Chapter 20 R2-D2
The last time Matt had worn one of these molded plastic masks, he’d been in elementary school. Still an innocent, leaving cookies for Santa, believing the only monsters were those that lurked under his bed.
He knew better now, as did his fellow members of the GM.
Hence the masks and other precautions during member interviews.
It was why Josh wasn’t joining them tonight.
He was on security detail, per the rules, providing them all with iron-clad alibis should this interview go south and Paul rat them out to the dean.
Matt loved this connection with the gay ghosts of the GM’s past, guys who had also struggled to survive the school’s homophobia. He had picked his mask for its warrior quality, even though the soldier it depicted had fought for the wrong side. The mask was of a Star Wars stormtrooper.
Matt doubted Paul was fooled as to his identity. He also hoped Paul would overlook any negative Star Wars connotations.
Paul sat facing his masked interviewers, blinking, bug-eyed behind his thick glasses.
He was not making a good impression despite an updated hairstyle and newish clothes from a thrift store.
Matt had hoped for better but could hardly claim surprise.
Paul was a person whose oddities enveloped him like a forcefield, repelling even the best-intentioned people.
His strengths were the opposite: hidden, like the elusive red mushrooms in the Super Mario game.
Matt tried focusing on this train wreck of an interview, but was distracted by Todd, who sat to his immediate left.
Todd was masked as a Mouse but was playing the cat. So-called saloon slut in his garter belt, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, he was a dam in heat. He fretted with the cuffs of his dress shirt, stroked his red necktie seductively, feeding the flame of Matt’s desire.
Matt’s cock wanted to douse Todd’s fire.
Earlier when Evan and Luke had arrived, Evan had asked Todd why he had such an elaborate costume when everyone else just wore masks.
“He’s trying to make sure the new guy doesn’t pick me,” Jake had said. “Jealous because I hold the club record. Chosen three times in a row because of my lucky high tops.”
Evan had disagreed. “Who says this Paul guy will even be admitted? Last time I checked, five of us must vote in favor. No offense, Matt. I know he’s your friend.”
Luke had chimed in, addressing Todd. “You’re fishing in the wrong pond if you want Paul to pick you.” He glanced at Evan, then corrected himself. “Assuming Paul gets admitted, I mean. He seems like a bottom is all I’m saying.”
“Who says I’m fishing in that pond?” Todd had asked.
Had Matt imagined it, or had everyone glanced at him?
Harley, Paul’s sponsor, was moderator, and was the only member not masked. Every group needed a Harley, someone with a middle child’s peacemaker personality, someone singularly focused on ironing out differences, helping the group achieve its goals. Everyone’s friend. Like Idabel.
It was Harley who had met Paul in the hotel lobby, led him to this third-floor suite, and explained the rules of Truth or Bare.
So, here they were, having finished the first round.
Paul had been stubbornly determined to keep his clothes on.
Of the eight times he had been offered the choice of “Truth or Bare,” he’d only chosen “bare” when required to do so by the rules: truth, truth, bare, truth, truth, bare, truth, and surprise…
truth. What articles of clothing had he removed?
His new three dollar shoes that didn’t stink.
When Paul had asked Matt “Truth or Bare,” Matt had chosen “bare” and quickly peeled off his shirt, trying to send a subtle signal to his friend. He should have remembered that Paul did not get subtlety.
Matt frowned behind his mask, willing Paul to lighten up. Not only was Paul giving the impression that he was uncomfortable with nudity, but answering questions wasn’t his strong suit. His voice was flat, emotionless. His answers were curt. He was in his default mode.
The only bright spot in the interview thus far had come when Kevin, in his Devil mask, asked Paul who was his hero.
“Alan Turing,” Paul had said, without hesitation.
“He cracked the Nazi codes and helped the Allies win World War II. He built the first real computer, the Automated Computing Engine. Once the English didn’t need his help anymore, they convicted him of ‘homosexual acts.’ He committed suicide two years later. ”
Matt hoped this would help Paul’s case. At least his hero was a gay man.
What had Paul asked when it was his turn to pose a question? “Do you play chess?”
William’s curt “no” had dripped disdain, which was even more jarring coming from his Dorothy mask. Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Like Matt hadn’t seen that one coming.
Then, when Paul had a chance to ask Todd a question, it was the same one. “Do you play chess?”
That was when William had interrupted game play. “Let’s make this easy, shall we? Anyone besides Paul who plays chess, please raise your hand.” No one did. Yeah, train wreck.
Matt wished Adam were there. If Colton Langley hadn’t outed Adam to the dean, Adam would almost certainly be in the GM by now. Sweet, gentle Adam would vote for Paul’s membership.
The second round began. Paul removed a sock for his obligatory “bare,” then gave a monosyllabic answer to Todd’s “truth” question.
It was Matt’s turn.
Paul, predictably, chose “truth.”
“What’s the worst name anyone has ever called you?” Matt asked. He knew the answer. The others needed to hear it.
Paul stared down at his bare left foot, mumbled.
“Please speak up,” Matt said.
“R2-D2.” Paul pushed his glasses up his nose. “Like the Star Wars character.”
“That’s not what the name is about, is it?” Matt asked.
Paul shook his head. “Your turn is up. One question is all you get. It’s Devil’s turn now.”
“My turn will be up when you’ve answered my questions,” Matt said. “What does R2-D2 stand for?”
Paul’s eyes glistened with anger. “Retarded Robot Dick Diddler. Two R’s, Two D’s. R2-D2. Get it?”
Matt looked to see if his fellow members got it. They had, or so they thought. Little did they know.
“Who calls you R2-D2?” Matt asked.
Paul clenched his jaw, pursed his lips, suppressing the answer. He glared at Matt.
“Answer the question, dahling,” William said.
Paul spat the answer. “Everyone calls me that. Everyone.”
Matt could have stopped there. Paul’s answer was technically correct, but also glossed over the truth, a sick, horrible truth that Paul, understandably, avoided.
Matt knew a thing or two about avoiding ugly truths. He had not divulged his rape during his own membership interview, so he could hardly fault Paul.
Here was the thing, a chicken-egg sort of thing: what if Paul’s secret was the catalyst that made him so bottled up?
So defensive as to be unlikeable? Matt believed that was the case.
He was certain that airing that secret could be key to turning this interview around and getting Paul admitted to the group.
“Does your mother call you R2-D2?” Matt asked.
“You know she does. You know the answers to all these questions.”
“And your dad? Does he call you that name?”
Paul looked at Harley, appealing for the moderator to step in. “His turn is up. It’s Devil’s turn now.”
Harley, ever the peacemaker, did what peacemakers do: he equivocated.
“What do you think?” Harley asked William, the Godmother of their GM.
William shrugged. He had warned Matt this would be a train wreck. “It’s Devil’s turn. Let’s move this along.”
Matt felt defiance boiling up within him. One didn’t easily become striker on a soccer team. The striker was the guy deepest in the enemy lines, the guy whose job it was to score a goal, damn the consequences. The referee could call a foul after the fact.
Matt, the striker, did what strikers do.
“Devil yields his question to me,” Matt declared.
“Don’t you?” he asked Kevin. Yielding time was a parliamentary trick Matt had learned in SGA, which was ironic considering it had been William who had encouraged him to run for office, and now Matt was using parliamentary procedure to defy William’s decision.
Kevin nodded meekly, yielded his question.
Matt pressed on. He dared anyone to challenge him. “Does your dad call you R2-D2?” he asked Paul again.
Paul shot Matt a wry smile. “Since you’re taking Devil’s turn, you must ask ‘Truth or Bare.’ I must choose ‘bare’ this time. I’ve chosen ‘truth’ twice in a row. Those are the rules.”
Paul removed his other sock, tossed it aside triumphantly.
Matt was undeterred. He turned his stormtrooper glare towards Luke in his Princess mask.
“Your turn,” Matt said to Luke. “Yield it to me?” Less of a question, more a command.
Luke looked to Harley for guidance. Harley looked to William.
“We don’t have a rule against yielding time, so you can do what you want,” William said. “Stormtrooper specializes in finding loopholes around our rules.”
“Then I yield my time to Stormtrooper,” Luke said.
Matt addressed Paul: “Does your dad call you R2-D2?”
Paul sighed. “Dad’s the one who started it.
He’s the one who makes the family call me that.
He tells church members to call me that.
He goes to Open House at the school and tells the teachers to call me that.
Everyone does what he asks since he’s a preacher.
Only my family knows what it stands for. ”
“Your dad changes churches often. Like every other year or so. What does he say in these new churches, when he’s introducing his family?”
Paul blinked back tears. He was not going to cry. He squared his shoulders, summoning inner strength. His voice, when he spoke, was dead.
“‘Hi everyone! Let me introduce my family. This is Sarah, my wife. As pretty as the day I married her! (Chuckle, chuckle.) This is our oldest. We call him R2-D2, like the robot. (short chirping, machine noises.) You can call him that, too. (Chuckle, chuckle.) This is our son, Aaron. He’s the athlete of the family. Junior varsity! Next is our son, Mark. He’s only eleven, but you can tell he’s gonna be a looker, a ladies’ man!
(Chuckle, chuckle.) Finally, there’s my daughter, Elizabeth. Ain’t she a beauty?’”
Paul finished his impersonation. He sat, shoulders hunched, breathing noisily. He had paid a heavy emotional toll.
“Thank you for trusting us enough to tell us that story,” Matt said to Paul.
And he meant it. “We have a tradition here. When an interviewee shares something painful like that, we show our solidarity by removing an article of our clothing.” Matt was already shirtless.
He removed both his shoes, set them aside.
The rest of the members peeled off their shirts, careful not to dislodge their masks.
Matt watched Todd remove his dress shirt. The twink with the dark, curly hair. Todd now sat bare-chested, the red necktie draped loosely around his collar bone, hanging limply between his flat nipples, pointing like a flashing red arrow to the garter belt and fishnet stockings.
Todd must have sensed Matt’s scrutiny. He looked over his shoulder at Matt, graced him with a half-smile.
Matt’s cock stirred impatiently. It wanted this interview to end.
Paul studied the eight shirtless guys and smiled for the first time since the interview had started.
“Pirate, it should be your turn now,” Matt said to Evan. “Yield?”
“I yield my question to Stormtrooper,” Evan said.
Matt resumed questioning Paul. “I hate to ask you this. I know the word is offensive. Are you retarded?”
Paul shook his head. “I’ve been diagnosed with mild Asperger’s Syndrome. Bill Gates has Aspergers. So did Alan Turing.”
“Ok. What’s the ‘Dick Diddler’ about?” Matt asked.
“Dad suspected I was gay before I knew it myself. He says queers get off by diddling dicks.”
“I guess that makes everyone in this room a dick diddler,” Matt laughed.
Paul snickered. He was loosening up.
“When did your dad start calling you R2-D2?”
“When I was twelve. That was the year I got diagnosed. Same year dad decided I was queer.”
“That was the last time anyone called you by your given name? Six years ago?”
Paul nodded. “Until I came here.”
“Why? Why did your dad go to such extremes with this nickname?”
“He’s Paul Olson Sr. I was his junior. He couldn’t stand the idea that his namesake is a retarded queer. Deleting me was cheaper than hiring a lawyer to legally change my name.”
Harley and Todd audibly gasped. Matt saw Kevin reach a hand under his mask and wipe away tears. William shook his head in disgust.
Matt sighed with relief. His role as inquisitor was over.
Matt wanted to demonstrate his solidarity with Paul, something more than just removing a single article of clothing. Paul had stripped emotionally, baring his soul before the club. The least Matt could do was to strip off his remaining clothes as a sign of support for his friend.
The other members had the same idea. One by one they stood, quietly shedding their clothes, piling them at their feet in silent tribute to the boy who had almost been deleted.
The vote that followed was a mere formality. The members unanimously approved Paul’s candidacy.