Deja vu all over again
In the heady days of 1998 it seems all I did was write about Jeffrey. Seven years later you’ll have to bear with me for a few weeks while all I write about is Web-boy. I’m sure to resume my usual pissing and moaning shortly.
I phoned yesterday morning to suggest that the rare break in the clouds brought with it an opportunity to go to the beach. “Have you ever done the beach in the winter?” I asked.
“No.”
“Aw, it’s great. The waves make mile after mile of whimiscal ice sculpture. It’s really beautiful.”
“Lemme think.”
A beat.
“You know, my standard response to that is, ‘Don’t strain yourself.’”
He laughed. “I dunno. I have a lot of packing to do. You wouldn’t believe how many books I have.” He went on discuss how he’s been scanning all his books so he doesn’t have to move them. He’s such a geek. Did I mention he also has a barcode reader identical to the ones we use at the library? Why would anyone just happen to have a barcode reader hanging around the house?
“Maybe you should work for Google,” I suggested. “They’re scanning several libraries right now.”
“I may just go the the liquor store and get more boxes. Anyway, I think I’d better stick with this for today.”
I let it go at that. We made plans for the meeting last night. I was distracted for the rest of the day. I cut myself four times shaving, a clear indication of my distraction and anxiety.
I went with as close to trashy as my wardrobe and the weather allow—my brown leather jacket over a black pullover hoody, strategically-ripped black jeans, Timberlands, (tied, contrary to current fashion) and my black, vulture-logo hat from The Register. Even got a second look from the cops as I waited out front.
Hisself arrived angelic-looking as ever. In fact, when I read Chirstopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Chilhood Pal, I cast him in the role of the yellow-haired angel Raziel, Biff’s protector/taskmaster, who, as it turns out, is the source of the very first blond jokes. Anyway, this made it difficult to not also endow Raziel with a Long Island accent.
As an aside, I know I described Web-boy before as having ash-blond hair. I don’t know if it’s a trick of the winter light, or if he’s colored it, or if my mind is Photoshopping him to fit Moore’s description of Raziel, but he’s now the classic sunshine-yellow blond. Falling across his broad shoulders and tapering down to a V just below his shoulder blades, I am at the limits of my control to keep my face out of it.
Ahem.
In any event, Web-boy was dressed in geek casual—bright blue fleece pullover, gray t-shirt, jeans and blindingly white sneakers. He couldn’t quite remember all the turns on the way to the meeting, and I wasn’t quite sure of his intended route, so we arrived a couple of minutes late after a roundabout route.
The Unitarians were having some sort of dinner and, helping himself to a broccoli floret from the abandoned appetizer table on the way to the basement stairs he quipped, “I hope God doesn’t mind. I’m starving.”
I replied, “I’m sure it was placed there expressly for your consumption so that you might survive until dinner. You’d better take two, just in case.” He did.
It is impossible to enter an AA meeting late without all eyes being upon you. The unwritten rule is: Come early, stay late. The best approach then, is to make an entrance.
There may be better ways of doing this, but alighting at the foot of the stairs dressed in your street-trash best with a geek god in tow is right up there. The best that room’s seen in a while anyway. Even if said geek god is stuffing a broccoli floret into his mouth.
Turning my buns to the room (these particular jeans do a Wonderbra-like lift-and-separate for my buns) I checked to be sure he didn’t require further nourishment from our snacks table—there was a 7th anniversary cake for someone—we walked across the room to the only two adjoining chairs on the boys’ side. Sadly, (sure) they were front and center.
It was a good meeting. The speaker was lively but kept it short. During discussion I chimed in with something and phrased it in such a way that the room eruped in laughter. Twice. We held hands during the closing prayer.
It’s amazing what making an entrance with the best-looking guy in the room does for your social standing. Afterwards, people who don’t ordinarily go out of their way to say hi to me did just that. And I’m not so vain (or naïve) as to think their interest was in me.
We went with the usual gang to dinner at Jines. The usual gang is primarily lesbians. In fact a month or so ago they made me a honorary lesbian since I was the only boy at the table. Last night, table for ten turned into table for fourteen. Only two other boys, both attached.
I knew this would make Web-boy comfortable since the only friends he talks about are women, and most of them are lesbians. I’m sure it’s a defense against gay men, who as a group, seem to approach him with the little head doing the thinking. (I, at least, take a more balanced approach.)
I sat back and enjoyed my swiss cheeseburger and fries with gravy while he had to work to get his Greek salad with grilled chicken in between sentences. He fit right in with the gang and seemed to enjoy being the center of conversation and never flinched when the conversation drifted temporarily into amniocentesis.
Approval ratings were high across the board, especially from the girls who tend to watch out for me.
Back in the car he said, “Thanks for making me come.”
With a smirk I cocked my head and looked at him from the corner of my eye thinking, I never even heard any cries of passion.
He blushed, spitting out, “No, I mean thanks for making me come out tonight. I had a really good time.” Then, “What are you looking at?”
“Oh, just checking for stains.”
Only the second time our conversation drifted into innuendo. The first was the other night at The Spot when conversation sequed perfectly into my telling him what his battle cry is.
His reply, “Until when?”
“Until Western Civilization implodes.” A beat. “I hope you’re a top.”
No reply. Aha! I thought. A bottom. I may be able to stick my face in that lovely mane after all. And maybe leave hickeys all over the back of his neck. And we’ll be the only ones who know…
