Chapter 16
I look at myself in the mirror and shake my head. There is no way I can leave my apartment looking like this. I lean closer, scrutinizing the way the dayglow green T-shirt stretches tightly over my torso. The bright, rainbow-colored Say Gay slogan in giant letters across my chest seems to be shouting. The shirt needs to come with an off switch.
My mother looks at my reflection and smiles. ‘You look so handsome,’ she says. ‘And this outfit says you care about people.’
‘This outfit says if you beat me with a stick I will bleed candy. I look like a pi?ata. Did you have to go all out on the neon? And the rainbow socks? Really?’ I hike up my pants to see my ankles decorated for a Pride float. I look in the mirror and mumble, trying to see if the shirt looks any less garish from a different angle. It doesn’t. I support people waving rainbow flags but wearing them on your chest and ankles is so not me.
‘Mom, I know you like T-shirts with messages on them but I don’t and this one is way too bright and too tight? He’s a sommelier, isn’t he? This is… wrong,’ I say gesturing to myself.
‘Not at all. You have to show people who you are. That’s the first rule of dating.’
‘I thought the first rule was something about passion?’ I ask.
‘The first rule is never ordering soup on a first date.’
‘Why?’ I can’t imagine how that could be important.
‘I’d explain it to you but you wouldn’t understand. Don’t you worry about the rules. I’ve got them all up here.’ She taps the side of her head with her finger and then grabs the bottom of the T-shirt and yanks it down so it feels even tighter. ‘Everything you wear is so baggy. It’s like you’re hiding inside your clothing. This is much better.’
My face contorts into a disapproving grimace. I’ve always had very prominent nipples so I make sure nothing really clings to me. ‘It’s too tight, Mom. Do I have to show people who I am on an anatomical level?’ I emphasize my point by stretching the fabric away from two very noticeable points on my chest. I go to take off the shirt and my mom stops me.
‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Mom, this makes certain parts of my body look too…’
‘Okay, okay,’ she concedes, reaching into the seemingly endless pit of her purse. Out comes a roll of black tape. ‘For emergencies,’ she says.
‘What emergencies require duct tape?’
Her laughter fills the room. ‘Life is unpredictable, my dear. That’s another rule you need to learn. You think I don’t know you’re embarrassed of your nipples. You have been since you were a teenager and I have no idea why. They’re a natural part of you. I used to think that my left nipple was too high. Look.’
She is about to grab her breast to show me and I stop her. ‘Mom, please.’
She rips off a piece of tape, lifts my shirt and covers my left nipple with a sticky small black square. She pulls the T-shirt down again and my left pectoral is smooth like a marble statue.
‘Great, if you hear screaming coming from my apartment later it’s just your son trying to rip off the tape and not disfigure himself.’
‘Don’t get so worried. It’s not that sticky. I bought it at that BDSM store in the village. It’s for some kind of fetish thing. I don’t remember. You’ll be fine.’ She lifts my shirt and secures the other nipple.
‘It’s not just that, Mom. It’s what’s on the T-shirt.’ I point to the words squished between two hideously bright rainbows, Say Gay .
‘Are you suddenly a right-wing nut? You don’t think we should say gay?’ She puts her hands on her hips.
‘Of course, I believe we should say gay…’
‘I think it’s important that a date knows your politics. Another important rule.’ She points at me. ‘Maybe you should be writing these down.’
‘Well, technically they’re learning your politics. I would like mine to be revealed during the conversation. I don’t want to walk in wearing them across my chest over my now smooth nipples. Why do I have to force it down someone’s throat?’
‘How is it forcing anything down anyone’s throat? You’re just being yourself. That’s the most important rule of all.’ She throws up her hands.
Being myself is not something I’ve ever been comfortable being. I learned early on that being yourself can get you in a lot of trouble. Every time I was ‘myself’ I got picked on or bullied and it was awful. I learned to be myself when it was safe and all other times I was a smaller and more muted version of myself. Eventually the smaller version just took over until I wasn’t even sure what the real version was. Now as an adult I feel all this pressure to be gayer and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I think it’s great that it’s an option but I’m less enthused when it feels like a mandate. Can’t I just be me at whatever volume I choose?
I look at myself in the mirror with the words Say Gay across my chest, the rainbow glowing from my ankles, and my nipples suppressed. I see my mother in the mirror beaming at me as happy as Dr Frankenstein.
‘Fine,’ I say. Then she pulls an entire drugstore shelf of hair products out her bag, each promising ‘natural shine’ or ‘sculpted perfection’.
‘What until you see what I got for your hair. All of these are organic and none of them have been tested on animals.’
‘That’s great but I don’t really use anything on my hair. I just sort of wash it and that’s it.’ I run my hand through my shaggy mop and let my bangs stick up.
‘Son, you’re so handsome but you have to put in a little effort.’
‘Let me guess. That’s another rule?’ I ask rolling my eyes.
‘No, that’s just common sense. Now sit down and let me figure out how all this works.’ She starts reading some of the labels and then she puts on a pair of reading glasses to see something on her phone.
‘Mom, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Of course, I’ve been doing my own hair for years.’
She is not unattractive. She looks a bit like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie and she has had the same hair as the title character my entire life. Everyday it looks exactly the same but I’m not sure that qualifies her to…
‘Mom, what are you doing?’ I ask. She suddenly has my entire head covered in some gloopy slime. I try to look in the mirror to survey the damage but she pulls my shoulders back.
‘This is supposed to give you a finished look. It’s called hair clay.’ It feels like a pint of ice cream is melting on top of me.
‘Are you supposed to use that much?’ I wince.
‘More is always better.’
‘No, it’s not.’ I go to get up, but she pushes my head down gently with her hand. ‘And what is that smell?’
‘I think that’s seaweed or kelp. Are they the same thing? I can never remember.’ Even my mom gags a little as the odor grows.
‘It smells like the ocean has thrown up on me.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ she says stifling a cough. ‘It’s organic.’
‘Manure is organic but I don’t want to put it on my head,’ I say.
‘Now stay still,’ she says ignoring my comment with a confused look on her face. It’s clear she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She puts on another pair of reading glasses, forgetting that she already had a pair on top of her head. ‘It looked so easy in those videos online. I don’t know what happened.’ She moves her hands around my head and then tries combing my hairbut I can feel the goop tangling it up. She keeps having to wipe her hands with a towel which is not a good sign. The more she spreads it around the more it stinks up the apartment.
The intercom buzzes. My mother goes to answer it. ‘Helloooo?’ she sings into the speaker.
A theatrical voice floats in, ‘Sam? It’s Kevin. Your valiant date for the evening.’ Great, he sounds even worse that she described.
‘What’s he doing here? I thought I’d be meeting him somewhere.’
‘Of course not. A gentleman picks up their date at their home. Kevin insisted. I thought it was very sweet.’ I get up to open the door and when I pass by a mirror I see that I look like a landslide victim.
‘Mom, I can’t leave the apartment like this,’ I say staring at the mess on the top of my head.
‘Oh, it’s not that bad. Maybe I used a little too much. Let me grab one of your baseball hats,’ she says. ‘You’ve got so many of them.’ She grabs a Yankees cap from the hooks by the door. I’m not a baseball fan but I play one on the streets. ‘Quick fix. Voila. You look great.’
Kevin knocks on the door. I open it and I’m immediately not worried about my strange appearance. He looks like he time-traveled from a Shakespearean drama gone wrong. ‘Hark! Fair maiden and noble man, it is I, Kevin of deepest Brooklyn.’ He’s wearing the pouffiest ruffled shirt that ever pouffed and a pair of glittery velvet burgundy wide-leg pants.
‘Oh, Kevin. What a unique style. I love it,’ my mom coos.
‘I was at work, milady,’ Kevin declares, bowing dramatically. ‘I serve at the esteemed tavern of Guinevere’s Head in Greenpoint, purveyor of mead and medieval vibes. But I made all the leather accessories you see.’ He waves his hand around his body showing off a belt and some leather pouches that dangle off him .
‘Hey there, I’m Sam.’ I’m trying to make this situation as normal as possible. ‘What is a mead?’
‘You haven’t tried it? Oh, I do wish I had brought some with me. It’s an ancient drink made from fermented honey. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it. It’s having an incredible resurgence.’
‘Oh,’ I say, grabbing my jacket since I don’t want to blind anyone with my mother’s wardrobe choice. I open the door for Kevin, he passes into the hallway and I glare at my mother.
‘You two have fun,’ my mom says waving from the doorway. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll lock up.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve never heard of mead,’ Kevin says as soon as we exit the building. ‘During the Golden Age of Greece mead was preferred over wine. It’s incredible how wine gets all this attention. It makes me so mad.’ His voice is high-pitched and theatrical. I’m not sure I can get through an entire night hearing it but luckily I have a secret weapon arriving.
My plan is to grab a drink at a bar on Fifty-Third Street, only a few blocks away. I told Omar where we would be so he could show up around an hour into the date and help me end it humanely. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but this guy seems like he’s from another century, so he might predate it.
‘Sam, do you know the most peculiar thing about mead?’ he asks as we walk down the block.
I hesitate, caught off guard by the sudden question and clear obsession with this beverage. ‘Um, I do not.’
His laughter rings out as if I said something hysterical. ‘There is actually a blue mead.’
‘Made with blueberries?’ I ask trying to keep the conversation flowing. It’s that or blue cheese. How much blue food is there?
‘I knew you would think that. But no. Not blueberries. They add fungal spores to the first fermentation so that the final product has a blue tint.’
‘Sounds delicious,’ I say trying not to gag. Maybe he’s nervous and all this mead talk is just a way of getting through it.
We walk into Nitty Gritty, a dive bar just beyond the theater district. I order a beer and he orders a sweet red wine since mead is not on the menu, which disappoints Kevin but he handles it bravely.
I’m beginning to think he will act more normal once we have sat down and gotten over the awkward first moments, but as we find two empty seats, he says, ‘I’m sad Wayne couldn’t join us tonight.’ He slumps down a bit and frowns. I told my mother I was not interested in dating any couples. This is proof that she does not listen to me.
‘Have you been together long?’ I ask. I assume it’s an appropriate question.
‘Since he was born,’ Kevin says.
‘A real soulmate.’ I nod and drink my beer.
‘Yes. He goes with me everywhere, but he’s in a timeout because he was chewing on the cord of his terrarium.’
It takes a few more questions to realize that Wayne is not his romantic partner. Wayne is a ten-pound, four-foot-long iguana that usually travels around the city sitting on Kevin’s shoulder. I’m sure the iguana was chewing on the cord trying to escape hearing anything more about mead.
A respectable hour later, I have learned all about Wayne’s eating habits and even more about Kevin’s beloved ancient beverage. I’m ready to get out of there. I casually glance at my watch, and when I look up, I see Omar walking in, pretending to be in a panic.
‘Sam, I’m so glad I found you. You didn’t pick up your phone.’ Omar is many things, but a gifted thespian is not one of them. He sounds like he’s in a high school production of Peter Pan .
‘I turned it off. Is everything okay?’ I ask.
‘No, you need to…’ His nose twitches. ‘Oh, my gawd. What is that horrible…’ He moves his head closer to mine. ‘It’s your head. What is that smell?’
‘Never mind,’ I say. I guess Kevin was being polite not mentioning it, or maybe living with an iguana you get used to unusual odors. ‘What were you saying? It sounded like an emergency?’ I prompt.
‘Yes, your apartment. Go back to your apartment. There is an emergency. Something is wrong with your blender.’
‘My blender?’
‘His blender?’ Kevin echoes. I told Omar he could make up whatever excuse he wanted and I realize now I should have had more oversight.
‘Yes, your blender. I was making a smoothie and there was smoke and a terrible smell.’
‘That sounds dangerous,’ I say, showing concern.
‘You need to go home,’ Omar says. He’s so proud of his acting. A sly smile crosses his lips.
‘Oh, no. I was hoping we could grab a drink after this at Guinevere’s Head.’ Kevin sounds disappointed and I feel bad for concocting this charade.
But Omar pipes in. ‘Is that the place in Greenpoint? Where they ferment their own mead?’
‘Yes, yes. It is!’ Kevin says erasing any disappointment and replacing it with excitement.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of that place,’ Omar says.
I hate doing this to Omar but I can’t take any more mead or iguana talk. ‘I have to get home and check on my blender,’ I say getting up as Omar goes to sit down. I tell Kevin how nice it was to meet him, and I appreciate him going along with the setup and then I get the hell out of there. I really owe Omar for helping me with this. I promise I’ll be his human mannequin and let him stick me with pins for the next year.