Chapter 6 Jamison
Jamison
I held the gauze to the crook of my elbow and grimaced. That had…not been the painless stick the technician assured me it would be. Ow. And the room kinda smelled like feet, which did not strike me as a good thing in a place where they were putting holes in humans.
“Ok so you should hear back from us within a week,” the technician told me as he slapped a band-aid carelessly in the general vicinity of the new hole in my body. “Keep this bandage on for two to three hours to minimize bruising.”
“Too late,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Will it really take a week to get results?”
He shrugged. “It could. Or it could take a day. It depends on how backed up the lab is and whether there’s a high viral load to detect. If there is, they can return a positive sooner.”
When he put it like that, I’d rather it took a month.
Goddamn, I just wanted to get the final all clear and be able to tell Hen that we were good to go.
But we were months away from that, though our odds of safety rose with each negative result.
Sighing, I followed the technician to the exit and checked myself out of the clinic. Soon, Jamie.
On the bus home - which also kinda smelled like feet, and I was starting to wonder if it was me and not my environment at this rate - I fingered my phone idly.
Facebook to while away the time? I imagined posting a status that said I was waiting on my latest HIV test and stifled a giggle at the reactions that would garner.
My grandma was on Facebook, for god’s sake.
She’d probably ask what HIV was, and then my sister would answer with way too much detail, and then Charlie would start asking me pointed questions, and then my mom would want to know what was going on between me and Charlie and… yeah, no on the Facebook.
I gazed out the window at the passing city scenery for a few minutes, but that didn’t hold my attention, so I opened Instagram and started scrolling.
Nothing interesting was popping up in my feed, and I started poking around for new content to follow.
After a few more minutes of finding nothing good, I shrugged and typed Henry Rodriguez + carpenter into the search bar.
Maybe he had an account and I could see the kind of stuff he did.
The search returned way more results than I’d expected, most of which were just guys named Henry Rodriguez, and a few of which managed to be Henry Rodriguezes who also did woodwork but weren’t my Henry. Finally, on page four of the results, I found a familiar face.
My Henry sat, eyes shining, astride a wooden chair with a delicate back that looked like a tree was inset in the chair.
Henry’s red hair was pulled back in a messy braid and he was grinning.
Woodwork artisan Henry Rodriguez with one of his creations, read the caption.
Anthemion style-backed dining chair, custom order.
Contact: henrod@ for pricing and order details.
Grinning, I clicked on Henry’s account name and started browsing through his images.
Most just showed his work in various stages of completion, with captions that only made about 20% sense to me because they used what must have been words of the trade.
But a few showed Hen at work, often smiling widely as he manipulated some tool or another or shoved a dangling piece of hair out of his eyes.
It was clear that he loved his work, and the work he produced was, at least to my less-than-knowledgeable eyes, beautiful.
I pondered messaging him to say that. On the one hand, it would make it obvious I was social media-stalking him, and that came across as just a smidge too needy.
On the other hand, I bet it would make him smile, maybe even make his day.
Hen didn’t strike me as the type to be too creeped out by my looking up his business.
After all, it was his business, he’d want people to find it!
Before I could stop myself, I was thumbing out a message:
Me: Might’ve just Insta-stalked your work. Damn, you’re good!
There was no reply for a few minutes, and I flipped back to Instagram and officially followed @HenRod and kept scrolling through his images.
I wished I understood more about carpentry or furniture making, because I didn’t have the vocabulary to really articulate thoughts I could share with him about the pieces. They’re awesome could only go so far.
Finally, my phone buzzed just as I was pulling the stop-cord for my stop. I glanced down at my screen as I walked off the bus.
Hen: I’m guessing @jamieofthelake is you, then?
Me: You didn’t immediately stalk my photos to find out? I’m hurt, boo.
Hen: I can do that now if you want. Hold on.
A minute of silence.
Hen: Ok, you live a way more exciting life than I do. That’s my takeaway.
Me: Nah, I just make it look that way. And I’m really careful about what I post because I know from too much experience how things can be taken out of context or twisted. So I only post the best stuff, and nothing that could be taken the wrong way.
Hen: Dude, you clearly go to parties and stuff.
Me: Occasionally, yeah, but look at some of the dates on those party photos. They’re pretty spread out. Most of my stuff - just like most of my time - is selfies around town. If you keep scrolling you’re going to learn way more about my breakfast habits than you ever wanted to know. Super exciting.
Hen: Mmm, breakfast.
Me: Dude, it’s past one. Don’t tell me you haven’t had breakfast?
A pause, then the “typing” dots began bouncing, stopped, then started again.
Hen: It’s what?!
Me: Lol yeah. I take it you slept late?
Hen: No, that’s the thing, I was up at six! Curie stomped right on my bladder and sleeping was over. What the hell have I been doing since six a.m., though? I checked my email, then I played a game on my phone, and then I decided to do some work and…sigh.
Me: Let me guess, you got sucked into a project?
Hen: I got this new order for a convertible bench and I got so interested in planning it and drafting…Some days I don’t know how people take me for a functional human being.
Me: Pretty sure you’re fully functional *wink emoji* What’s so special about this bench?
Hen: It’s…hard to explain. But they want it to convert from a standard, like, end-of-the-bed bench that you sit on to put your shoes on to a…um. I don’t even know how to explain this.
Me: Ok, now I’m intrigued. What kind of bench is so weird that you don’t know how to explain it?
Trying to imagine what could make a bench hard to explain, I unlocked my front door and let myself into my apartment.
Silence greeted me - no surprise, since I lived alone - and I shucked my jacket and dropped it on the armchair that mostly served as a clothing repository rather than a seat.
I so rarely brought anyone home - and when I did, they weren’t there to chat over tea - that it wasn’t really needed as a seat, but it had come as part of the living room set when I bought the room, so I made what use of it I could.
I was wandering into the kitchen, contemplating lunch and/or tea, when my phone buzzed again in my hand. Having almost forgotten I was mid-conversation, I looked down at it.
Hen: How familiar are you with, um…kink?
Kink? What the hell? I mean, I’d watched as much porn as the next guy, some of it kinky, so I doubted whatever this was would shock me, but still. I ran through the possibilities in my head. Puppy play storage bin? Convertible crib for a little? Cage for a human?!
Me: Ok now you’ve got my mind racing to all sorts of possibilities. Just tell me it’s not a dog crate for a human, please.
Hen: What even the…? No, it’s not a cage! Damn, you’re kinkier than I would have guessed.
Me: I’m not kinky! Well I mean, not beyond the usual stuff. But ffs, spill the beans, what the hell kind of bench are you making?
Hen: Oh, sorry. It converts to a spanking bench. Dunno if you know what those look like, but basically the standard bench needs to have parts that lower with a hidden crank so that the legs and arms can go lower than the torso.
Me: Is this a thing you do? Build sex furniture?
Hen: It’s not the first time I’ve done it, no, but it doesn’t make up a huge proportion of my business. There’s just not enough people in the market for sex furniture. Or if there are, they’re not coming to me.
Me: Maybe you need to advertise. Wait, where would you advertise for stuff like that. Kink clubs, I guess? Maybe leather bars?
Now I was picturing Hen dressed up like a leather daddy. Hmm, nice. He had a tight ass and a nice package that would look good in leather. A harness might be a little bit weird on him, though. I kind of suspected he wasn’t the bare-my-chest-to-the-world type.
Hen: I’m not sure I need more business badly enough to start marketing in bars. I make a living.
Hen: Shit, my stomach just growled so loud it woke the cat up and she gave me a ‘what even the fuck, human’ glare. I hope I have food.
Me: You hope you have food? Is this an issue for you, not having food? Are you sure your business is doing ok?
Hen: Not like that. More like ‘I can’t remember when I went grocery shopping last, so I hope I have something edible left.’
This man was starting to worry me. I nibbled on my left thumbnail for a moment - a bad habit I’d been trying to break for years - and then decided to go for it.
Me: Go get your stuff together. You’re meeting me for lunch.
Hen: …
Hen: …
Hen: I am? Where? When? Today? Are you sure? I’m sure I have something to eat, you don’t need to feed me.
Me: Today, and yes I’m sure. How about…hmm, the Cheesecake Factory on Seventeenth? Their menu is huge enough that there’s sure to be more than one something for each of us to choose from. And, well, cake.
Hen: Ooh, cake. Ok, I’m persuaded if you’re sure. When do you want to meet?
Me: It’ll take me about twenty minutes to walk there. I’m not sure how long your commute would be. How about I just head over there and you meet me when you can? If I’m not waiting in their lobby, I’ll be at the bar. Waiting to hear about your sex furniture business.
Hen: Oh my god we are not discussing that in public!
Me: Oh yes, we so are. Go change your clothes or whatever, and I’ll see you in a bit.
Hen: You’re dangerous. See you soon.