One moment I’m on the bus, kissing Blake for the first time, and the next I’m at a dinner table, screaming. The woman on my right asks, “Honey, what’s wrong?” and the kid to my left shrieks, “Daddy!”
I vomit something green on a plate of soggy lasagna.
*
The emergency room doctor asks what drugs I’m on.
“I smoked part of a joint once,” I say. “I want my mom.”
My alleged wife Carol tells the doctor my mom died. “A stroke,” she says. “Two years ago. Can’t you check him again?”
*
On a cell phone straight out of Star Trek, she shows me picture after picture of her and some guy.
“Okay,” I say, “but that’s not me.”
So she drags me and the TV-thing I’m hooked to into the bathroom, pointing at the mirror like it’s going to change my mind.
“I don’t know how you’re doing this,” I say. “That old bald guy isn’t me.”
But his lips move with mine.
I wonder if the bus crashed—is this hell?
*
The next morning, while Carol’s taking “our child” to school, a different old bald guy comes to visit, claiming to be my brother-in-law Eric.
Leaning in close, he says, “It’s me. You can be honest.”
I look at the reflection in his glasses, this body I’m apparently trapped in.
“You’re faking this, right…? Like Walt on Breaking Bad in season two?”
I say, “Breaking what?”
He laughs. I don’t.
He frowns.
*
“Get Well” cards multiply, and my mom never comes. Just Carol with tacky forged photos, and Aiden (the kid) with sticky hands.
I beg to go home, but everyone says no.
I beg God, too, but he says nothing.
*
When I sleep, I see Blake, my best friend. The girls at school all love him. I do, too.
Six weeks ago, back in my real life, I slept over at his house. After Smash Bros. and pizza, he closed his bedroom door. He showed off his brother’s Playboy, and started to get hard.
Scared to death, I asked him if he wanted to jerk off. We stroked ourselves—him staring at tits, me staring at him.
Three sessions later, the Playboy sticky and torn, he complained that his latest girlfriend Ashley still hadn’t given him head.
Before I could stop myself, I offered.
“I’m not gay,” he said. “I can’t be. I’m going to run for president.”
“I’m not either,” I said, trying to convince us.
He rolled his eyes. But then, one excruciating minute later: “Maybe just once. To see what it’s like.”
*
The doctor says I have to make a choice.
“It’s been three days, and we’ve run every test. Not even your cholesterol is bad. If you don’t remember today, I have to refer you to Psych.”
I close my eyes, trying to reach Blake.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Yes.
Padded walls.
*
A few days before this nightmare, I picked at my Lunchable while Ashley monologued to Blake.
Suddenly, she turned to face me. “And what about you? You’re gay, right?” Smiling, not mean.
“I’m not a fucking faggot,” I said, in a voice that startled all of us.
*
That’s the voice I use with these strangers: “I’m not a fucking psycho. I remember now. I’m fine.”
So they transfer me from this jail to another: a small suburban home.
Aiden runs to hug me. I pat him on the head like a dog that might bite.
And then dinner—more soggy lasagna.
“Your favorite,” Carol says.
Smiling and so nice.
*
Weeks pass. Aiden goes to school and Carol goes to work. “You’ll go back when you’re ready,” she says. “For now, just rest.”
Some nights, Eric comes over to “re-”watch Breaking Bad—me staring at violence, him staring at me.
*
The last day of my real life, our science class went to the planetarium. Ashley wasn’t there, so I got Blake all to myself.
In the dark of the IMAX theater, my pinky touched his. He didn’t pull away.
And on the bus ride back to school, we sat in the last row. He rambled about stars while I basked in the light of his sun, sure that we were both feeling what I’d only seen on Dawson’s Creek.
The bus lurched into a turn, smooshing me into Blake. Without even thinking, I kissed him on the cheek, then cut to black.
*
No more screeching modem—the computer is always online. I spend my days on Google, alternately pleased and horrified.
Gay marriage, but Trump.
Streaming porn, but Covid.
One day I find Blake on the dystopian MySpace of Facebook. Although he’s obviously older now, I recognize him more than myself. He kept his hair and his smile. He lives less than an hour away.
Scared to death, I send a friend request. You probably don’t remember me, I type, but we were friends in high school.
Just hours later, he accepts. Of course I remember you, he types. How have you been?!
Before I can stop myself, I ask if he wants to meet up.
*
At the bar, I choke down a drink, still not used to the taste.
He’s twenty minutes late. Just when I’m sure he’s not coming, his voice says my name.
And there he is.
Radiant. Real.
I desperately want to hug him, but he shakes my hand instead.
*
In a corner booth, we “catch up”—I recite the story I’ve learned to tell as quickly as possible, so I can get to his.
Divorced. Two kids. Not the president, but a CEO.
We order our third drinks, and he clears his throat. “You know, I’m so glad you messaged me. I’ve wanted to talk to you for years, but always chickened out.”
For the first time in months, I genuinely smile.
But then: “I feel awful about what happened.”
My smile cracks—
“I never should have hit you,” he says.
—then shatters.
“You were my best friend, and obviously still figuring out your sexuality and stuff, and I acted like an intolerant, violent asshole.”
I can’t breathe.
“I know that the rest of high school was really hard for you, and I’m sorry that I contributed to that.”
And I feel the punch.
“But hey,” he says, “it seems like you sorted all that out, and have a really nice life now, with Carol and Aiden, and I’m so happy to hear that.”
I laugh. He doesn’t.
I laugh again, unable to stop.
joshua dalton 