George

His name was George.  He had red hair, and a bushy mustache.  I used to drop by to sell pot to his brother, the one that was on fire.  The brother that was frozen didn't smoke.

He was different.  I told myself that a lot.  He was older.  He was older and different.

We would talk.  I would look down.  Whenever I looked him in the eye, his glare would make the little blonde hairs on my arm stand erect.

"I like your mustache," I told him one sunday.

"Ah, it isn't so good."

"Well, I like it."

I would lend him books.  Dean Koontz novels, mostly. I would say, "Read this, you'll like it." And he would take it. And read it. And tell me his thoughts. His thinky thoughts. Sometimes he liked them. Sometimes he didn't. When he liked them he would go on and on about how great they were. When he didn't he wouldn't go on and on about anything.

We took walks. And when I got my car back we would go for drives. There were long uncomfortable silences. My music would fill the car but we weren't listening to it. We were listening to each other not talking. We went to our own secret places. He showed me his. I showed him mine. He took me to the yard where the big trains slept. They were like sleeping dragons. Huge. The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we walked heavy steps over long stretches of quiet.

We went to all the parks and elementary schools with playgrounds. Swings and slides were all we needed in the world. I took him to my favorite liquor store. He charmed the clerks. He could charm anyone in the goddamn world.

We were at my favorite park.

"What are you gonna do when you grow up?" I asked him, riding the rhythm of my swing. His swayed beside me, it creaked with age and rust.

"Dude, I'm like 43."

"No, really."

"I sell lawn chairs, that's what I do."

"Really?"

"Really really."

"What kind of lawn chair salesman?"

"One of the ones that fights for justice. And puppies. But mainly puppies."

The shadowy pool hall. The bright bowling alley. The cool dumpster that always had the best garbage. We went everywhere. I would tell him that I hated him in a loving way. He said it back to me, I think in a loving way.

He thought flowers were stupid. I thought giving guys flowers was stupid. So I didn't give him anything.

I went record shopping with some of my friends with the intention of picking up something he might like. When I get home I scan my new records for songs that remind me of him. I find some sad songs that remind me of old girlfriends. I thought about calling some of them, just to hear the contrast between their voices and his. That was a stupid idea.

"How's your little whore?" Heidi had a very ugly smile, a cruel twist of the upper lip that spread all the way to her cruel eyes. She had been my most recent old flame. I wish I had been surprised enough to almost spit out my soda. But this was Heidi and that's how Heidi would always be. Heidi was beautiful, so she thought that was an excuse. It usually was.

I stared back at her, unflinching. Somewhere between amusement and anger. "He's good."

"You fucking him yet?"

I found that notion absurdly funny, and didn't even answer.

"Me and Anthony are having a party on Saturday. You wanna go?" Anthony is the guy she cheated on me with. He is tall and nice.

"I was kind of planning on just sleeping all day."

"Sleep, come to the party, get drunk, then you can sleep. You can even bring what's his face-" she crinkles her nose grasping for the name, even though I know she knows it, "-George. Yeah. Bring him. It'll be fun."

I still like taking walks. "Walking is still honest." I say that a lot. I think he is getting tired of walking past the same trees and kicking the same bushes and picking up the same rocks. But he doesn't say anything.

I walked him home and saw a black cat. He thinks it means something bad is going to happen. I think it is a black cat.

The next day all of his puppies die. It seems like he dies too. I can't say a thing to assuage even a bit of sadness. I just get in the way. He sits on his porch a lot and stares at the cars passing by with listless empty eyes. I wonder what he is thinking. I am thinking, "Fucking puppies."

A little bit later he invited me to stay the night with him. His mom was away on business, the fire brother at school and the frozen brother with his girlfriend. My friends are on my case all day. Lots of teasing, good natured and otherwise. Someone slips me some condoms. I protest.

I won't need condoms.

I stay the night with him and we mostly watch cartoons. The room is pitch black except for the glow of the television. We start kissing and eventually we do what everyone knew we would do.  He penetrates me. Takes the first opportunity. There are condoms begging to be pulled from my pocket.

I don't use a condom.

This isn't a first for either of us. We both know that. But sex is sex. And it's everything sex is supposed to be. Wonderful, awkward, messy, and poorly planned. We laugh about it, and have our own thoughts about it as well, that we don't share.

I found a four leaf clover afterwards. He plucks it out of my hand and chews it.  Then he spits it in my face. I've never been more in love.

"I hate to say this. Since it is a cliche and all. But

I think he's the guy of my dreams."

"Not a good thing, dude." Morgan is small and wise, so I listen to him when he speaks, even if it is a high pitched whine.

"Come on, he's fucking perfect. He's beautiful, he's smart, he's got a mustache. He likes good music. He dresses well. I don't know. I can't think of a single thing wrong with him."

"Sure you can.  Dude, he's like in his forties for Christ's sake, and you're not even gay. Anyway. Dream guys are fine for dreams. Not for life. That's all I'm saying. He's a...He's a sweet guy."

I try to explain to George why Van Wilder is my absolute favorite movie of all time. We were sitting on his bed, the credits were rolling, and he looked baffled that I could claim that as THE movie of movies.

"It's cause this whole movie is about being ashamed of humanity. It's about people siphoning their problems onto others for no reason but advancement or to sate their pride or whatever. It's about the dirty fucking muck inside every human that they don't want to accept. It's about an ending that isn't sentimental. It doesn't pull any punches. Van Wilder, he gets put in front of a firing squad, gets shot and he's dead. Metaphorically. So this whole fucking turgid movie, black and white, grimy motherfucking movie, it's all this sadness, all this hopelessness, all this, 'Why the fuck do the bad guys always win?' Well that's what the last scene is for. The fucking German bitch gets up there and all the French guys are jeering and leering and doing their French soldier shit and you know, it's more horrible stuff, mocking her and shit. But then she starts singing. And her fucking voice is so full of emotion that all these hardass motherfuckers from the front, from no man's land and they all break into tears and start humming from just the pure fucking beauty of it all. And without that scene that movie would be incomplete. It would just be an endless stream of 'life isn't fair, life isn't fair' but this one tiny tiny scene negates all that. That scene brings the entire thing to life. And that's it, that's how life is. You march your way through the fucking sludge and things look shitty and then there comes a fucking moment of clarity and you realize that life ain't so bad all the time. That there is beauty in the world. That there are things that are worth it. You know what I mean?"

He thought about it for awhile. I could see his brow tense. "What the fuck?  What fucking movie were you watching? It was just stupid."

"I just think-"

"What, you think I keep you around for your fucking thoughts?  Shut up, ass-meat."

"But-"

"I have to pee.  I don't want you here when I get back" And he leaves.

Tom Theiss