By Anthony Paull
As a friend, Jake says I should know better than to let him drink with a cell phone in hand. Side by side, we're driving in the heavy rain to an equality benefit, and once we're escorted inside, under the safety of black umbrellas, I tell him that we don't have to go out afterward; it's not as if I like country line-dancing anyway, especially when I know Jake is already drunk and his ex is going to be present.
Talk about a five-minute recipe for gay, country-fried drama. You see, Jake's not officially over the fact that his ex screwed him hard enough to hit oil.
So here, now, when he says he's over it, I simply flutter my eyes and take a deep whiff of the sugary designer cologne covering the scent of his heartache: the underlying, sweaty odor of up, down and sleepless nights of spiraling 'round and 'round.
Still, Jake's going to rise above it; this is what he declares as we mindlessly listen to a local, selfless, gay politician explain to us that we really should donate $100 to the good cause of equality because the liquor bill, at least for Jake, should double that.
"But I'm just a poor, underpaid writer," I apologetically confess to the red-suited politico wearing a yellow hearing-aid. "So how about $25 bucks and a blowjob from Jake. That's got to be worth $100. Well, maybe $50."
The commissioner, blindingly bald, nods as if that's an option. But I'm not sure if he technically hears me, so I say it again, louder, before Jake pushes me toward the bar. "You shouldn't talk to politicians like that. They're not used to it," he says.
"Not used to what? Hearing it or paying for it?"
Downing his vodka and cranberry, Jake's face is flushing red as high-society members around us feast on spiced meatballs and spinach and brie quesadillas. "Ugh, we don't belong here," he moans. "Let's go line-dancing!"
"But your ex is going to be there. Are you going to be OK with that?"
"Of course!" Jake assures me, minutes later in the car. Still, he wants more to drink before we arrive. So we make a fast, pit-stop at my house, where he raids the wooden liquor cabinet, feasting on vodka and diet-mixers.
"Don't worry. Just be hot. That's all you need to do," I inform Jake, who is desperately trying to calm his anxiety with each swallow.
"I'm fine," he says, growing agitated. "I don't need to be anything. I don't need to validate myself to him! I don't need fresh clothes or some new boy on my arm! I don't have to lose weight! Why do I care what he thinks?!! Why should I?"
"You're right," I calmly agree, hoping that he'll settle down.
"Ha! Why do I need revenge?" he questions, as we battle bumper traffic on the dark, slippery road to the country bar. Still, I hear it in, under and around his voice: something sinister, something we've all felt before. But where does it come from, this malicious intent? And why is it that we always need to be the last to say 'I love you' and the first to say 'goodbye' for life to be OK?
At the bar, there's a big-haired bridal party filling the dance floor, jamming to a live band, consisting of a fiddle, a drum and an electric guitar. Throughout, I spy a mad mix of gays, cowboys and girls wearing '80s bleached denim. I don't know whether to run or begin interviewing people for my next column. Each song is about a broken heart, a broken dog or a broken fender. Belligerent and boozed to the rim, Jake is fast friends with the bridal party, performing the electric slide. So what if it's the wrong dance? "Every line dance is the electric slide!" he calls to me. "Except hillbillies, they add in a curse and a calculated fall once in a while!"
At this point, I know we're going to get our gay asses beat, but this is at the bottom of my worry list. Jake's cheating ex-boyfriend, he's my top concern.
Now, he's approaching me in black and white plaid with a hug, a hello and a "how is Jake?"
Instead of an answer, I simply frown and nod in Jake's direction. Instantly, he looks, and then begins typing on his cell phone.
"You look incredible. I wish things were different," Jake sarcastically says, later reading his ex's text. On the ride home, he seems content with the message, even though I can tell it's not quite enough. I wonder, is there every truly equality at the finale of a relationship, or does somebody always have to pay? Can our egos afford anything less than a mindless retaliation? "I'm so sick of this bitch!" Jake suddenly exclaims, replying to the message. At least, I think it's a reply. But you see, Jake's more forward than that.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Forwarding his message to his new boyfriend," Jake sneers. "Along with a message for him to keep his man away from me…."
"You think that's smart?" I ask. "You think it'll make it better?"
Shrugging, he turns up the radio, tosses his cell phone, and closes his teary eyes. "No, but it will help me sleep," he sighs, resting his head. And I think finally, he's on to something. Because maybe a good night's sleep is the best revenge that any of us can ask for when ending a relationship anyway.
