Sex and Death in the American Novel (30 page)

“One night I saw this commercial on TV,” I began, addressing Melissa. “You might appreciate this, being a feminist and all.”

“See, nothing good comes from the box,” Jasper said, crossing and uncrossing his legs, a grin taking over his face.

Melissa smiled knowingly at Jasper, who avoided her eyes and stuck his tongue into his cheek, then turned his eyes to me.

I smiled back. “Yep. That's the problem, exactly. My brain has rotted. Okay. So, anyway, there were these three guys sitting on a barstool; they're wearing like those flannel hats with the flaps, jeans, work books, thick vests, you know—blue collars.”

Alejandro put his arm up, bent at the elbow, made his bicep bulge, and said, “Manly men.”

I nodded, noting the glance of a woman at the next table. She gave me a sheepish grin when I caught her looking at him. Alejandro saw me looking at her and my smile. Melissa didn't seem to have noticed, so busy was she giving me a withering indulgent look.

I continued my story. “And so this one sticks out a leg and asks the other one, ‘Do you think my legs are too short?’ and the other one says ‘No, of course not,’ he smiles, and then another one twists around on his stool and asks the others, ‘Is my ass fat?’ and they both make this scrunched up face like they think he is but don't want to say it. His face falls, he's crushed.”

Melissa had one corner of her mouth turned up but her eyes were still cold. I leaned forward. “The whole fucking scene is ridiculous. No self-respecting guy would do that. It wasn't until I saw it that way that I really saw how ridiculous the behavior was, the whole mentality that we get stuck with.”

“Wearing makeup is the same thing,” Melissa said with a note of triumph on her clean face.

“Sometimes yes, it most definitely is…but have you ever heard the term ‘war paint’?” I asked.

“So this is like some sort of war, men against women?” she said.

“It's like dancing,” I said. “One has to lead or the whole thing falls apart. Sometimes he leads, sometimes you lead, sometimes you let him lead, sometimes, to make something work, he has to force it, and the whole thing moves smoothly. You can't deny our differences, and when we are fully present in our bodies, celebrating them, the coming together is that much better.”

She gave me a long look, like she was trying to figure me out.

I leaned in and gazed up at her. “Are you picking up what I'm laying down?”

“So let it go. Why would you ever worry about your appearance anyway?” Alejandro asked.

“What?” I asked, forgetting my original diatribe. “Oh, you mean not worry about how we look?” I gave Melissa a truly friendly look, her face softened by a small degree. “What about it girlfriend, easy-peasy right?”

She laughed and I got a genuine smile.

“The point is that our looks don't matter. The reality is that this will always be something women worry about, makeup or not, thin or fat or anywhere in between. My mother had me watching what I ate since I was eight years old. Don't get me started on that.” I sat back. “So the point is that I want to do something like that with all that vulgar talk that used to confuse me…still does. My brother was awful. He didn't talk about girls like they were nothing if he knew I was around, but when his friends were around, I heard plenty. Plus movies and all that, and then I read
Tropic of Cancer
and his attitude towards the prostitutes was just so cold and matter of fact. Like, ‘Oh, yeah, it's not a bad gig, this whole prostitute thing’…asshole. I never had a love-hate relationship with an author like I have with Henry Miller. I took my frustration with all that bullshit and funneled it into my book.”

Melissa looked from me to Jasper and I know she wondered what outrageous twist of fate had brought us together.

Jasper spoke softly from beside me as he slipped out of his jacket; the smell that wafted out was one I loved to crawl inside, his end-of-the-day scent with the mixture of the warm leather. “Henry Miller, I have read,” he said with no small measure of satisfaction on his face, “may have also been trying to accurately portray the way a certain type of person thinks and acts.”

I leaned against him, sipped from his beer. “There's immeasurable value in that. If I am reading with an open mind, as I should, I require that sort of honesty. I would never say he should change the way he writes if it's honest. On the flip side, we never hear men described in these ways—a piece of ass, tail, cunt, whatever. I don't think I have ever heard a man referred to like that, even by men who like to fuck men. The tone is different in that sort of writing.”

Alejandro spoke so that I felt like he was only speaking to me, though he swept his eyes toward the other two as he spoke, “Well I want to see you pull off this grand vision of yours. I was impressed by the way you handled homophobia, fear of stale relationships, bedroom appliances.”

Melissa choked on her wine. He made an apologetic face and handed her a napkin.

When I stepped into my apartment after I dropped Jasper off at the airport, it felt somehow emptier, and this was both welcome and scary. I called Eric and we went out.

“I missed you,” I said, wrapping my arms around his forearm as we walked together up Pike Street after dinner.

He leaned in and kissed me on the top of the head. “Me too. So when do I get a copy of the real book?”

“My editor's final edits were waiting for me in my email when I finally had a chance to check it.” I stopped and bounced on the balls of my feet, not caring if I looked stupid. “This one might actually matter.”

He rustled my hair as we passed a parking garage, and I saw Alejandro crossing the street by himself.

I waved to him, and he tipped his head to the side before walking over with very deliberate steps. “You aren't…” He glanced at Eric.

I rolled my eyes. “This is Eric, my oldest friend.”

“That's right, you two used to dance together?”

Eric nodded and spun me in a salsa twirl three times before stopping me with a firm but gentle hand on my back.

“Muy bien,” Alejandro said, and Eric nodded again.

“Still do,” I said, looking to Eric, then Alejandro. “What are you doing up here?”

“What are you, like my mother?” he said with a laugh. “You made Neighbours sound like a lot of fun. I don't have any classes tomorrow so I can come in late.”

We chatted while walking together toward the brick alley leading to Neighbours, past ratty looking teenagers, past a green metal dumpster. He told me he'd been to the Space Needle, eaten a nice lunch there by himself, wandered Westlake, and explored downtown.

I wanted to tell him he should have called me but it seemed weird; we were close when Jasper was around, but without him it might not seem like such a good idea.

I listened in as he and Eric chatted at the bar; I found out he liked techno and house music, he told me who his favorite DJs were and we talked about Ibiza. He was there not long after the summer Eric and I went as my parents’ reward for taking first place in one of our competitions.

“So the book I told you about is going to be coming out in a few months.”

“
Boy in a Box?”

I nodded.

“Wonderful.” He wrapped his arms around me and held me close and spoke into my ear, “That's great, chica.”

I pulled away, but kept my hands on his hips for an extra moment. I nodded and couldn't stop smiling.

Eric took off into the crowd, as I would normally have done, but since Alejandro hung back, I didn't want to leave him alone. Vlad had his shirt off, and several kids were dancing around him in a circle. His eyes were dark and his hair clung to the side of his head and neck in thick wet strands.

“Everyone loves Vlad. Girls, boys, and everyone in between. Right now who would you rather be, him or the girls?”

Alejandro looked at me with a soft indulgent smile and leaned in and spoke into my ear, “Neither. I would rather be talking to you. I don't know anyone who would even think to ask me that, or who thinks the way you do. You're fascinating, you're so unencumbered by expectations. Strong. Not like me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked. “After everything I heard from Jasper, I would say you were the strong one.”

He shook his head. “Jasper might say that, though he couldn't have admired me that much or he wouldn't have graduated and never called, never checked in with me even though I sent one letter and left two messages.”

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to bring up what I knew about him and Jasper, and I didn't want him to shut down if I jumped in with a comment.

The look on his face was full of sincerity. “You've really done something amazing with him.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I'm actually still in awe that he even danced with me, two nights in a row.” I held up the fingers as if to prove it.

“You shouldn't be. If I had half your courage and talent, I would be a different person.” He took my hands lightly in his. “I have never met anyone like you Vivi, and I am sure I never will again.”

I blushed hard, all the way to my chest, back through my hairline and to the depths of my ears.

He dropped my hands and we stood like that, awkward. I wanted to address his last comment, but he seemed to want to let it drop. “Maybe he didn't want to be in your shadow anymore?” I ventured, going back to our original conversation. When he didn't respond right away I said, “Everyone is in his shadow now.”

He turned to me and said, “Not you. Never you. Come on.” He led me out onto the floor and we passed a pleasurable—if not self-conscious—half hour dancing and trying not to catch each other's eyes.

We stopped for a drink, and the smile he gave me when I said I was buying made me give up the pretense of trying not to let him know I was
intensely enjoying his company. He followed me up to a sticky table at the top of the balcony where it would be easier to talk.

“So you admire my guts?” I said, hoping to get him to open up again. “Sounds like you had plenty of that if all the people in your class hated what you wrote. That probably meant you were on to something.”

“I wanted to write about a specific immigrant experience. No one wanted to hear that.”

“You mean like about the illegals?”

He put his drink down and set his jaw. “No. That's exactly it. That's all people think about when they hear about people from Mexico, that and gangsters.”

I shifted nervously. I was pretty sure I about to be the receptacle of his pent-up irritation at all people with my skin color.

He leaned forward. “People don't want to hear about, or understand, a father who brought his family up here to live while he conducted research that drug companies were after. Affluence and Latino are two concepts that can't exist together apparently. It is not believable.”

I was annoyed at feeling like the next words out of my mouth would be offensive even though I was trying to be helpful. “In the fiction that your teachers wanted you to write maybe. They worship the white guys like Updike and Cheever, of course they didn't get you.”

He kept his eyes on me but we didn't speak for a long moment. Finally I spoke again, “They bore me to tears. Like the only true view of the world came from the oldest part of the country and from guys just like my dad. They have no concept that there is any other way to see the world, to live in it…”

He shrugged, probably sensing my frustration, so I moved on. “Sorry, I just got so annoyed with watching my brother consume all that shit, and now you're telling me you didn't keep doing something you wanted to do because of them.” After he spent another long minute gazing into his glass, I said in a much more gentle voice, “You still want to write?”

“No. Teaching gives me the same opportunity to get my point across, and I have a reason to travel and read everything I want. I regularly write academic papers and some of these get published, but that isn't even in the same galaxy. Mainly I am just happy if I am reading and spending time with people who care about the same subjects as I do.”

I'm not sure what came over me. I stood and moved behind him and put my arms around his shoulders. I spoke into his ear, “I don't believe you.” His hands moved to my forearms, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself.

The next day it was time to call Jasper. I wanted to talk to him—I missed him—but wasn't sure how he would respond to my excitement. I didn't want to deal with the glaze on the phone. I had enough people around to be happy for me. I didn't need to have him bring me down with his disapproval and indifference. Maybe I was making more of this than there was. Maybe it was me who wanted him to be more excited. Finally I called him, knowing it was getting late on his side of the country.

“So when were you going to tell me you saw Alejandro?” His voice over the phone was sleepy but good-natured.

“It wasn't like I went out with him,” I stammered. “Eric and I just ran into him.”

He made a noise like he didn't believe me, but then moved on with humor in his voice, “I missed you.”

“Really? It hasn't been that long,” I said, but warmed with happiness that he said it first. So stupid all this dating crap. “When did you talk to Alejandro anyway? I thought you guys didn't talk that much.”

“We don't. He called me.” It sounded like he was sitting up, drawing in a long breath.

“What did he say?”

“Not much, just that you molested him in the dark sweaty depths of your nightclub.” He sounded like he was enjoying himself.

When he didn't answer right away I said, “I just can't believe he let those fucks take something away from him that he wanted to do.”

Jasper laughed. “He said you probably took him too seriously.”

I thought about how else I could proceed and decided to let it drop. “If you thought I was being weird, why didn't you call me?”

“I'm not going to jump on the phone every time you get intimate with another man.” His tone was serious, but I could tell he was joking.

“Oh God. Like I just go around hugging on every guy I meet.”

He plowed on as if he hadn't heard me. “I'd never get anything else done. Now that we're on the phone…I'm just saying.”