| Harrison Cheung |
Upgrade - Short Story George, my real estate agent, told me that the definition of a successful gay man in Austin, Texas is a guy who has less than five thousand dollars of debt and owns his own car. We had had that conversation over a noisy brunch at The Daily Screw, a chocolate brown themed, softly lit, warm tile and earth-stone restaurant in a crowded high-end shopping area known as the Domain. George was trying to convince me to go on a blind date with a friend of his. You see, I had just relocated to Austin from Los Angeles after a nasty end to a 10-year relationship with an actor and was still licking my wounds, feeling sorry for myself. Would I ever love again? Could anyone ever make me laugh? A blind date seemed like the perfect remedy for my blues. I wasn’t one for surprises, but I was enjoying my eggs Florentine, the comforting smell of coffee and breakfast, and all the compliments obsequious George was willing to pour out to get me to go on this date. Aside from feeling vulnerable over the break-up (Isn’t that Stage 2 or Stage 4 on Oprah’s list?), I didn’t have too many complaints in Austin. The currency conversion moving from California to Texas was hugely in my favor, so I had ended up selling a tiny Santa Monica condo and using the equity to buy a 3000-square-foot house with a pool near the Arboretum. I also bought a Cadillac for that Texas lifestyle. (“You’re our first Asian customer!” the salesman at Overtly Cadillac had said. “Would you like horns on the hood?”) And I still had a boatload of cash left over to retire on. my real estate agent knew my financial background intimately, he emphasized that I would be quite the catch on the Austin gay dating scene. “John, I want you to be happy,” he said. “You don’t look happy! You have a beautiful house. You’re in an awesome city. You should be happy.” I sighed. “Did you know when he created Star Trek, Gene Roddenberry based the Vulcans on the Chinese? I’m sorry, but we’re just unemotional people.” George laughed, “You’re not unemotional. You’re unhappy. But I’m sure you’ll like this guy, Andrew.” “Sure,” I snickered as I poked my eggs, “live long and prosper.” “I take that back,” George smirked, “You remind me of Lilith from ‘Cheers.’ Frasier’s wife?” “Whaaa?” “But in a good, sexy corpse sort of way.” George continued, “One thing about Andrew, he’s looking for a generous boyfriend.” “Generous?” Great, I thought, I’m now old enough to be a sugar daddy. “It’s good gay karma,” George added. I didn’t want to vent. But talk to me about karma after you’ve spent 10 years building the career of an ungrateful prick of a British actor who dumps you after his first million dollar contract, and marries an older woman to get his green card, and now flaps his wings as a superhero on the big screen. Then we’ll talk karma. Noooo, I’m not bitter at all. (Denial , I believe, is Stage 3 according to Oprah.) I figured it was, go on this blind date or put in an ad on Craigslist: “Looking for new boyfriend… Must be high-drama and high-maintenance and be very needy. Tragic past including drug abuse, criminal record, and a broken home preferred.” After that actor, I would want an upgrade. I pondered all this as I waited at the table for my blind date. I had chosen to meet at a fancy steak house, which smelled of mesquite and had a panoramic, long view of the hill country. The snooty waiter, who came from the David Spade School of Attitude, practically tossed a metal bowl of elaborately arranged breadsticks and sesame seed-coated triangles on the table. Amazingly, the breadstick structure held its shape. He walked off in a huff of disappointment. “Are you John?” I looked up to see a lanky young man, squeaky clean, fair complexion, and close-cropped brown hair. He wore a striped blue and white polo, jeans and white Vans. He was handsome but, jeez, how old was he? He looked like any of those frat guys prowling around downtown. “Nice to meet you, I’m Andrew!” His handshake was warm, dry, firm. He plopped down in the chair opposite mine and started looking around the restaurant. I liked his bright green eyes and the dash of his thick eyebrows, which wiggled and jumped with his excited expressions. At the table, I kept looking at him, trying to figure out his age. But white people all looked the same to me so it was impossible for me to guess. Andrew was pleasantly articulate. He asked me a thousand questions about Los Angeles, the movie industry, and, of course, any celebrities I had met. He spoke rapidly, eager to talk, attentive when listening. “My favorite author,” Andrew was saying, “happens to be Bret Easton Ellis. I know; senseless violence, it’s absurd.” “I’ve met Bret Easton Ellis, actually, at a function for…” “You’ve met him?” Andrew’ eyebrows leaped. “Yes, a book of his was being adapted for a movie. Not the nicest…” “Wow, that’s awesome! I’m sorry, it’s absurd, I know. To be impressed by meeting celebrities.” “No problem, I spent too many years in L.A. They don’t impress me anymore.” “What’s your favorite film?” Andrew asked. “And I do mean film not movie.” “I like a lot of David Lynch’s films….” “Me too! ‘Dune?’ ‘Blue Velvet?’ ‘Eraserhead?’ Awesome flicks!” “Some Tarantino…” “I know what you mean. Some of his stuff is so overrated. It’s absurd!” “But I loved ‘Kill Bill’ – that revenge thing works for me right now,” I said harshly, regretting it immediately. “Oh, right, I heard from George that you had a bad break-up with that famous actor.” There was a pause. “Could I ask a favor? Can I order the filet mignon? I haven’t had it in years. My grandfather used to make it for us on Sundays. Years ago before he went to jail.” “Sure, order what you like.” He was like the Energizer Bunny. And a lewd part of me whispered, that ain’t a bad thing. “Thank you!” Andrew was actually bouncing happily in his chair. “I love to eat! I love food. I guess because I eat so rarely. Sometimes I go days without eating.” “Why’s that?” “Oh, no money,” he said as a matter of fact. “I know, absurd.” “How do you know George?” That should have been my first question, I thought. “I rented a room from a friend of his. He helped me find a place. I used to live downtown under the lower deck of I-35.” “You slept under the highway?” I was alarmed yet impressed. “Isn’t it noisy? How could you sleep?” “Oh, the traffic quiets down after 2am. It gets noisy again at 4am though. I know it’s absurd. But you meet the nicest people sleeping outdoors.” Andrew was digging into his salad. I thought of the many homeless people who clustered at every off ramp here and I wasn’t sure if this young man was putting me on or not. I looked at his fingernails, his hands, as if I could decipher some telltale sign of homelessness. He had big square white hands and clean nails. His clothes were neat and tidy. A young hobo dressed in Abercrombie? Rudely, I sniffed the air. Andrew looked up slightly offended. “Sorry, farshtunken?” “No, just checking out the barbecue.” I was embarrassed for being so noticeable. “German?” “Yiddish. It’s actually Middle High German.” “You’re Jewish?” “No, why?” Andrew looked puzzled. “Farshtunken?” “Sorry, am I?” “What?” “Farshtunken?” He sniffed at his armpits. For a split second, we stared at each other dumbfounded, and then he broke out a big grin. Too cute, I thought. I noticed crisscrossed scars on his left forearm. “What happened there?” I pointed. “Oh, cutter. Self-inflicted when I was a kid. My mom was a bitch. Made me mad and sad all the time.” “Sorry to hear that.” Andrew shot me a surprised expression that quickly melted into a smile, “Thank you.” He looked at his scars, “It’s absurd, I know. Rough childhood. Don’t know why people have kids if you’re only going to hit them.” He looked back at me; horrified he had revealed too much, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on like that.” His eyes suddenly darted to a small silver dish on the table that had a couple crayons. “Oh, I love crayons!” “Ha,” I thought, strange guy. And in spite of his quirkiness, I was feeling good being around him – like that first rush of Cialis. Lively conversation. Handsome young man. What more could I asked for in a blind date? Andrew started scribbling on a corner of our table, which was draped with butcher paper. “I just love my signature. Look at that.” He made a couple more elaborate swirls and then he put the crayon down and went back to his food. Just as quickly, he looked up at me with his bright green eyes, “John, I would love a glass of wine, how about you?” “I’m allergic to wine, but sure, go ahead.” “Well, if you could…” Andrew started. But I had already summoned the waiter for the wine list. Andrew looked uncomfortable. He looked out the window, then back at his food. He looked at his crayon signature. “Everything okay?” I asked. My handsome Energizer date was looking suddenly sad. “Yeah, everything’s good.” The waiter presented me with the wine list. I handed the list to Andrew. “Danke,” he said. Andrew scanned the list up and down. “A glass of cabernet?” He handed the list back to the waiter. “I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said with a practiced sniff, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for your ID?” Andrew shot me a look of panic. “ID?” I asked. “Yes, sir, we need to ID anyone who appears under the drinking age.” “What’s the drinking age here?” “Twenty-one.” “Ah.” I looked at Andrew who was turning beet red. How old was he? “Well,” I began, “He was choosing a glass of wine for me. Isn’t that right, son?” “He’s your father?” the waiter looked at Andrew in disbelief. “That’s right,” Andrew piped up, “he’s my daddy. Do you want a DNA test or something?” The waiter made an audible exhale and marched off muttering. Andrew looked triumphant, but he leaned toward me, “You know he’s going to spit in our food.” I laughed. “So I have to ask you, Andrew, how old are you?” A look of worry crossed his face. “You’re enjoying my company, right?” “Yes, but…” “You think I’m nice looking?” “Yes, you’re very cute, but…” “People don’t take me seriously when I tell them my age.” The waiter returned and placed the glass of wine before me, right under my nose. “Sir, please see if this is to your liking.” To my nostrils, the wine smelled like a potion from Snow White’s stepmother’s cauldron – something leafy, dank and poisonous. I was getting woozy. “Dad, let me taste it!” Andrew took the glass. “Sir,” the waiter began, “we don’t serve drinks to minors here.” With the scent gone, I regained my wits. “I’m happy to talk to the manager here if you won’t allow an old man to let his son have a sip of his wine.” “It’s absurd, dad!” Andrew declared. Then he took a noisy sip of wine. “OH!” And the waiter stormed off in another huff. I started to chuckle. It broke out into laughs. I had not laughed like this in a long time and it felt good even as my ribs got sore. It felt like I was releasing a tightly suppressed bundle of sighs in my chest held in for way too long. The laughs turned into wheezing. My eyes were watering. Andrew was smiling back, the glass of wine strategically between us. I could see the waiter standing by, watching and waiting to see who would touch that glass. I picked up the wine glass and defiantly toasted in the waiter’s direction. We could hear his snort as he scuttled back into the kitchen. Andrew’s smile was infectious, “I’m really glad George introduced us.” “Are you going to tell me how old you are?” “I’m eighteen. I’m sorry.” Eighteen? Holy shit. “You okay?” Andrew asked. I raised the glass to Andrew and looked at his handsome young face, all intense with concern. “Absurd,” I said. Then I downed the glass of wine. |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
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