Chapter Ten Cruising, dir. by William Friedkin #5
“So...” Eli taps on his knees.
“So?”
Eli hates this, how quickly things have turned awkward. And any attempt he can think of to make things a little easier seems
like the wrong move.
“How is your project going? At work.”
“It’s okay,” Peter tells him, still not meeting Eli’s eyes. “We’re behind—my supervisor wants these tests done by February,
which wouldn’t be a problem except we have six hundred to run and they each take thirty minutes, and so far, none of them
are going well, so... we’re already behind.”
“Yikes...”
“What about you?”
“Oh, you know. Getting coffee, making copies, going to meetings, resisting the urge to climb up to the roof and throw myself
off the building.”
“So, usual stuff?”
Eli cackles. “Pretty much.”
Peter hums, focusing on his hands, clasped together. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so distant.”
“It’s okay,” Eli reassures him. “I owe you just as much of an apology. We’ve both been busy with work.”
“It’s that, and... I don’t know, I think I was worried that you wouldn’t want to see me after that whole thing at the lounge.”
“Oh, that? Please, Peter. You’re by no means the first drunken person I’ve ever had to take care of. Before I met you, I was spending my Friday nights wrestling bottles of pinot away from Rose.”
Peter laughs at that, and Eli lets his guard down under the familiar sound.
“Besides, it was at least ninety-five percent my fault,” he teases.
Eli dares to reach over, closing the distance between him and Peter. He almost risks going further than putting his hand on
top of Peter’s where it rests on the edge of the bench, but he stops himself.
“It’s all right, I promise you,” Eli says.
Peter smiles, and Eli melts, the warmth almost enough to negate the gust of wind that blows in through the open door.
“You okay?” Peter asks as Eli takes his hand back, tucking his arms under his armpits.
“I’m fine, I just always get cold. It probably doesn’t help that I bought this sweater from Spirit Halloween.” So it’s basically
paper-thin.
“Yeah, you have cold hands.”
“Well, excuse me!” Eli feigns offense. “Not all of us are born with iron-rich bodies.”
“Maybe if you ate more spinach,” Peter teases him.
“Fine, make fun of me in my time of need,” Eli whines. “I’ll just sit here, brave enough to keep you company while I freeze
to death.”
“I didn’t say you had to stay,” Peter says.
“But you know you’d rather have me here.”
Peter doesn’t say anything, but the smile on his face is enough of a reply as he leans over to his other laundry bag where
Eli’s guessing he’s stashed his clean whites because he hands a few T-shirts to Eli to hold while he digs.
“Here.” He takes the shirts back and gives Eli a gray hoodie, still warm from the dryer.
It’s cold enough that Eli can’t even pretend to turn it down, slipping his arms through the sleeves easily. “Thank you.”
“You should layer more,” Peter says, pulling the drawstring on his bag closed. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Well, she’s right.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Eli buries himself in the hoodie, breathing in the warmth, but even that simple act is not without its costs
as he inhales that familiar cedar scent. Here, lingering on the hoodie, it’s concentrated, like a poison working its way into
Eli’s veins.
“Thank you.”
Peter simply nods. “How’s the article going?”
Eli blows a raspberry with his tongue. “I’m stuck.” Rather than daring to explain himself, Eli pulls his phone out of his
pocket, going to the article and handing it to Peter to read.
“‘Lavender Country,’” he reads, his accent coming through softly.
“I thought it was a good title.”
“I like it.” Peter goes quiet as he begins to read, his thumb slowly scrolling to carry him down the page until he reaches
the list of bullet points that Eli has yet to elaborate on. “Huh...”
“‘Huh’?” He straightens. “What ‘huh’? Is there something wrong?”
Peter opens his mouth again, and then closes it.
“Peter, please. I’m begging you. If you have feedback for me, please give it. This article is about you.”
“I think... I think the article is sad.”
Eli finally feels himself unclench.
“And maybe that was the point, for where you’re coming from.”
“No, you’re right.” Eli takes his phone back, speed-reading the article.
“Don’t get me wrong, I mean, it’s not like it was a utopia. But everyone thinks that the South is totally backward, full of nothing but homophobes and racists and transphobes. But... I have happy memories too.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Eli offers, opening the voice memo app on his phone. “Can I record this?”
Peter nods. “How do you want me to do this?”
“Just like we’ve been doing. Tell me about the positive things you experienced growing up. Tell me how you feel about how
others represent where you’re from.”
“Well... I mean...” Peter seems to think. “I know it’s popular to shit on where I come from, especially deeper South
states like Alabama or Mississippi. When I came here, I was so excited to know other Korean people, to feel like I had a community.
And I had friends in my program at Berkeley, but sometimes... I don’t know.”
“Keep talking through it,” Eli presses; he doesn’t want Peter to let go of this.
“Sometimes, they’d surprise me by making fun of my accent, especially when it came through when I was speaking Korean. They’d
call me a hick and laugh at me, ask if I’d just gotten back from the cornfields.”
“Not Korean enough for the Korean community, not gay enough for the queer community.”
Peter nods. “It was easy to feel... stuck. But it wasn’t all bad in Comer; there were nice people too. Southern hospitality
always has a way of coming through. And the food, the food was amazing. Y’all on the West Coast don’t know a thing about pulled
pork.”
“I can’t argue with you there.”
“And there was this yearly jazz festival that my parents would take me to, that’s where I fell in love with it for the first time.
Country music too; some of it’s ass, but classic country is so heartfelt.
And there were plenty of kind people too.
Our neighbors always loved me, they said I was such a cute kid.
And things were... I don’t know, quiet.
Everything here, or even in Berkeley, it’s so loud.
Everyone’s going all the time, no one says hello to each other really. ”
Eli nods, not saying anything to let Peter get his thoughts out naturally.
“There’s so much good about the South. The music, the people, the community. I spent so many years of my life feeling isolated,
but I also remember the people. I never knew a stranger when I lived in Comer. Even when people were mean, it was like...
I hate when people make fun of the South for being backward when here, people will do everything behind your back, under a
veil of kindness, or like they’re doing you a favor. At least back in Georgia, people would say that stuff to my face. I never
had to second-guess their intention.”
Peter peers ahead at the washing machines before his gaze finally settles back on Eli.
“Sorry, I feel like I ranted.”
“No, don’t apologize. That’s what we’re here for, right?” Eli hesitates, thinking about how amazing all of these details will
be for the article. Then he has to pause, remembering that’s not the most important thing right now.
“I love where I come from. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. But nowhere is. And I think it’s important for anyone, for any community, to remember and appreciate where you’ve come
from.”
“That’s beautiful, Peter.”
“I just hate that the South gets such a bad rap. Like yeah, things are bad there, but things are bad literally everywhere
else. Plus, we have Bojangles.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, because I have no idea what a Bojangles is.”
“I’ll take you to try it one day.” Peter grins, and Eli tries not to focus too hard on the fact that Peter is apparently planning
vacations back home and he wants to take Eli with him.
Eli puts away his phone. “You know I’m going to have to ask what you’re reading.”
Peter’s expression sinks. “You really don’t have to.”
“Well, considering how quickly you threw it in your laundry bag there, I’m going to guess it’s some steamy erotica,” Eli teases,
because he can’t ever help himself.
“It’s not.”
“Come on, we all have our vices. What is it, a dinosaur and a priest?”
“How would that even work?” Peter asks.
“Use your imagination,” Eli tells him. “It’s a powerful tool.”
“No dinosaurs.”
“So, there are priests, sexy. Is the father getting a little hot under the collar for Jesus?” Eli even pulls on the neckline of Peter’s hoodie.
“No priests either.”
“Okay, okay...” Eli hesitates. “Would you be mad at me if I said that I saw your romance collection?”
Peter pauses, clearly unsure of how to react to Eli knowing what he has to consider a deep, dark secret.
“How did you—”
“I dropped the Advil bottle in your room when you’d passed out, and some of them went under the bed and I know that sounds
like a made-up excuse so I really hope you don’t think that I’m just lying to prove that I didn’t snoop around your apartment
or something because I didn’t,” Eli says the words in one long breath, only realizing what he’s done when he’s finished speaking.
“But I am sorry, for finding the books.”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Can I ask why you hide them?”
“You know... I think about that every time I finish one of these and I reach for a new one.” Peter dips down, pulling the book free of its smelly prison. “Or when I go to the bookstore and I buy two other books I don’t care about just so I can hide the books I actually want to read.”
“Please tell me you’ve never done that,” Eli pleads.
Peter hesitates.
“Peter...”
“It only happened once—after that I learned to only buy books online or read them on my phone.” Peter smiles, and Eli hopes
he knows that he isn’t making fun of Peter. “But if you ever need a book on World WarI or a biography of James Buchanan,