By Anthony Paull
Tonight is supposed to be epic. It's meant to go down in gay history with all the lights, camera, drama. But a few hours before the event, I arrive to the home of my friend Aaron, only to find my wallet's been stolen again. "You really need to organize better," he informs me, ironing the same polyester shirt for the fifth time. Mind you, he's just taken two showers – one hot, one cold – and he's had to circle, circle, circle the kitchen table three times before spraying on cologne. That way, nothing bad will happen to him tonight. "It's about preparation," he states, in a grave tone. "In order to have a killer night, you have to set yourself up for it."
"How? By circle-jerking into a cup, one, two, maybe three times?" I inquire.
"I know, I know…you think I'm crazy," he huffs, spritzing another one, two, three shots of citrus-scented cologne on the small of his neck. "But seriously, the rituals work." This, Aaron believes because last week he was blessed with meeting a nice, nice fellow named Jack, who understands obsessive-compulsive behaviors better than anyone he's met. "Jack turns the light on and off four times before leaving a room," Aaron boasts, after I tell him the cop on the phone laughed at me when I phoned in a report on my stolen wallet. Did you say it was black and pink with white polka-dots? If ever there was a day I felt uber-gay….
"I'm sorry. I don't feel bad for you," Aaron confesses. "You wouldn't have things stolen from you if you didn't throw everything everywhere."
"I set my wallet on my desk at work for five minutes," I reply. "I thought it would be safe."
"That's your problem. You thought," he says, Mr. High-and-Mighty.
I don't say a peep. That's because Aaron's surfing the tsunami of new love. Tonight, he's planned to meet Jack at the club. Well, that is, if he can stop ironing, and Jack can leave his light sockets home alone.
"What's the deal? It's 11:06!" Aaron complains, 10 minutes after we arrive at the club. In the left corner, there's a big, bellied drag-queen in blue sequins calling everyone a faggot, performing an angry Kelly Clarkson song on a stripper pole. It appears we missed the fire-breathing drag queen, only to find her later smoking a clove by the jukebox with rug burns on her knees. "He said he'd be here at 11!" Aaron says, over the music. Slamming his slime-green cocktail, I sense his brain's bubbling over with anger.
How could this happen? He ironed his shirt five times. He used extra starch for good luck. But…maybe he used too much. Maybe that reversed the ritual. Silent, Aaron's brimming with bad thoughts. That is, until the lights come up over the closing number, and Jack reveals himself, after hours of hiding on the back patio, where he'd been playing kissie-face with the pizza-faced bar owner. "That's him!" Aaron shouts, pointing in his direction. "He's with that other guy. And he's leaving!"
"Hell no, he's not!" I reply. "The lights only came on once. They need to go on three more times before that bitch is going anywhere."
"Ugh, I should dump your drink on you!" he exclaims, elbowing me.
"Go ahead, you paid for it," I remind him. I can't help it; I have no money, no wallet, and contrary to what Aaron thinks, I'm quite prepared. That is, to be a complete bastard.
"This isn't right. I let him rub my back on that bar stool last week," he says, pointing to a smokestack, where a raisin-wrinkled guy with a black toupee sits. "I told him everything! I just wanted…someone to take care of me…for once. Is that so bad? I ironed. I showered. Why is this night going so bad?"
"Because every night can't be good," I remind him. "And maybe saying bye to a jerk like Jack will lead you to someone better tomorrow, someone you might have missed if you were tangled up in the dark with Mr. Night Light."
"Shit, you really believe that garbage?" he asks, dully.
"Hey, I've been drinking free all night, on your tab. And that wouldn't have happened if I hadn't lost my wallet…so see good things can grow from shit."
"Ugh, take me home," Aaron grunts, in a weary tone, exhausted from men who aren't good on their word, men who lie with him and then lie to him the next week. And only then do I truly understand his need for a ritual, a mathematical formula, to establish a sense of control. Still, driving him home, I start to reassure him that everything's going to be fine, that dating is not hopeless, but for Aaron, I know my words are meaningless. So when he sadly questions why I'm passing his house, I refuse him an answer, talking in silence by coasting one, two, three times around the block.
