The Perils of Praline (5 page)

“I’ll be out of your way as soon as my clothes are dry.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Jason said, in a way that convinced Praline he meant the opposite. Sitting uncomfortably at the bar that separated the kitchen and the living room, Praline stared at the breakfast Jason had made him: eggs, sausage, toast and fruit. He was starving. He’d hardly eaten the day before, other than the M&M’s Stewart had given him.

“You take sugar in your coffee?” Jason asked.

“Yes, please,” Praline responded. Jason set a sugar bowl in front of him and he helped himself to five heaping spoonfuls.

“Jeez, have some coffee with your sugar,” Jason said.

Praline blushed. “I like it sweet.”

Jason frowned and Praline had a realization. He knew why Jason was nice one minute and not nice the next. He was a frenemy: a friend who wasn’t really a friend at all. Praline had never had a one before. They probably didn’t even exist in Georgia. In Georgia, everyone was friendly, kind and extremely polite. Frenemies were uniquely Californian. A danger his mother had forgotten to mention.

“So what are you doing today?” his frenemy asked.

“I need to find a place to stay and a job. Maybe not in that order though, since Stewart and his husband stole my money.”

“What kind of job are you looking for?”

Praline shrugged. “Anything really.”

“You must want to do something.” Jason considered him. “If you could have any career in the world what would it be?”

No one had asked this question since his life came into focus a few short days ago, and Praline was excited to talk about it. Even to someone like Jason, who only pretended to like him. “I want to be a same-sex celebrity spouse.”

Jason grimaced. “You realize that’s not a career.”

“No, no, things are getting better. We can get married in a bunch of states now. It’s totally gonna be a career really, really soon, and I am going to be on the forefront.”

Jason shook his head doubtfully. “Okay, but in the meantime I can ask my boss if we can take you on as an intern. It’s only twelve dollars an hour, and she’s an amazing bitch, and you won’t get paid for a couple of weeks.” Jason shrugged. “But it’s something.”

Obviously, Jason didn’t want him to take the job. If he had, he’d have made it sound a lot more appealing. This was the kind of thing frenemies did. Offer you jobs they didn’t want you to take.

“That’s okay,” said Praline. “I’ll find something.”

“Well, you need a place to stay. I should ask my roommate first, but—”

“That’s okay. I’ll be fine,” insisted Praline. He might be new to California, but he knew better than to move in with a frenemy.

“But you don’t have any place to stay and you don’t have any money.”

“I’ll be fine.” Praline smiled sweetly, then said, “Everything happens for the best.”

Which really seemed to annoy Jason. “So I have to say, this whole coming to L.A. without any kind of a plan because you think you’re in love with someone you saw on TV…not such a great idea.”

Praline didn’t like the way he’d worded that, and in a prickly tone replied, “I don’t
think
I’m in love, I
am
in love.”

“Okay.” Jason squinted at him and said, “But it’s still a bad idea.”

“Love is never a bad idea,” Praline said simply.

“I disagree. Love is very often a bad idea,” Jason said, wistfully. Like many twenty-seven
-
year-old gay men, Jason’s heart had been broken more than once. Praline, though, didn’t consider that possibility and was instead infuriated. How could anyone think love was a bad idea? Didn’t love make the world go round? Wasn’t love all we needed? Didn’t everyone know these things? And he might have said so, if the dryer hadn’t buzzed
,
announcing that Praline’s clothes were now dry.

When he pulled his clothes out of the dryer they only vaguely smelled of cologne. Praline threw on a pair of low-rider jeans and the “Eat a Peach!” T-shirt he’d gotten at last year’s Peach Festival. It was an ugly orange sherbet color and he didn’t always think it a good thing to tell people what to eat, but it was tight and showed off his chest to its best advantage. Even though he had no idea what the day might bring, he knew he needed to look his best.

Awkwardly, they stood at the door saying goodbye. “I’d give you a ride somewhere,” Jason said
,
“
b
ut I have to clean up the apartment before I go to work.” Then he pulled a twenty out of his pajama bottoms and handed it to Praline. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

“You don’t have to give me money.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” When Praline continued to hesitate, Jason added, “You can’t walk around with absolutely nothing in your pocket.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I—”

“No.”

Praline realized two things. First, they could go on like this forever. And, second, he really did need some money. He took the twenty. “Thank you. It’s kind of you. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“You promise you’ll be more careful and not end up hanging off any more buildings?”

“I’m always careful,” proclaimed Praline.

“That’s what worries me,” said Jason.

As he walked down the hallway, Praline heard the door shut behind him. Then, almost immediately, he heard a door open. Did he forget something? Or wait, he remembered his fantasy from the night before. No, Dave G. couldn’t live in this building. Could he?

Praline looked over his shoulder and saw Stewart coming out of the stairwell with a paper bag in one hand.

“There you are,” Stewart whispered. “I figured you were in one of these apartments. Well, at first, I figured you were dead, but when no policemen or ambulances showed up I snuck down and looked through the bushes. Your dead body wasn’t there.”

“Um, yeah, I know that.” No one had to tell Praline he wasn’t dead. He had an AA degree for gosh sake.

“That’s when I figured you must be down here somewhere.” Stewart held out the paper bag and smiled. “This is for you. I wouldn’t feel right using it again…”

Praline accepted the bag and peeked inside. He frowned at the handsome flight attendant. “This is very kind of you Stewart, and while I’m happy to have a double-headed dildo as a souvenir of our friendship, I’d really rather have the five hundred and eighty-three dollars you took from my wallet.”

“We would never have taken the money if we didn’t think you were dead,” Stewart said sincerely.

“I understand, but as it happens, I’m not dead. So if you’ll kindly go get my money, I’d appreciate it,” Praline said.

“There’s one little problem…” Stewart scrunched up his face in apology. “My husband is Malvanian, it’s this little Eastern European principality between Slovakia and some other country I can never…anyway, they have these ideas about honor and fidelity, and he gets sort of crazy jealous—”

“I’m sure that’s all valuable information,” Praline said. “But what I’m really interested in is my money.”

“Your money is in my husband’s wallet and I kind of, sort of, promised never to see you again. Dead or alive.”

“The thing is, my money is very important to me. Aside from its sentimental value, I have to find a place to live so I can impress the young man I told you about,” Praline said emphatically.

“Oh sweetie, you know that’s not going to work out,” Stewart said as kindly as he could.

Praline was taken aback and, though he realized a man who whipped out a double-headed dildo on a first date was probably not the romantic type, decided it was best to end the conversation.

“When you get my money back, I’d appreciate a phone call.” And with that he headed to the elevator, while Stewart slunk back to his apartment upstairs.

Moments later, the elevator arrived and Praline dragged his duffle inside, paying little attention to the middle-aged man who was also in the car. He pressed the button for the first floor. Suddenly, he found himself craving Birthday Cake Ice Cream. Which was odd because the cravings usually came in times of stress and he wasn’t doing anything but standing in an elevator. He decided it probably had to do with what an annoying person Jason Friedman was and went back to fantasizing about two scoops of vanilla ice cream mixed with chunks of delicious birthday cake.

As the door closed, he glanced again at the middle-aged man with his pumped up muscles and his hair plugs and put two and two together—it was Stewart’s husband. He was in the elevator with Stewart’s crazy Euro-trash husband.

Praline held his breath. What was he going to do? He exhaled slowly, maybe Stewart’s husband wouldn’t figure out who he was. They’d never officially met, after all. They passed the eleventh floor. If he just stood there calmly, making himself as small and easy to miss as possible, everything would be fine. Trying to remove himself from Stewart’s husband’s peripheral vision, he took a step backward. Ten. He inhaled quietly. If he just kept breathing eventually the elevator door would open and he’d be able to walk away without Stewart’s husband knowing a thing. Nine. Unfortunately, the older man was also breathing, and he began to sniff the air as Praline’s
Elude
soaked duffle stank up the elevator. Eight.

Stewart’s husband looked down and recognized the bag. He turned, pointed at Praline and screamed, “YOU!” Quickly, he drew his arm back, ready to pummel our pungent hero with his fist.

Just as quickly, Praline ducked. Unable to stop the punch he’d thrown, Stewart’s husband plunged his fist through the thin veneer paneling of the elevator. “UGGGHHHH!”

Praline took the opportunity to say, “Now look here, sir, we can work this out reasonably. Not to cast aspersions, but Stewart didn’t mention that the two of you were romantically involved. In fact, he assured me—”

Yanking his fist out of the elevator wall, Stewart’s husband pulled his arm back to throw another punch. Praline ducked and the older gentlemen pummeled the veneer.

“—you were nothing more than his roommate,” Praline continued. “So you see, none of this is my fault. Your anger, sir, is misdirected.”

The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened and Praline attempted to run into the lobby, but Stewart’s husband seized him by his T-shirt, lifted him off the floor and slammed him against the back wall of the elevator. The doors closed again.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I’m the one who should be angry since you stole my—”

Dangling against the back wall, Praline tried to reason with the emotionally deranged older man, “On the other hand, I have to say I do admire the passion you have for your spousal arrangement. Your jealousy betrays a heart capable of deep affection, and I can only hope to one day be the object of—”

Abruptly, Stewart’s husband butted his forehead into Praline’s. The boy screamed, “Jehoshaphat! That really hurt!”

Obviously, it hurt Stewart’s husband as well, since he dropped Praline and stumbled backward
,
holding his forehead.

The elevator reached the garage and the doors slid open again. Praline grabbed his duffle bag, his backpack and the paper bag holding the double-headed dildo, and bolted from the elevator.

The garage was low-ceilinged and very wide. Across the expanse, a BMW waited for the exit gate to open. Just then Praline heard Stewart’s husband clomping out of the elevator.

Praline ran down a short row of parked cars, realizing too late it was a dead end. Turning to face Stewart’s husband and with few options available, Praline reached into the brown paper bag and pulled out the double-headed dildo
,
preparing to defend himself with it.

Unfortunately, before he managed to thwack the mad Malvanian over the head, the man grabbed the adult toy and angrily bit off one of its two heads. Though tempted to ask,
Do you know where that’s been?
Praline instead decided to flee.

He jumped on top of a mint-colored Civic, leaving a nasty footprint-sized dent in its hood, then scrambled over it to the next row. Glancing at the wide black gate, Praline saw that it had opened enough for the BMW to drive through and was slowly beginning to close. Picking up his speed, he pe
e
ked over his shoulder to see that Stewart’s husband was now close behind him.

Moving quickly, Praline sped toward the plodding gate. A sign warned that the gate might cause injury or even death. Of course, Praline ignored the sign as his mother had taught him that all such warnings were liberal infringements on personal freedom. Not that it mattered, the gate “might” cause death, but Stewart’s husband was sure to.

The gate continued its casual movement toward the far wall
;
there was little more than a foot left to go when Praline got to it. He slipped through the opening and was nearly free, when he was unexpectedly pulled back. Stewart’s husband had grabbed hold of the duffle bag, pulling Praline back into the garage. The gate steadily moved closer, pressing on Praline’s chest. Stewart’s husband laughed—even his laughter had a sinister, Euro-accent—and Praline realized he was about to be crushed like a Palmetto bug underfoot.

The part where Praline accidentally becomes a sex worker.

The gate continued to crush Praline’s chest. Stewart’s husband held tight to the duffel. Praline knew he had to act and act now. He let go of his duffel—yes, it meant he’d lose his entire wardrobe and have nothing to wear but his “Eat a Peach!” T-shirt, but that was better than losing his life, right? Stewart’s husband and the bag fell backward into the garage, while Praline popped out of the gate’s path and onto the street.

Scrambling to his feet, Praline’s chest hurt a little where the gate had squeezed him, but he couldn’t think about that now. It would only take Stewart’s husband a few minutes to re-open the gate, and he had to use that time to get away. With just his backpack containing his phone, his wallet, a few toiletry items and all of his designer underwear, Praline ran down the street as fast as he could. Ducking down a side street, he decided his best bet was to find a hiding place. Stewart’s husband had a car somewhere in the garage, so if he wanted to find Praline on the street it wouldn’t be too difficult.