The Thing I Didn't Know I Didn't Know (Russel Middlebrook: The Futon Years Book 1) (20 page)

Anyway, maybe this, learning how truly great my friends were, was the real thing I didn't know I didn't know. Except I
had
known. I'd just forgotten for a while.

"I don't know what I'd do without you guys," I said, putting my arms around them both. "But the next time we have to admit something real and important to each other, let's do it over cocktails on top of the houseboat, okay? Let's not have to come all the way out into these freakin' woods."

Min laughed too, but Gunnar didn't, not even a little.

"What?" I said, looking at him.

"I dunno. I'm really glad I came out here."

"You are? Why?"

"Oh, that's right, I didn't get a chance to tell you. I saw Bigfoot."

Min turned to stare at him now too. But he just kept looking back at us, with no impishness on his mouth or in his eyes—not a trace.

"Gunnar," Min said. "This is a serious moment. Come on, be serious."

"I
am
serious. It was this morning. I got out of my tent, and the world was completely still. And it was just like Ben up at Stehekin. I turned around, and there he was, fifteen feet away. It was Bigfoot. Eight feet tall, covered with hair, definitely intelligent—not human, but definitely more human than ape. He was real, and he was right in front of me."

I honestly didn't know what to say. Finally, I said, "Did you take a photo?"

"I thought about it," Gunnar said. "But I decided not to. If you'd asked before if I'd take a photo, I'd have said, 'Heck, yeah!' But seeing him, I thought, 'Why?' The people who believe already believe, and the people who don't never will. Besides, there just seemed something wrong about it. Bigfoot are hiding for a reason. And this one was showing himself to me for a reason too. I'm still not sure what those reasons are, so for the time being, I decided it was best to let them go on hiding."

Min didn't say anything, just kept staring at him. I wasn't sure which of their two faces was more interesting: Gunnar's look of complete innocence, or Min's expression of a wonder that was just as pure.

As for me, part of me thought Gunnar couldn't possibly have been serious, that he had to be playing a prank on Min and me. But later, he repeated the same story to Ben and the others, and he sounded absolutely sincere.

To this day, I still have no idea whether Gunnar was telling the truth. But I do know that Min believes him, and to my mind, that's almost as interesting.

*   *   *

It was dark by the time we got home that night.

Min, Gunnar, and I walked down the dock toward the houseboat. The boards creaked, but the lake was still. The water smelled like rain—clean but full of flavor.

And there, waiting in the shadows of the porch to our house was a figure—a guy. I couldn't see his face—Min and I had forgotten to leave the porch light on when we'd left.

You need to decide what you want—him or me
, I'd said to Kevin.
But until you decide, I don't think we should see each other.

So had he decided? Was it really me he wanted?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Another shadowy figure stepped up next to the first one, then both of them walked forward into the light from another porch. They were both small and wearing dark earth tones.

In other words, it wasn't Kevin waiting for me to come home—it was Trai and Lena waiting for Min. (Now that I knew the reason they'd been acting so weird around me, I couldn't call them "Min-ions" anymore, could I?)

Min froze. She stared at them. They looked back at her.

Trai and Lena both smiled. They had that frazzled, open-faced look that a lover has when he or she—or
they
—come to your house in the middle of the night to apologize. It was the expression I'd been hoping to see on Kevin's face. They wanted her back.

I wanted to be happy for her—I
was
happy for her. But still. My heart dropped like an anchor in a bottomless ocean. How could I have mistaken Trai for Kevin in the first place? They didn't look
anything
alike. I guess I'd just wanted it so bad.

Min didn't run toward them. Instead, she turned to Gunnar and me.

Gunnar hadn't been involved in the whole polyamorous thing. But I had. And I nodded to Min. "Go," I said. It didn't take away anything from Gunnar and me that her boyfriend and girlfriend had come back.

At first, I'd had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to be in a polyamorous relationship. It would be so complicated being with two other people. But now I saw that I'd
been
in a relationship with two other people—Min and Gunnar—and it was the best, most rewarding relationship of my life. I had no interest in being romantic with either of them (the understatement of the century!). But what if someone else did? It made more sense to me now.

Min walked toward Lena and Trai, and they walked toward her. They met on the dock in the dark.

Gunnar and I went into the houseboat, giving Min and Trai and Lena their privacy. Gunnar was exhausted and immediately went to bed. But I wasn't. The wheels in my brain were spinning. I couldn't have slept if I'd tried.

Instead, I sat down at my computer and started writing. It wasn't the story of my life—it was completely different. It was a fantasy story about a guy lost in an enchanted forest. He didn't know how he'd gotten there or where he was going, and the trail was so bad that he kept losing it, only to find himself in the middle of different adventures. He met a wise old mentor and he vanquished an evil knight, and I had a feeling there'd be a warring king and queen somewhere along the way.

I wasn't exactly sure where the story was going.

But the weird thing was, the feelings of the main character were actually very familiar. The guy kept losing the trail (sometimes he was led astray), but somehow he always made his way back. He didn't know where the trail was leading, but it had to be leading somewhere, and he was determined to see it through, to get to the end.

I knew this guy, because I was this guy.

Anyway, I wrote for hours and hours. And I know I shouldn't have been surprised by this, not in the least, but I totally was: the story came out in the form of a screenplay.

*   *   *

"So I think I know what I want to do with my life," I said to Vernie, a week or so later, after I invited myself over to her house for tea. We were sitting at her dining room table.

"You
do
?" Vernie said, nibbling on one of the tiny sandwiches she'd insisted on making.

"Don't laugh. I think I want to try being a screenwriter."

"Why would I laugh?"

"Because I bet people have come up to you all your life and said they want to be screenwriters—not really thinking that it's a whole, like, craft that you've spent your life mastering."

"Sure, they have. But so what? There was a time when I said, 'I think I wanna try being a screenwriter.' Thank God people didn't laugh at me. Come to think of it, they
did
laugh. Everyone I knew. But thank God I didn't listen." She sipped her tea. "What made you realize it?"

"It was something you said. You said that every life is cinematic—you just need to know when to fade to black. Ever since you said it, it's made more and more sense."

"That did it, huh?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I thought it might have been when I invited you over to dinner to dazzle you with all my writer friends. Or that time we went to a movie, so I could give you my patented lecture on what makes a good story."

"Wait," I said. "Go back. You knew?"

"That you're a born writer? Of course I knew. The first time we met, you quoted Tennessee Williams."

"I thought that was a gay thing."

"It's a gay thing
and
a writer thing. Let's face it: there's a lot of overlap. That's why I like gay guys. Everything you do is so much larger than life. Yes, yes, that's a hoary stereotype, and there are plenty of boring gay guys these days, guys who are determined to be exactly like everyone else. I'm old school—humor me, okay? Anyway, movies are larger than life too. That's why they're so much
better
than life. Don't you see?
You're
larger than life."

Me?
I thought. In my entire life, no one had ever accused me of being larger than life (melodramatic, yes—larger than life, no). On the other hand, I also hadn't thought of my life as particularly cinematic. But thanks to Vernie, I now saw that it sort of was—at least if you arranged things in a certain way.

"It's not the way you act," Vernie said, somehow reading the thoughts on my face. "It's the way you
think
. You think like a storyteller. Just like I do. Which, for the record, means I wasn't very subtle when I tried to get you into screenwriting."

"Or setting me up with Felicks."

She cackled.

"But I think I know what you mean," I said. "Writers try to make sense out of life. Is that right? They divide it up and give it structure. They find the beginning and the end. Then they try to give it all a point, make it feel like it's going somewhere. It's like the day I saved you from drowning. That was the beginning of our story together."

"And this conversation is the end?"

"Oh, God, I hope not!"

"Well, I hope you know that at some point, you're going to have to move to Los Angeles."

"Really? Why?"

"It's partly about connections. More than anything—
much
more than actual talent—making movies is about who you know. And the best way to meet someone important is to meet them
before
they're important. Like, they're doing their laundry next to you at the laundromat. Then, two months later, they have a three-picture deal. After that, who knows? Maybe they'll even still take your call. But it's not just the connections. It's also something about the vibe of the city. There's something in the air. All the crazy dreamers move to Los Angeles."

"You don't live there," I said.

"Yes, well, all those crazy dreamers also move away again after their dreams are crushed. But that's okay. It makes way for the next generation of crazy dreamers. The circle of life and all that."

"Is it really that bad?"

"It'll completely destroy your soul. On the other hand, how great for your soul are the two jobs you have now?"

Vernie had a way of cutting right through the bullshit, didn't she? But I was definitely intrigued. Could I really move to California?

Vernie slapped the table. "Hold on, that's it! I saved your life! I predicted I would, and I did."

"How exactly did you save my life?"

"I convinced you to go into screenwriting."

"And I appreciate that," I said. "But that didn't 'save' my life. I mean, it's not like I'm going to
die
if I don't become a screenwriter."

"Close enough!"

"No, it's not. You're totally forcing it. If this was a movie, nobody would buy it."

"Oh, please. They would too! It's emotionally right on point."

I shook my head. "Nuh uh."

"What are you, six? I can't believe this! It's completely obvious I saved your life, and you're denying it."

"Okay, okay," I said, laughing. "You saved my life."

Her face brightened. "Really? My dream was right? And you admit it?"

I held up my hands in total surrender. "I admit it."

"In that case," she said, primly rising from her chair, "you may now have a piece of berry tart."

"No, really," I said, more serious now, stopping her with my hand. "Vernie? You really did save my life. You gave my life meaning, which I now see is just about as important as oxygen. So...thank you."

Vernie stared at me, but only for a second. Then she snatched her arm away. "Oh, stop it! You gay men and your cheap sentiment. Do you have to turn everything into a Lifetime movie?"

But those were just the words she said. What she was feeling was totally different. I know this because even though she turned quickly for the kitchen again, it wasn't fast enough to hide the tears in her eyes.

*   *   *

I'd like to be able to report that my deciding to become a screenwriter finally gave me an Unstoppable Career Drive (and also a bit of Passionate Aimlessness, because, let's face it, screenwriting is a lot more fun than most other jobs).

It didn't, not really. Every now and then writing felt like the night after we found Gunnar in the woods. But most of the time I had to
force
myself to sit down at that computer, and a lot of the time nothing really came out even when I did. And when I did finally finish that screenplay, no one in Hollywood even wanted to read the damn thing. Vernie read it, and she was very encouraging, but she also said, "Screenplays are like pancakes. Sometimes you have to just throw the first one away."

I'd also like to be able to report that discovering that everyone else was mostly faking it in life—that I now knew the thing I didn't know I didn't know before—had made me more connected to the people I live with and the people I share a planet with. But the feeling was fleeting. I was definitely closer to Min and Gunnar, at least until Min left a note accusing me of stealing her muffins, and Gunnar became obsessed with cheese-making—specifically, very stinky cheese-making.

Speaking of Min, she and Trai and Lena didn't get back together after all. They talked about it, but in the end, Min decided it just didn't feel right. A few months later, Lena broke up with Trai too, and she and Min dated briefly, but then Min broke that off as well. As for being polyamorous, she told me she was still open to the idea, but that there
was
more drama than in a two-person relationship, and it was too much for her for the time being.

I still hated my job at Green Lake, but things got more relaxed when the summer season ended and I moved back into the indoor swimming pool. But my job at Bake got worse, so I guess it all sort of evened out.

Gunnar's dad died in November, and the funeral was very sad (Gunnar's eulogy was pitch-perfect—funny, touching, and wise).

The point of all this is that my life was sometimes shitty, occasionally awesome, but mostly just sort of okay.

But don't get me wrong. I did feel better than before. Now I had a direction, and that really is a huge deal.

As for Kevin, I didn't call or email or text or even cyber-stalk him. I hadn't been sure I had it in me, but I was really happy to find out that I did.

Then around mid-November, Min and Gunnar and I were home alone one night, all in the front room. Min was studying; Gunnar was browsing YouTube videos, currently between obsessions; and I was playing my brand spanking new copy of
Dragon Age: Inquisition
on the Xbox (totally worth the wait).

And there was a knock on the door. The docks to the houseboats are gated and locked—too many tourists—so it's always kind of surprising when someone comes right to the door. But it could have been a neighbor, or an especially persistent Christian missionary. (It wouldn't have been the first. What, do they climb over the fence?)

I was focused on the game, so Min answered it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I smelled a swirl of fresh air slipping in from outside. But I was playing my new video game, so, well, fuck that.

"Russel?" Min said. "It's for you."

I paused the game and turned.

Kevin was standing in that open doorway. His hair was shorter than before, and he'd shaved his beard, but mostly what I noticed was that his face was as wide as the open ocean. Honestly, I'd never seen him look so good, which is saying something because I'd seen him naked.

As great as
Dragon Age
was, it simply didn't exist anymore. I stood up and walked over to Kevin. I felt both Min and Gunnar's eyes on us, burning like laser beams.

"Can we go somewhere to talk?" Kevin said.