Lucas Makes Friends and Influences People
“I should warn you,” Armand said, not for the first time, “my mates are arseholes.”
Armand had wanted me to meet his friends, which was fine and not anxiety-inducing at all. It was one thing for me to ask to interview the people in his life, but another for him to suggest I meet his gang. It had taken Darren ten whole years to do what Armand had done in a matter of months.
We’d gotten dolled up— Well, I’d gotten dolled up in a dark navy Ralph Lauren shirt and cream slacks that (thank you, squats) made my ass look great.
Needless to say, I’d hastened to find a local gym to do some serious damage control in the days leading up to the meet.
There was a niche, hole-in-the-wall place called The Hench Bench, which was such a great name I couldn’t not drop a membership.
Armand, to my chagrin, had gone with his staple: dark jeans and a somehow darker shirt so ragged it looked like it was hanging on for dear life.
“Excellent salesmanship,” I responded jokingly to hide my nerves, playfully bumping his shoulder as we walked the London streets towards Boogie Le Bouge. “Why are you friends with them if they’re arseholes?” I overemphasized the accent because he always cringed so adorably.
“It’s different when it’s me,” he huffed. “They’ll like you, though.”
“Do they know anything about me? You did tell them I was coming, right? Also am I over- or under-dressed, because I’ve never been to a burlesque club before so I probably look stupid—”
“Lucas.” Armand had stopped walking, presumably so he could look me right in the eye, albeit shyly. “You look something, but it’s definitely not stupid.” As if to subconsciously prove his point, his gaze rolled over me from head to toe, sparking heat in my cheeks. “Trust me. They’ll love you.”
I didn’t fully believe him, but I allowed him to take my arm and continue leading us to the club as I checked my phone for updates.
The social media seeds I’d meticulously planted were already bearing fruit.
Ever since launching the official @RealArmandDemetrio FotoBom page, comments had flooded in by the dozens—some from existing fans of Surrogate Goose, some from randoms who stumbled across the posts and were now invested in the Goose Lore and Armand’s life story.
The only person more active than me was @LowRezMedici, a regular commenter who engaged with every post: sharing and reposting and generally becoming known in the Surrogate Goose community as the comic’s biggest fan.
In a sea of thirst comments, fire emojis, and Surrogate Goose fan theories, LowRez would always talk about the photo quality, and the way I captured Armand in such a beautiful, vulnerable way.
Such perfection in imperfection [heart eyes emoji]
The form elevates the content: this series is a marvelous and artistic gaze into the intimacy of creation [sparkling diamond emoji]
A polished mirror through which to admire the unpolished multitudes of a growing artiste [clinking champagne glasses emoji]
The comments were always a teensy bit pretentious—I didn’t know anything about fancy schmancy art terms—but it was validating that people wanted more, and that my efforts were producing results.
A notification popped up: LowRez had DM’d me in FotoBom.
Good day! This is for the person running this account who has been taking such beautiful photos. I have been following this artist for some time and am in awe of the quality of content being curated on these accounts. Do you perchance have a website or portfolio so I may admire more of your work?
Damn. I knew I should’ve gotten around to making a portfolio.
But how would it help me? Before this gig, all my photos were of the horses back home at The End is Neigh, and the few I took of Skyler as my first human model for the website.
I needed to branch out, have more diversity in my subjects.
It’s what Patricia Yang would do. I responded:
How kind! Thank you for your support, it’s always nice to recognize familiar accounts regularly posting here! I do most of my photography here: don’t have an official portfolio yet lol.
I had no idea who this stranger was, but they’d been an invaluable marketing resource for promoting Armand, Surrogate Goose, and the anniversary issue that was approaching way too quickly.
I’ll have done my job and probably be replaced with an actual marketing person.
Armand announced that we’d arrived, pulling me out of my spiral. I put my phone away and focused on taking in the club’s vibe. Boogie Le Bouge was a warm, almost rustic place with a speakeasy aesthetic: low lighting and exposed brick walls.
A small group at the table nearest the stage waved Armand over. “Armo!”
We’d barely reached them when Armand was scooped up by someone round and sparkly, who lifted him clean off the floor. “Wotcher, cock!”
Armand, once he’d had the life squeezed out of him, met my amused gaze with a clear don’t even in his expression. “Belle, this is Lucas. Lucas, Florabelle.”
Ah, so this was First Kiss Florabelle. “Nice to meet you.” I grinned, then gestured to her outfit, which made her look like a human cupcake. “Love the fit. Very cotton candy.”
“Innit?” She beamed, pink and rosy, and struck a pose, her long, high pony flipping around.
I was immediately ushered into the rest of the introductions: the gang included Abigay—Florabelle’s wife, equally round but more muscular with lovely coiled braids and classic sleeveless jean jacket—who was the newest addition to the friend group.
Small world, she worked at The Hench Bench as a personal trainer.
There was also Craig—a chubby, real life Dilbert who just seemed happy to be there.
“There’s Sam too, but they’re getting ready to perform,” Armand explained as the group hauled over extra chairs. “They’re . . . er. You’re gonna have to see for yourself.”
“Okay.” I focused on keeping track of everyone’s name. “Right.”
Abigay stood, jerking her head toward the modest counter across the room. “What’ll it be tonight, lads?” Her eyes flickered to Armand. “Obviously we’re doing chips.”
He shifted in his chair before responding, “Er. Fanta, cheers.”
Everyone put in their drink orders, and I was so proud of Armand I could scream.
He hadn’t had alcohol since California, which—given what appeared to be regular behavior at our shared apartment—was a huge move in the right direction.
But we’d never expressly talked about it, which meant I didn’t know if I was even in a position to congratulate him for his hard work.
Officially speaking, at least. I brushed my knee with his under the table, hoping he’d get the sentiment anyway.
We only had a few more minutes of schmoozing before the first act started, and while Armand’s friends were delightful and eclectic—truly a baffling combination of people—I harbored a growing certainty that the shovel talk was coming any second now.
The lights dimmed, and an androgynous dancer with a pageboy haircut stepped out onto the stage, intimately close to the audience.
There actually wasn’t a whole lot of dancing.
Instead, their routine consisted mostly of swaying, contorting, and smearing their body paint (half done as feminine makeup, the other half masculine) until they were a multicolored mess.
By the end of their routine, I had more questions than answers about burlesque in general.
There was another brief intermission, and the paint-streaked performer slid lithely into the open chair at our table. They said something completely incomprehensible.
I blinked. “Come again?”
Florabelle snorted, somehow still feminine and dainty, and Armand fondly rolled his eyes. “That was hello in Scottish,” he explained.
Sam grinned, even their teeth bearing smeared paint. “Must be the American then, aye?”
“Hi, yes. Sorry, I’m still getting a handle on English accents, wasn’t prepared for Scottish.” I shook their hand. “Lucas Barclay, ignorant Yankee, pleased to meet you. I’m sorry to say I haven’t been told much about any of you.”
Florabelle poked Armand’s cheek with a fry, giggling as he tried to dodge. “Seeing a man for a month and barely said a thing. The little tyke’s proper ashamed of us.”
Armand grumbled. “Can’t imagine why.”
“He knows we won’t pull any punches where embarrassing stories are concerned,” Sam pointed out. “And there are many.”
I heroically stifled a laugh. “Oh I bet.”
“And pictures!” Craig piped up excitedly. “I’ve brought my old scrapbook along, just in case.”
Florabelle perched her chin on her fist, leaning toward me like a casual interrogator. “Tell us more about you, mate. We know about the camera and the horses, but that’s it.”
Was this what a job interview felt like? “Well, I’m a bit compulsive about cooking and cleaning,” I offered, figuring honesty and vulnerability was the best move. “Armand used to call me Martha Stewart before we’d officially met.”
Sam gaped. “You don’t mean to tell me you actually attempt to tidy up after this bampot?” Their lilt grew impossibly thicker. “That’s a contact sport, I think; Craig and I lived with him for two years, y’know. We barely survived.”
Craig wheezed a laugh and loosened his already bedraggled tie. “Do you remember the socks in the kettle? I remember the socks in the kettle.” He pointed a beefy finger at Armand, blue eyes crinkling behind tiny round spectacles and above ruddy folds of cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I cut in, eyes falling to Armand who was slumping further into his seat, “socks in the where?”
“Of course he don’t remember, didn’t know his name half the time back then, did he?”
“But he’s changed now.” Florabelle ruffled Armand’s hair, much to his obvious chagrin.
“Don’t let us make him out to be some sort of buffoon.
He’s a smart lad, got a job and everything.
Washes regular, cleans his teeth, and spends all day drawing cartoon bloody penguins. ” She giggled into her soda bottle.