Last weekend I was alerted to a particular piece of information with which found myself unprepared. The man I am currently infatuated with found out that his younger sister has succumbed to the amount of cancer in her body, and no longer chose to fight. Not ever having been in a real relationship, let alone one with such serious situations, the next course of action was about as clear to me as seeing in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. My stance on death is quite skewed. I know we are all going to die, and I have no great delusions in hope for the future, thinking that science will find the "cure" to my ailment, let alone any others. I don't feel it appropriate to say that "I'm sorry," because I didn't kill her. The cancer was not a product of my doing, so I find the only words thoughtful and decent enough for me to say is, "that sucks." I know it sucks, and I know that if I apologize, it's not going to help. Nothing said to someone grieving really helps, and those damn sympathy cards just make it worse. People do say strange things in death, even those who don't believe in the afterlife tend to make some stupid ass remark like, "She's in a better place now." Fuck off.
The best thing I felt to do was just to simply be there. Be there to comfort if needed, to be hated if needed, to get drunk with if needed, to hold if needed, or just to simply sit there in silence with them. Welcome to the next 8 days of my life.
The return into town brought me to his apartment shortly before our annual "Labor Gay" party. Occurrences from the prior week had me wrapped with worry for what lay ahead at this party, so I offered the option to go to a bar for a little liquid courage. Everything is better when your sense of caring is lubed.
The party did, indeed, turn out to be a blowout of crazy. It was if the 1970's had ended halfway through the party, and in the midst the 80's were born, and the idea to tease our hair to crazy happened....and oh...was that hair big. While the events occurring did not involve me, the clean up of it was, which is another story all together. I digress.
Labor Day consisted of meeting up with his older brother to start planning the funeral. Sustenance was needed, so we had to leave to eat, and Dave (the older brother) told us not to return without liquor. Cut to me drinking with the 3 brothers reminiscing about their dead sibling whom I'd met once, and quite frankly I thought she was a bitch. I suspicion she didn't think that I was a good match for Dan because of my age, or maybe she was just suffering from the repercussions of chemotherapy, but I sensed no warm feelings coming from her.
At some point later that evening, whilst I was not a midst, the decision had been made to go out for drinks. Of course, if anyone is to know me, I'm not going to say no to this. Metro had welcomed us with open arms, and the booze flowed and flowed. I've been making an attempt to....
Wait...I need wine.
quit smoking, and luckily for me, Dan's elder brother smokes, so I would sneak a cig with him. The night starts to haze like memories of elementary school, and I sit an witness Dan doing his famous escape act. At some point in drunkeness, he decides there is nothing better to do than to leave....leaving me stuck with his sibling from Michigan whom I'd met 8 hours prior.
Dave asked what we were going to do, and I replied that from my experience with Dan, he was to go home, pass out, and not wake up to buzz us in. This is where one of the worst decisions in my life was made, to go home with Dave. If we could reference Seinfeld, and just yadda yadda yadda the specifics, let's just say shit went down with Dave and myself. I did, however, tell him I would not have sex with him because I was in love with his brother.
Eyelids slowly creeping open, the trickle of sunlight through the yellowed, dusty blinds awakes me with fright and uncertainty. For a brief moment, the knowledge of my whereabouts and who I was next to was unknown. As if I'd obtained a mushroom in Mario Bros, the memories came surging back faster than a teenager's first ejaculation. Shame and self-loathing crept across me as I reached to awaken the naked, (still cute) older sibling of my current lover to ask him to return me to my rightful place.
Talk about an awkward car ride.
(I feel this wine is making me too type-y)
Arriving at Dan's, ease settled over me, especially when I saw the half full handle of Captain Morgan sitting on the counter. Simultaneously, without even consulting each other, we made drinks. He asked if I thought the fact that we were sitting in bed together at noon drinking cocktails was a problem, and the response forming in my head was, "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
A tragedy had then struck. The bottle of Captain was deceased just like his sister, and it was only 3pm! Certainly a trip to CVS must be made to buy more, this time for the Captain's redheaded stepbrother Admiral Nelson. Drink, drank, drunk.
Time flies by with booze and body parts combining. Suddenly, time slows until the sound of all the clocks in the words slowing to a stop is bombarding my ears when I hear the words, "I love you." A jolt runs down the middle of my back, and something gay like Katy Perry's "Firework" seems to be playing in my head. 'Did I really just hear that? Did that just happen? (Am I stoned and think an axe murderer is trying to break in my house?)'
"What?"
"Zachary, I love you."
Without response, or knowing quite why, my face is moistened by a heavy flow of salty, dehydrated tears.
"No, you don't."
"Zachary Keith Fleming, I love you."
.....
"But, why?" is my response, sounding more rude and repulsed than I ever thought could happen.
"You're kind, you're loving, you're attractive, you've always been there for me, and you're the type of guy that any man would feel lucky loving."
'Jesus Christ,' I thought. He actually fucking means this. These are the words I've been waiting to hear for sixteen goddamn months, and I cannot even revel in the magic of them.
"I hooked up with your brother...." I whisper...
He pulls away from me with a loud, "WHAT," and I respond as quickly as I can reaching out for him.
"We didn't have sex, we just made out."
After a silence that seemed to last longer than my 27 years on this Earth, he replied that he didn't care, and he still loves me.
Tears streaming down my face at a rate that quite surprised me, he continued to repeat himself, until I finally could pull my face up, eyes locked, with a slight whisper that almost seemed painful, "I love you too."
Truthfully, I've never felt an embrace that felt better than the one following that statement. We moved to bed, yadda yadda yadda'd, and wrapped up tight inside another, I fell asleep with the most security and safety I've ever felt in my life, and at that moment, I realized what all those sappy love songs were about. As if Katy Perry lit her fireworks off in my head, and the knowledge I've never known once before was finally bestowed upon me. A moment written in time that I know will never be forgotten.
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