a little bit sweet
sunday, may 8
I’ve been lying in bed at the Viceroy for two days, waiting for a giant earthquake to rock California, break off the little bit of beach that this hotel sits on, and send me surfing out to sea. It’s bound to happen, with my luck. In addition to the $1,000 ticket I got for having an open container of alcohol in the car, I got a $500 ticket for littering, a $1,000 ticket for improper disposal of dog waste, a $150 ticket for improper lane usage, and a $150 ticket for speeding. Yes, speeding. Me. Apparently, in addition to talking on the phone, learning that three of my exes are gay also helps me drive a little bit faster. I didn’t just break fifty—I broke eighty. I got a ticket for going eighty-one miles per hour.
Considering that the room costs four hundred dollars a night, I probably should’ve checked out and had my breakdown at a more affordable hotel. But after giving it some thought, I decided it was better to stay put. My thinking is this: If you’re teetering on the edge of sanity, staying at a HoJo Inn by the airport will surely do you in. I mean, the only thing that’s really keeping me sane right now is the thread count. Okay fine—the marijuana I bought from some kid by the pool is helping, too, as are the PlayStation video games the concierge gave me, and of course the sweet sounds of my favorite ’80s crooner. The four of them together are like two sets of Wonder Twins powers, activating . . . in the form of . . . a very, very fucked-up tramp that’s too comfortable, too entertained, and too stoned to jump off the balcony.
I feel numb, and not just because of the pot. I’m in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I can’t believe Shane’s gay. And I can’t believe Oliver’s gay. I take a hit of my joint and then cover Eva’s face so she doesn’t get a contact buzz.
Shane, #3, was a year older than me and my first college crush. I met him at an after-hours party at his fraternity house and dated him for one whole week. Everyone called him Cowboy Shaner because he was really into cowboy gear. He didn’t grow up on a ranch or anything, so I’m not sure where the fascination came from, but he was always wearing cowboy hats and boleros. You know, stuff like that. If you told me back then that he would’ve turned out gay, I would’ve laughed in your face. Shane was a stud. I mean, gosh, he had this one pair of angora chaps that he wore everywhere. He was macho.
Thinking back now, Shane did say something once that might’ve been a sign he’d turn out gay, had I read it properly. He told me that he had a “boy crush” on one of his frat brothers. Yes, a “boy crush.” Do straight guys have boy crushes? I always thought they did, but perhaps I’m wrong.
As for Oliver, #8, I’ll admit that I’ve always had a feeling that he might’ve been slightly gay, if that’s possible. The main reason for this is because right before we broke up, he went to a wedding and—
Suddenly my phone rings. I look at the ID. It’s Colin. I don’t feel like talking but by the time my brain sends the message to my hands to not pick up the phone, they already have. The T.H.C. in the P.O.T. is making me S.L.O. (I wonder what the R.O.D. would think of that?)
“Top of the morning to ya,” I say.
“Ehm . . . you know Irish people really don’t say that, don’t ya?”
“No? Bummer.” I feel let down.
“And you know it’s the afternoon, don’t ya?”
“Really? Bummer.” I feel let down again.
Colin senses something’s wrong. “Hey, you okay?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘okay.’”
“Well, for starters your voice sounds a little hoarse.”
“Well, that’s because I’ve been singing—” I break into song. “All night long! (All night!) Whoa oh! All night long! (All night!) Yeeeeeah!”
“Oh my . . .”
“Let the music play on . . . play on . . . play on . . .”
“Sweet Jaysus . . .”
“Hey, let me ask you something. Have you ever had a boy crush?”
“A boy crush? What the fuck is that?”
“A crush. On a guy. A boy crush.”
“Delilah, I’m not gay.”
“Yeah, I know that. I’m just wondering if straight guys ever have crushes on other guys.”
“Ahhh . . . that’d be a big fat no.”
“Hmpf. Interesting. Okay, let me ask you this then. Would you know what brand of hose a woman is wearing just by looking?”
“Oh, I get it now,” Colin says knowingly. “Which one had a boy crush?”
“The cowboy,” I confess.
“And which one was into hose?”
“The Brit. He cheated on me with a woman because he said he fancied her sparkly hose.”
I dated Oliver when I moved to Chicago, right when I started at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. He was from London and had the greatest British accent. No matter what he said, he sounded smart. Gosh, how I loved listening to him talk. Sometimes, when he told me stories, I’d close my eyes and pretend like he was Hugh Grant.1 His sweet voice was music to my ears. And he was such a good dresser too, so dapper and stylish. He always wore these adorable tailored pinstriped suits that looked like they came right off Savile Row. We had so much fun together, Oliver and I. We’d go shopping, go on garden walks. He was a great boyfriend. But then he cheated on me with a woman he met at a wedding.
“He didn’t say he fancied her legs in her sparkly hose?” Colin asks.
“No. I remember his exact words. He said, and I quote, ‘Her Givenchy hose were scrumptious! I fancied them so much that I wanted to eat them right off of her!’”
“He used the word scrumptious?”
“Yep.”
“And that wasn’t a little weird to you?”
“No, just the fact that he knew the brand was.”
“If you didn’t pick up on the word scrumptious being a sign, then something’s telling me you probably let a few others go right over your head.”
“I didn’t, I swear. The hose was the only one, I promise.”
“Okay, let me ask then . . . where’d you meet him?”
“The tanning spa.”
“Delilah . . .”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that! He didn’t go there to tan—he worked there.”
“Delilah!” Colin’s voice is louder. “You actually paid me to confirm this for you? You couldn’t figure this our on your own?”
“Like I said, there were no other signs.”
“Somehow I doubt that. What’d you do on your first date?”
“He invited me over for dinner and a movie.”
“What movie?”
“Beaches.”
“I rest my case.”
Since Colin seems to be reveling in the fact that he’s a tad more perceptive than I am, I decide to keep to myself that the date was on Super Bowl Sunday, that it was Oliver’s second time seeing Beaches, and that we both went out and bought the Bette Midler soundtrack the very next day. “Why are you calling me?” I ask grumpily. I don’t want to talk anymore.
Well, I have more news for you, and it might be kind of upsetting.”
“I’m pretty sure I can take it.”
“Okay, well,” Colin says, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “I found Zubin Khan, and—”
“Oh, wait, let me guess—he’s gay!” I say sarcastically.
“No, he’s not gay,” Colin says slowly, cautiously. “He’s—”
“Oh wait, wait, I got it—he’s in jail!”
“No, he’s not in jail either. Listen, Delilah—”
“Well then he must be dead!”
Colin doesn’t say anything.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“He’s dead?” I ask slowly.
“Yeah, sorry,” Colin says delicately. “But he went quickly though, didn’t feel a thing.” There’s an awkward pause. “Uh . . . were you close to him?”
“No, not really . . .”
Zubin Khan, #4, came right after Cowboy Shaner, which is kind of funny if you think about it because he was Indian. He was both my resident adviser and anthropology tutor during my freshman year in college. My mom met him the weekend I moved in and wanted me to become friends with him because he was super smart, and she was hoping some of his brilliance would rub off on me. In a way she got her wish—something of Zubin’s did end up rubbing off on me all right. It just wasn’t his brilliance.
And now he’s dead. Wow . . . I’m speechless.
“So uh, that’s it, I guess,” Colin says, after a bit. “I’m done.”
I’m confused. “What do you mean done?”
“Done, like I found all your guys.”
Found all my guys? All fifteen of them? He couldn’t have. “No you didn’t, did you?”
“Yeah. Well, except for that Nukes guy, but I told you that wasn’t gonna happen.”
I add up everyone in my head. Nate’s in jail, Daniel’s a priest, Shane’s gay, Zubin’s dead, Tim’s a townie, Ian prefers sweatin’ with the oldies, Henry’s married, Oliver Leet’s a little bit sweet, Nukes is not a nickname based on a last name, Tom’s a townie, Foxy’s in rehab, Dr. Pepper’s in space, Alex is married, Wade’s a puppeteer—I mean Muppeteer, Rod sells beauty products, Abogado doesn’t forgive and forget, Gordy’s still grody, Kyle’s gay, Greg’s still an idiot, and Roger likes to scratch and sniff.
Oh my God . . . that’s twenty.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is over.
I didn’t expect it to end so abruptly. I’m in shock.
Suddenly I let out a little laugh. By God, Kyle was right.
“What’s so funny?” Colin asks.
“Life,” I say. “Just life.”
With that, I begin laughing hysterically. I laugh about Muppets and puppets, bitches and studs, macaroni and cheese, cowboys and Indians, Thumper and my bumper, and Nifty and her pimple. I laugh and laugh and laugh. I actually may die laughing.
“Del, are you okay?” Colin sounds concerned.
“Yes—I’ll—be—fine,” I manage to say between guffaws, giggles, chuckles, and chortles. “Really—I’ll—be—fine . . .”
$65, 11 days, 0 guys left.
1 Nowadays I’d pretend he was Prince William. Actually, maybe Prince Harry. He seems like he’d be much more fun to hang out with.