I\u2019ll do anything to prove I\u2019m not ridiculous in front of the boys. I try to relax my shoulders, drop into my barber-shop voice, rip some darts, and offer some cutting observations that win me points. After all, I\u2019m a boy too. I\u2019m just not one of the boys, never have been.<\/p>\n
We\u2019re in some girl\u2019s crowded kitchen and it\u2019s stinking hot. The boys inside are the same as the boys outside. They\u2019re hovering over me while I slump my back on the fridge, sweating. In the periphery, people flicker in and out.<\/p>\n
One of them has my name\u2013mine! It\u2019s just more evidence that my parents had a certain kind of identity laid out for me\u2013an aspirationally masculine kind of name, one that\u2019s at home on a lacrosse team roster or a fraternity or a finance internship. It\u2019s probably supposed to make me feel inadequate, but instead it makes me feel insulated, grandfathered into this world. I try not to be the stranger that I am, in it.<\/p>\n
I appraise my name-twin, who\u2019s tall and effortless like a tree, at home in the thick air of the party, in the mis-matched congregation of personalities, unmoved and unshakeable. I\u2019d like to shake him, obviously muscled under that thrifted tee emblazoned with a band I\u2019ve never heard of.<\/p>\n
I wipe my bangs away. I look back at name-twin, who\u2019s so close I can see his dotted, cleaned-out pores. He starts swiveling his head around, looking for others he might know, because we don\u2019t know each other\u2013not here, even though we know what it\u2019s like to carry the same internal placard that is our name, and even though we really know each other the best in this house because of that. He returns to deep eye contact as if I won\u2019t notice, asks me my major. I can tell he senses my flimsiness. He has a practiced, obliging tone, like he\u2019s an adult talking to some child character. Good-natured, but apprehensive.<\/p>\n
What\u2019s wrong with me is that I don\u2019t say “bro.” My shoulders must not be relaxed enough. In this ramshackle house, with its marked-up hardwood floors and bad wallpaper, I am a stranger and I am effectively nameless. I need to start saying “bro.”<\/p>\n
I give him an out\u2013I tell them I need more vodka, like I\u2019m a freak for vodka. I go off to find some, smiling ear-to-ear, eyes enclosed in crescents. Craziness seems to amuse the boys. The implication that I\u2019m an alcoholic who\u2019s just crazy is something I\u2019m willing to put out there. For the record, being crazy isn\u2019t the same thing as being ridiculous. Daniel over there with his awful quiffed, too-high hair and woke attitude is ridiculous. Being funny, being a real “character” who supports the breadth and depth of the scene\u2013it demands craziness, even drunkenness.<\/p>\n
I come back to name-twin with renewed energy. I come back with interesting things to say. Maybe I\u2019m hammered, maybe I\u2019m not. I probably am.<\/p>\n
Regardless, there\u2019s a tiny room in the back of my drunk brain that houses a little person who\u2019s still awake, lights still on. My secret consultant, this little operator, guides me through these conversations with the boys\u2013being inflammatory without being offensive, being flirty without being creepy, being crazy without being ridiculous. While the rest of my mind gives way, this little person is alert and ready.<\/p>\n
My cup might drop and my words might slur but this little person is always there, telling me what to say.<\/p>\n
The little person tells me: I must act this way with the boys. I must live in this grey area. I must eat pizza without the napkins. I cannot say one incriminating word. Boys will be boys and I\u2019ve never been good at being one\u2013but I can try. The little person tells me: get drunker; get crazier; take your shirt off; take shots sloppily; spill them on your chin and hands; stuff the cigarettes in your mouth like you\u2019re swallowing a panflute; light them.<\/p>\n
When a painting of a lake somewhere off the coast knocks itself off the hook, the little person reminds me to pick it up. But when I go to pick it up, wet hands on each side of the canvas, all I can see is its glistening blue water, both permeable and impermeable, both true and so fake, a blue so deep and unreal I fall into it, headfirst.<\/p>\n
I remove the pummeled frame from around my neck and tuck it behind a door, scavenge a Solo cup to fill with tap water.<\/p>\n
I look around for name-twin, suddenly alert, because the party has just become alive with plot and suspense. And if I\u2019m seen with someone now, no one will accuse me of ruining the painting.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s nowhere among the amalgamation of fabrics and elbows. But I really want to talk to him\u2013need to. Don\u2019t I? It\u2019s needed for the plan. This is going to be such a funny story.<\/p>\n
I want to say to him: I\u2019m just like you; I\u2019m just like you.<\/p>\n
The little person tells me to stop looking, maybe just leave while you\u2019re ahead. He tells me that the fool and the wise man are one and the same, that I can settle for this life that I\u2019ve been living.<\/p>\n
But what is it?<\/p>\n
I descend on name-twin tucked into the corner of the kitchen, back where we started. My thumb presses on his exposed, tan collarbone, bluing it with the paint moistened on my palms.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at my hands,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay, bro?\u201d\u00a0 Name-twin bobs his torso away from my grasp.<\/p>\n
I want to say no. I want to say yes. I want everything and nothing to happen at this moment. I want to tell him that I\u2019m not crazy, that it was all an act. That I could\u2019ve been just like him. Go on, incriminate yourself. The clock audibly ticks because the music\u2019s in between songs and everyone\u2019s suddenly jettisoning themselves away in Ubers.<\/p>\n
He braces himself.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
An aspirationally masculine kind of name, one that\u2019s at home on a lacrosse team roster or a fraternity or a finance internship, it\u2019s probably supposed to make me feel inadequate, but instead it makes me feel insulated, grandfathered into this world.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":24288,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3530],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23376","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-flash-fiction","writer-spencer-lee"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23376","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=23376"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23376\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":24289,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23376\/revisions\/24289"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24288"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=23376"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=23376"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=23376"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}