Roland
ROLAND
“ I f you can hear me, Roland, I’m sorry,” Adam says as he sets the In-N-Out bags down on the island.
For a second, I think he’s about to tell me he dented the Benz, which is why I didn’t let him drive the Range Rover. He has too clumsy an air about him to be trusted with my baby.
“It took me a second to find the gate opener in the glove compartment,” Adam explains, directing his speech at the smart speaker. “I hope the food is still warm. Will you be joining me out here?”
It’s frustrating to be able to see the In-N-Out but not be able to even smell it. It’s right there on the counter in all its greasy goodness but it might as well be back on the other side of the mountains. My hunger hasn’t gone away. But there’s a new sensation, too—or maybe I just didn’t notice it amid my own ravenousness. I can tell Adam’s hungry, and not just because he keeps eyeing the bag while he waits for me to respond. There’s some kind of tension in the air, like an invisible wire connecting him to the food that I can … sense. It’s strange, and not entirely unpleasant, like an itch that you know you can reach. Was I feeling this earlier, too? Or is it only now strong enough to start affecting me? I’m not sure, but I do know it’s all blending together into one thing: need . I can’t explain it; I also can’t ignore it.
“Hello? Roland?” Adam is calling out toward my wing of the house.
He shoots a quizzical glance at the word YUM on the fridge, tilting his head to the side like a dog who just heard his name. He mouths the word and smirks, then turns his attention back to the speaker.
“Roland?”
I slip into the speaker and try to respond, but I’m overcome by the feeling of our shared hunger permeating the room. This time, he may actually come looking for me if I don’t respond. I would have done that by now. Although finding me would be pretty hard. I wonder how well-preserved my body is down there in the snow. Maybe they’ll put it on display somewhere, once they find it. Why would Madame Tussauds want a wax Roland Rogers when they could have the genuine article? But, right. Adam. Burgers. I can’t let my thoughts float off; we need to do something about this problem before I black out again. As scary as it is to teeter on this precipice, it’s also invigorating, and way more exciting than doing donuts in my Roomba. This is real. It also has to end. He needs to eat. I need to eat.
“Listen, Roland,” Adam starts again. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot—”
I want to cut him off, but he continues before I can speak.
“—and if you can hear me, I want to tell you that I realize this might be scary for you. What you’re doing is monumental. The only thing that would be more shocking for America is if Leonardo DiCaprio came out as trans or something.”
He just had to mention Leo, didn’t he? He continues his little rah-rah speech, oblivious to the state I’m in.
“Your story is going to do a lot of good for a lot of people. Writing my book was tough. I lost a lot of friends over it. Family, too. But the first time somebody told me that Sodomite helped them come out, I realized I would give it all up again just for that feeling. I would walk alone if my steps could forge a path for somebody else. And you have the chance to do that from a global platform.”
I’m straining to listen, but the overwhelming need in the room is dampening everything else, including the sound of Adam’s voice.
“I can’t understand what it’s like to do that with the resources you have, of course,” Adam is saying. “I mean, look at this place. And I also can’t imagine what it’s like to do that with the number of eyeballs that you’ll have on you. I think with a little time, though, and some conversation, I can help you tell your story. So, what do you say? Will you have a cheeseburger with me and then come out to America?”
He’s auditioning for a role he already has, and he mostly seems to be complimenting himself anyway. If he can just shut up for a second, and let me get a word out, I can tell him to shove some fries in his face already. Yes, we’ll write this book, but not now. Food now.
“Roland, are you there?” Adam is asking, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
“I’m here,” I reply, a bit brusquely, through the speaker. Maybe I can hurry this along.
“Good. I was worried I was talking to myself.”
“Eat,” I instruct him. It’s blunt but I’ve waited long enough. If I can’t tear into the food myself, I need to find out if Adam eating can somehow make this feeling go away.
He looks crestfallen. “Don’t you want to join me?”
I do, more than anything, but it’s a bad idea to try to explain why I can’t.
“Later. Eat.”
Adam pulls out a high-top chair and sits down at the island, warily eyeing the speaker.
“Are you sure you don’t want yours now?”
His disappointment doesn’t stop me from wanting to punch him. “Yes.”
“Well, if you insist. But maybe I can take some notes while I eat. Ask you a few basic questions?”
From the large side pocket of his corduroy jacket, he reveals one of those arty Moleskines and a colored gel pen with an end that’s clearly been chewed on. Is he really planning to write my book in purple ? It looks like he stole that thing from a toddler’s craft kit. He opens the notebook to the first page, awaiting my reply, but when it doesn’t come right away, he starts tapping the pen on the paper.
“Not now,” I tell him. “Eat.”
The tapping stops.
“OK, but we really need to get started after this.”
Adam relents, but still sets down the pen and the Moleskine on the counter instead of returning them to his jacket pocket, which is cute. He thinks I’m going to change my mind.
“Can I just ask you—?”
“No.” Jesus Christ. If it weren’t so much trouble, I’d be tempted to ask Matt to send me a different writer. As meaningful as Adam’s book was to me, part of his appeal was that he was supposed to be pliant, not a pest who can’t follow simple instructions.
But quickly, before I can interrupt him again, he stammers, “No, not about your life or anything like that. I mean, did you want the strawberry shake or the chocolate shake?”
There’s no use complicating things, so I tell him I want the chocolate shake—it’s what I would choose if I had an esophagus—and he slides the strawberry closer to him. I can tell he has been waiting the entire half-hour drive back to my house to taste it. He pulls the straw up to his lips, takes the first sip, and—
—suddenly, the room bursts into an explosion of color. It fucking explodes . For a second, I think I’m dying all over again, but this is something else. Is Adam seeing this? No, through all the phantasmagoria, he’s sipping the shake, completely unaware. But I feel amazing. This feels amazing. Whatever I am—this vaguely spherical invisible energy thing —starts to throb and pulsate. The room is impossibly bright now. Like a thousand flashbulbs going off at once on the red carpet. Everything feels so wonderful that it doesn’t even matter that I don’t know what’s happening. It doesn’t make sense. But it also doesn’t make sense that I can feel his hunger, or that I’m a ball of electricity haunting my own house. I don’t know why it’s happening, but it is happening—and it’s so fucking hot . I can feel the pleasure mounting.
“You’re missing out,” Adam says, setting the cup down on the counter, but I don’t want him to stop now. “I always thought people in Los Angeles were overhyping this place, but that’s pretty solid. It’s no Jersey diner milkshake, but I’m impressed.”
I can’t listen to whatever gibberish he’s telling me. He needs to keep going. “Wait until you try the cheeseburger,” I manage, hoping he’ll shut himself up with a bite.
Adam pulls out one of the double-doubles from the bag. I can see the cheese melted perfectly over the edge of the patty, the crisp lettuce, the pink sauce on the edges of the bun. It looks so good even Lucas wouldn’t care about the macros. Adam peels back the wrapper, takes a big bite, and I black out for a moment, and then—
—the elation returns twofold. A flash of white light, and when it’s done, I’m not even in the kitchen anymore. I’m at the Nokia with my Golden Globe glistening in my hand, but it’s not made out of metal, it’s a rainbow sparkling in shades I didn’t even know existed. I’m at my beach house in Tulum and Zoya is holding me, telling me it’s OK, that she’ll keep my secret. I am shredding a black diamond near Banff except there are rockets on the back of my skis and I am effortlessly dodging every tree in my path, doing backflips off the jumps. I am strangling Matt, just straight-up strangling him, but instead of being upset about it, he is mouthing, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for killing me.” Matt is dead and the rest of my team is telling me that the Academy has decided to give me an Oscar for Best Murder of an Agent. “Take that, Cary Grant!” is my entire acceptance speech and the crowd goes wild, and then Leo loses his category, and he has to sit there the rest of the night, looking over at me with my Oscar while he has none. He’s sobbing. He crawls over to my table, and on his knees he begs me, “Please can I have the Oscar?” and I say no and he cries, “Please can I just hold it?” and I take the Oscar, plant it right over my dick, and tell him, “No, but you can suck it,” and Leo stops crying, opens his mouth wide, and starts licking the gleaming golden head of my Oscar until it’s not my Oscar anymore and he’s just blowing me, totally entranced, until I finish.
“Well, that lived up to the hype,” Leo says—and I’m thinking, What hype? Have people been talking about how great I am at getting head? —until I realize it’s actually Adam who said it, and he’s talking about the double-double, which he has apparently polished off already. How long was I out? Either Adam is a slow eater, or I just experienced a ten-minute-long burst of memories and fantasies put in a blender and set to high. The only thing I can compare it to is an orgasm, a crescendo overtaking my entire being. I feel rejuvenated now. Like I could speak for hours without losing my voice. But why stop there?
“Are you still hungry?” I ask Adam through the speaker.
“I mean, I could eat more, but don’t you want your burger?” he says, glancing at the half-full bag.
“I want you to have it,” I tell him. “My treat. I, uh, didn’t tell you this before, but I actually ate something while you were out.”
“OK …” Adam’s eyes dart toward the empty fridge, then the hallway leading to my bedroom. “Then why did you send me to get this?”
“It’s all for you, Adam! A sampling of our fine local cuisine. Now, please, have the second burger. Then we can talk.”
Adam shakes his head in what looks like mild annoyance, but it’s hard to care right now. Even as his hand reaches into the bag, I can already feel tingles of the elation to come.