The Perils of Praline (10 page)

“Of course you don’t have an exclusive relationship. You’ve never met!” Jason screamed.

“Could you not yell at me?” Praline asked. “It’s been a really trying day.”

And then Praline told Jason about being chased by Stewart’s husband and almost being crushed by the security gate, and about picking a really bad safe word. He decided to skip the part where he burned down the apartment building; already he knew Jason well enough to know his new maybe-friend would get unnecessarily agitated about details like that. “And, did they show it on the tape? I was nearly run down when Malcolm pushed me out of his Hummer.”

“No,” Jason said, a bit contrite. “They just showed him rimming you and turning around to look at the camera.”

“My ass is on the internet?” Praline was terrified and humiliated. Maybe fame wasn’t all that great, after all.

“They blurred it out. But they got a good picture of your face. Right before you jumped out of the car.”

“I didn’t jump, I was pushed.”

“That’s right, sorry.” Jason paused. “I have to run, my boss is calling. Just go to my house and don’t have sex with Clayton. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

How hard could it be to not have sex with someone? There were millions of people in America Praline had managed to not have sex with, so it wasn’t like he had no experience at not having sex. In fact, when
he
looked at the actual number of sexual partners he’d had, he was very good at not having sex.

When the coast was clear, and he was sure there were no Japanese tourists about, he climbed out of the dumpster and headed in the direction of the address Jason had given him.

As he walked, Praline took out his phone and got on harrispilton.com to find out just how bad the video was. It was the very first story. RIGHT WING PUNDIT CAUGHT WITH MALE PROSTITUTE! Praline cringed. Why couldn’t it say RIGHT WING PUNDIT CAUGHT WITH ATTRACTIVE YOUNG SOUTHERNER DOING IT FOR FUN! That would have been more accurate.

He pressed the play button and the video began. There was Malcolm’s Hummer. The cameraman walked toward the vehicle and Praline could see that they’d already gotten into the backseat. When the cameraman reached the SUV,
Praline
could tell he was adjusting the lens so he could film through the glare on the vehicle’s window.

Abruptly, it all came into focus, Praline’s legs in the air, his ass blurred out and Malcolm’s head periodically blurred out with it. He had to admit, he did look a little cock-addled. Then he notices the cameraman, mouths the words “Um… Mr. Wright…there’s a guy with a camera…”

Malcolm’s head pops out of the blur and looks directly into the camera. The whole thing ends moments later, right before Malcolm shoves Praline into oncoming traffic.

The worst part of the video, in Praline’s opinion, was the large blur. Did it have to be quite so large? Might they not be exaggerating the size of his ass? He knew video made you look bigger than you really were, but still, the blur was huge.

Right before he got to Jason’s street, Praline found a drug store and slipped in to buy some hair dye. His hair was a lovely honey blond with sunshine highlights and caramel lowlights that his mother had put in for him. He decided the best disguise would be to go very, very dark. He struggled to choose between Midnight Noir and Black Java
;
both were dark, basically black, and would make him look very different.

He hated the idea of not being blond. Though his life had been relatively calm in Georgia, Praline did think that blonds had more fun in California—or least got into more trouble. Resolutely, he grabbed the Midnight Noir and walked up to the counter. Perhaps it would be safer not to be blond.

At the checkout counter, he piled up his purchases. In addition to the hair dye he bought a bag of double-double chocolate chip cookies, six dark chocolate bars and a Tootsie pop. The clerk rang it up and Praline gave her John P. Williamson’s credit card. He was a hundred percent sure his mother would consider hair dye and munchies a perfect example of an emergency expenditure.

As he walked out of the drugstore, his phone rang. The caller ID showed his mother’s picture
,
one he’d taken last Halloween when she and Spliff had gone to a costume party as the Amish. They both looked dour and severe in their prim blue and gray costumes.

“Praline! You’re famous!”

“It’s not what it looks like, Mama,” Praline replied, opening a candy bar.

“Well, it looks like Malcolm Wright was giving you a proctological examination with his tongue.”

“Okay, that part is what it looks like…” he had to admit.

“I’m so proud of you, Praline! Malcolm Wright is such a fine, Christian man. And so much better for you than some reality TV person. Have you set a date for the wedding yet?”

“I don’t think there’s going to be a wedding, Mama.”

“Oh, I’m sure that can’t be true. Malcolm Wright is such a moral man, I don’t think he’d have done what he did if his intentions weren’t honorable.”

“Did you read the entire article, Mama?”

“Oh, you know me, I always wait for video.”

“They’re saying I’m a prostitute. And while I did take money from Mr. Wright, I didn’t ask him for it. He sort of tricked me into taking it.” 

Praline scanned the block for paparazzi when he got to the curb. It was clear.

“How much money?” his mother asked.

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Well, I’m disappointed you won’t be marrying well, what mother doesn’t want her son to marry a man as fine as Malcolm Wright? But I’m happy you have a lucrative profession to fall back on.”

“I don’t plan to be a prostitute, Mama. I may be offered an internship at a studio, and if that happens I may take it.” Praline had no intention of taking it, of course, but he might. So, it wasn’t really a lie.

“Oh,” she said, sounding a bit disappointed. Having come to terms with her son’s homosexuality, like any good mother she hoped he’d make the most of it. “Prostitution does sound rewarding, though. And you have always been a people person… How much are they going to pay you to be an intern?”

“Twelve dollars an hour.”

“And how much time did you spend with Mr. Wright?”

“About ten minutes.”

“So you’d rather make twelve dollars an hour than three thousand dollars an hour,” Robin said, doubtfully. “Well, whatever you think is best. Of course, you could always moonlight. Have you considered that?”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Mama.” He opened the bag of cookies.

“But you might meet another fine gentleman like Malcolm Wright; one who
will
marry you.”

“Mama, I have to go. I have to disguise myself so the paparazzi don’t find me.” And with that Praline said goodbye.

One
might think Robin’s attitude toward prostitution, drug dealing and breaking the law in general a contradiction since she always voted for the get-tough-on-crime candidates. However, she knew that these same candidates were also “small government” types and, as such, were unlikely to give police departments enough money to actually get-tough-on-crime, leaving her business safe. Not to mention, whatever danger she faced from conservative candidates was nothing to the horror of liberals. She always said, “The last thing I need is some liberal crackpot legalizing marijuana. If that happened Big Tobacco would be all over it and decent, small business people like myself would be left without a pot to piss in. No pun intended.”

After he hung up, Praline found himself standing in front of Jason’s apartment building and realized that he’d eaten all his munchies except for the Tootsie pop. He popped the sucker into his mouth and entered the complex. It was a vaguely Asian-looking building from the nineteen fifties called The Pagoda. It was painted an unpleasant orange that aspired to terra cotta but only managed over-ripe melon. Praline rang the buzzer and told Jason’s roommate, Clayton, he had arrived.

After an interminable pause, the glass door buzzed open. Praline wandered around the courtyard with its pool and rusting lounge chairs until he found apartment 19. He climbed the short set of stairs to the apartment and knocked on the door.

Clayton answered. He was tall and lank, with dark circles under his sad brown eyes and a bad case of bed-head. The bed-head coordinated well with his outfit though, a pair of linen pajamas and a frayed silk robe. After opening the door, Clayton slunk over to the couch and tossed himself onto it. Arms and legs askew, he reminded Praline of the crime scenes he saw every week on
Forensic Victims Unit
.

The apartment had a cathedral ceiling, painfully white walls and a stained beige carpet. The furnishings aspired to thrift shop chic, but failed at even that. Off the living room was a small kitchen and beyond that a deck with a peek-a-boo view of the hills. Dr. Jill was on the television.

The sight of Dr. Jill’s heavily made up face with its strong brow and square jaw, not to mention the faint moustache that seemed to defy the most expensive waxing, made Praline homesick for the afternoons he’d spent watching her with his mama. Dr. Jill was in the midst of a segment called “Sex Slaves of the Rich and Famous.”

He would have sat right down and watched, but he noticed between the living room and the dining area a tall glass case full of old movie cameras, light meters, clapboards, reels, and a couple of scripts with signatures scrawled on them. There was a light inside the case. The little collection was impressive. Jason’s roommate was obviously a very interesting person. As Praline studied the memorabilia, Clayton opened a cigarette case and took out a cigarette, “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke?”

Having grown up in a cloud of marijuana fumes, Praline didn’t mind. He sat down in a wobbly chair that had clearly been rescued from an alley and said, “That stuff is really cool. Where’d you get it?”

“It’s not mine,” Clayton said. “It’s Jason’s.”

“Oh.” Praline was surprised by the idea that Jason could do or have anything he might think was cool.

“Deandra, tell us…” Dr. Jill said on the television. “What was it like being the sexual plaything of a handsome, famous movie star?”

“It was horrific, Dr. Jill. I can’t think of a worse fate for a woman.” The scantily clad young woman went on to describe the horrors of having consensual sex in limousines, private jets and luxurious vacation homes.

After a close-up of Dr. Jill’s sympathetic and deeply troubled face, they cut to a commercial.

“I heard about your troubles,” Clayton said. “You must be devastated.”

“Not really,” Praline answered honestly. Then, digging the hair dye out of his backpack, he said, “Jason told me you’d help me dye my hair.”

Clayton looked at the ceiling as though his social calendar was pinned there. “Well… I’m planning to commit suicide after
Hollywood Hospital
. I suppose I don’t have much to do until then.”

Hollywood Hospital
was the hit medical show in which a cast of stunningly beautiful young doctors hopped from bed to bed and storeroom to storeroom while hoping their annoying patients didn’t die from neglect. Periodically though, the patients did die from neglect, and the doctors alleviated their guilt by having more sex.

Praline adored the show. “How can you kill yourself before the new season? Don’t you want to know whether Natalie chooses the good and kind Dr. Love or whether she ends up with the soul-less but even hotter Dr. Do-Me?”

“I’ve already postponed killing myself by six months to see if they were going to resolve that plotline. I’m beginning to think they never will.” Clayton took the box of Midnight Noir hair dye out of Praline’s hands. He inhaled deeply and frowned, “You know, I have something more fun than this.”

Praline followed him into the bathroom, which hadn’t been updated since the seventies. Clayton took a box of ice-blue hair dye out of the medicine cabinet and began to read the label. “If we time this right we can get your hair the same color as your eyes. That would be cool, I guess.” There wasn’t any excitement in Clayton’s voice. In fact, it seemed like he might fade away at any moment.

“You seem a little depressed,” Praline noted as he wet his hair in the sink.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been depressed since the nineties,” Clayton said.

“Have you taken anything for it?”

“Sure. Crack, ecstasy, LSD, methamphetamine, Special K, alcohol and marijuana. Nothing works. I’ve given up.” He began applying dye to Praline’s head. “I even tried religion. That was depressing.”

“How sad,” Praline said.

“I know,” replied Clayton. “It’s depressing to be so depressed.”

“Have you tried sex?” Praline asked, but regretted it instantly. Jason had told him to maintain boundaries and bringing up sex might not be a good idea. But having sex always cheered Praline up. Really, he was only being kind by mentioning it.

“I haven’t had sex in a year,” said Clayton. “I can’t even masturbate.”

Praline gasped. He felt terrible for Clayton and instantly regretted his promise to Jason. Clayton was cute in a gloomy way, and it really seemed to Praline that sex might save his life. This was a dilemma. They went out into the living room while they waited for Praline’s hair color to set.

The Dr. Jill show had ended and Box News had come on. Gaunt and seemingly nothing but teeth and hair, anchorwoman Tawny Garcia-Gonzalez looked as though she’d gone to USC and, rather than major in journalism, had studied cosmetology, dentistry and eating disorders. She began reading from the teleprompter while edited video played in the background.

“Malcolm Wright has issued a statement regarding his encounter this morning with a male prostitute in Hollywood. ‘After struggling for years with severe allergies, I began to use the medication Allernawt. Today’s incident was an extreme reaction to this medication. I have always maintained, and continue to maintain, that homosexuality is unnatural and a violation of God’s law. I now call for an investigation of the drug company Burke, maker of Allernawt. Clearly, this drug is dangerous to the public and should be taken off the market.’”

Tawny stared at the camera and nodded in unbiased agreement.