me the night before seemed somewhat of a distant memory and my resolve seemed a weaker.

I tried to get determined in the shower.

I tried to get determined in front of the mirror.

I tried (and almost succeeded) to get determined while brushing my teeth.

I tried (and failed spectacularly) to get determined while getting dressed.

I knew that Sandy wasn’t just fucking around when he said he would give me until the end of the day or he’d do it for me. There are times when I think he’s pulling my leg, but this was not one of them. I knew because of the gleam in his eye, the way Helena peeked out from inside. When Helena tells you she’s going to do something, you can be sure as shit that it’s going to get done. Helena doesn’t believe in wasting time by just saying she’ll do things. She likes to grab life (and muscle men) by the balls. And if there was ever a ball-grabbing moment for her, this was it.

I figured I’d have the rest of the day to work up my courage before five o’clock hit, so I had plenty of time. I stared at myself at the bathroom mirror for the sixteenth time. “You’re cool,” I told my reflection. Wheels barked at my feet in what had to be complete agreement. “You’re hip. You’re a badass. You don’t take no prisoners. You’re a go-getter. You see something you want? You
go get it
. Be suave. Be
smooooth
. Practice. Practice.” I cocked my eyebrow at my reflection. “Hey, Vince,” I said, dropping my voice a bit. “Let’s go get physical. Oh fuck. Olivia Newton-John?
Really
, Paul?
That’s
the first thing you go to? Don’t be such a homo! Try it again.” I smiled at myself, trying to put a sexy curve to it. It looked like I was smelling something awful. “Hey, Vince,” I said again. “You and I should go get some coffee.” I tried to lick my lips seductively as I finished: “I like mine with extra
cream
.” I ended up looking like I was licking my own face off.

Wheels howled quietly, then barked once, saying,
Yooooooooooouuuuuu suck!

“Okay, I can do this. It’s not like I’ve never asked out a guy before. Okay, I haven’t, but I’m not even
asking
him out. He already asked
me
out, and even though I said no, I’m allowed to say yes now!” I glared at myself in the mirror. “Don’t be such a pansy,” I growled at Pansy Paul. I gave a sort of regular smile. “Hey, Vince. Fancy seeing you here. Oh goddammit! We
work
together, for Christ’s sake! Hey, Vince, I decided to take you up on your offer of dinner. You’re welcome. Ew. God, that sounded smarmy.” I sucked in my stomach and puffed out my chest, lowering my voice. “Hey, Vince. Let’s go work out and run on a treadmill for eighteen miles because that’s so much fun to do.” I gasped in air. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. “Do I have a double chin?” I asked Wheels, frowning at my reflection. It didn’t look like I did until I lowered my chin to my chest. Look up, single chin. Look down, double chin. Look up, single chin.
Okay, so always look up. Suck in the gut a little. Your ass looks pretty good. Not great, but not bad either. Maybe you should try some lunges. And
lunge!
And
lunge!
And—ow, my fucking thigh! Goddammit. Okay bring it on in. Bring it on in. And… pose! Not too shabby, Auster
.
Not too shabby indeed. Except for the fact that you are already sweating and your face is red and you always look down because you’re shy, so you will always have a motherfucking double chin!

My reflection stared sadly at me, shaking his head. Judgmental bastard.

There was nothing else I could do, I knew. Well, there was; I could have always gotten into my car and driven down to Mexico and changed my name to Esteban Mendez and opened up my own dusty bar in the tiny town of Xonoca. I look pretty good in a poncho, and I could have gotten a big sombrero and grown a sweet mustache and spent my days saying things like
Sí
and
Toda la cerveza se ha acabado, pero puede comerse algunos de estos tacos que hice. ¿Qué le pasó al Sr. Rodríguez? No ha sido el mismo hace que su esposa él dejó.
He oído que ella era una puta bastante grande.
(Translated: I am all out of beer, but you might have some of these tacos I just made. What is up with Mr. Rodriguez? He hasn’t been the same since his wife left. I heard she was quite the whore).

But I didn’t. I didn’t drive down to Xonoca to open my bar called Taco’s Bell. I decided against that whole life because I had to go to work and face my motherfucking fears. To prove the point to myself, I turned on the stereo again and put in Celine Dion’s cover of “All By Myself” and sat at the stop light, waiting for it to turn green. “Allllll byyyyyyyy myyyyyyyyyysellllllllllllf,” I sang forlornly. “Don’t wanna be, allllllll byyyyy—” And then I realized my windows were down
again
and the
same
woman from yesterday was sitting next to me. Except this time, she wasn’t singing along, but rather staring at me with tears streaming down her face, her nose running. She looked positively
wrecked.

“I don’t want you to be all by yourself!” she cried at me when she saw me watching her. “You go
get
yourself a man! You deserve it so much!”

“I’m
trying
!” I shouted back, above Celine. “The motherfucker
kissed
me yesterday!” It felt good to share that.

“Where?” she called back.

“In the supply closet!”

“No! I meant where on your
body
?”

“What?”

“Did! He! Kiss! Your! Penis!” she screamed as she sobbed.

I gaped at her.

“Hey,
move
it, assholes!” A horn started to honk behind me. And it was the
same
motherfucking guy in the truck from yesterday. This time, I
did
flip him off because I wanted to continue the conversation with the strange lady in the car next to me to find out
why
her first thought would be that I got kissed on the cock instead of the mouth? But she had already pulled away, and Celine Dion was starting to grate on my nerves, and I was kind of worried the guy in the truck would follow me and rip off my testes, so I drove away rather quickly, trying to speed around a few cars to put some distance between me and the truck driver.

Twenty minutes later, after dealing with the police officer who pulled me over for speeding and weaving in and out of traffic to the point where the first thing he asked me was, “Sir, if you’re drunk this early, then you’ve got a drinking problem,” I pulled into my parking space on the side of the street. My hands were sweating, and I was breathing heavily. I looked myself in the rearview mirror, and my eyes were so wide, I’m pretty sure you could see parts of my brain poking through. “Calm down,” I whispered hoarsely. “Just calm the fuck down, and everything will be okay. You’ve already had his tongue in your mouth. You can do this.”

So without looking, I opened my car door.

And it was about that time that Vince Taylor was riding his bike past my car. Physics teaches us that when a moving force meets an immovable object, bad shit happens to hot people. I think Sir Isaac Newton said that. Or Sir Elton John. I don’t know. I get my “Sirs” confused sometimes.

But, regardless, the moving force of Vince and his bike met the immoveable object of my opened car door. I heard him say, “Oh
bananas
,” and then he crashed into the inside of the door, flipped up and over it, and landed on his back on the pavement on the other side. The front tire of his bike crumpled before the whole thing fell over onto the ground next to my car with a metallic clang.

Then it got really quiet.

I just stared.

I thought about closing the car door and just driving away, but knowing my luck, I would have run him over in the process, and I’d already had one brush with the law today. Plus, I worked for a
car
insurance company, and that sort of thing is frowned upon.

My next thought was I was happy he was at least wearing a helmet.

My third thought was how awful I was going to look in prison orange if he was dead.

My fourth thought was how sad I’d be if he was dead, and why didn’t I just let him kiss my cock in the storage closet?