It's Not Your Time
written by SekritOMG - illustrated by Kayotics and paramécie
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
Notes
The underlying idea for this story was Nhaingen's. She gave me the title, and she has also served as my beta reader on this fic. In many senses this has been a collaborative effort. It was her encouragement and willingness to talk through ideas with me that led to the final product. For that, and also for her ongoing friendship and support, not to mention her fabulous art, I owe Nhaingen the greatest thanks.
CHAPTER 1
Stan Marsh awoke sweating, feeling sticky and stultified, with someone's face in his hair; Stan also felt hair on his lips. He opened his eyes, blinking, very little coming into focus. He moved his head, groggy, and saw what he'd been pressed up against: snoring next to him was a grown man, with an audacious disaster of auburn hair that looked like it had been inflated and then the air had been let out of it, all conspicuous, and this man looked sweaty as well.
Stan was panicking, internally. He didn't know this place, this room. The bed was larger than any he'd seen before, and Stan and this man had been pressed together right in the middle of it, like taking refuge in the center of a raft. The sheets were silky but not silk, like cotton but finer and softer than any cotton Stan knew, his stretchy jersey sheets at home. Stan saw diaphanous curtains on tall windows, and everything seemed very far away, and when surfaces came into view they looked lacquer. The large bed was a four-poster, Stan made out, with grey linen trilling around the canopy, and across the room on the wall was a large installation, a canvas artwork painted mostly gray as well, with aqua fading in at the bottom. Stan found something about the room to be unsettling even as it was innocuous, and when he glanced back down at the sleeping man, who was stirring, Stan realized that his own face was tingling. He put a hand to it and realized that the short, brisk hair on the man's chest had been scratching his face, and Stan had been, probably against his will, rubbing his nose in it.
Choking out alarm, Stan was shocked at how deep his voice sounded, when he'd been expecting to almost squeal. This woke the man almost all the way, and he blinked lazily, a half-smile on his face.
"Morning," said the man, his voice so sharp, like Kyle's, but deeper. Kyle was Stan's best friend, his confidante. Kyle was smart, and he might have known what to make of this situation. Stan wished Kyle were there with him, up until the point when the man opened his eyes and said, "Good morning, Stan." They were soft, hazel eyes, the color of Kyle's eyes. Stan must have been making a discordant expression, because the man said, "Oh no, what?" and there was no mistaking that it was definitely Kyle in this bed here with Stan.
It was a most disturbing realization, because Kyle was, like Stan, a sixth grader. Kyle did not have chest hair, and Kyle most certainly did not let Stan sleep with his nose in Kyle's chest. Kyle didn't have dumb half-poofy self-conscious hair, and he wouldn't be caught dead sleeping naked. But he was looking at Stan like he needed an answer, so Stan choked out, "Nothing!" and recoiled at the depth of his own voice, how long and hard each syllable felt to him. Stan's face became stiff as Kyle reached for him.
"Last night was delicious," Kyle said, pawing a hand through Stan's — chest hair? Stan looked down, horrified to realize that his whole torso was covered in black, straight, sparse hair, which whorled around his nipples and tapered down into his crotch. Stan's eyes followed the trail lower until he was horrified to realize that he had not worn underwear to bed, and that his cock and balls were much larger than he remembered them, full and pendulous, bigger in proportion to the rest of his body than he'd ever seen in anatomy books, the kind Kyle checked out of the library, or they'd been shown in sex ed. In fact, Stan's cock was hard, like it was almost bursting. Stan had gotten erections before, but he never woke up with them; generally he just came in the bed, and when he got home from school in the evening, his sheets were all laundered.
"Last night?" Stan asked, as Kyle rubbed over the small peak of his nipple, teasing it higher and higher. Stan was too stunned to ask him to stop, or remove Kyle's hand himself.
Kyle's eyes lowered. His voice got very small. "Yes," he said, his hand stilling against Stan's chest. "Don't you remember?"
"Did we eat something?"
"We ate something very good, in fact." Kyle sounded so hurt, Stan wanted to — well, he wasn't sure. When Kyle was pissed off, he generally said something exasperated and left. "You don't remember? You, um, took me to Nobu, we had Wagyu beef and omakase? With the Tiller-Maizels?"
"The what?"
"The Tiller-Maizels, um, Asher and Graham?" Kyle shook his head. "Stan, what? You know them, we've been out with them, like, a billion times — they're such a nice couple, we've known them forever."
"A couple?"
Kyle nodded.
"Of men?" Stan tried to pull the covers over his softening erection. He felt so exposed to this weird old Kyle and his disappointed expression.
"Yes!" Kyle snapped. Then he quieted. "Sorry. I mean, of course, we're really good friends. We met Graham when he was single, because his seats were next to ours at the Philharmonic?"
Something in Kyle's tone and, especially, his eyes, was so tiny and pathetic that it made Stan want to lie. "Oh, right," he said, pulling the covers up further. "Yeah, those dudes are..." He searched Kyle's face for the right expression. "...awesome."
"Yes, they're okay. You seem very out of sorts." Kyle smoothed some of Stan's hair down. "Is something the matter? You know you can tell me."
Something was the matter, though Stan knew he most certainly could not tell Kyle. "I'm fine," he said, hoping Kyle wouldn't notice how hard he was shaking.
"I hope that fish didn't make you sick."
"Maybe, dude," said Stan, suddenly feeling fairly ill.
"Well, I feel okay," Kyle said, and Stan felt a thigh, Kyle's hairy thigh, nudging against Stan's hip, then against Stan's cock. "Last night was delicious," he repeated, using his knee to jangle Stan's balls. "All of it."
Stan practically fell out of bed. "Yeah, I'm gonna be sick," he said, and he didn't feel like it was a lie. There was bile in his throat, burning. "Um." Not caring that he was naked, he stumbled to the door directly in front of him, pulling it open, to find what was obviously a walk-in closet, lined with clothes. Stan didn't much care about clothes, so he slammed it shut again, trying to appear as though this were deliberate. He tried the next door, on the other side of the painting. This was a big bathroom, bigger than the closet, even, which itself was larger than Stan's bedroom at home. He spotted a big marble claw-footed tub and a sparkling cream-colored floor. He turned back to Kyle, who was just sitting there in bed, tenting his fingers, wondering what Stan was going to do. Stan gave him a wan smile, mostly confusion, and shut the door.
The bathroom lights went on automatically, and the shades began to lower.
There were two sinks, and the entire sink-side wall was mirrored. It was a sort of vanity, Stan realized, the kind they installed on the TV shows his mother watched. Not knowing what else to do, Stan walked over to a sink and looked up at himself.
He saw his father's strong chin, and his mother's keen eyes. They were features people told him he had, but he'd never seem them before on his own face. The overall effect was as if he were a picture that had been left floating in developer for too long. He muttered to himself, "Jesus Christ, dude," and grabbed for the faucet. It didn't turn on. It wasn't until he stuck a hand under the faucet that he learned it was automatic, when it came on full-force freezing, splattering in his face. Stan withdrew and the water stopped, and he looked back at his features, which were dripping now. He had the distinct feeling of wanting to cry.
While Stan was staring at this man in the vanity, the bathroom door opened, and Kyle came in. This shocked Stan so much that he nearly fell over. He'd told Kyle that he was sick, and then he'd run into the bathroom naked, and now Kyle was barging into the bathroom naked, his pale body looking both overripe and underdone. Stan's eyes were drawn to the brilliant shock of pubic hair crowning Kyle's long, half-hard dick, and Stan found it impossible to look away.
"Oh," said Kyle, in a pleasant way, "I get it." He walked over, draping himself sort of over Stan's shoulder, and Stan stared at Kyle's reflection as it licked Stan's reflection's cheek and pinched Stan's reflection's nipple again. "You want to suck me," Kyle said with a very brittle tone of confidence. It wasn't even a question.
"No!" Stan couldn't help but shove Kyle away, mesmerized as he was by staring at these older alternate selves, how out-of-proportion they both seemed, and how well they fit together.
"Oh," Kyle said again, although the tone was much different this time. "Sorry. I guess I — I don't know." He sighed, his whole posture crumpling, and he walked right over to the toilet, lifted the seat and sat down on it.
"Jesus Christ!" Stan shouted again. "What are you doing?"
Now Kyle turned bright red. He clenched his jaw and made a sort of face that Stan didn't know how to interpret.
"Please explain to me what's going on," Stan said. "Please."
"Well." Kyle crossed his arms. "I generally use the bathroom in the morning. I'd think you'd know that after 20 years."
"Twenty years?" Stan asked.
"Well, you know, I don't like to be anal about it, or anything, but 18 and a half." This was the most Kyle-like thing Kyle had said the whole time, both in the bad pun and the sarcastic inflection on the bad pun, and especially in how directly Kyle had narrowed in on the exact number of years, apparently, that he had been inclined to just come in while Stan was in the bathroom having a nervous breakdown and get on the toilet.
"I have to go," Stan said. He tip-toed out of the bathroom, although it did occur to him that it was a needless gesture. He slammed the door again and got back into bed. It was huge, this bed, like 10 of Stan's beds at home put together. He wondered about home. What the hell was this taupe prison? Stan peered toward the window. It was very sunny; he could see this through the sheer drapes. Stan climbed back out of the bed, and over to the window. He pulled the curtain back. A storey below was a garden, carefully manicured rows of alternating grass and water and pebbles. At the far end was a big adobe retaining wall, and a pagoda-type structure. A kind of brook gurgled. Stan looked up, and all he saw was palm trees.
This was not Colorado.
Stan pressed his forehead to the window. It was cool, and provided momentary comfort. Then someone, a man, a gardener perhaps, walked into the yard and started picking pebbles out of the grass and tossing them back with the other peddles. Stan peered down, wondering whose house this was, whose job it was to manicure the pebble paths in the garden. That was when this man looked up, saw Stan in the window, and waved. Stan clutched his dick and hopped backward, pulling the curtain shut, while he saw the gardener laughing.
So Stan knew two things: this was a rich person's house, and he desperately needed clothing. Three things: Stan had to vacate the room before old Kyle came out of the bathroom. Luckily, he seemed to be taking forever. Stan hazarded a guess that he should check in the closet for clothing. It wasn't his closet, but as he walked in and started looking around, he didn't feel like he was trespassing.
There were rows and rows of things, expensive suits and shiny shoes, built-in shelving and tie racks. Stan opened a drawer, and sighed in relief when he saw it was full of underwear. He lifted a pair, holding it up to the light. Stan didn't wear black boxer-briefs, he never had, his mother bought him colorful boxers at Old Navy, whatever was on sale. Stan shut the drawer and slipped the briefs on. They fit well, and Stan appreciated the snugness of the crotch. He hadn't even realized how heavy his junk felt, hanging there with nothing to support it. Now it was well-cradled in soft black cotton.
From a shelf Stan yanked what he hoped was a T-shirt, and a whole stack of them fell on his head. "Fuck!" he said, picking up an armful and cramming them, all unfolded, back onto the shelf. There were all different colors, some with patterns, and too many pastels for Stan's liking. He pulled a white T over his head. It was a bit loose, but it did the trick. Now he just needed some pants. Stan began to search the shelves, finding crisp, folded button-down shirts, a basket of socks, and ... so much neon. Digging through a pile of polos, Stan wondered whose closet this was. Was it old Kyle's? Was it someone else's?
He discovered a deposit of plaid flannel pants near the far end of the closet, by a pair of purple galoshes. Stan's closet at home was shallow and bursting, his sweatshirts all piled up on the floor and his winter jackets and suits all shoved toward one side, his jeans and nice slacks folded over big wooden slats on one very long ladder-like hanger, which flexed the plastic rod on which it hung. Stan had never much thought about other closets, except for Kyle's which was quite organized, perhaps more so than this one. Stan was glad to be dressed without having made much of a mess, and dreaded seeing old Kyle when he stepped out of the closet, but he wasn't there. Still in the bathroom? Stan shuddered and scanned the room for a door. There was another on the farthest side of the room, right by the windows that overlooked the garden. He rushed toward it and evacuated the bedroom.
But, to go where? Stan found himself in a long hallway, light-filled, with windows to his right. The shape of the whole house must have been boxy, and toward the left the hallway hooked around the bathroom, more windows, and disappeared to who knew where? Right in front of him, though, was a scrolling staircase, the kind in a movie, which the heroine would descend before meeting her prom date. Where was he? When was he? Frightened, but not deterred, he padded downstairs.
There was no noise in the house, just light. A big living room, or a great room — yes, there was a dinner table, long and solid, like it was carved from a single piece of wood. Everything was so neutral in color it was a bit disorienting, which compounded Stan's mounting anxiety. He ran to the front door, which was large and heavy, two tall wood slabs with windows on either side. Pulling one open, Stan shielded his eyes from the sun. A note chimed around him, and a computerized voice rang, "Front door open." It was hot outside, and the sun, while strong, was low with an orange cast. Stan scanned the front steps for a paper, for mail, for any intelligible signage. Seeing nothing, he looked up: long driveway, palm trees. Two cars, both shiny. With no time to inspect them, Stan slammed the door again and heard, "Front door closed."
To the left was a hallway lined with doors — at least four. Stan ducked into one; it was another bathroom, which didn't excite him, although the way the lights turned on when he walked in, sensing his presence, was at least surprising. He shut that door and opened the one behind him, stepping inside. No lights went on this time, and everything was dim, but the shades on the windows began to rise, and Stan found himself standing in an office, with a computer on the desk, papers piled everywhere, and framed papers on the walls. Stan didn't have the patience to look at them; it was all a bit much. He shut the door behind him as he walked into the room, regretting everything that had happened the whole morning, and fell into the desk chair. It felt ergonomic, and Stan's body sank into it, as if the angle of the back was built for him. Relaxing for the first time that morning, Stan considered his body. His joints and muscles felt so stiff, but there was nothing clumsy in his movements; he didn't feel out of place. In some ways, he felt less physically awkward than he did back home, where his body was maturing over the course of a long process that seemed to drag out forever. This body he had now was good, he could tell, not bulky in any way; it just felt right. Feeling whimsical suddenly, Stan gave a bit of a push-off from the rug, and he spun, slowly.
As the chair came to a standstill and Stan looked around, he noticed something on a console table a few feet from the desk: a black Kurzweil keyboard, long and lean. The sight of it made Stan's stomach lurch. He stood up, brushing his ass off. Stan staggered over to the console, and pressed down on one key, middle C. It didn't make a sound. The keyboard wasn't on, and Stan couldn't see the cord. There was a white patch on the back, a square with rounded edges, stuck over the place where the cord had once been. The keys were greasy, especially the black ones, and in the sunlight at the right angle, Stan could see they were covered in fingerprints. The thing looked outmoded compared to most everything else in the room; in the house, even. There was nothing attached to this keyboard to tell Stan he was right, but a gut feeling had developed, and he couldn't shake it: His parents had given him this keyboard two weeks ago, for his birthday. For his 13th birthday.
The realization was enough to send Stan back into the chair, where he put his head in his hands for a moment, trying to figure out if he was going to laugh or sob or what. He needed to know where he was, what was going on. What was with the palm trees? Was it Florida? Why this keyboard? Had it come with him, to wherever this was?
The computer was a sleek laptop, folded shut. Stan felt bad about prying into someone's personal possessions, but he was desperate to know anything about his current situation.
Lifting the top, it flickered to life. It looked like an Apple, formally, and the chrome casing was familiar, but the logo was all wrong, a kind of abstract comma, curving gently. As soon as it was open, programs started popping up, windows opening on on top of others. The last window that loaded was an e-mail account, Stan knew that well enough. The top of the page said WELCOME STAN. It reminded Stan of the talking door, except the fact that this program knew his name was much more interesting, and disturbing.
Stan began scanning the inbox — his inbox. Was it his? There were emails from Kyle Broflovski, probably old Kyle, all of them read, mostly concerning (no subject) or tonight or last night, vague stuff that maybe Stan was supposed to intuit, or some other Stan was, anyway. When Stan's eyes glanced over the sender, he felt happy to see that Kyle's name was still Broflovski, it wasn't anything fucking crazy like, say, Marsh. Then Stan felt disappointed that it wasn't. What the fuck? Here he and old Kyle were apparently living and sleeping together in some insane future house, and they weren't even married enough to have the same last name? How awful was that? Stan was vaguely offended for both of them, maybe also for future Stan, assuming Stan himself wasn't also future Stan, like he didn't have amnesia or something. He'd seen enough weird sci-fi shit to admit this potentiality, however hesitantly.
There were some unread messages at the top of the inbox; the first was from Graham Tiller. It took Stan no time to open it.
Hey buddy, said the greeting.
Had a great time with you &Ky last night, haven't been to nobu for 10 years, such a classic, even if kindof kitschy.
Stan did not know what was kitschy about it, or what kitschy was.
We're a little concerned for Ky, though, he's such a beautiful guy and he doesn't seem to know it. I know you'll remind him of it someway, heh. Looking forward to dinner r, we know it'll be great, you've got such a successful way with people, heh.
-G
There were many things Stan did not like about this e-mail, including:
1. Graham Tiller's use of heh, especially after he'd typed something that was not funny.
2. His use of Ky, which was also unfunny, and, frankly, lazy and unacceptable to Stan, and also to Kyle, at least to Stan's Kyle, who Stan could just imagine saying something like, "My name is not Ky, that is the abbreviation for Kentucky, and 'Kyle' is already one syllable." Also to Stan it sounded very gay, to the point of stereotype. It was a wonder Graham Tiller had addressed Stan as Hey buddy and not OH GIRL!!
3. The lack of spaces in &Ky and kindof and someway. Was he lazy, stupid, typing on a phone?
While Stan considered replying and worried that Graham Tiller might know that Stan had read the e-mail and ignored it, he received a message from ... Graham Tiller. The message popped up in the middle of Stan's screen, and as he stared at it (it also said, Hey buddy), the message started ... to Stan it seemed like it was throbbing. To stop this, he moused over to it with the trackpad, and clicked on it. Under Hey buddy, a dialogue box grew, and inside it was a cursor. Stan wrote back, hello.
So formal! wrote Graham Tiller. Stan really didn't know how to reply to that. So he sat there, feeling sick, until Graham said, get some last night. Stan stared at this message for a moment, hating Graham Tiller so intensely, not only for Ky, but now for the lack of a question mark. Before Stan could click the box away, he got ???, and just as quickly, he got, heh, of course you did, I know you guys.
Stan was not sure how such a thing could be remotely possible. Gritting his teeth, he put his hands on the starting position he'd learned in fifth grade typing class, and wrote back, That's none of your business.
To which Graham Tiller wrote, ; ) I see!!
But really
How was it
???
Wanting nothing more than to tell this asshole off, Stan steeled himself. He remembered what old Kyle had said, that the Tiller-Maizels were just okay. Stan didn't even know the Tiller-Maizels, but Graham Tiller said he knew Stan. So, trying to think his way out of, or perhaps into, the situation, Stan wrote back, You know.
To which the reply was, Yeah I do, heh.
Poor guy was like crying for a bj at dinner
Stan rolled his eyes. Ha ha.
Graham responded, fuck yes.
Stan was not sure what they were talking about here, exactly. You said he is a beautiful man, he wrote.
Well, said Graham, yeah.
I mean
Don't get jealous, buddy, heh
Why would I be jealous? Stan typed.
The answer: You guys don't strike me as the swinging type
Stan had to consider whether he was entirely comfortable with the implication that he and Kyle were same type, collectively. It was something he'd wondered about, all the time, and tried to distract himself from — that was, he wondered about it back home, in South Park, back where Stan and Kyle were both in sixth grade and working on a unit about photosynthesis and Kyle was always admonishing Stan to do his homework and practice piano and Stan, god, please don't talk over NCIS.
For once, Graham did not reply immediately, and Stan had a moment to consider what he wanted to ask next. He was thinking, thinking — then he looked up to see old Kyle, standing there, in an open bathrobe.
Jesus, Stan typed, gotta go, bye. He slammed the computer shut.
"Hi," said Kyle. It was a deep salmon bathrobe, spacious and fluffy, but Stan could see everything again, everything from Kyle's chest hair to his cock. God, Stan thought, it was long, so long, like Stan would need two fists to hold it, it was that long. Then he looked at his hands, and realized they weren't his hands, these were some man's hands, and Stan had black hair on his knuckles and his arms. It wasn't thick, but it was there, holy shit, and his fingers were callused.
Stan looked back up at Kyle. "Hey," he said. Kyle was leaning against the doorframe, one arm above his head. His nipples were the same color as the bathrobe, Stan realized. Then he felt his cock, which was still snug inside boxer-briefs, thicken.
"Busy?" Kyle asked.
"God no," said Stan.
"Oh." A smile spread across Kyle's features, and he walked into the room. "Here I thought you'd be working. So irresponsible, Mr. Marsh." To Stan's great concern, Kyle folded himself up into Stan's lap, his arms around Stan's shoulders and his robe still dreadfully open. Kyle slipped a hand around Stan's back, wiggling it down Stan's shorts. "Fuck," he growled into Stan's ear. "You're wearing my underwear."
"I am?" Stan choked.
"Fuck, yeah. Oh god, you're getting hard. Do you want to fuck me right here?"
The idea actually made Stan's erection recede again. "That's okay," he said. When Stan spoke, he sounded hoarse.
"Oh." Kyle sounded disappointed. "Is it too much to ask for a blow job?"
Stan couldn't even field that one; he just mumbled, "Um, what."
After that, Kyle took his hand out of Stan's pants, and rolled his head onto Stan's shoulder. He seemed comfortable, like he sat on Stan like this all the time.
Kyle's cock seemed to Stan to be in a state of perpetual partial erection, which actually brought Stan a bit of relief. Maybe it meant Kyle was noncommittal about this situation, too, his arousal stuck between involuntary reactions and the hope of willing it away. But then Kyle leaned in even tighter, the robe slipping away as Kyle's hip turned out. Kyle was heavy, undeniably, his weight unevenly distributed so that his bottom sank into Stan's thighs, while his arms seemed so light they were barely anchored by gravity.
Stan wouldn't have said that Kyle was fat, he was not fat, but he had the heft of an established person, his skin all damp and clammy. Maybe he'd showered after he used the toilet. Stan couldn't help but wonder. He wanted Kyle to get off, and at the same time he was drawn to Kyle's physical presence. With the robe flipped back and Kyle's pelvis anchored at such a skewed angle, Stan could look down and see that running along the base of Kyle's spine and curling around his buttock was a thick, raw scar, pink like the inside of a rare piece of veal. It repelled Stan, but he was drawn to it, and before Stan knew what he was doing, he was soothing it, his fingers tracing the smooth, hard bend in Kyle's flesh.
"Oh," Kyle said, nodding, "you know I don't like it when you touch that," but he didn't make an effort to stop it. Stan wondered what it was, where Kyle had gotten this scar. Some crazy adventure? He didn't seem like the type.
That wasn't the only thing Stan was curious about. "Why do you keep asking for blow jobs?" he asked.
"You say that like someone who's never even had one," Kyle replied. Again, he sounded hurt, like Stan had forgotten something ultra-vital to Kyle's well-being. Just for a moment, Stan wanted to clarify, dude, this is clearly some kind of future I've never been to before, I've definitely never had a blow job, ever. While Stan was thinking this, it dawned on him, the implication that he had probably gotten blow jobs, lots of them, from Kyle. Maybe from others. Oh shit, oh shit.
It became imperative that Stan think of a way, any way, to get Kyle out of here without hurting his feelings. Kyle's feelings, as far as Stan knew, were enormous and sensitive, like thinly crusted bubbles of magma. Stan knew he had to tread lightly. But the thought of giving Kyle an actual blow job was making him physically ill.
"I haven't even had breakfast," Stan said, hoping this made sense. "And neither have you, I bet."
"No," Kyle clarified.
"And I've got all sorts of stuff to do."
"Sure."
"And so do you," Stan added, hoping he wasn't incorrect.
"Not that much," Kyle said.
Stan resisted biting his nails, then slamming his fingers down his throat to make himself puke. "Are you sure?"
Kyle sighed. "Fine, I'll go to the butcher today and order some filets."
"Filets? Like, mignon?"
"Yeah, I think it's best. Except you know these asshole industry types are always on some fucked-up diet. Maybe we should go pescatarian? Or, actually, filets are good, and then I can maybe throw together something really nice. Eggplants are still in season, right? So what do you think about eggplant stuffed with vegan risotto?" Kyle pulled back and saw Stan's look of utter confusion. "I know, I know." He pulled into Stan even tighter. "Everything has to be perfect."
"Something for everyone, I guess."
"Exactly!" Kyle leaned back, and Stan was grateful that he was apparently about to get up finally. Of course, as soon as Stan let his breath out, Kyle leaned in and gave Stan an enormous, sloppy kiss. "I hope you're having second thoughts about that blow job," he said.
Shaking his head, Stan couldn't help wiping the spit from his lips. "Nope." Stan felt horrible as soon as he'd said it, although he didn't want to give Kyle a blow job, and he didn't want to be kissed like that, or at all. Or, he did, just — just not by this old Kyle. Stan prepared for Kyle to rage, to say, "Well, fuck you," and get up and storm out or, worse, to draw his fist back and slug Stan across the face.
But Kyle didn't do any of that. To Stan's utter shock, Kyle, after being flatly insulted, just straightened out his expression, slid off Stan's lap, and said, "I'll go dress, then. Actually, first I'll do breakfast."
Stan realized that he was hungry. "Okay," he said, nodding. "Thank you."
Relieved, Stan pushed back in his seat. He wasn't prepared for this. I am 12 — no, 13, he thought to himself. I am 13, I am 13, I am not equipped to deal with this. I am 13 and I want to cry. Stan thought he should be allowed to cry. He almost started sniffling. Then he thought of what old Kyle's reaction would be, and how Stan would possibly manage to deal with it.
With Kyle gone, Stan felt calmer. He knew that even in his own life, Kyle was a ceaseless source of angst and anxiety. Just this week, Kyle had been miffed that Stan was unimpressed with his latest discovery, a Wikipedia article on global history. "There's all sorts of crazy shit on Wikipedia now, you know," Stan had said, like he knew jack shit about anything.
"This is really cool, though, because it's about the literal clash of civilizations, over the course of human history. Microhistory, even. And going back to the big bang. How far do you think world history should go back?"
"Um."
"To the pre-animate matter that existed before the universe?"
"I thought world history was more about, you know, these were the Greeks, these were the Chinese," Stan had said. "No? Isn't that what it is?"
"That's a very one-dimensional way of thinking about it!" On Stan's living room sofa, Kyle had started bouncing. He never got this excited about anything. He rubbed his hands together.
"I don't care about civilizations," Stan had finally said, shoving a couch cushion into Kyle's face. Kyle had seemed so surprised, like Stan had stabbed him. "I mean, I care about civilizations."
"But in context with each other?"
"Generally, I don't know, why can't you like normal shit? Why don't we ever just play, like, Madden or something?"
"We did that yesterday!"
"Do you not like sports? Do you not like games?"
"I do," said Kyle, and he sounded like he wanted to more than he did, although Stan knew that Kyle did. "But this other stuff is new. It's so cool, can I please just read you—"
"No, you can't." Stan had yawned and rolled over on the big living room couch, shoving his hands in pockets. And Kyle had sat there with a dejected expression, his lip pouting, looking to Stan so cute, so fucking cute ... then Stan had shaken his head and gotten up and said, "Are you staying for dinner?"
Kyle said, "No, we're having shabbat."
"Call me in the morning," Stan had said as Kyle was leaving, and then he left. Then Stan went upstairs, and took off his clothes, and got into bed, trembling. He knew he liked Kyle. It was not a good scene. Kyle was loud and aggressive and he became fixated on the dumbest things, like global history, and always had to admonish Stan for just wanting to sit around doing kid stuff. Stan liked to point out that they were kids, and neither of them was dumb, that by definition the things they did were not dumb, and that maybe Kyle was intellectual, but Stan had interests, too.
Also, Stan had a girlfriend.
Standing in that office, in this weird future house that Stan could not place in his memory, he turned toward the keyboard, his keyboard. After he'd finished trembling in bed, the unspecified activity he mostly engaged in after Kyle scoffed at him and went home, Stan had gone over to the new keyboard and sat down in front of it on the floor, naked, and turned it on. He'd pressed down on middle C. The keyboard released its synthetic piano tone, and Stan held it for as long as he could, wishing he could write a song for Kyle. That would show him, Stan decided, that would be the thing that impressed Kyle. Stan had taken out a piece of loose leaf paper and laid it on top of his copy of the Star Wars Essential Guide to Characters, but all he could come up with was rhyming 'Kyle' with 'style.' This would never impress anyone, and Stan had been disappointed in himself. Also, Stan could barely read music, let alone write it. He had made a handful of inadequate attempts in the past, and could only play the guitar.
Stan went to sleep fantasizing about the songs he'd compose for Kyle as soon as he knew how. He wanted to sing to Kyle about his silly hair (don't cut it) and how Kyle's eye twitched when he had played too many video games. Then Stan fell asleep, and—
Stan didn't touch the keyboard again. Something happened, he figured, something happened between going to sleep last night and waking up this morning 25 years later married to Kyle in this fucked-up house in who even knew where, Stan sure didn't. But he was curious, and he wanted to find out. There were some things on the wall, and Stan wanted to look at them.
They were diplomas. One was from Berklee, where sure enough, Stan had earned a bachelor's degree in songwriting. He was a bachelor of music? Okay. That was ... eerie. The next degree down was from Boulder, which made more sense; this was a master's of music in theory and composition. Stan knew what a composition was, but what the hell was theory? Like, he'd heard people say music theory before, and it just sounded like something people said to be assholes. And somehow here he was a master of it. Next to these degrees was a series of award certificates boasting things like Best Christmas Jingle and Outstanding Achievement in Motivational Scoring, whatever that was. This didn't much interest Stan, even with his own name on these things. What he really wanted to know about was Kyle, or old Kyle. What did he do? How did they end up here together? Stan wanted to know at any cost, except he wasn't going to ask.
Stan pawed through the shelves: books, books, books. Some on theory and composition, some on the art of Disney. There were several cookbooks that looked like they'd never been cracked, their jackets still clinging tight to the hard covers. Then Stan's eyes narrowed in on The New Joy of Gay Sex, Third Edition. He took a deep breath and slipped it off the shelf. Unlike 45 Fabulous Rum and Brandy Cakes, this one had been read, a lot. It was a paperback, very nearly deteriorating. Literally half the book fell to the ground when Stan tried to open it, and he found himself shaking at how lightweight the leftover portion felt in his hands, the brittle pages trying to fan open against his palm. Crouching to pick the book up, Stan peered at the section that the book had cracked in half over: Fidelity and Monogamy. It was dog-eared. More than once. Again, Stan had to keep himself from crying.
Another knock came at the door, and Stan looked up. Kyle was still wearing that robe, and his peachy nipples were a little hard. Stan swallowed, trying to think of what to say, like he'd been caught in a criminal act.
"Breakfast is ready," Kyle said.
"I thought you were gonna, like. Bring it to me."
Kyle sniffed. "I love you, Stan. But this isn't Upstairs fucking Downstairs, okay." He started to leave, then turned around. "And I'm much more amenable to that kind of thing when I actually get what I want, okay." Then he left.
Stan stood up and slipped the book back onto the shelf, both halves. So, Kyle did have a limit. "Okay," Stan said to himself. "Okay." Probably what Kyle wanted was blow jobs. He had asked for one three times, not counting the one he'd apparently been crying about the night before, if Graham Tiller was to be believed. Stan did not want to use the computer anymore if it meant being accosted by anyone on that messenger service, and especially not Graham Tiller. Stan was picturing some craven queen in purple slacks bent over his computer, jacking off to Stan and old Kyle fucking, except in Stan's daydream within an assumption, it was old Kyle and Stan-Stan fucking, his actual self, which was a weird image. Also Stan decided Graham Tiller's hair was probably frosted at the tips. It seemed highly likely.
The dining room was empty, so Stan figured he should head to the kitchen. He didn't know where the kitchen was, but in most houses the kitchen was near the dining room, so he poked his head through a door. Sure enough, a stove was on, and Kyle was poking at a pan.
"Pissed at me, dude?" Stan needed to know if this was going to be like his Kyle's anger, a slow simmer until he just exploded. Stan just stood in the doorway until he got an answer.
"No," said Kyle. "It's hard to maintain righteous indignation for too long. What's with all this dude all of a sudden?"
"Come again?"
"Is it, like, some midlife crisis thing? You turned 37 two weeks ago, so now you have to act like you're 12 again?"
Stan swallowed. This was becoming much worse very quickly. "More like 13."
Kyle actually laughed. "Okay, all right. Just tone it down a bit. Your breakfast's on the table. I'll be there soon." Kyle pointed toward the table with the silicon spatula he was using to tease his eggs.
Stan settled into a leather chair at the head of a glass-and-enamel table, where his breakfast was all set out: a parfait of muesli, thick yogurt, and fruits, apples and pears, mostly, but there were raisins and cranberries sprinkled in, fresh cranberries. If his birthday was last week, it was ... just past Halloween. In fact, it had just been Halloween in South Park, too. Stan looked down at his breakfast again.
"What?" Kyle was coming over now, with his plate of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a big portion of beans, and two cartoonishly large sausages. He set the plate down at the seat next to Stan. They were separated from the rest of the kitchen by an island and surrounded by windows that gave them a direct view of the pagoda.
"Nothing," said Stan. "Just, this looks good." He almost added, dude, but stopped himself. "Thanks."
"No problem." Kyle picked up a fork and speared a sausage.
Stan scooped up a bit of granola. He ate it off his spoon, crunching it in the back of his mouth. He picked at a cranberry, and Kyle swatted at his hand.
"Use your silverware!" he barked.
Shrugging, Stan reached for his spoon again.
"Midlife crisis," Kyle repeated. "Although I hope you're not having a midlife crisis exactly, obviously. I don't like to think you'd only make it to 74. Unless I only make it to 74. Because we should go together, I guess." Kyle agitated his eggs, dragging them through the beans. He sighed. "So we come into this world, so we should leave it."
"Except that I was here seven months before you." Stan hoped Kyle's birthday was still in late May.
In response to this, Kyle shrugged and pushed his egg and beans onto a corner of toast. Then he opened widely, and took a large bite of it. Stan watched Kyle's bare hands carefully; he hoped Kyle didn't drop any eggs on that ropy dick of his. Stan decided he'd have to read that passage on fidelity. Again, he corrected himself. He'd have to read it again. He'd read it before. Or the Stan who had a degree in songwriting had read it.
After swallowing, Kyle asked, "What's the matter? You're not eating."
"How come we never got married?" Stan asked.
Kyle dropped his fork. He swallowed a mouthful of sausage, and said, "Because you don't want to!"
Oh. Oh. "But, I mean." Stan knew he'd have to turn this into a philosophical conversation. "Why don't we?"
"Not now." Kyle's head was in his hands. "I can't deconstruct social mores right now, okay? I'm hungry."
"I'm just wondering—"
"Why?" said Kyle. "Is this a proposal?"
Stan clenched his lips together. He wished it were, actually, if it would make Kyle melt into glee, if it would produce the kind of enthusiasm with which he kept asking for blow jobs, or had been blabbing about world history last night, or 25 years ago. But then Stan knew he should be asking himself what songwriter Stan would want.
"I don't know," Stan finally said. "I just want to know, honestly."
"I'm too tired to do this, okay? Tell you what. Let's get through Thursday and we'll talk about it then. Okay?"
"Okay," said Stan. Deep inside, he was crumbling, feeling rejected. He was beginning to develop the faintest sense that he should care.
CHAPTER 2
Stan Marsh awoke to his mother pounding on his bedroom door. It wasn't long until she burst in. "Stanley!" she said, shaking her head. She was in her dowdy pajamas, hair sticking everywhere in a wakeful mess. "Didn't you hear the phone ringing?"
"What?" Stan had, maybe, heard the phone ringing, in the confused dream he'd been having, where he was talking with Arthur Laurents about getting a beach shack together at the Pines next summer. In the deep stew of consciousness that was Stan's brain, things became muddled together very quickly. In the car he'd been listening to Gypsy. And at dinner the night before, they'd all been joking about getting a house somewhere for the summer? Did Fire Island come up?
"Stan," said Sharon Marsh. She was shaking her head. "Pick up the phone. It's Kyle, he's — pick up the phone, Stanley." It was a lot like his mother to change tacks in the middle of a sentence, or so Stan thought.
"Okay." Stan sat up. He was quite disoriented. Perhaps most suspicious, even horribly upsetting, was that Stan's mother was dead. She'd died when he was 19, from ovarian cancer. And yet here she was, standing in his bedroom looking cranky, saying Kyle was calling — but, from where? Kyle usually slept right next to Stan. But not in this bed, clearly, that would be hard; it was a little boy's bed. Stan looked up, his eyes focusing on oddly painted walls, a Denver Broncos poster ... this was his childhood bedroom. Right. Stan shifted. He always woke up hard in the morning, always, every day for the past 20 years.
But, he wasn't hard now.
"Stan," his mother warned.
"All right!" he said hopping out of bed. His phone was portable, and he staggered over to the desk and picked it up. "Hi," he said, not waiting for a response. "Come over." It was pretty much an immediate thing. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, only that Kyle was on the phone, and Kyle was a constant, pretty much. He was going to have to report to Stan and clarify this situation.
But in an indignant little tone, Kyle said, "No." The timbre of his voice was so familiar, but Stan was shocked by how small and high it was. "Can't. I've got temple this morning."
"Oh." Stan turned around, and saw that his mom had left already. "Then come over after." He got back in bed, only to realize, too late, that it was wet. Had he peed — oh god, no. Oh no, he did not.
"And after services I have a bar mitzvah lesson," Kyle said.
"Um." Stan was shifting around, trying to get a sense of things. His dad had sold this house years ago, when Stan was in college, and it was so much smaller than he remembered it. "Come over after that?" Stan stuck his hand in his boxers. He felt for his cock — and he found it, slick with nocturnal emissions, so small and hairless in his hand it felt babyish, and for a moment he was hit by a wave of nausea, as if he were molesting a child. But it was his own dick, he figured, so whatever.
"Okay, sure." Kyle sounded distracted, like he was doing something else. Was Kyle also a prepubescent boy suddenly? Stan wasn't going to ask. "Listen, my brother's banging on my door," he said, "like I'm really gonna be late, so—"
"Why'd you call me?" Stan asked. For the first time he listened to his own voice, and he was pleased to hear how thin and dry it was, and how small.
"What do you mean, why'd I call you?"
"Well. I asked you to come over, but you're busy, and now you have to rush off the phone—"
"You told me to call you in the morning!"
"I did?"
"Yes, yesterday! Before I left? You were being a dick trying to get me to play Madden when I wanted to talk about history, then you said to call you now?"
"Did I say that?" Stan asked. "History?"
"World history," said Kyle. "Yes. Ugh, now my mom is trying to kick the door down. I'm coming over after, around, like, 1, do not text me, okay, I'll get in trouble. See you at 1."
"See you," said Stan. "I love—" He realized Kyle had already hung up the phone. Kyle never hung up the phone without saying "I love you." So that was weird. How much weirder was it going to get? Stan wanted to know. Although he was tired, he decided to go into the bathroom. He left his sticky boxers on. He hadn't been in this house for decades, but some antique sense memory guided him there.
There was no window in the bathroom Stan had shared with his sister as a child, so he had to flip on the light. He knew he shouldn't be shocked, that all the evidence had been pointing in this direction, but when Stan looked in the mirror, he gaped at himself: at his broad mouth, too large for his face; at how he could barely tell he had a chin. His hair was long, but thick, a real mess, and he hadn't any sideburns, probably because he couldn't grow them. He had to pull some of his fringe back to see into his own eyes clearly, and tried to see what people had always said about him his whole life, that he had his mother's eyes. He couldn't, though, his whole face smoothed together, the fine details obscured by its youth.
Stan didn't feel gross about his underwear situation. Actually, he was ... not aroused, clearly, but maybe it would be accurate to say he was charmed by it? He shut the door and sat on the toilet, wiping at his balls, marveling at how clean he could get them clean with just some hot water and a washcloth. There were some fine, black hairs, just peeking out. Stan held his little cock in his hands. It was barely anything. Something about this made him feel wistful. If Kyle were here, Stan would have made him lick it clean. Then he would have rewarded Kyle with a blow job. Well, Kyle was coming over later, wasn't he?
It took Stan no time to dress and go downstairs. He put on all the most absurd clothing he could find — printed sleep pants with faces of cartoon characters, an ASPCA hoodie with rabbit ears, a soccer jersey, argyle knee socks he pulled over his pants, and plush slippers. If Stan owned let alone wore any of this shit back at the house, Kyle would be mortified. They both would. But Stan seemed to be trapped in his life at —what, 12, 13 years old? Kyle had said he was going to bar mitzvah lessons, so at least Kyle must be younger than 13.
Stan sat on the living room sofa and ate soggy fruit cereal, watching the milk turn pastel pink like an Easter egg as he ate it, slowly. He thought about Kyle. Kyle must have been sent back, too. But then, Kyle had said that Stan had said to call him last night; maybe that meant this was 12-year-old Kyle he'd be dealing with? Stan realized he wanted to know the date, so he put his empty cereal bowl in the sink and went to get the newspapers from the front stoop. Papers didn't come to the door anymore, where Stan had come from; in fact, paper was largely obsolete. Stan used paper for ornamental, quaint reasons, like writing love notes to Kyle, sending cards on Kyle's birthday. And, of course, for compositions. In the kitchen, Stan unfurled the local South Park weekly and the Denver Post. Today was November 2, exactly two weeks after his 13th birthday.
Back to the living room, where Stan laid down on the couch. The best course of action, in his recollection of tropes in genre fiction, was to retrace the steps he'd taken the previous day. He remembered pretty clearly. It had been a Friday. Kyle had made him breakfast. Stan had a meeting in Culver City. It went fine. He'd picked up a disc of revised storyboards for a commercial. Stopped at Huitre, a lesbian bar that had amazing gin fizzes and sloppy joes made with venison meat. Stan was on a perpetual diet so he didn't have a venison sloppy joe, but he had a gin fizz. Two gin fizzes. Casey was there. He kicked Stan in the shins while they ate. Stan paid for Casey's sloppy joe and kissed him on the cheek and left. Stan hated that sort of thing, but people in LA expected you to do it or they'd act cold, and one day you'd come home and find a bill from their therapist with the big red letters THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT written all over it. These people were crazy; who requested paper bills anymore unless they were using them to make some wackjob point? Came home, Kyle was still out getting his nails done or his butt waxed or moaning at his shrink or crying at the public library, whatever he did during the day. Stan worked until Kyle got home, and then Kyle started admonishing him to get ready: "The reservation's at 8! I'll pick out your shoes."
Got dressed and got in the car. Kyle drove his horrible little Australian nightmare, this very shiny blue thing that did not have auto-guide. Auto-guide made Kyle nervous. Stan told him for the umpteenth time that he was living in the past. "I'd rather be in the past than in one of those awful machines when it decides it's had enough and wants to go berserk." Fair enough, said Stan. They were on their way to dinner with the Tiller-Maizels, and Stan was kind of dreading it. He liked Asher Maizel; he was a quiet little gold-digger with big lips who Stan was pretty sure had started out as a call-boy in Houston. He didn't have a Texas accent, but he could put a decent one on. Asher was one of these young-looking guys whose faces betrayed them; he must have been 30 or 32. He had a very sweet, boyish face, but when he smiled, or you saw him in the wrong light, all the little lines on his face bunched up and he aged 15 years instantly. Stan's interest in him, which was purely academic, was basically rooted in his resemblance to Kyle. Not in looks, because Kyle looked exactly what he was, insecure and aging, but Stan thought he was beautiful. Yet Asher had a similar impassioned way of making his own lethargy seem dangerous and meaningful. Stan had often told himself that if Kyle died, god forbid, Stan would steal Asher from Graham Tiller because seriously, fuck that guy. He was an over-the-hill venture capitalist with a family he'd left behind in New Jersey about 18 years ago, and Stan was more or less certain Graham's interest in Stan and Kyle was a years-long plot to drag them into an orgy. Stan knew that he and Kyle were Graham's "artsy" friends, although Kyle wasn't artsy and Stan's creativity was limited in the way that you might call establishment literature "creative." Maybe Graham Tiller thought they were so starved for it that they'd go along with just anything.
Actually, Stan and Kyle had a very nice sex life. Last night, for example, had ended like this: Kyle was too drunk to drive home. Stan was, too, but less so than Kyle, so he drove the car, without auto-guide, and parked in the driveway, which Kyle hated because seagulls would end up crapping on it. Kyle took off his clothes in the foyer and carried them upstairs. Stan pressed Kyle's naked ass against one of the bedroom windows and kissed him with one of Stan's legs wedged between Kyle's, working that narrow dick of his so effectually that Kyle bit Stan's ear, then threw his arms up and cried, "I need it, I need it," until Stan tossed him onto the bed. While Stan undressed, Kyle got on all fours and lifted his ass up into the air, pulling his cheeks apart, and started baying for it like some kind of barnyard animal. Stan fucked Kyle's face into the mattress so hard that when they were done, collapsed on each other, panting, the weft of their duvet cover was burned red into Kyle's cheeks. He got up on his hands and knees again and showed Stan the product of his labors, an ass so well-abused that it was visibly distressed, ringed with frothy come and still distended, gaping.
It had seemed to Stan at that point that something had to be done about this, so Stan put his mouth to Kyle's hole, maybe with the intention of relaxing him, but soon Kyle was humping the mattress, to the point of coming. By the time Kyle spilled across their sheets, he was sobbing. Stan was hard again, too, his body sheathed with such an amount of perspiration that he shuddered to think what kind of horrible chafing their overworking bodies might induce together, but no caution was strong enough to keep Stan from slinging Kyle's legs over his shoulders and fucking him again, this time missionary style, their chests touching, Kyle's whole ruddy body folded up while he wept, clutching at Stan's hair and the back of his neck. There was lube on everything and when they were finished, finally, so incredibly tired, Stan's hands were so slick that he couldn't get a good grip on Kyle's shoulders.
They huddled together in the center of the big bed, a California king that embarrassed Stan, honestly, although he was more worried about what their housekeeper would make of their duvet so soiled. Kyle opened his arms, and Stan put his head on Kyle's chest. His last memory of the evening was Kyle saying, "Sometimes I think you don't want me anymore." And Stan reached around, letting his fingers brush against where he knew, from memory, Kyle's long, ugly scar ran. "Don't," he'd said, but Stan did. He just did what he wanted. He fell asleep more sated than he had in years.
Then he'd woken up here.
Stan sat in the living room for quite some time, flipping through very boring TV shows he never remembered liking or even watching.
- paramécie -
Then he found an episode of an old cartoon, Terrance and Phillip — except it wasn't old, was it, it was ... well, now it was contemporary. Stan typically didn't watch cartoons, or anything for pleasure, except for movies. He spent too much of his life working in the industry to want to subject himself to bullshit, to feelings of intense competition. The first thing Stan noticed about the cartoon was that the cues were all off. "Say, Terrance!" one of the characters barked, and then something else, and then he farted, and then they were both cackling like witches at a cauldron, and then a little trill of a cue told the viewer to laugh. It was the stupidest, most obvious thing Stan had ever heard. He hadn't seen this show in years, and he felt embarrassed for everyone involved in it. Had he liked this as a kid? He pulled down the rabbit-ear hood to hide his face, from no one, in shame.
"Jesus," he said to himself, "I could do a lot better than this."
But he didn't stop watching.
By 11 his mother came downstairs. He turned off the TV as soon as she entered the room, dropping the remote on the floor. He looked up at her; she'd fixed her hair a bit, probably with her hands. He wanted to get up and hug her. Was he too old for that? He honestly didn't remember when he'd stopped hugging his mother. He knew when he'd started again, but it had taken him until college to realize that there was no shame in a gay 19-year-old boy hugging his sick mother. But it had taken a lot of grief to get there. She was looking, or glaring down at him, like he was in trouble. That was when Stan figured, fuck it, maybe he wouldn't have hugged his mother at age 13. But he wanted to, so he did it.
"Stanley," she said, in that reproachful way, "that's not going to work."
"What?"
"Acting all affectionate," she said. "Sorry, but I can see through you."
"See through what?" he asked.
"I know he's your friend," she said, "But you have to tell Kyle he can't call at 7 in the morning on the weekend anymore."
"Oh." Stan climbed back into the couch. "Sorry," he said. "Really." This was weird. No one ever took this tone with Stan, this cautionary sort of warning tone. Kyle came closest, but he never bothered to issue warnings, just demands and pleas.
"Especially on Saturdays! I mean it, Stanley. Your father and I don't get to sleep in very often. During the week he goes to work and I get up with you guys. On Sundays we've got church. What does that leave us with?"
Stan couldn't believe he was part of this conversation. "Saturday?"
"Yes. And what day is Kyle not allowed to call early?"
"Saturday."
"That's right." She was taller than he was, by about a foot. She had been model-tall, grazing 5'9, and Stan didn't top his final height, an inch over her, until his last year of high school. He'd forgotten this, but he suddenly remembered how it felt to be smaller and shorter than an authority figure. So when she parented him, she patted his head, smoothing out his shiny hair. "Did you have breakfast?"
"Cereal."
"I'd have made you something," she said.
"I was up early."
"Well, I'm making french toast for me and your father. And — is Shelly up?"
Oh, Jesus. "Don't know," said Stan.
"That girl's always sleeping. Well, her loss." She padded into the kitchen.
Stan followed, sliding into a seat at the kitchen table. He remembered sitting there throughout his childhood, watching her cook and doing his homework. She started taking pots and pans out of the cabinet, looking for the right one.
"Any plans for the day?"
"Yeah." Stan tucked his legs up on the chair, and wrapped his arms around his knees. "Kyle's coming over."
"That's it?"
"I guess so," he said. "It's Saturday, so..."
She stood up with the frying pan in her hands, holding it by the handle. She seemed shocked. "Honey. What the hell are you wearing?"
Stan shrugged. "Some stuff from the closet."
"Yeah," she said. "I'll bet."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, honey." She walked to the cabinet above the stove and reached in for a big spray can of Pam. "Just, maybe you should change before Kyle gets here."
"Duh."
"Just a suggestion." She pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. "I wouldn't want to inhibit your burgeoning identity through self-representation." This came out in a sarcastic kind of voice. With a bowl and the eggs, she began setting up on the table across from him.
"Who are you mocking?"
She looked up from the dish over which she was cracking eggs, then tossing them back into the carton, which was almost empty. "Hm. Sheila, actually."
"Kyle's mom?"
"Ugh, yes, she's obsessed with this book about 'parenting your middle-schooler' " — she made air quotes — "and I keep having to tell her I've already had a middle-schooler. You guys aren't that tricky."
"I'd like to think I am," said Stan, who had never thought about it, even as an adult.
"Sorry, honey. You're really not. Although that outfit is incredible. You really want to change, Stanley, you don't want anyone to see you wearing that."
"I'll say."
Stan got up and his knees on his chair and looked around to the entrance to the kitchen, where his father was standing.
"Jesus, Stan," said Randy, his hands on his hips. "You look..."
"I look what?"
His mother was now scrambling the eggs, lightly. "Don't say it," she warned.
"I was going to say you look like you come from a household where we don't buy you the right clothing, and if anyone sees you they'll call child services," Stan's father said. "And we don't need that. ...Again."
"Thanks, Dad, for inhibiting my burgeoning identity."
"If this is your identity, son—"
"Randy!"
"Ugh, whatever." Stan's father was in his underwear, he usually had been on Saturday mornings. It had been so long since Stan was a child in his parents' house, and so long since he'd seen his parents together, that he'd never had the chance to think about their relationship, what it was or how they felt about it. But when his father paused by his mother's side and said, "Good morning, Sharon," and put his arms on his shoulders and kissed her behind the ear, two things occurred to him:
1. These people loved each other, and
2. These people had totally just fucked.
She giggled and said, "Randy!" again. Stan felt this was his cue to get up.
"Where are you going?" his father asked.
"To change."
"Thank god."
Stan very nearly gave him the finger; that's what he would've done to his dad in his proper life, and the old man would have laughed it off like it were the naughty misdeed of a clever poodle. As things stood, Stan wasn't sure his father would appreciate being flicked off by his 13-year-old. So Stan just shrugged him off.
"Any plans for the day?" Randy asked before he'd made it out alive.
"Kyle's coming over," said Sharon.
"Oh, great," said Randy. "Love him."
"What?"
"Nothing," said Randy. "Kyle's great, love Kyle."
"What's wrong with Kyle?" Stan asked. Again, he was overly familiar with present-day (or future?) Randy's feelings on Kyle, which straddled a line between tolerant and mildly uncomfortable. But surely his dad hadn't always felt that way? Surely before they started sleeping together...
"Nothing," said Randy, taking a step away from Stan's mother. "He's a great kid. Thumbs up."
"No, really." Stan took a step closer. "I want to know."
"Just ask him not to call so early on Saturdays, please."
Stan shrugged. "Yeah, Mom already told me."
"And maybe practice keyboard today, Stan, okay? Play Kyle something on your little keyboard," Stan's mother suggested.
"That is not a little keyboard," said Randy. "It is a Kurzweil SP4-7, Sharon."
"Whatever," she said. "Just try to practice it a little today, honey. It was a very expensive birthday gift."
Stan walked out of the kitchen the opposite way, through the dining room. The keyboard sat on the table, and its long cord ran to the socket on the wall near the china cabinet. The sight of it made Stan smile.
~
When the doorbell rang at 1 pm precisely, Stan vaulted off his bed and ran downstairs to fling the door open. He'd been up for six hours now, six hours of twiddling his thumbs and waiting for Kyle to arrive. Now Kyle was here, and Stan's heart was pounding, which was absurd; he'd spoken to Kyle on the phone that morning and, if he was going to be technical about it, had fucked Kyle in the ass twice the night before. But something about the curious circumstances Stan was now facing made him want to bury his face in Kyle's neck and cry. Stan didn't cry, though, just stuck with the head-burying.
"Uh, hey, dude," Kyle said, like he didn't know what to make of this. He patted Stan's back as they stood on the doorstep to Stan's childhood home, Stan in a T-shirt and jeans and Kyle in a starchy black suit, his yarmulke swinging precariously from a tangle of dry curls, attached only with a silver snap-clip. Stan did him to favor of removing it and handing it back. "Thanks," Kyle mumbled, putting it in his pocket. He was so much taller than Stan remembered, having burned off his major growth spurts earlier and less dramatically than Stan. "You all right?"
"Just so happy to see you," said Stan. "You really don't know."
"You saw me about 18 hours ago. ... What's wrong? Really, you can tell me."
"Nothing, nothing at all." Stan pulled him into the house and shut the door. His parents had gone out shopping, prepared to leave them home alone under the assumption that Stan's sister would watch them, if she ever woke up. "Let's go up to my room."
" 'Kay."
Once they got there, Stan pulled Kyle onto the bed. Kyle shrugged his suit jacket off, and untucked his shirt. "Now what?" he asked.
Stan realized he wasn't sure. What had he wanted to do up here? Kiss? Fool around? He looked 11-year-old Kyle up and down. Kyle was kneeling, hands on his thighs, his posture taut and fussy, shoulders back and chin up. Many of the features Stan loved on adult Kyle were there: his bleached-wood skin, his flourishing lips, his hazel eyes, which were such an unusual color that Stan had asked that his office be painted to match, so that when he worked he was reminded of Kyle at all times. The shade was difficult to imitate, so deep brown and murky olive, but it set off Kyle's hair color nicely. As for the hair, Stan noticed that it was much redder when Kyle was young, a burning rust color, that had settled over the years to a kind of dried-blood auburn. Stan was proud to know these things.
But all in all, he didn't want to fuck this little boy. The idea made him sad, and then it relieved him. Even with Kyle so much taller suddenly, he looked positively untouchable. Stan thought about his own body, its relative youth, but the things he did with his Kyle, perverse, adult things — this kid had never given Stan his consent for those things. It was kind of a mindfuck.
"I, um." Stan didn't know where to begin.
"Can I change my clothes?" Kyle asked.
"Sure." Stan pointed to his closet. "Borrow whatever."
As Kyle slipped into a blue striped T and some track pants that grazed his ankles. "This bar mitzvah stuff's gonna be pretty intense," he said.
"How so?"
"Well." Kyle crept back onto the bed. "There's a lot of memorization. And I have to sing. Or, I mean, chant, I have to chant. Incantations! It sounds scary, right?"
Stan, who'd lived through watching this process already, said, "No."
"I have to write a speech," Kyle continued. "Granted, not for a year. The rabbi wants me to read all this commentary on my passages. God, it's gonna be a lot of work. It's gonna suck." The rapidity with which Kyle said all of this betrayed his supposed reservations. "But, yeah. Why'd you want me to come over so bad?"
"Can't you just come over for no reason?"
Kyle wrinkled his nose. "I dunno. On the phone this morning, it sounded like you wanted me for something."
"Nope."
"Well, I'm here, so what are we going to do? Do you want to play games?"
"What kind of games?"
"You're the one who wanted to play last night," said Kyle. "You're right, I like sports games. You want to play Madden? We can do that. Since you don't want to talk about world history, I guess."
"Oh," said Stan. He knew a great deal on the topic, having lived with Kyle while he wrote his dissertation on the topic. "No, we can talk about that."
"Oh, okay. But, can we do games now? I've had a lot of learning-type shit today and I just—"
Kyle didn't need to ask again. They went to the living room and Stan fiddled with the primitive-looking machine.
"What's the matter?" Kyle asked.
"I seem to have—"
"Ugh, here." Kyle slipped off the couch and padded over. "I'll do it."
Stan sat back on the couch while Kyle turned the Gamesphere on, observing Kyle's little behind as it shook. It wasn't quite the magnificent thing Stan loved to burrow his face into, the perfectly symmetrical handiwork of an Austrian cosmetic surgeon whose Wilshire Boulevard office had a gurgling fountain in the lobby and Philippe Stark chairs in the waiting area. It wasn't even the ass Kyle's current ass had replaced, which was perfectly glorious in Stan's memory, just with a bit of sag. But, Stan reminded himself, someday it would be.
Barely into the game and the doorbell rang.
"Fuck." Stan tossed his controller on the floor. "Who the hell is that?"
Kyle shrugged off the couch and picked up the controller. "Dunno," he said. "UPS? It's not my house." He followed Stan to the door.
It turned out to be a little girl, roughly Kyle's age, with dark brown hair parted on the left that fell to her shoulders, thin and flat. She wore a little purple rain coat and mustard corduroy slacks that flared out from the knee. She was not happy. Her name was on the tip of Stan's tongue — why didn't he know it? They had dated on and off for four years in elementary and middle school, Stan remembered the first time they'd kissed, in third grade — Kyle had been there! Why couldn't he just—
"Hey Wendy," Kyle said, giving her a limp wave.
"So, here you are!" she barked.
Stan was shaken, but he gathered his wits and said, "At my house, yeah. What's up?"
"Well, we were supposed to hang out today, Stan, and here I find you just sitting around doing nothing with Kyle. This has happened for, like, the zillionth time."
"Hey Wendy."
"Hi," she said. "Dickface."
Stan grinned. "So charming," he said. He could remember suddenly, with perfect clarity, why he'd liked her as a child: She was bossy, like Kyle; smart, like Kyle; would not put up with being mistreated, like Kyle. He'd admired all those things about her. Still did, actually. But as an adult or, well, whatever, he knew how silly this little relationship had been. "Oh crap," Stan said, opening the door as wide as it would go. "Come in."
She stepped over the threshold and removed her coat, handing it to Kyle. "Thank you, Kyle," she said, brushing past him.
"Wendy." Stan took the coat from Kyle and threw it over the nearest chair. "I'm so sorry!"
"We had plans!"
"I know," Stan lied. "I just—"
"You did this last week, too!"
Kyle shut the door and joined them by the living room windows. "What plans?"
"Well," said Wendy, "we were supposed to be seeing a movie. We were supposed to be meeting at 1."
"I like movies," said Kyle. "Let's all go see a movie."
"Private plans," Wendy insisted.
Stan knew this should annoy him, and that he should feel remorseful. Instead, he stood there grinning. "Do you guys want some cereal?" he asked. "We have the best cereal."
"I haven't eaten since kiddush," said Kyle.
Wendy shot Stan an incredulous glance. "I suppose I'd like a glass of water."
Stan fixed two bowls of cereal, a rainbow of neon fruits, and set them on the kitchen table. The dishes from his parents' brunch were still in the sink, and Stan left them there. He was about to pour the milk when he remembered Wendy's water.
"So," he heard her saying, "any plans for the weekend?"
"Well," Kyle replied, "I just got here."
"You're wearing Stan's shirt."
"Oh, I guess I am."
Stan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the embarrassment in Kyle's voice. He shut off the tap and brought Wendy her drink.
"Sorry," Stan repeated, slipping into his chair. "Wendy—dude—I didn't realize."
"Yeah, well." She took a sip of her water. "It's not the dumbest thing you've done lately."
"Sorry." Stan watched Kyle eye the carton of 2 percent in the center of the table.
"I'm pouring," Kyle announced. He reached over Wendy's glass to get the carton, then got up and walked all the way around the table to splash some into Stan's bowl.
"Thanks."
"Sure," said Kyle. "You're welcome." He beamed over his bowl of cereal.
Stan peered down at his second bowl of Trix for the day. The milk was beginning to turn rosaceous, just slightly.
"What were you going to see?" Kyle asked.
"Well, we were going to discuss it," Wendy began, but she was interrupted by the sound of the back door flying open, and Stan's older sister stumbling in.
Shelly Marsh swept a pair of aviator sun glasses away from her face, and used them to comb the voluminous splendor of her clearly unwashed hair from her eyes. "Oh shit," she said, dropping her red patent clutch on the floor and kicking the door shut with a cowboy boot. "Kids."
"We're not kids," said Kyle.
Peeling off a filthy denim jacket, Shelly raised an eyebrow at him. "You're 12," she said. "You're kids."
"Stan is 13 now," Wendy said.
"Ugh." Shelly did not pause to contemplate that. "Where's Mom and Dad?"
"Out," said Stan. "I think they went grocery shopping?"
"Do we have coffee?"
"Should be some left." Stan pointed to the machine with his spoon. "Mom and Dad thought you were home. They thought you were sleeping." He remembered saying these words so often in his youth that he felt he was reciting them from a libretto.
"Whatever." She practically fell into the cabinet where they kept their mugs. It took until she turned around to squint at them as she gulped down lukewarm coffee for Stan to realize that she was wrecked, hungover, maybe even still drunk. He saw the runs in her sheer black tights disappear up under the little gingham sun dress she was wearing out of season. From one ear hung a big pink feather earring; her other was missing. Her other earring was missing.
"Hey Shelly," said Kyle, preempting Stan. "You're missing an earring."
"Am I?" Her hand flew to her ear. "Oh, fuck. I liked those." She groaned and put her fingers to her temple.
When Stan had been 13 the first time, he'd barely paid any attention to his older sister. She wasn't that interesting to him. She'd had lots of boyfriends, and some of those guys had caught Stan's attention, if not for the fact that almost all of them were musicians, than for the fact that they for some reason chose to date his sister. Thrust back into this situation, he could see that at 16, she hadn't a very nice face; she shared her father's chin, which was awkward with her delicate nose and small lips, and the fine black powder of mascara chipping across the wells of her eyes didn't help much. Her lips were either bruised from misuse or stained with the end of last night's final red lipstick application. What Stan could plainly see was that despite this, she had her mother's body, generous height and breasts that threatened to spill out over her deep neckline. It was obvious to Stan now, though he'd never even thought about it before, that she'd probably stayed over with some guy.
In Stan's timeframe, Shelly no longer boasted a physique of much note. She was 41 and had three children, Stan's niece and nephews, and taught elementary school German classes, although she did not much like children, except for her own. Stan liked to tease her, "You'd like my kids, though, right? I know it. You would." It was a cool thing to joke about because the possibility of Stan having children was so remote. She was typically too exhausted and frustrated to do more than roll her eyes at him. He didn't hassle her about her weight, or her "career," or the fact that she still lived in South Park. The last time he'd seen her was in August, at their father's 70th birthday party, where Kyle had made a point of evangelizing surgical butt lift practices. "I feel like a whole new person!" he kept saying. That was not even the low point of the party for Stan; the low point was when his father introduced him to someone who had known Stan for 35 years as, "My son, the homosexual composer from Malibu." Which wasn't inaccurate, but it seemed so willfully cruel that Stan had made a pointed face about it.
Then Randy had gestured to Kyle and said, "And this is his lover."
"Boyfriend," Stan had corrected.
"I prefer 'life companion,' " was Kyle's response.
"I am totally supportive of their relationship," said Stan's father, more or less reciting what Stan's mother had taught him to say, a long, long time ago.
Shelly, in planning this party, had told Stan that he was going to have to contribute something. "I'm coming," Stan had said, "from 1000 miles away, so what else do you want me to do?"
"Play the piano," she'd said.
So Stan had found himself playing "Happy Birthday to You" at the piano in Shelly's living room, with his step mother waving her arms around idiotically like she was conducting, although Stan was doing a good job of ignoring her. Then Randy had blown out the candles, and then Stan started in on, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." Nobody stopped to applaud, so Stan kept playing. He worked through everything he could think of that was vaguely appropriate, meaningless pedantic tunes with no sentiment behind them that Stan identified with. He tried the Beatles' "Birthday," and that segued into "Julia." Stan knew he'd done it backward, but he was reaching for anything, anything that felt honest.
Then Kyle had come over with a plate of cake. At this point in Stan's life, he could carry on a perfectly decent basic conversation while playing, so long as what he was playing was soundly inane.
"Is that your second piece?" Stan asked.
"No." Kyle set it on top of the piano, where the fork clattered with Stan's implementation of the pedals. "I brought for you."
"Kyle," Stan had said. "I don't eat cake." He bit his lip and held a chord too long.
Kyle sat down next to Stan on the bench, which wasn't really long enough to fit both of them. Stan scooted down; he didn't mind hanging off a bit. "You should eat some cake," Kyle said. "Really. It's your dad's 70th birthday."
"I think he's having fun."
"Are you?"
Stan shrugged into a chord deep on the far side of the piano, stretching his arm over Kyle. "It doesn't matter if I have fun. It's not my birthday. My sister asked me to play, so I'm playing."
"Well, I don't really have anyone to talk to." This was patently ridiculous. Kyle had known most of these people as long as Stan had. Kyle's own parents were in attendance. He even got along with Stan's step mother, although Kyle tended to agree with Stan that she was a bit of a pill.
Kyle patted Stan on the back and stood, walking back around to the other side of the piano where he'd left the plate of cake. It was a triple-layer cake with blue vanilla buttercream, the kind you'd get for a kids' party. Stan figured this was because there were kids at the party, Shelly's kids. They'd requested a chocolate cake with strawberry preserves; Randy liked preserves, and it was least offensive to the children. The cake had read "Happy Birthday Grandpa Randy," and the slice on Kyle's plate had a big capital G and R.
"Poor Stan." Kyle had sectioned off a neat corner of the slice, staring off into the distance as he put it in his mouth. The memory was so clear to Stan, the sensation of his fingers on the keys as he leaned over and let Kyle feed him cake as Stan played.
In Stan's childhood kitchen, he stared across the table at Kyle, who had pink cereal milk in the corners of his mouth. Then Stan turned to see his sister fishing in her purse and pulling out two orange Advils.
"I'm going upstairs," she said.
"Hold up," said Wendy, hopping out of her chair. "I'll come, too."
~
Rather than following his sister and girlfriend upstairs, Stan dragged Kyle back into the living room.
"You shouldn't have told me to come over if you had plans with Wendy," Kyle said.
"What?" Stan shrugged. "Oh. Uh. I didn't remember."
"You don't remember making plans with your girlfriend?"
"People forget! Plus, I dunno. Maybe I wanted plans with you more?" Stan knew it was what he would have wanted. It was what he wanted at the moment, anyway; Wendy Testaburger might have been cool for a sixth-grade girl, but she didn't hold the same interest for Stan as observing sixth grader Kyle did.
"That's so fucking rude, Stan," Kyle said. "We can hang out every day if you want, but just forgetting about Wendy meeting you somewhere — I'd like to think you wouldn't do the same thing to me!"
"I wouldn't."
"Sure you would! If you'd do it to her, you'd do it to me."
"I wouldn't," Stan repeated. "Honestly."
"Why? What's the difference? If you're the sort of guy who'd do that to anyone, you're liable to do it to everyone. Me included. So how do I know you wouldn't?"
Stan knew the right answer. It was: "Because I'm 37 and I've been in love with you for 25 years and in that time I've had plenty of opportunities to leave you, and plenty of reasons, and yet I haven't because to me there is everyone else, and then there's you, and I can't explain why it's you but it always has been and I don't think you understand this as an adult, let alone a child." Stan couldn't say this, though, so he tried to think of a suitable substitute. He began to say, "I think—" when the doorbell rang. "Fuck," said Stan. "What now?"
"UPS?"
"What is it with you and UPS?"
Kyle threw his hands in the air. "I don't know who else would ring your doorbell!" He seemed exasperated, but he followed Stan to the front door anyway.
It turned out to be a kid with dark, ratty black hair to his chin, big holes in the knees of his jeans. He wore a thin sweatshirt with a hood, which he lifted over his head as Stan answered the door, scowling, "So," he said, in a flat, nasal voice. "This is where you're hiding."
"Why would I be hiding from you?" Stan asked. He hoped it sounded like bravado, although truly he was hoping he might find out.
"Because you're a little pussy," said the kid. "I got it on good authority from Clyde who got it from Bebe who got it from Wendy that you were seeing a movie at 1 p.m. So do you know what I did, Marsh? I waited at the theater. I saw Wendy get there. I saw Wendy leave. But I didn't see you."
"Wendy's here," said Stan.
"What about him?" the kid said, nodding toward Kyle. "He your bodyguard?"
"Fuck you, Craig!" Kyle barked.
Craig shrugged this off. "I want my money, asshole."
"Your money?"
"My dad's money," Craig corrected. "But he said he'd give me 10 percent if I could extract it from you on his behalf. He says he knows a guy who can replace his window for 200." Craig didn't smile, but he crossed his arms. "And I could use $20. So, pay up."
When Stan heard that Craig was here sniffing after $20, he almost wanted to pat the poor kid on the head and send him home with a sympathetic laugh. As an employed adult, and due in part to inflation, $20 was nothing to Stan. When he went to New York for meetings, he brought home chocolate bars for Kyle that cost $20 a piece. They had Himalayan pink salt and a very fine layer of raspberry buttercream. Stan had tried a square once and thought they were insane. Kyle was always grateful for them; he'd start off eating one as slowly as possible, letting a square of chocolate dissolve on the roof of his mouth, but by the end of the third and final bar, he'd be inhaling it so fast he'd barely have time to pause to think about it. Kyle could eat $20 worth of chocolate in about five minutes. Stan loved watching him do it. It was worth a lot more than $20. Speaking of—
"Of course," Kyle spat at Craig, "you would tattle to your father."
"If he asks me who accidentally let a football go flying through the window of his car, yeah, I think I might tell him," said Craig. "Wouldn't you?"
"I'd be a loyal friend," said Kyle.
"Well, lucky you guys are such good friends. But we" — Craig pointed between himself and Stan — "are not. So cough up my dad's $200 and I won't feel the need to tell your dad that you guys were tossing balls in the rec center parking lot."
"I don't think my dad would care," said Stan.
"He might if it lost him $200," said Craig. He had not stepped into the house, but fell back against the door frame, leaning on it.
"It's not Stan's fault," said Kyle. "Stan just tossed the ball. It was a good toss! It's Kenny's fault he didn't catch it."
"I don't care. You think I'm stupid enough to try to extort McCormick? Those assholes don't give a shit and couldn't pay anyway. No point."
Kyle started to say, "We can think of something—"
"Hold on!" said Stan. He turned and fled up the stairs.
Stan's mind was racing. He was trying to figure out how he'd gotten out of this when he was 13. He was trying to remember how he'd gotten the money — then it occurred to him that he hadn't. Craig's parents had called his parents, who were angry not just about the $20, but about Stan's recklessness, and especially about his concealing this problem from them. Being grounded hadn't been so bad, Stan figured, except that it had meant being isolated from Kyle. Stan couldn't imagine being isolated from the stringent, beautiful little boy he could hear arguing with Craig downstairs, imploring Craig to back off and pick on someone "his own size," which was absurd because Craig was even shorter than Stan was, so Kyle towered over Craig by something like a foot.
In a panic, Stan knocked on his sister's door. He heard Shelly bark, "What?" and Wendy say, "We're busy."
Stan slowly opened the door. It wasn't locked, so he knew it was nothing private. He found Wendy sitting on his sister's bed, legs crossed Indian-style, while Shelly kneeled behind her with a flat iron, the kind Kyle used to do his hair with in college, before he could afford to have the living shit relaxed out of it for three hours every month.
- paramécie -
"What do you want?" Shelly asked. She did not even turn to look at Stan, but kept focused on Wendy's hair, which she was wrapping around the prongs of the straightener, and then drawing out, leaving one flouncy lock and moving onto the next one.
"Um," said Stan. "What are you guys doing?"
"Girl stuff," said Wendy.
"I'm showing her how to make volume with an iron," said Shelly. "Seriously, what do you want?"
"Can I borrow $200?" Stan asked. "Or any money at all?"
"What?"
"Oh, Stan," said Wendy, sounding pitiful. "I told you."
"Told me what?"
"To tell your parents?"
"Tell them what?" Shelly asked. She sounded pissed, but didn't miss a beat in her handling of the straightener.
"Stan put a football through Craig's dad's window," Wendy tattled.
"Thanks," Stan said. "Thanks a bunch, Wendy."
"And you need $200?"
"Uh huh."
Finally, Shelly turned off the straight iron and yanked the plug from the wall. She got up from her bed and hobbled to the window ledge, where she picked up a big red can of hair spray. Shaking it, she handed it to Wendy. "Go into the bathroom and apply this liberally," she said, handing it over.
"Won't breathing this in make me light-headed? Should I do it in a well-ventilated area?"
"You must already be lightheaded if you're dating my idiot brother," she said.
"Hey!" said Stan.
Wendy did not say anything to him on the way out, just turned away so they wouldn't lock eyes. She shut the door on the way out.
"I know $200 is a lot—"
"That's, like, a month's worth of babysitting," said Shelly.
"Only a month?"
"I think you should tell Mom and Dad."
"Really? Won't they, like. Ground me?"
"Maybe," said Shelly. "But, what are you going to do if they find out before you get $200?"
"I'm going to have to try to find it," said Stan. "I don't want to be grounded."
"Why are you smiling?"
"What?" Stan shrugged. "I am?" He considered the perverse delight of trying to think his way out of the situation. He didn't know what he was doing here, in the past, but there was no reason he couldn't live his life over — didn't people dream about receiving such an opportunity? Having a second chance, knowing what he knew now?
The best part was, it wasn't really for him, or it wouldn't be — Stan's life was already pretty great. He looked at his sister, his breath scented with a sour mix of coffee and weak beer. He thought about his mother; he had her back now, didn't he? Didn't he want that? And Kyle — he could give Kyle everything he wanted!
If only he knew what Kyle wanted.
"Shelly," Stan said. "Can help you me?"
She shrugged. "I'll give you $20. But you owe me."
"I know!"
"God," she said, stumbling over to her purse, slung over her desk chair. "Don't be so fucking excited. If I give you 20 bucks I want 30 back." She began to dig around in the clutch for her wallet.
"You're going to charge me 50 percent interest? Are you that hard-up for 10 bucks?"
"No," she said, coming over with two wadded-up tens in her hand. "But maybe this'll teach you to just go to Mom and Dad next time."
Stan accepted the money. "But you won't tell them, right?"
"Ugh," she said, starting to close the door. "Leave me alone for the rest of the day." Then she shut it in his face.
Flying back downstairs, Stan found Kyle and Craig sitting on the couch. They were no longer arguing. Craig was sitting with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets, his hood down now, his left heel stacked on his right toes.
Kyle's arms were crossed, his legs spread in front of him, and he was slouching in his seat, scowling. It seemed like he'd lost something.
"Here," Stan said, handing Craig the money.
Craig accepted it, enthusiastically at first. Then he frowned. "This is only 20 bucks," he said.
"Then I owe you 180, I guess," Stan said.
Standing, Craig pocketed the money. "My dad wants it all by Thursday," he said. He turned and strode to the door.
Stan followed. "I'll see what I can do."
Grunting in reply, Craig opened the door and, without saying goodbye, slammed it shut behind him.
When Stan turned, he saw Wendy standing on the staircase, a hand on the banister. "I'm going," she said, in a small voice.
"Okay."
"You'd rather hang out with Kyle. So I'll just go."
"That's fine. If that's what you want?"
"Is it what you want?"
It was, but Stan shrugged. "I dunno?"
She grabbed her coat and pecked him on the cheek. "Have a lovely Saturday." She didn't slam the door, but paused over the threshold while she zipped up. "Goodbye."
"Bye," said Stan.
Wendy lingered for another moment. Then she sighed, and Stan shut the door, slowly, latching it.
Back in the living room, Kyle was sitting with his arms still crossed.
"What?' Stan asked.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going to find $180?"
"I guess I'll have to think about it."
"Think quickly!"
Stan turned to glance around the room and then out the window, and said the first thing that came to his mind. "I dunno, I can just rake some leaves or whatever."
"There aren't $180 worth of leaves in this whole town!"
"Well," said Stan, "maybe I'll have to go raking in the next town."
Kyle scoffed, and slid off the couch.
"Don't tell me you're leaving too!"
Scoffing again, Kyle said, "No, I'm just going to the bathroom."
Reassured, Stan followed him, out of habit, up the stairs. At the bathroom door, Kyle turned and said, "Don't follow me in! Jesus, what's wrong with you today?" He slammed the door behind him, leaving Stan to slink over to the top of the stairs, where he sat with his head in his hands, wondering where his father kept the rake.
CHAPTER 3
After breakfast, Stan felt it was time to dress and prepare to face the day's priorities. Unfortunately, he did not know what the day's priorities were, and he wasn't sure what to wear. For this, Stan looked to Kyle for cues. First Kyle left the dishes piled in the sink, announcing that Rosa would take care of them. Stan wasn't sure who Rosa was, just nodded along with Kyle's post-breakfast jaunt around the house, sashaying in and out of rooms with his arms crossed, that robe swinging behind him like the ermine cloak of a king. Stan followed, and as Stan was following, Kyle jabbered about whatever was on his mind. "I get so sick of looking at the same decorative soaps," he pronounced in the guest bathroom, bending over to sniff a trio shaped like milky-hued seashells, a scallop and two conchs, their forms softened a bit by use. Stan wanted to smell, too, so he did, recoiling at the scent of acrid lavender. "See," Kyle said as Stan scowled, "lavender has nothing to do with seashells. It's all wrong. And they're a bit used. And what's sadder than half-used decorative soaps? The idea that they've been sitting in this bathroom since we moved in, I mean?"
"Ah—" Stan really had no idea. He was not even sure when they'd moved in. Furthermore, Kyle's half-hard dick was still hanging there, seemingly just as ambivalent about soap as Kyle was.
"Right, I don't think there's anything sadder."
"But who cares?" Stan asked.
This seemed to be the wrong thing to say. "Well, clearly I do," Kyle said, before choosing to add, "and you should, too! These people are so ... abrupt and picky. They demand everything have a sheen on it, like we're all perfectly packaged at the moment of peak ripeness. I don't want them using mismatched-scented soap that's half-used! But I don't want to seem like we're trying too hard."
"I think just the fact that we're having this conversation is trying too hard," said Stan. "So really..."
"Ugh!" Kyle pushed Stan out of the way as he left the bathroom, marching toward something with marked determination. Stan struggled to keep up, not sure where Kyle was headed, though he headed through the kitchen to get there. Soon they were in a laundry room, bigger than Stan's bedroom at home, or rather, back home in South Park. "Rosa!" Kyle barked, as if calling a disobedient dog away from a toppled garbage bag.
Rosa seemed middle-aged, though Stan thought she must be younger than they were, or maybe she'd led a difficult life. He skin was the purest color of milky coffee, but she had bags under her eyes, and when Kyle shouted at her she was visibly quaking, bent over a washing machine with a sopping white duvet in her hands.
"We're having a party," Kyle exclaimed, trying to keep his robe cinched together in a pantomime of decency. "Everything has to be perfect. I need servers. For our Labor Day barbecue I used Diamond Catering, but this time I'm cooking everything and Diamond makes their people wear these absurd penguin tuxes, it's really a shame. Plus over Labor Day I think I caught one of the guys flirting with Stan. Which won't do! In this house employees are only allowed to flirt with me."
Managing to shove the wet duvet into the dryer, Rosa shrugged and said, "Okay." Stan was surprised to hear she had no accent.
"That was a joke," said Kyle. "But we need servers. Who do you know?"
"I don't know any servers—"
"I don't mean professional people, I mean — anyone. I'll pay. Right?" Kyle turned to Stan. Before he could say anything, Kyle swiveled back around and said, "Of course we will." He gathered even more of his robe into his hands. "This is very serious," Kyle insisted. "It has to be perfect. Don't you have a brother?"
"Well, yes—"
"How'd he like to make some cash?"
"I'm sure—"
"Fabulous!" Kyle threw his hands up, and his robe unfolded.
"Kyle!" Stan couldn't help but shut his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.
"Well." Kyle gathered the robe again, and Stan thought it was possible he was blushing, although Kyle had seemed so flushed from running around the house that it was difficult to tell. "Well, good, that's settled. Thursday night, guests are coming at 6:30 and the formal meal's at 8, so if he could get here by 5, I'd really appreciate it. To help set up, you know."
Rosa seemed more confused than ever. "All right, Mr. Broflovski. I can have him call you—"
"Ugh, no time, just have him show up. Come on." Kyle yanked Stan out of the room as he left. He let go of Stan's T-shirt after a few steps and asked, "What was I going to do now?"
"Get dressed?" Stan asked. "I mean, dude, you're practically naked."
"Do you not want to see me naked?"
It felt like lying to say no, because in fact Stan had spent more time in his regular life lately wondering what Kyle looked like naked than was likely healthy. On the other hand, Stan really didn't want to say yes, because old Kyle's penis looked like it had nothing to do with the weird kid back in South Park Stan wanted to kiss so much. "Do you really think, ah — Rosa wants to see you naked?"
"She knows what it's like working here!" Kyle snaps. "I mean, fuck looking at it, for what we pay her I might as well make her suck my dick. You know, seeing as you won't!
"You don't even know what I'm thinking!" was all Stan could manage.
"Of course I know what you're thinking! You're thinking, fuck, here I am stuck with this — this fat old bitch who's nagging me for blow jobs at 11 a.m. and bitching about hand soap. "
Stan immediately felt bad, mostly because, well, that was more or less what he was thinking. He said, "No, Kyle — of course not."
"Whatever." Kyle crossed his arms. He didn't seem sad, just resigned. "Last night was so nice, I mean, I don't know what's missing from my life that I can't just focus on the good things. I almost don't blame you."
"Blame me for what?"
"Nothing, nothing." Kyle waved it away, his robe flopping open again. He seemed very committed to exposing his dick as often as possible. It was no longer even half-hard, and Stan had to fight back a misplaced instinct to gather the vulnerable thing into his hands and comfort it like a wounded animal. "You're right, I guess — I should get dressed and get on with my day."
"What's um — your day?" Stan asked, suddenly terrified to be left alone in this house alone.
"Party errands."
"Can I come?"
Kyle blinked. "Sure? I mean, sure, of course, come along. If you don't have any work to do?"
Stan just shrugged.
"Well, I don't know how you can be so productive," Kyle said, leading Stan down the hall and upstairs. "Every time I attempt to get anything done I just end up jerking off to some video of 20-year-olds with greasy hair fucking each other. ... As you know. Is that horrible?"
"Uh." Stan paused on the stairs.
Turning, Kyle scanned Stan's face for any type of reaction. "Well," he said, like he'd won a pyrrhic victory. "At least it bothers you." He turned and finished ascending the stairs, robe fluttering after.
For a moment, Stan found himself wishing for a glimpse of Kyle's behind. Under the terrycloth, it seemed soft and firm at the same time, like an ergonomic pillow.
What to wear? At first Stan followed Kyle to the same closet he'd found himself in that morning, and Kyle said, with a smile, "Oh, you want to watch me get dressed?" Stan shrugged, figuring sure, why not? So he watched Kyle slide on a pair of briefs and then wriggle into jeans, which he ordered Stan to fasten for him. When he had trouble with the zipper, Kyle barked, "You're making it difficult on purpose!"
"I swear I'm not," Stan insisted. He gazed up at Kyle's naked torso and felt something uncomfortable — pity, maybe, and Stan felt as though all of the air had gone out of the room. Kyle's body wasn't anything like Stan had ever envisioned, so soft and exposed, his flesh wasn't one color; Stan couldn't reduce it down to one adjective like "peach" or "rose" — it was both of those, and so much more, not uniform but beautiful, to Stan, like the hide of an animal, a kind of trophy. Stan couldn't help but brush his thumb over some of the hair on Kyle's chest. It was short and brisk, and Stan remembered waking up pressed against it. The memory made him drop his hand.
"What?" Kyle caught Stan's fingers, squeezing them, lightly. "I could wax, I guess. ... If you wanted that. Do you want that? I know I've let myself go — but you always tell me you like me how I am, so sometimes I just think you're playing mind games, or something, well, I'm not a mind-reader, Stanley, you have to tell me what you want—"
"I want. Um. For you to help me find something to wear?"
"Oh. Well, all right." Kyle pulled something from a shelf, a T-shirt the color of a green highlighter, which made Kyle's hair seem less red, somehow, and more auburn. Stan was almost gagging on disbelief until Kyle added a black sweater over it, some neon green peeking out from the tip of the V at Kyle's sternum. "How do I look?" he asked.
Struggling to determine his position on this subject, Stan said, "Well, you know, it's not so much about that, really, it's important, uh — how do you feel?"
"Oh no," said Kyle, "I'm not playing that game. I asked you a question!"
"I think it's more important that you feel good about yourself than about what I think—"
"Stan!"
Stan recoiled, murmuring, "It looks nice."
"That probably means I look terrible." Kyle did sound hurt. "Well, nothing fits me and I'm too lazy to find another outfit. At least this is very modest." Kyle turned to leave the room, leaving the lights on. "I hate clothes."
Wondering if perhaps it wasn't best to follow Kyle's example in regard to the lights, he left them on as well and wasn't too shocked to see that they snapped off on their own accord. It was here that Stan discovered there were two closets in the bedroom, this one and a smaller one. The smaller one seemed to be his; there was a fraying poster of John Elway tacked, of all things, to the ceiling. As Kyle dug through a tall, angular dresser of natural wood, Stan inspected everything he could manage to take in. This was his wardrobe, these were his things. He had pairs of slacks in unthinkable colors, things that didn't seem professional in the least. The sneakers were outlandish as well, in neons and pastels, sometimes in combination. Everything about this seemed to clash. The thing was, this made Stan's heart beat faster. These were the sorts of things he begged his mother to buy him, or variations on it anyway — primary colors, especially, were his favorites. He also liked animal shapes and animal prints. While considering this, he spied a pair of leopard-print briefs in Kyle's hands.
"I don't mean to be a sick perv," Kyle said, catching Stan looking at him. "These just look so good on you."
"It's not wrong," Stan mumbled, turning from Kyle to slide off the ones he had on. When he had them on all the way he turned back around and added, "I guess if we're together, you — you probably look at me, or we look at each other ... sometimes. I guess."
"I guess!" Kyle rolled his eyes and picked up a pile of clothes he'd assembled on a worn leather hassock, handing them to Stan. "Enjoy!"
For a moment Stan was relieved that Kyle was leaving the room, but then he felt a little pang of loss. Rather, not a pang but a great panic seizing at him. He didn't want to be alone in this house. "Wait!" he cried.
Turning, Kyle said, "Yeah?"
"I just — where are you going?" Stan hated how needy his voice sounded, how nervous he felt holding this pile of clothes. He sat down on the hassock and looked up at Kyle as Kyle approached Stan.
"To the butcher," Kyle said. "To figure out about those steaks. I might get some lunch. You know I like to — enjoy the company of the outside world. Sometimes. ... I guess."
"Can I come?" Stan asked. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had pulled his shirt off. Desperately he began to search for the one in his lap; when he found it he shook it until he located the neck hole.
"Yeah, you can come." Kyle seemed to brighten at the idea. "Where do you want to go?"
Stan shrugged. "You pick."
"Ugh." Now Kyle left the room for real.
"Kyle!" Stan called after him, but Kyle didn't come back this time.
When dressed, Stan felt rather comfortable in his clothes. Kyle had given him a well-tailored gray button-down and a pair of red pants, corduroys with horizontal patterned texture. It didn't look awful, Stan was surprised to find, and he felt as if he were wearing his own clothes. He was, of course, but it bore remark, Stan felt. Since Kyle wasn't there he spent a few minutes in front of the mirror, considering his appearance. He was slim and though he couldn't say for certain whether he was objectively tall, he was taller than Kyle, and so had developed the idea that he must be considered handsome. He wasn't certain he could say he liked how he looked; he rather preferred looking his age, and as he felt 13, staring at his stubbly reflection was jarring. But he was relieved to learn he hadn't grown up ugly! That said, while securing the button fly on his corduroys he'd realized that his hands ached — not greatly so, but suddenly, in a way that subsided when his hands were at rest and began to creep up on him when he engaged in some kind of work. A similar sensation was ignited as he tied his shoes. When he stood up again it was gone, and his concern dissipated, leaving him content until he realized Kyle was not in the bedroom, but there was noise coming from downstairs. For the second time that day Stan forced himself to creep downstairs, finding Kyle in the living room reading on a tablet and scowling.
Hearing Stan, Kyle made an obvious point to continue reading for a few moments, perhaps to finish his paragraph or something. Stan just stood at the bottom of the stairs, the clutch of his hands resting at waist-height, until Kyle put the tablet down and said, "You look good."
"Thanks," Stan managed.
"I mean, you always look good." Kyle stood up, clearly regarding Stan's physique.
It felt uncomfortable, but Stan didn't say anything. He needed Kyle to think this was normal. To this extent Stan had decided that it was best to keep silent when possible.
"I'm a lucky man," Kyle said, in a low voice, with a sighing quality to it. He seemed sad. Adult Kyle tended, in the scant hours of Stan's relationship with him, to have two modes, sadness and frustration. There was a kind of sadness even to his leering gaze, to his sexually charged remarks. "Let's go to Bret's," Kyle said. "You drive."
Stan resolved not to do anything to make Kyle frustrated, or sad, if it was in his power to avoid it. "Who's Bret?" Stan asked.
"The restaurant. I don't know anyone named Bret. Do you?"
"No." Stan was following Kyle past the door to his office, through a laundry room. Then they were stepping outside. "I, um." He feared that this was going to upset Kyle, or at least frustrate him. Two cars were sitting there, one a cherry-red coupe that was longer than Stan had ever seen a car, and slightly narrower than he wanted it to be. The top was down, and there were only two seats. "Is it possible for you to drive?" Stan asked.
"Is it possible? What? It's possible, but — I drove to dinner last night."
"Dude—"
"I'll drive," Kyle said, "if like usual you promise to take over if I get drunk. I wanted a mimosa with lunch."
"I guess that's fair!" Stan said with too much enthusiasm, which got a weird look from Kyle. Stan really didn't think it sounded fair, but he wasn't sure what the alternative was: 'Let's call a driver,' 'Actually I don't think I want to go out to lunch with you,' 'Why don't you just not drink anything, because it's like noon'? None of these felt like they'd go over very well. Stan swallowed and trailed Kyle back into the house, past the office door a second time, and out the front door.
"Front door open," said the front door.
"Fuck off," Kyle said to the door. He didn't bother locking it, just touched his thumb to a chrome rectangle about the size of a matchbox that sat directly above the knob. "I'm hungry," he said, and went to the car sitting in the driveway. The last thing he said before he got in was, "Fucking seagulls."
~
Stan had never driven in his life, but he was willing to bet that Kyle wasn't so great at it. He wasn't sure who was honking more: other drivers who seemed to be frustrated (to put it lightly) with Kyle, or Kyle himself. Kyle was also prone to shouting insults out the car window. "I bet you fuck your mother with that stick shift!" and so forth. At first Stan found this incredibly upsetting, and he wondered if maybe it wasn't unsafe to get in the car with Kyle in the first place. After a few blocks of this, however, Stan began to understand something: driving was a kind of theater for Kyle, and he expected feedback from Stan. When none was forthcoming, Kyle took a moment at a red light to turn to Stan and say, "I hesitate to ask whether you'd be so kind as to give me a pre-lunch blow job."
Stan's jaw dropped. When Kyle knit his brows, Stan choked out, "In the car?"
"You used to like doing it in the car."
"It's a convertible!" Stan glanced around, as if there was something he wasn't getting. "The top is down!"
"It's not like I'm not doing you a favor by driving!"
Stan figured he might as well confess: "I don't know how to drive!"
"For someone who's always criticizing how I do it I find that difficult to believe."
Stan concluded that the best thing he could do was listen to Kyle singing along with the radio, and enjoy the mild weather and bright sun. Stan had been to California, but this was something else. The city was a wasteland of signage, unlit neon tracing the outline of every letter. In the distance were foothills, and behind them, cottony clouds. Stan was most pleased by the palm trees; they weren't lush as he expected them to be, but tall and gangly, opening to the sky high above the asphalt expanse of the ground that seemed to radiate stale heat.
The geography of South Park, Stan knew by heart. He lived square in the middle of a residential knot, and Kyle's family lived about two blocks to the west, though it was hard for Stan to grasp exactly how many blocks since he was prone to shortcutting through his neighbors' yards. About a 10-minute walk from there was downtown, a retail strip with painted brick storefronts — a toy store, a Chinese take-out place, an abortion clinic. At the end of the street was a big plaza that opened up to the rotunda of city hall. Then there were the things that were a bit outside of town proper. First there were the bars and restaurants, then the hospital, and then the chains. Big-box department stores and fast-food places dotted the landscape into Denver. Stan had never, not once in his life, lived so close to everything, and yet so far. The places he saw now seemed both typical and exotic to him. For that matter, he was unused to having to go quite so far for anything he needed. Denver, the biggest nearby city, was a drive that his family regularly made in under an hour, zipping down the highway in his mom's Prius.
Here in this little car they'd been limping toward the restaurant for 50 minutes and Stan still had no conception of how close they might be. "Where are we?" he asked, ashamed of how whiny it sounded.
"We're almost there!" Kyle snapped, fiddling with the rearview mirror. "Do me a favor and don't launch into your usual lecture about how I should just give in and get a self-driving car. I like my car!"
"Okay!" Stan sunk into his seat, wondering what the hell that meant.
Lunch was at this Bret's place. Bret's was set back from the street (which was traffic-clogged and noisy, Stan noted as they sat down) in a plate-glass cube with a palm-flocked veranda. Kyle demanded loudly to the waiter that they be seated on the veranda, which made Stan blush.
"I'm not sitting in that cube," Kyle insisted as they were left with a carafe of water. "You know it's hot in there! I'll start sweating — I don't want to be seen like that."
When another waiter floated by, Kyle yanked at his apron and asked, without consulting the menu, for two drinks, a prickly pear iced tea and a mojito.
Not knowing what a mojito was, Stan was busy scanning the menu, desperate to learn, when the waiter turned to ask him, "Drink, sir?" Stan's blush deepened, and he hesitated. The annoyed look on Kyle's face caused him to stammer, "What's — um, good here?"
"Don't be a drama queen," said Kyle. "Just get your regular."
"Um." It was here, with the attention of both Kyle and the waiter on him, that Stan noticed that the clientele was made up predominantly of men. Probably gay men, Stan realized, thinking about it.
"I can come back," said the waiter.
"I'll have a Coke?" Stan looked up, wondering if this drink order had caused too much suspense.
"Very good," the waiter said, shrugging, before leaving.
"Coke," said Kyle.
"What about it?"
Kyle shrugged. "Nothing! Just — you know."
Having no idea whatsoever, Stan chose not to reply.
"What are you thinking about?"
"What am I thinking about?" Stan asked. This made him nervous, because in truth what he was thinking about was how not to ask the stupid question, is this a gay restaurant? Stan hadn't considered that there were gay restaurants before. Gay bars, that he knew about. But it had never occurred to Stan that gayness was a condition that predicated specialized restaurants. He felt like he was starting to sweat, and was suddenly glad they weren't sitting in that cube, the restaurant proper. Stan had nothing in particular against gays, or gay restaurants, or anything like that; it was just that he was only lately coming to the realization that he was probably gay himself, and had been taking comfort in the idea that this condition was no more special than being, say, young or Catholic or from Colorado; it didn't necessitate having to separate himself from anything else, and that was fine, and maybe in a few years he would feel comfortable telling people how he felt on the subject, namely that he was gay but that it didn't bother him and it shouldn't bother other people, either.
Finding himself thrust into this immediate situation was causing Stan to question every rational thought he'd ever had on the matter.
"What are you thinking about to eat?" Kyle pressed.
So Stan gave up. "You order for me," he said, folding up the menu and handing it to Kyle. He hadn't really looked at it, but a lot of it, or at least the section headers, were in French. Stan could not pronounce "oeufs," let alone think about it as something he liked to eat. "You know what I like," he mumbled, assuming that Kyle did. Maybe he also had a regular dish he wanted. Kyle would probably know.
When the waiter returned with their drinks, Kyle immediately began ripping open packets of sugar and dumping them into the iced tea, which looked to Stan like no tea he'd ever seen before. It was neon pink.
"So what are we having?" the waiter asked them. He had greasy hair that looked blond in certain lights and mousy in others. He spoke with a kind of detachment, as if he weren't very interested in what they wanted to eat at all.
"I'll have a tartine," said Kyle, flipping his menu open again. "Jamon iberico, manchego, lardo, mustard greens, citrus viniagrette."
"Side?"
"Potato salad."
"Very good."
"And a soup to start, tortilla soup."
"Bread basket with that?"
"Jesus, yes," said Kyle, as if it were obvious. "And crema. On the soup."
"Very good. Sir?"
As soon as Stan was directly addressed, he seized up.
Kyle saved him. "He'll have egg whites, half an avocado, quinoa with currants."
"What the hell is that?" Stan asked. It sounded shocking.
"What you always get?"
"I'll have a cheeseburger!" Stan announced, because it was the first thing that came to mind. "What the fuck is keenwa?"
"It's a grain native to the Americas," said the waiter.
"It sounds awful!"
"I can take it or leave it."
"Just bring him a damn cheeseburger," said Kyle. "He's been acting like a child all day."
"I have not!"
For a moment the waiter just stood there staring at them with his pen to his lips. Then he said, "I'll put that right in for you," and left.
Stan watched him go, trying to avoid turning back to Kyle. When Stan did, Kyle furrowed his brows and said, "Something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong!"
"Stan." Kyle's voice was stiff. "You don't eat burgers."
"I love burgers!"
"Love them, maybe," said Kyle. He picked up his mojito, looking away, toward the street. "You don't eat them."
"That's crazy!"
"Well, I guess it is, yeah." Sighing, Kyle slouched in his seat. "At least in some respects. But it's easy to make fun of health nuts, and you're in such good shape. I don't deserve you! Look at me — bloated like something that washed up on the beach."
Stan stood. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said.
"You want me to go with and hold it for you?"
"Hold what?"
A smile crept onto Kyle's face. "Your dick, honey."
Unsure if Kyle heard the "I have to go!" Stan croaked out, he ran into the restaurant, making sure to avoid their waiter.
In the bathroom, Stan splashed cold water on his face, breathing so deep he was almost hyperventilating. The air outside was thick and smelt of char, like the carbon fumes of car exhaust, though Stan had noticed that the car Kyle drove was electric, if only because there was a cling-sticker on the windshield that said, "This vehicle is in compliance with the Electric Vehicle Standard of the City of Los Angeles," which also served to answer Stan's final doubt about where he was, geographically. The water felt good, and Stan told himself he only felt anxious because the smog was making it hard to breathe. But as cool droplets ran down his nose and pooled at the cleft in his upper lip, Stan blinked at himself and decided that if he lived here, really, if this 40-year-old man was him, and he had been in Los Angeles for years now, his body should be used to smog. The tap had shut off automatically, and Stan looked around for a towel. Instead he found a dryer that appeared to function based on suction; it worked much better than a towel, though Stan instinctively wiped his hands off on his shirt. He wondered if it was a nice shirt as he breathed in deeply, smelling a soft lavender scent that wafted, maybe, from the vents. Did they scent the air? Was that possible, in the future?
Returning to the table, Stan found Kyle eating soup. "How is that?" Stan asked, sliding uneasily back into his seat.
Wiping his lips, Kyle sat back and said, "Fine." He had a roll of bread on the edge of his plate, and he tore a hunk from it, dripping it into the soup. "Do you want some?"
Though Stan was thinking, "Say no, say no," he ultimately said, "Yes." So Kyle slid the bowl toward him, and brandished his spoon for Stan.
"It's usually better," Kyle said, wet bread in his mouth. "I like it when it's a little less brothy, thicker." Swallowing, a smirk appeared on his face and in a low voice he said, "But, you know I like everything thick."
Stan was grateful that he'd already swallowed his mouthful of soup. He was also surprised to learn that he had an opinion on tortilla soup that was in line with Kyle's. "Stop!" he cried, pushing the bowl back. The glob of sour cream crowning the soup bobbed as it slid toward Kyle.
"Stop what?"
"Saying all these — sex things!"
"Ugh, Stan." Kyle rolled his eyes, blushing. He grabbed his spoon back and dug in, refusing to pause until the bowl was empty. When it was, he refused to admit defeat, using the end of his piece of bread to wipe gleaming bits of rosy broth studded with shreds of cilantro from the bottom and sides of the bowl.
Feeling himself becoming aroused again, Stan turned from Kyle and took in great lungfuls of the smoggy air. Soon he was coughing and grabbing for his sweaty water glass, but his erection had had the courtesy to halt its advance midway through.
The burger Stan ordered was weird, with berry compote and thick, white cheese, more resembling cream cheese than American, though it was bland and chalkier than cream cheese.
Kyle was already shoveling his lunch into his mouth when he paused to stare at Stan deconstructing his burger. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Stan, "what the hell is this?"
"Well, that's your burger," said Kyle. "Feel free not to pick at it like a child."
"But what's this white shit?"
"That's mascarpone. Come on, Stan, don't play this game."
Stan didn't find the situation he was in to be a game; after having only granola for breakfast he was starving. The compote-mascarpone situation wasn't to Stan's liking, so he scraped it onto the plate and reassembled the burger without it. There was some comfort in having taken control of the meal. Kyle scoffed at this, but it didn't keep him from talking to Stan throughout their meal:
"I think the first course should be soup," Kyle was saying, "everyone loves soup, and I make a nice soup. I think the soup should be vegetarian. But you have to tell me who's coming! I need a list of dietary restrictions. I know I usually deal with this, but I'm under a lot of pressure right now, Stan! I can't finish things as easily as you can. I need more time to deliberate. Anyway, that's why I think it'll be ideal to go down to the greenmarket and see what kind of veggies they have, what's good that morning — but, you know, you're right — I'll be busy all day that day, so maybe go the day before—"
"I wasn't saying anything."
"You were making a face. I'll go that morning, I'll see what's good —is squash in season yet? Or I could do carrot soup — but that's not good without cream. I need something naturally creamy. Tomatoes are out by now or I'd make a salmorejo."
"A what?"
"Jesus Stan!"
"Jesus what?" Stan asked. He was drinking copious amounts of Coke to get the lingering berry-mascarpone taste out of his mouth. "Are we having a party?"
"Jesus!" Kyle laughed, busting up. "I hope you're being sarcastic!"
Stan shrugged, as if he had been. The longer they sat outside, the brighter the sun shone, or so it seemed to Stan.
After polishing off the first half of his tartine, Kyle brushed his hands off on his napkin, then used it to wipe his mouth. "I want them to hire you," he said in a quiet tone, after taking a sip of tea. "I know it's your career, so maybe it's none of my business, but I feel like you're treading water sometimes. Like, you're getting bored, aren't you? And who knows what you're liable to get up to when you're bored?"
The question hung there, as if Kyle expected Stan to answer it.
At the butcher, Kyle placed an order for filets; the price left Stan astounded. Even worse was that Kyle expected him to pay for it. This, after he had also expected Stan to pay for lunch. "Oh, right!" Kyle said, wiping out his wallet in front of the girl at the register in the butcher shop. "He forgot his wallet!"
Then there was more haranguing in the car: "You paid for dinner last night! Jesus! Your wallet's probably in your other pants!"
"Well, where are my other pants?" Stan asked.
"You tore them off so you could fuck me!"
The more Kyle said inappropriately sexual things, they less they bothered Stan. For example, this statement only made his stomach turn once before he shook it off. "Okay," he said, "then where would I find them now? I didn't see any pants on the floor this morning."
"Well, Rosa probably picked them up."
"Ohhh," said Stan. "Okay." He was anxious to get home, though he'd now spent just as long out of the house as he had in the house, and it wasn't his home anyway, and all of this was wrong and he was scared out of his fucking mind but was finding it easier and easier to push it out of his mind and concentrate on asking Kyle increasingly infuriating questions. Still, when they got into the house, Stan breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the climate controls if nothing else. He ran ahead of Kyle, all the way up the stairs and into the bedroom. Sure enough his wallet was sitting next to the bed, on the side table. For a moment Stan sat there with the wallet in his hands, considering whether this was someone else's property and maybe it would be a massive violation to open it. The leather was black and worn, soft against Stan's skin. Something about it felt familiar to Stan, and he let it fall open like a clamshell.
Stan saw why the billfold was not very thick; there was no cash in it, only cards. He considered, for a moment, memories of his father leaving his wad of cash in his other pants and chewing out the dishwasher repairman for stealing it, only to find it again later. Then Stan rifled through his wallet and found, in addition to fairly familiar-looking credit cards, a slightly thicker one that was marked, "US Treasury System Cash Replacement Card," with the familiar etched face of George Washington in the left bottom corner. On the right was a holographic imprint of the number 740.39. It was more money than he'd ever heard of in one place in his life! With that kind of money he could buy a TV for his room, or buy his mother a nice necklace for her birthday, or pay back Craig—
Stuffing the card back into the wallet, Stan shook his head and vowed not to think of it. Whatever had happened, the situation must be long resolved. Or this could be a parallel universe where there was no Craig Tucker — either way, it was beyond Stan now. Most of what was in the wallet was uninteresting to Stan: a fitness club membership card, a voter registration card for California's 33rd congressional district, a buy-10-get-one-free card for a coffee shop called Cedar Press.
There was also a driver's license. Stan gazed at this for a long time, as if the longer he stared at it, the more information he might glean. There was a portrait on the card, which was marked OVER 18, and the usual information. Stan lived at 29474 Paseo El Corazon and was 5-foot-11; he weighed 161 lbs, though Stan considered that this might have been a lie, as it was well over what he thought he weighed at 13, and he didn't feel 60 lbs larger than he had been yesterday. Suddenly he wanted to see Kyle's driver's license, too. The back didn't give him any useful information: He was an organ donor who didn't wear corrective lenses, but he was certified for both "auto-guide" and "manual." Turning the card over to stare at his own blank expression, Stan shook the card, willing it to give up some new information. It didn't, of course, and Stan put it back in the wallet.
He went downstairs into the office, wondering if he would be able to find something in there that might give up some new information. That gay sex book was on his mind as well. It seemed, in its well-tread state, like a potential clue.
Searching proved relatively fruitless, though Stan had turned up lots of sheet music, some of which was printed, and some hand-written. It took a while for him to noticed that these were attributed to "S. Marsh," and that excited him. One was called "Theme for Wendell's Thanksgiving," and one was called "All Dogs Love Purina Natural Taste For All Breeds." The latter of these seemed fairly straightforward, at least as far as Stan could recognize all the notes. He wheeled this over to keyboard; it no longer looked new but something about that was comforting. He took a few minutes to turn it on, but once he did, Stan was able to tap out some of the notes with his right hand. The music didn't strike him as very deft; it was more annoying, too bouncy. The music was so annoying that it caused Kyle to shout, from what sounded like across the hall, "Why are you playing that?"
Stan instantly snapped off the keyboard and yelled back, "Sorry!" Feeling bad, both about having annoyed Kyle and being a mediocre songwriter, apparently, he flipped through more of the stack. He was finding more personal-seeming songs now; a "Requiem" was his longest work, inscribed to his mother. "Requiem" sounded impressive, like something a real composer would write. There was a stack of copies of this, handwritten sheets bound with a binder clip and the rest more traditional sheet music arrangements. There were no words, though he did find a note on one of the printed copies, "A Thesis Submitted In Requirement For Partial Completion of the Degree of Master of Fine Arts in Theory and Composition at the University of Colorado at Boulder." This note was signed and dated by Stan and two others. He'd signed this when he was 25.
Digging through these foreign belongings was getting exhausting for Stan, but what else could he do? Once he'd gone through all the papers (it was only sheet music, and nothing else), he inspected all of the electronics. He found, next to the keyboard, a large-screen tablet. It was an Apple product, which gave Stan a jolt of recognition; he touched the circular button underneath the screen and it came to life.
The Apple layout hadn't changed much, though things now scrolled up and down rather than back-to-front. There were fingerprints on this thing, so Stan figured he used it a lot. The tile icons were hard to make sense of, though he was able to find a subcategory called "Documents" and, in there, "dinner party list." Was this what Kyle had been hounding him for? Stan opened it, finding a list of names: Stan and Kyle, Graham ("NO ASHER"), several women Stan didn't recognize, a Travis, a Victor, a Leo? And a certain "Azure". Who was named that?
This was clearly the list Kyle had wanted. Feeling pleased that he could finally do something right by Kyle, Stan got up, eager to share this news.
When Stan walked into the living room, he heard the distant guttural noises of porn emanating from Kyle's computer. Stan had watched enough porn, of several varieties, to know exactly what it sounded like. He remembered seeing gross fetish videos that Eric Cartman's mother had starred in as early as 8 years old, in fact. Stan was no stranger to porn, but he wasn't exactly a fan. There was something confusing and upsetting about the enterprise. He didn't much like sex as a concept.
Well, there was Kyle on the couch, lying with his head on a cushion, a leg sloped over the back and the other on the floor, a laptop on his bare stomach, that weird robe he liked to wear flung open. Kyle's eyes were closed. It took Stan half a second to realize that Kyle wasn't just stroking himself, he was actually stuffing his fingers up his ass as well.
For a moment Stan stood there, gaping. Then his stomach lurched and he shouted, "Jesus Christ!"
Kyle opened his eyes; the speed of his stroking slowed, but he certainly didn't stop. "Hi," he said. It sounded very breathy.
"What the fuck!" Stan blurted. "Stop!"
"Stop?"
"Jesus, it's disgusting!"
Kyle seemed shocked, but only for a moment. He shut the computer screen with one hand; the voices from the porn went silent as Kyle laid his laptop on the coffee table. "It's disgusting?" he asked, in a voice that Stan could not discern the tenor of. Kyle was hurt or confused, and it wasn't apparent which.
"You're doing it in the living room," Stan said. He was trying not to sound panicked, but he was almost on the verge of tears. "You're—what are you doing?"
"I always do it in the living room," Kyle said, like it was the most normal thing — but he was blushing. Then he grew bolder: "I'm allowed to do whatever I want in my own house."
"This isn't just your house!" Stan said. Then he swallowed, adding, "I think?"
"Oh, you think?" Kyle asked. "Where are you planning to go, Stan, Detroit?"
"Detroit?"
"Who are you planning to go with?"
"Go with who, where? Kyle, I'm sorry!"
"So now you're sorry." Kyle rolled his eyes, though he seemed more sad than incredulous. "I keep asking you to go down on me, but you won't. So I try to take care of myself, but you come out here all moralistic and tell me I'm disgusting. Stop trying to stifle my sexuality!"
"Just not in the living room!" Now Stan felt like he was going to cry. "I just — I just wanted to tell you—"
"What?" Kyle's voice was quiet, but blunt. "What did you want to tell me?"
"I found that list you wanted."
"Oh!" This seemed to make Kyle happy enough. "Oh, that's really useful," he started to say.
But Stan said, "I'm sorry, this is too much!" He turned and fled back into his office, where he tripped through the mess of papers on the floor and collapsed into his chair. The pad was still sitting there, and there was a notification on the screen from someone named Casey:
"i want to see you!!- free today?"
CHAPTER 4
Despite Kyle's disgust for Stan's "near-sightedness," he got right to work on finding some rakes.
"I hate the way they scrape on the pavement," he said, hanging up after speaking with his mother. "But, hey, I sure don't have a better idea. Anyway, my mom said we can use our rake but we have to do our yard first, and if the rake gets bent out of shape I have to replace it." Kyle cleared his throat; Stan admired how easily young Kyle was able to get down to business.
Stan was sitting on the couch, re-reading the handwritten IOU from his sister: "You owe me $30 until repaid in full in perpetuity - debt void once $30 is tendered," and then she'd signed it, and made Stan sign it. She'd done this twice, on two separate sheets of paper, and kept the other.
Kyle left the room and returned with his and Stan's jackets. "Ready?" he asked. Before Stan answered, he said, "Oh, stop staring at that stupid note. She's your sister — I'm sure she'll let it go."
"Shelly has a very strong moral code," Stan said. She always had. "Or, a sense of justice, or whatever." This was true even as an adult; when she got it into her head that Stan was supposed to "do something," she had a hard time letting it go.
"If my brother needed something from me I'd let him have it," said Kyle. "You wouldn't get it because you're a younger brother. When you're older you have to let a lot of things go." Stan knew Kyle didn't always practice this as an adult; Kyle was still angry at his brother for not inviting Stan to his college graduation, though as Ike explained it he had only four tickets and wanted to donate the fourth to his then-girlfriend's younger brother. (They broke up soon after, leaving Kyle even angrier.)
At Kyle's house, Stan paused at the front door, taking in the décor; in 30 years Kyle's parents hadn't redecorated. There was still a china cabinet in the family room, pictures of the family on the walls; it was so similar to Kyle's parents' house as Stan knew it that he had to remind himself that this was the past, or something, and that he shouldn't be in awe. Besides, there wasn't time to waste, and Kyle was reminding him "Take your shoes off! What are you staring at?"
"Nothing, sorry." Stan hunched over to untie his shoes. Shoes always came off at Kyle's house. As an adult, Kyle had taken this to its logical end, and was totally naked most of the time. Only briefly, Stan wished Kyle would get undressed, too. But as soon as Stan's shoes were off, Kyle started shouting, "Mom! Mooooom!"
Kyle's father poked his head out of his "study," a spare bedroom he used as an office. Stan thought for a moment of informing Gerald that sometime down the road he would really regret not having another guest room, but he kept his mouth shut as Gerald said, "Calm down, she took your brother shoe shopping."
"He's got so many shoes!" Kyle said. "Why isn't she here? I was just talking to her!"
"Well, your family members can't all stop our lives for you, Kyle!"
Kyle stood up straighter, changing his tack. "Dad, do you need the lawn raked?"
"Oh, don't you start on me too! Did your mother put you up to this? I'll do it after dinner!"
"What? No, Dad, I just — would you pay me and Stan $20 to rake the lawn?" Kyle gave Stan an urging look that he wasn't fully able to interpret; Stan decided to say, "Please, Mr. Broflovski?" which somehow earned him a kind look from Kyle.
"I'm not paying you boys $20 to rake the lawn," said Gerald. "I can do that myself."
"Dad!"
"Kyle, someone needs to each you about economics."
"Economics!" Kyle sounded exasperated. "Don't — don't think of it as $20! Think of it as $10 for each of us, and since there are two of us we'll get it done faster! Maybe we'll get it done by the time Mom gets home, and she'll think you did it while she was out!"
"Yeah, I bet that'd make her happy," Stan added, though he could only imagine what went on between his in-laws. Kyle had often implied whatever it was, it was pretty gross.
"Hmm." Gerald was rubbing his chin, like this decision was really causing him trouble. "If you really insist, I suppose I can spare $15."
"Each?" Kyle asked.
"No, together."
"Dad!"
"Kyle, you need to learn about economics. You start with an offer, and I give you a counter-offer. Then you have to decide if what you're willing to supply — leaf-raking — meets the demand for leaf-raking, for the price you're willing to accept. Now, I can do my own raking, so even though you boys working together would rake faster, you're still offering to do a job I can do myself, which means the demand for you boys to rake the leaves isn't very high—"
"What?" Kyle asked. "Dad, you're not making any sense!"
"Plus as your father I could just make you rake the leaves—"
"I just — need $20!"
"Well, for what?"
Stan squeezed his eyes shut, praying Kyle wouldn't spill the beans about the windshield. Gerald would go to Randy almost immediately, Stan was certain. Then he unsqueezed he eyes, wondering why he cared. What if he woke up again tomorrow in his own bed? But what if he didn't?
"For — pornography!" Kyle spat out.
Gerald was still rubbing his chin, as if this didn't phase him much. "Don't you know there's pornography on the internet for free, Kyle?"
"I just need $20! We need $20!"
"Oh." Gerald blinked at them, uncrossing his arms. "Is it something — sensitive? Something you don't want to tell me?"
"Oh my god, Dad, yes!" Kyle was nearly hopping up and down now, he was so exasperated.
"Well." Gerald stooped down to talk to Kyle on his level. "You know you can tell me anything, son, right?"
"I just want to rake the leaves! You told me there's nothing more valuable than a good work ethic and I figured instead of just asking you for money you might want me to rake the leaves but you're being obtuse and I really don't have time for this — Stan doesn't have time for this! He has to practice piano!"
Gerald stood up again, looking a little frazzled. "Okay," he said. "I'll just go get my wallet."
~
Raking the lawn took far longer than anticipated, so long that by the time Stan and Kyle had finished, the sun was low in the sky, and Sheila Broflovski's minivan was pulling into the driveway. Kyle took this as a cue to get dramatic, moaning, "We're been at this for two hours!" and throwing his rake on the ground. It narrowly missed the pile of leaves at his feet.
"It's okay," Stan said. He reached out to grab Kyle's shoulder, but stopped himself, and steadied his posture with his rake, which was planted pole-down into the lawn. It was early November and the ground was hard. Stan didn't find this a very comfortable position, and he shifted as Kyle's mother approached him, arms full of groceries.
"Hello Stanley," she said, glaring at him only for a moment, before he turned to observe her younger son, who was climbing out of the car. "Come on, Bubbeleh, we don't have all day. I'm making a vegetarian meatloaf for dinner."
"Disgusting!" Ike shouted, slamming the door of the van. It slid into place weakly, and Stan could hear that it hadn't closed properly.
"Ike!" Both Kyle and his mother somehow shouted this at the same time.
"Vegetarian meatloaf is an oxymoron!" Ike stomped his foot, and when no one heeded him, fled into the house.
"What's in vegetarian meatloaf?" Stan asked, surprised to hear himself speaking to her directly. She wasn't his mother-in-law, he tried to remind himself; he needed to calm down. In Stan's adulthood she would come to resent him for dragging Kyle to Los Angeles; she held him responsible for what she perceived to be a failure on Kyle's part to mature into a productive adult.
"Oh, it's the usual things," she said, shifting her weight. "It's bits of soy and wheat products, that's what gives it the meatiness. There was a recipe for it in Hadassah Magazine." Stan was torn between his memory of towering over this woman as a grown-up, and cowering under her throughout his childhood. She wasn't tall; Kyle, in fact, was not much shorter than she was at 12. But she was built like one of the dumplings she served with soup at Passover: squat, substantial, swollen with rendered chicken fat, which she always had and always would keep in a jar over the fridge.
"Sounds delicious," Stan said, though it really didn't.
"Mom!" Kyle had put his little hands on his hips. "We're busy!"
"Busy doing what?"
"Raking!"
Sheila sighed, rolling her eyes. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with you, Kyle."
"Ike is right, vegetarian meatloaf is a bad idea!"
"You don't know what's a good idea until you've tried it!" She huffed and turned back to Stan. "Are you staying for dinner?"
For a moment Stan thought to take her up on it, and then the thought of his own mother crossed his mind. "I think I'm going home," he said. "But, thanks."
Shrugging as if she wasn't particularly insulted, she said, "Oh, well," and carried her groceries away, shouting behind her before going into the house, "You boys be careful if you're going to be out after dark!"
Turning back to Kyle, Stan was pleased to note that he seemed fairly disappointed.
"All this raking," Kyle said, "and you don't even want to stay for dinner?"
~
They discussed how things had gone so far: They had $35, but Stan owed his sister $30, which left them with a net $5, which was not an encouraging start. Besides, they had taken all afternoon to get that far. "Pathetic!" Kyle complained, rolling up the cash and hiding it in his desk drawer. "We're going for back-up."
Stan didn't much like the idea of introducing anyone else into their operation; he hated to think that he would have to start sharing Kyle.
"Kenny got you into this, Stan. He should have caught that ball. He should have been paying attention!"
Stan hadn't seen Kenny McCormick more frequently than once a year since he was 18 and left for college. Kenny had gone to college, too, in Idaho, where he had received a scholarship of some kind. That was something about extreme poverty in the United States; if one was willing to put in even a modicum of effort, help was rapidly forthcoming. Stan, on the other hand, had had to travel the country on his father's dime performing at auditions to even be accepted to schools; he was not offered very much financial support from any school that he really wanted to go to. When he'd ended up at Berklee, his sister had raised hell; she felt trapped in Colorado at Boulder, living at home for two years. Later she would move to Germany; Stan had always felt that she expected him to be jealous, though he wasn't. So Stan found himself thinking about college and, especially, college scholarships, on the walk to Kenny's house. They only ever crossed paths anymore at Christmas masses.
When Kenny opened the door, he struck Stan as an unattractive cross between high and sleepy, though he didn't smell of pot or anything other than the old gym shirt he was wearing with his name written in marker on the front, under the South Park Middle School Cows logo. "What's up?" he asked. "You guys really should have called and said you were going to come over. I would have put on clothes."
"You're helping us rake leaves!" Kyle said, attempting to thrust a rake into Kenny's hands.
Kenny stared at it, blinking. Stan couldn't believe he'd gotten a scholarship to Idaho, he looked so dumbfounded and stupid. "What?"
"Remember that time we were playing catch recently and you didn't catch the ball Stan threw to you and it went through Craig's dad's windshield?"
"Yeah, heh. That was pretty awesome."
"No, it was not awesome! Now Stan owes Craig's dad $200."
"Whoa," Kenny said. He had enough holes in his socks that Stan could easily believe this was a lot of money to Kenny, though to Stan it still sounded rather unremarkable, like what a nice lunch for himself and Kyle might cost. "That's rough, man," Kenny said, leaning against the doorframe. "I've got your back, you know. I feel kind of bad about that ball. ... Just kind of, though. Craig's a dipshit, and I'm pretty sure his dad is too."
"Fuck his dad," said Kyle. "We're raking leaves and you're helping. So put some clothes on!"
"Aw, I dunno, man, I'm kind of in the middle of watching college football with my dad."
"Like your dad knows what college is!" Kyle snapped. "Put your clothes on, Kenny McCormick, or I'll—"
"All right, shit! I have no interest in finding out what you're going to do."
"Thank you!" Kyle pushed Kenny aside and made his way into the house, shouting, "Come on, Stan! Christ, I have to do everything."
~
Perhaps it should not have been surprising that the McCormicks did, in fact, possess a rake. It was badly rusted and the wooden handle was rough and splintery, but they had one. Kenny's family had a lawn, though it was untended and scraggly, more dirt than grass. Stan almost offered to rake it, but most of it was matted pine needles, and Stan considered this more ground cover than anything. When Kenny was ready to go, baggy gray sweatpants dragging and tight orange parka pulling across his chest, Kyle gave only a small noise of disgust. Stan considered this a major accomplishment.
"So what's the plan here?" Kenny asked. The elastic on the cuffs of his pants had been cut so that after walking only a few blocks, they were already dirty.
"Ringing doorbells, asking for $20 to rake lawns," said Kyle.
"What's my cut?" Kenny asked.
"There's no cut! We're all doing this to raise money to pay Craig so he'll leave Stan alone."
"Oh." Kenny was quiet for a moment; his rake was dragging on the ground as they walked, and it made a horrible noise. Stan didn't feel it was his place to ask Kenny not to let the rake scrape the pavement. "Why aren't we knocking on these doors?"
"You really think your neighbors are going to pay $20 for lawn-raking?" Kyle asked. "I mean, it was hard enough convincing my dad to let us."
"You dad's contrary," Stan said, recalling for a moment Gerald Broflovski had refused to stay at Stan and Kyle's gorgeous house unless they replaced the flax sheets in the bedroom. He'd had a very annoying way of saying, "I only sleep on 100-percent linen."
"My dad is not contrary." (Stan tried to figure out how long it would be until Kyle changed his mind — maybe 10 years? Or 12? Kyle had been infuriated at the flax incident, and Stan recalled him breathlessly shouting at his father in the foyer, "These sheets have a very high rating from the Green Homes Report! You literally cannot buy better sheets!") "He's just making the point that people can rake their own lawns. That's why we have to offer something they can't offer — manpower!"
It took a moment for Stan to realize that Kenny had stopped in his tracks. He turned and asked, "What's wrong?"
"So, what?" Kenny said. "I'm just free manpower to you?" He threw the rake down on the ground. "To hell with your manpower!"
"Kenny, you need to help us!" Kyle demanded.
"Or what?"
"Or — you should have caught that ball! It was a good throw and you should have caught it!"
"I was busy!"
"Busy what?" Kyle asked. "Scratching your ass?"
"Checking my pager."
"Pager? What are you, waiting for your pimp to call?"
"No, that's you."
"Fuck you!" Kyle shouted. "No one has a fucking pager! Who even are you?"
So Kenny unclipped the pager from the inside of his sweatpants, where it was clasped to his elastic waistband, and chucked it at Kyle.
Kyle screamed, like a girl (Stan thought), but he caught the pager and threw it on the ground forcefully enough to break it. Or break the clip, at least, which went tumbling down the sidewalk.
"What the fuck?" Kenny screeched. "I need that!"
"For what?" Stan asked.
"For if my mom needs me! That's it, you guys can't boss me around like this."
"Shut up, Kenny." Kyle crossed his arms. "You owe us. Big time. Craig is being such a douche — don't you think Craig is a douche?"
"I think he's a douche, yeah," said Kenny, "but what I know is that he's not dragging me around town at 6 o'clock on a Saturday trying to get me to rake fucking leaves!"
While standing on the street listening to Kenny and Kyle argue, two things occurred to Stan. The first was that he had forgotten over the years just how obstinate and self-righteous Kenny McCormick could be; he was sort of like Kyle in that way. The other thing Stan noticed was that he was cold and it was late, and all of this arguing was essentially over Stan himself. So Stan decided to speak up, and cleared his throat. "Guys?"
"What?" Kyle snapped.
"Can we get a move on?"
Kyle sighed and tapped his rake against the ground in a way that communicated the seriousness of the moment. "Stan's right!" he said, mostly to Kenny, thought Stan was proud to catch the determined look on Kyle's face. "It's not getting any earlier!"
"I'd say I had to be home for dinner soon," said Kenny, "but I don't know when dinner is because you threw my beeper on the ground, asshole!"
"Then can we just start raking?" Kyle asked. "One lawn, Kenny. It's not like you're having anything good for dinner anyway, dude, it's probably just waffles."
"Just one lawn?"
"Well, let's start with one and you'll see how easy it is!"
"Fine," Kenny agreed. "One lawn. Just one. I guess that's fair."
But none of them had considered that it might not be easy to find "just one" lawn to rake. Kenny's neighborhood, being low-income, was a poor place to begin the hunt for someone, anyone, who needed their lawn raked. When finally a woman over on Britches Street looked interested and asked how much the boys were charging, Kyle plastered a fake smile on his face and said, "Thirty dollars."
"Thirty dollars!" she screeched, as if it were a ludicrous sum. "Who do you think I am! I'm hardly made of money!" Her brittle graying hair fell into her eyes. Stan imagined she'd been flattening it for some time. He restrained himself from telling her she needed more volume, though the thought did make him wonder how Shelly was able to manufacture just that with only a flattening iron.
"It's just $10 for each of us," Kyle reasoned. Stan was not sure Kyle was the best face for this operation. "We're expert leaf-rakers! We can be done in just 20 minutes. Guaranteed!"
Under his breath, Kenny muttered, "Dude."
The woman no longer seemed outraged; now her face was scrunched in concentration, as if deliberating on this fantastic deal.
"You'll have a clean lawn in no time. My colleagues and I won't let you down." At this Kyle adopted a look of humility. "We're a good team. Best friends!"
"Fine," she said. "All right, fine.
"And we'll need the $30 up front," Kyle added.
After their client had shut the door on them, Kyle walked to the middle of the lawn, hitting the spot of wet leaves in front of his feet with the butt of his rake. "Okay guys! I'll take this section. I think, Stan, do you want the back? By the pine tree?"
"Raking pine needles is the worst," Kenny said, unhelpfully.
By the time they finished it was cold out, and Stan's fingers were trembling around the handle of his rake. Kyle handled the money, accepting it graciously from their client. "Recommend us to your friends!" he suggested.
"Maybe," she said, peering down at them from behind her unflattering bifocals. "Get home safe." She nodded, as if to conclude their interactions, and shut the door. To make matters worse, she seemed to have snapped off the porch light, which went out a moment later.
"I'm charitable enough to consider that a coincidence," Stan said.
When they were back on the sidewalk and 40 feet from the front door, Kenny said, "Nah. She's just a bitch." Kenny slumped, his ears sinking toward his shoulders. "We're not doing any more of this, are we? My rake gave me blisters."
"Nah." Kyle seemed disappointed. "I actually have to get home for dinner." He turned to Stan. "You coming?"
"Where, to your house?"
"Oh, feel free not to invite me."
"Shut up, Kenny," said Kyle. Then he turned back to Stan: "Well, are you?"
"I suppose I could," he said, "if I call my mom when I get there."
"I'm out," said Kenny. "Dealing with you guys is no fun whatsoever."
"Whatsoever!" Kyle mocked, as if that was the ridiculous part. "We're raking again tomorrow. At 9. So be there!"
"Excuse me," said Kenny. "My family goes to church."
Kyle scoffed, as if he hadn't been to synagogue that morning himself. "Fine, be that way! At noon, then."
"Fine!" Kenny flipped his hair out of his eyes. "You guys are so lucky to have me! So lucky!" He turned and stormed off, dragging his rake behind him. It made an awful racket.
~
Dinner was awkward for Stan; after all, these were his in-laws. Or, they weren't, but they would be. He felt an enormous sense of pressure to charm Kyle's whole family. This proved difficult because every single Broflovski was a talker, and there was very little room for Stan to break in. He also felt it was important to finish everything on his plate, something he'd never felt necessary before in his life, because Sheila Broflovski was an absolutely horrific cook. Nobody in her family seemed to notice this. Kyle had grown into a good cook, something which he credited to his mother, and it was a challenge for Stan to keep himself from questioning this. Kyle didn't just cook dinners, but dinner parties, elaborate affairs with multiple courses and lavishly set tables. In contrast, this dinner at Kyle's house on Saturday night boasted not one but two preparations of wilted green beans. Tonight they came either plain or dressed in bread crumbs and béchamel sauce. Stan choked both down while Kyle shot him odd looks.
"How are you enjoying that?" Kyle asked, while he brother was babbling about some stupid second-grader thing.
"It's great," Stan said, trying not to retch after swallowing.
"I never realized you were so into green beans."
"There's so much you don't know about me." As Stan said this his mind drifted to the subject of sex. If he was stuck in this 13-year-old body forever, trapped in his own past, it would be years before he would gain the opportunity to have sex with Kyle. And what then? How many years of eating two types of green beans for dinner?
"What are you boys discussing?" Kyle's mother asked.
Stan looked up to see that Kyle's brother was rolling his eyes and clearing his plate from the table.
"Sheila," said Kyle's father. "Let them chat."
"No, I'm curious," she said. Stan noticed she'd somehow scraped her plate clean while talking all through dinner. "You boys spent all evening raking leaves, huh?"
"Yeah, Ma," said Kyle. "We sure did."
"That's so responsible of you!"
"We're very responsible," said Kyle.
"Any particular reason why?"
"Just seemed like a wholesome activity!"
"Your father tells me you had an interesting chat with him today."
At this, Kyle turned bright pink, and spat out, "Dad!"
"It's not wise, keeping things from your mother, Kyle."
"What's not wise about it?" Kyle asked. "God, is it so hard to get some damn privacy?" He stood up and threw his balled-up napkin on the floor. It was a cloth napkin, so it didn't make much for dramatic effect; still, Stan found it vaguely attractive. "If I want to rake leaves all week then I'll damn well do it!"
"No need to use the 'damn' word twice in one breath," said Kyle's mother.
"The damn word!" Kyle spat. "Can't a guy get any kind of privacy here? Ugh!" He yanked Stan away from the table, right in the middle of a mouthful of green beans. "Come on, dude, we're out of here."
"This seems very dramatic," Kyle's father called after him.
"Let him go, Gerald. I admire his chutzpa."
"Chutzpa!" Kyle raved, dragging Stan up the stairs. "They're crazy people!"
Stan chose not to mention that he felt Kyle did have a lot of chutzpa; he always had and he always would. Instead, Stan said, "Your dad's kind of a tool."
"Don't call my dad a tool!"
"Here we go," said Stan. They were now standing in front of the door to Kyle's room.
"Here we go what?" Kyle asked. "All day we raked fucking leaves — I raked fucking leaves for you! I've been busting my ass!"
"I've been raking, too," said Stan. "And Kenny—"
"Oh, fuck Kenny," said Kyle, a sentiment Stan didn't entirely disagree with. Mostly it was because he now realized that adult Kenny, who was kind of an asshole, had always been kind of an asshole. "Fuck my mom, fuck my dad, and fuck you!"
This caught Stan off-guard. "Fuck me? What'd I do?"
"You call me super early in the morning, on the way to shul. You demand I come over. When I come over you have Wendy fucking Testaburger over. You can't even hang out because suddenly I'm embroiled in your backdoor shenanigans with fucking Craig."
"Backdoor shenanigans?"
"Then we go out there and rake leaves. I waste my whole Saturday afternoon and evening raking leaves with you — and you don't even have two words for me?"
"I have two words for you," Stan said. "I mean, I just said 'backdoor shenanigans.' "
"It doesn't count because I said it first! Here's your fucking blood money." Kyle pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and shoved it in Stan's face.
"Blood money?" Stan took the bills from Kyle and folded them nearly into his front pocket.
"Just go," Kyle said. "Just get fucking out." He paused to wipe his nose. When Stan didn't leave, Kyle cleared his throat and said, in a throaty voice, "What time are we raking leaves tomorrow?"
"You ... want to rake leaves with me?"
"Yeah, well." Kyle's back was to the door, and he reached behind himself to grab the knob. "I suppose it would feel good to see the project to its natural conclusion?"
Stan took a step toward Kyle; the personal space between them shrunk to a mere foot. "What's the natural conclusion?"
Kyle shut his eyes. "Um, $200. Well, 230. I mean — $30 for your sister."
Stan took a step back. "Right."
For a moment Stan was unsure what to do next; he felt lost, and though Kyle was standing right there, somewhat lonely. Then in a whisper, Kyle said, "Good night," and vanished into his bedroom.
"Good night," Stan tried to say, though the door shut just as he was saying it. Before leaving, he added, "Thank you!" but even if Kyle had heard this, he hadn't responded. Stan felt his front pocket for that wad of cash; counting what Shelly had given him he now had $65, which was far from $200, but still pretty good. Stan couldn't complain.
On the walk home, Stan puzzled over his interactions with Kyle, especially the very end, when Kyle had freaked out suddenly and disappeared into his room. It reminded Stan of the awkward end of a first date, like a coy girl running into her house to avoid being kissed. Not that Stan knew anything about that; he'd never been on a real date with a girl, only middle school dates with Wendy, and she had tended not to run away from those. It was Stan who'd simultaneously anticipated and dreaded kissing her. Besides, Stan's only real first date had been with Kyle, and Kyle certainly hadn't fled at the end of it. And what was more, this hadn't been a date at all. Stan doubted seventh graders even could date.
Stan found himself missing Kyle, his Kyle. It was chilly that night, as Stan walked; they never walked anywhere in LA, but the wind on Stan's face made him wish Kyle was there with him, holding Stan's hand. Then he paused in the middle of the sidewalk and said to himself, in a moment of revelation, "But we never hold hands." He stood there in the cold, looking around. There were houses with televisions flickering in the windows, but not a soul was on the street. Stan shook it off and kept walking.
~
Waking the next day, Stan was shocked, though perhaps he should not have been, to find Kyle drooling onto his shoulder, and Kyle's erection pressing into his thigh. The surprise of it made him jerk away, hastily, though it was hard to get too far away in that large, awkward bed; it was also clear that Stan himself had a boner, something that Kyle clued into pretty quickly when he woke up just a few short minutes after this.
"I was having the sweetest dream that you were eating me out," Kyle said with a yawn, reaching for Stan's cock. "Don't you think I deserve it?"
"Um, I dunno," Stan stammered, thinking about it. "Do you think you deserve it?"
Kyle laughed at this, or maybe giggled; either way it sounded like a mix of early-morning sleepiness mingled with a little bit of embarrassment. "Of course I do!" said Kyle, which Stan found immediately annoying.
The truth was Stan was trying to think out the complex problem of what "eating out" a guy entailed, and he was blanking. Guys in his seventh-grade class made crude references to vaginal oral sex pretty often; Clyde had been doing that V-thing with his fingers at his mouth lately, and kind of abstractly licking around them. Stan had honestly lacked any idea as to what that referred until Kenny had clued him in a few weeks before: "You know, going down on a chick. Like, using your fingers to spread open her vag and licking inside and around it."
"Sick, dude!" had been the only thing Stan was able to say to that. Kenny had then mumbled something like, "gay," under his breath, and then Cartman had added, "licking carpet, you know, chewing box," and then about 14 other euphemisms that increasingly sounded invented on the spot. This had been while Kyle was still in line for lunch that day. Stan remembered that it had been fishstick day, which was always awkward for everyone.
Now he was lying in bed trying to figure out what about this activity appealed to Kyle and how Stan would even perform it on a guy. Maybe Kyle sensed this interest, because he tightened his fist around Stan's dick and said, "Come on," in a husky voice.
This made Stan hop out of bed and announce, "I need a shower!" Then he fled into the bathroom.
Kyle cried after him, "You're neglecting me!"
Stan tried not to let it bother him as he bathed. He hadn't done so yesterday, and took the opportunity to smell the contents of every bottle. They were all glass containers with elaborate metal pumps, and Stan had never seen shampoo or conditioner or aftershave or "refreshing morning burst of moisturizing beads and lather for delicate face and hands" (he hoped that one was Kyle's) come in glass bottles before, so he wondered if they hadn't been put there decoratively. Then it occurred to Stan, while lathering his hair with something called "Yotenga Rooibus All-Natural Shampooing Product for Normal Hair" that each of the bottles was too branded-looking and, besides, they were not uniform. Every other shampoo (and there was a selection of shampoos) was for "difficult" hair. It felt to Stan like those were Kyle's and sure enough, when Stan smelled them, the scent was familiar. It made him a little harder.
Torn between not wanting Kyle to walk in on him masturbating and not wanting to leave the bathroom with an erection, Stan beat off with a handful of difficult shampoo. He did this while squeezing his eyes tight and bracing himself against the tiled wall, which was cold and uncomfortable. After Stan had come he'd opened his eyes and looked down, slightly disappointed that most of everything had washed down the drain already. It figured; there were three showerheads. Some shampoo (which smelled like Kyle) and some come (which didn't) still clung to Stan's hand. He rinsed it off quickly and washed his hair a second time. It occurred to Stan that this was the first time he'd jerked off as an adult. It didn't feel super special or anything.
When Stan went downstairs, Kyle was semi-naked at breakfast again. He served himself a tower of pancakes; Stan got an egg white frittata with rainbow chard, new potatoes, Neufchatel cheese, and a side of what Kyle described as "silken whipped tofu." It had the consistency of flan and tasted like one of the hot sauces with ridiculous names Stan's father collected and sometimes dared his family to try. Stan gulped down water until the feeling on his tongue dulled to a kind of numb sensation.
"You usually like my tofu," Kyle groused. He didn't offer Stan any pancakes. He went on to finish the tofu.
After eating Kyle leaned back in his chair to read, robe splayed open. Stan could see everything, though he noted that today he minded slightly less.
Lowering the pad, Kyle asked, "What are you doing today?"
"Um. What are you doing today?"
"Collecting RSVPs. Finishing shopping for your fucking party. If there's time this evening I'd like to try to write. Like that'll happen. You know?"
"Not really," said Stan.
"Rub it in!" Kyle brushed some hair out of his eyes and slouched lower in the chair. "Whatever. I don't feel like leaving the house today. Thank god I don't have anything in my date book."
"Then I guess I'm not leaving the house today, either."
"Go wherever you want!" Kyle said. "You're a grown man, fuck. Stop being so clingy!" There was something in Kyle's voice that told Stan Kyle didn't really mean it.
Again, Stan was at a loss for how to dress himself. He waited in the bedroom after breakfast for Kyle to come in and put on his own outfit; it was Stan's plan to ask Kyle at this point to pick out something for Stan to wear. But Kyle never came. With little else to do, Stan lay down on the bed and stayed there for what seemed to be forever. He shut his eyes but did not fall asleep, opening them again when he thought it must be lunchtime. To his dismay, only 30 minutes had passed.
Not wanting to lie there in the bedroom alone indefinitely, Stan got up and went downstairs.
Kyle was sitting in the living room, phone wedged between his shoulder and chin. "Going somewhere? Oh, never mind, you're still in pajamas."
"I'm not sure what to wear. Could you help me find something to wear?"
"Why bother, if you're not going anywhere?"
"I'm not sure it's okay to sit around the house half-naked. Or — or in pajamas."
Kyle narrowed his eyes, pointedly shifting so that more of his bare thigh was visible. "A lot of men would really like to have me hang around their house in pajamas. Or even half-naked!"
Feeling sort of aroused again, Stan found himself sort of biting his thumbnail. It seemed an effective deterrent.
"Don't do that, it's childish," Kyle chided, though he was becoming aroused, too. "Put on clothes if you feel so vulnerable — oh, right! Yeah, I'm here, hi."
It took Stan a moment to realize that whoever had Kyle on hold had picked up the call again.
"Oh, well, dinner's at 8," Kyle was saying, tracing designs on the inside of his thigh lightly with his fingertips. Stan felt this came perilously close to Kyle's hardening cock. He kept that phone against his chin; it seemed so natural, it barely even appeared uncomfortable. "We'd be so honored if Victor would join us. When we spoke last week, or when he spoke to Stanley, he said 'maybe,' and I followed up with an invitation — yes, a fucking print invitation! No, no, it was handwritten — more like a note. ... Yeah, they say I'm very gracious. Do they say that? Well, I can see people saying that. About me, I mean. What's for dinner? Oh — steak?" Kyle paused for a moment, and then he laughed. "Yes, good steak! But you know how this shit is, so much is dependent on what's fresh that day. That morning." Kyle nodded. After a minute or so he said, "Yes, that's great. Yeah, Stan could have something ready — I'm sure. Oh, you know him. ... Oh, you don't know him? Well, he's good, he's very good! Yes, he is. I promise, he is. ... Well, yeah. I guess I am biased! But—okay. Okay. Good! ... yeah. All right! Well, no. Thank you!" Kyle was grinning. He grabbed the phone and tossed it aside, landing on the couch without a sound.
It took Stan a moment to notice that Kyle was staring at him. "What?" he asked, not really wanting to know.
"I got him," Kyle said.
"Who?"
"Victor."
"Who's Victor?" Stan asked.
"Ha," said Kyle. "That's pretty funny." He didn't sound amused, though.
"Okay, well."
"Wanna blow me?" Kyle asked.
"Um." Stan found himself taking a step backward. He could see Kyle's penis, from a distance. Stan imagined what it would be like to put that penis in his mouth. He'd tasted his own dick, sort of, licking precome off his fingers or sniffing his underwear. Would Kyle's taste different? How would Stan fit it into his mouth? Suddenly, he felt ill. "I think I just — I want to get dressed."
"Whatever." Kyle picked the phone back up. "I've got shit to do. I'm sure you do too. I can't wait to hear this score." He picked up the phone, dialing it.
Stan didn't wait to find out who Kyle was calling or why he had the number memorized. Running up the stairs, Stan thought about putting on clothes. Maybe he had something normal in the closet, like a T-shirt. He picked up the same pants he'd worn the day before and slipped them on, hoping this wasn't a taboo. Granted, he did this every day, wearing the same jeans to school until his mother pried them out of his hands and threw them in the washing machine with the rest of his laundry. Yet Stan had the impression that older, richer people — people like him now, apparently! — didn't wear the same thing every day. But the idea of finding new pants seemed immense and challenging beyond that which he was prepared to handle. Stan also felt guilty about going through the closet to thoroughly, like he was trespassing, or worse, stealing. But he wasn't, right? He eventually found a soft red T-shirt that said "Berklee" on it, in collegiate block lettering. He slipped this on, feeling how well it fit. There were small holes in the hem, he noticed, as he studied his reflection. He smoothed his hair down with both hands, and went downstairs, where it seemed as though Kyle was still on the phone. Stan went into his office.
Once there, he sat down at his desk and fretted. He felt anxious about what to do next.
The problem Stan faced, most immediately in that particular moment, was that he wanted to write out his feelings on a piece of paper, and he had been in this house for something like 30 or 32 hours now, and try as he might, he couldn't find one. There were no pens, really, though Stan had found some things that looked like pens, things that mocked the general shape. Styluses, Stan believed they were called, and he though immediately of learning about cuneiform, the writing of ancient Mesopotamia. This had been a unit at the beginning of the year, and they'd had an art lesson one Friday, the Friday after Labor Day, where they'd dug little wedges into leather-hard clay slabs no larger than a wallet. That thing they used, the thing that dug out the wedges was a stylus. There were styluses all over the house, but Stan had yet to find a pen or paper.
So he got out of the chair and set to work looking around the office. He knew where the sheet music was, and he stayed away from it, that pile with the requiem. It was odd, looking through the vestiges of someone else's life, even as it was his own. Stan hesitated to cause any lasting damage. What if he never went home? What if he stayed here forever? How about that? It was upsetting, that thought. Stan refused to let himself cry. Adults didn't cry, and he didn't want Kyle to hear him crying, not because Stan didn't want to be perceived as weak, or anything of the sort. It was more that he didn't want Kyle to have to shoulder the burden of Stan's crying, or to think that Kyle had been the one who caused it. Somehow, Kyle was the only good thing about this. They were disconnected, but the very thought of Kyle sitting on the living room sofa, talking on the phone and reading the paper, brought some comfort to Stan, and he calmed down.
After 20 minutes or so he located a composer's notebook that had a number of blank sheets in the back. Better yet, it was spiral-bound, and a mechanical pencil, loaded with thick graphite, was clipped to the binding. Flipping through the book, Stan tried to follow some of the compositions in it. A few of them were marked with comments: "This is shit," "A child could do this," "Good enough." The writing was Stan's hand, but a bit smaller and sloppier. It was recognizable, but the writing looked mature, as if it belonged to someone bored of their own ideas. Stan helped himself to a few sheets of this from the back of the book, though it was clumsy to try to write on the staves, each of which was marked with a requisite treble or bass clef.
Sighing, Stan clicked the pencil until the graphite lengthened; he was careful not to lengthen it enough that it might break. At the top of the sheet, in block letters, he wrote, "WHAT AM I GOING TO DO"
Staring at it, Stan shook his head and added a question mark: "WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?"
The writing looked childish to him, having seen examples of what his hand would one day become, though it certainly wasn't his own, either; it was slightly less shaky, as if his hand had a kind of sense memory, had formed letters like these before. "Read," Stan wrote, on the top bar of the first staff. Then he continued:
- Read
- Write
- Cook
- Talk to Kyle in a friend way
- Practice keyboard
This last one made Stan sigh again, because he hadn't figured out how to turn it on.
- Who are my friends?
This one was most distressing. Stan thought of those people Kyle had mentioned, the guy who had messaged him, Graham or whoever and the other guy. Stan's best friends at home — what had happened to them? Was there a way to learn? Did he want to know? He thought primarily of Wendy, wondering if she ever thought of him. At this point it occurred to Stan that, when last he'd seen her, they'd been dating. Somehow he must have dumped her. Or had she found out he was gay and dumped him? Maybe it was mutual. Maybe he'd cheated on her with Kyle! Surely not at age 13. Maybe in high school. Stan instantly felt both bad and horny. He hadn't meant to cheat on her. He hoped he wasn't that kind of person.
At a loss for what else to write, Stan jerked off again. This time it brought some relief with it. He tried not to make any noise, not wanting Kyle to know. Again, not because he was ashamed, but because he hated to think that Kyle, after the repeated attempts at intimacy, would be hurt by Stan's repeated private masturbation. Kyle was part of it anyway, or at least younger Kyle was. In Stan's mind he was himself, 13 years old, and he and Kyle were kissing and fondling each other in a very tentative way. It felt more beautiful and special than it did hot, yet Stan came anyway, right after he imagined his girlfriend walking in and exclaiming "Stan!" in a disappointed tone. After ejaculating, Stan was more concerned with cleaning up the evidence of this situation than he was in examining the meaning of his brief fantasy. Thinking of Wendy as he wiped his hand on the carpet felt uncomfortable and he pushed her out of mind.
Being a man, Stan thought to himself as he zipped his pants back up, was horribly complicated. He had the compulsion and the freedom to masturbate whenever he wanted, and yet now that he was done the idea sickened him.
When he felt reasonably assured that all the proof was hidden and he was well past the incident, he noticed that the pad on which he'd found the guest list the day before was flashing a notification that Stan had a new message. After tapping on it he was able to read it, the entire note filling the screen:
You can't treat me this way! It's not right. It's not that I expect you to leave her, I know you won't leave her, or at least say you don't want to leave her, and while I don't entirely get it (she's crazy and you could do better, let's face it, you ARE doing better!) I do understand you guys have been together forever (there's something nice about being with someone you know so well, someone you have all those years with I guess, it's not that I don't get it because I GET IT) and I don't ask to be a replacement (though I'd be happy with that too).
This was a run-on sentence so egregious it almost made Stan throw the tablet across the room. Yet he persisted, wondering who the fuck had sent this to him. It was plainly too disjointed to be Kyle, whose prose was crisp even at 12 years old.
But it gets hard to believe you're not just using me when you make plans to see me and blow them off.
Now that Stan had read this note, he wished he hadn't. It was from Casey. Who or what the hell was Casey? Who was 'she'? Was Casey a she? Stan suddenly felt very sick.
CHAPTER 5
Kyle made Stan and Kenny rake leaves all day Sunday. By Sunday night Stan's hands were chafed and blistered, red and aching. "Jesus!" Kyle had said when he caught a glimpse of Stan flexing his fingers between jobs. "God, that looks so painful. Why didn't you wear gloves?" He grabbed one of Stan's hands, cradling it. "We could — shit, we could pause, or something, or you could sit out the next one?"
"That's okay." Stan didn't pull his hands away; they were left trembling in Kyle's for a minute, both of their breaths misting visibly in the air between them. The truth was that Stan was used to his fingers and palms aching; his adult hands were arthritic, badly suited to piano. He played anyway. Though the raking blisters weren't pleasant, surely, they didn't much bother him. This kind of manual labor produced a kind of pain that stung, temporarily, for it was only surface-deep.
Stan was about to say, "This is nothing compared to when I play," but he stopped himself. He had actually never told Kyle about the pain in his hands, and then it took a moment for him to remember that this was not his Kyle, anyway.
Then Kenny shouted, "What the fuck, if you guys aren't going to rake, I'm going home!"
- paramécie -
So Kyle had let go of Stan's hands, given him a look of sad concern, and turned around. "Hold the fuck up, Kenny, Jesus!" They then raked for another six hours.
After dinner, Stan showed his mother his hands. This wasn't something he'd ever been inclined to do, as a child, and yet now he couldn't resist.
"Stanley, what on earth were you doing?" she asked.
"Raking leaves."
"Raking leaves?" Stan had forgotten how dry her voice was. "Whatever for?"
"I don't know, Kyle wanted to."
"Oh, Kyle wanted to." She let go of Stan and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, that figures."
"What does that mean?" Stan asked her.
"What — oh, nothing. Just, jeez, wear some kind of gloves next time or something."
"That's what Kyle said."
"That's what Kyle said," she repeated. "Right. Well, I don't know what you want me to do about this — I mean, I guess I could wrap your hands in gauze or something, but blisters just kind of ... heal on their own." She would know. She had worked, at one time, as a physician's assistant — though, granted, for a plastic surgeon. "Maybe don't just do what Kyle says next time. I'm not sure all of Kyle's ideas are so hot."
This was something Stan had never heard her say. She'd always been polite to Kyle, at least, she had been as far back as Stan chose to remember, to high school and college. "What do you mean? What's wrong with Kyle?"
She sighed, as if the idea that he wanted to know was exasperating. "Well, nothing, you know. It's just, he's a little bossy."
"He's not bossy! Or — maybe if he is it's because he just knows the right thing to do."
"Stan, I've got news for you, no one always knows the right thing to do."
On Monday morning Stan's hands felt better, at least until he remembered that they should be hurting. It bothered him on the walk to the bus stop, a route which he realized, after putting two blocks behind him, he'd totally forgotten. Luckily, the neighborhood was small enough that Stan had only to wander around for 10 minutes before he caught sight of a group of kids standing in the distance.
He was only somewhat late, and Kyle only somewhat miffed, eating a granola bar and clutching his messenger bag over his crotch. "Nice of you to show up," Kyle said, and that was the end of it.
At least, until a fat kid on the other side of Kyle cleared his throat and said, "Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up!"
"Shut up, Cartman," Kyle said, through a mouthful of granola bar. It was one of those crispy peanut butter ones; Kyle was crunching it. "The last thing I need on Monday morning is to hear it from you."
"Hear what from me, Kyle?" Cartman asked. He was holding a large slushy coffee drink with whipped cream on top, and Stan noticed that at Cartman's feet was a box of doughnuts in a plastic bag. "I'm just concerned for public safety in this neighborhood."
"What are you talking about?" Kyle had now finished his granola bar, and was carefully folding the wrapper up, only to shove it in his bag.
"I'm talking about your friend the amateur vandal," said Cartman. "Smashing in people's windshields! What's next, liquor store robberies? Lock up your daughters, guys, we've got a real teenage hoodlum problem in this town, and I for one will not stand here and associate with this petty criminal."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Kyle had produced a banana from his bag and unpeeled it, slightly; he was picking at the stringy fibers that clung to the inside of the peel. "I'm not dignifying this with an actual response. Don't talk to him, Stan."
Stan considered for a moment his mother's comment from the night before about Kyle's bossiness. "I just threw that ball," Stan said, trying to sound casual. "Kenny's the one who didn't catch it."
"Doesn't count." Slurping his drink, Cartman rolled his eyes. "You can't expect Kenny to do anything."
"Well, fuck you, too," said Kenny. It was the first thing he'd said at the bus stop, more absorbed in playing some clunky handheld video game system Stan couldn't remember the name of than getting invested in the conversation.
"Want some banana?" Kyle asked him.
This did cause Kenny to look up from his video game. "Yes, thanks."
Kyle broke off a little section and handed it to Kenny. "For your information, Kenny raked leaves with us all day yesterday."
"Raking fucking leaves? What—why, Kyle, desperate for cash to fund your meth habit? What are you, Mexican? You know, they say it's the biggest party drug in the gay community — are you a crystal queen, Kyle?
"No, retard, to pay back Craig's dad for the windshield." Kyle swallowed the last bite of his banana, Stan noted, with gusto. "I'm not a 'crystal queen,' Jesus, whatever that is, do you have any idea how ignorant and moronic you sound?"
"Ohhhhhh!" Cartman cried, in an exaggerated whine. Then he turned and spat, "Wait a minute! You guys all raked leaves yesterday and didn't invite me?"
"Yes, because no one wants to fucking hang out with you!"
"I think I beat this level," said Kenny. "Never mind, I died."
"Lots of people want to hang out with me! In fact, you'll never guess who wants to hang out with me!"
"We really don't give a shit," said Kyle.
"You know who's being awfully silent during this conversation? The guilty party."
"Fuck you," said Kenny.
"No Kenny, shut up. I meant Stan."
"Me?" Stan asked.
"Yeah," said Cartman. "You. It almost seems like you have — something to hide."
"Stan doesn't have anything to hide," said Kyle. "Don't even listen to him, Stan."
"What would I have to hide?" Stan asked.
"Oh, nothing." Cartman popped the domed lid off of his drink and, with his fingers, helped himself to a large glob of whipped cream. "Except something fishy is definitely going on. Breaking Craig's dad's windshield, not inviting me to hang out — ditching Wendy."
"Wait," said Kyle. "How do you know about that?"
"I have my ways, Kyle!" There was whipped cream smeared across Cartman's lips now. "I have my ways."
"Oh, brother." Kyle rolled his eyes and tossed his banana peel on the ground.
"Don't throw that on the ground," said Stan.
"Relax, it's natural. It's biodegradable!"
"This boss is super tough," said Kenny. No one asked him what boss, or how tough.
On the bus Kyle pulled Stan into a seat near the front. This was clearly where the lame kids festered, but as Cartman apparently considered himself the king of the cool half of the bus, he took a seat in the very back, declaring "no fags" in his section.
"Oh my god, he is reaching classic levels of obnoxious today," said Kyle. He rested his head against the window.
A blond kid popped out from behind Stan and Kyle's seat. His hair was plastered to his forehead with an excess of sweet-smelling gel. "Who is?"
"Your boyfriend, Butters," said Kyle.
"Who? I ain't got a boyfriend."
"Cartman!"
"Oh. Eric's not my boyfriend! We're B-F-F-A-E! A-E!"
"I don't know what that means," said Kyle.
"Best friends forever and ever. And ever!"
"Then why aren't you sitting next to him?"
"Oh," said Butters. "Well, I just figured I wasn't cool enough for the back of the bus. Plus Eric told me not to meet up at the bus stop with you guys anymore, so now I'm getting on over at Willow Street, and I guess I was already sitting here. I guess I just figured the back of the bus was for the cool kids."
"Every single seat of the bus is the same," said Kyle. "You can either buy into Cartman's bullshit because he's your 'best friend' and he's got you conditioned to thinking that sitting 10 rows up makes a pathetic difference in people's lives, or you can go sit next to Cartman because he's your BFFAE—"
"A-E!"
"—your BFFAEAE," Kyle concluded, "and someone's BFFAEAE would want them to sit next to him."
"Oh." Butters seemed to think about it. When the bus was stopped at a light, Butters wished them farewell, got up, and moved.
"Good," said Kyle. "That'll piss Cartman off."
"Who cares?" Stan asked. "Who even cares about pissing off Cartman?" Unlike Kenny, Cartman had never moved away, and Stan was forced to see him not only at Christmas services, but any time he and Kyle went home to visit their families. Like the lingering stench of a house's previous owners, he was fucking everywhere. So far as Stan knew he hadn't a job, but he was always working on some insane-sounding Ponzi scheme. Kyle never got tired of making fun of Cartman in all respects: what he wore, what he said, the fact that he lived with his mother well into adulthood, the fact that he was so fat he breathed audibly and clumsily like some kind of "farm animal," Kyle said. While Stan generally didn't care about Eric Cartman either way, he had either never realized, or since forgotten, exactly how inane and annoying Cartman was.
"I don't know," said Kyle. He was now tapping his fingers against the windowpane. "He's an idiot, dude."
"Yes, he is, a tremendous idiot," said Stan. "Why heed him?"
"Why heed him?"
"You know, pay attention, fall for his shit—"
"I know what 'heed' means." Kyle scowled. "I'm not heeding him, it's just — he's right there."
"Just because something's right there doesn't mean you need to like, talk to it."
"It," Kyle repeated. "Cartman's kind of an 'it,' huh, like — he's barely a person."
"I guess." Stan might have been jealous of Kyle's preoccupation with Cartman, had Stan not grown up to have gay sex with Kyle and moved to Los Angeles with him while Cartman was stuck in South Park picking up his mom's dry cleaning. Instead, an unsettled feeling came over Stan as he realized more clearly what this was: unbridled pettiness. "It feels very small to give a shit about him."
"Tell me I'm small after I spend all weekend raking fucking leaves with you!" It was true that Stan had managed to collect $94 (with a tip), leaving him 140 to go until he was able to pay back his sister and tell Craig to fuck off.
As a middle school student Stan had found classes prohibitively difficult; he had never been anything but a mediocre student outside of the courses he really cared about, music and English. Sitting through school now, he was struck by how stupid he must have been as a child. These classes were easy as hell. In language arts they were rewriting sentences that had been professionally mangled by text-book authors:
In the morning I wake up and I put on my suit my tie my shoes my socks i got to work?
"You must be kidding me," Stan said aloud.
"Which one are you on?" Kyle asked.
"Um, 7."
"Yeah." Kyle leaned in and said, in a low voice, gloating "That one was tricky! I figured it out, though. Need help?"
"No, I don't need help! How is this tricky?"
"Well, because the end of the sentence could be its own sentence, 'I got to work,' but based on the first clause about putting on the shoes and socks it doesn't really follow. So for a minute I wasn't sure what to do."
"Well, what'd you do?" Stan asked.
"I made it one two sentences: In the morning I wake up and put on my suit, tie, shoes, and socks. Then I go to work. See, the 'got' is a bit hard because it's a word, so it's not an error necessarily. It took me a second. To pick it apart."
"Oh," said Stan.
"Oh what?"
"Nothing. Just, I made it one sentence, but I had to rewrite it a bit. In the morning after I wake up, I get dressed and go to work."
"Is that allowed?"
"Why wouldn't it be allowed?"
"Well, because, you changed words! Or added them, anyway, and took some others out. You took away all the shit about putting on the shoes and socks."
"All that information is redundant," said Stan. "Putting on shoes and socks and a suit before work, it's describing getting dressed. It's a neater way to say it."
"But you're cutting out that information — about the guy wearing the suit! Maybe his job is important, Stan, maybe he had some kind of office job, like he works at an investment firm and the suit is part of his identity."
"Kyle, Jesus," Stan said.
"What? What's 'jesus, Kyle,' I think that information is important!"
"Well, how do you know the subject of the sentence is male?" asked Stan, who'd had a couple of gender studies courses in college. "Why do you assume that?"
"I dunno! He's wearing a suit and tie."
"So what? Women wear ties. You can't assume. It's sexist."
This made Kyle nearly apoplectic. "I'm not fucking sexist! If anyone's sexist here, it's you!"
"Really?" Stan asked. "What am I doing that's sexist?"
"Just don't talk to me!" Kyle huffed, which was well enough; the instructor was eyeing them from behind her tortoiseshell spectacles.
Time passed quickly and soon it was lunch. Stan recalled how, in his youth, schooldays had dragged on. Lunch seemingly took centuries to reach. Now Stan was eating two slices of pizza with a side of wilted broccoli and a foil-topped Mott's applesauce. The drink was a squat carton of milk; Stan helped himself from a cooler in the corner of the room, where he was able to choose between whole, skim, 1- or 2-percent, or chocolate. "Don't get the chocolate," Kyle advised when Stan reached for it. "Too watery." Stan helped himself to a 1-percent.
"This lunch is downright terrible," Stan said, mopping orange grease off of his pizza slices with a thin paper napkin.
"I think it's okay today," said Kenny, who had wedged his tray in between theirs in the lunch line. "I mean, pizza!"
"This pizza tastes like rubber," Stan complained. "And it's got enough grease to fix a squeaky wheel. And this broccoli's unpalatable, and this applesauce is full of sugar. Full of sugar!"
"Well, duh," said Kenny. "It's a dessert."
"Kinda pussy for a dessert, though," said Kyle. "It could be something else. It could be a cookie."
"Yo, whatever." Kenny rolled his eyes. "If you're too good for your guys' dessert, I'll take it."
"I'm not too good," said Kyle. "I want my dessert! I love applesauce. Sugar's okay by me. It'll give you some post-lunch energy."
"Shit, take mine." Stan slid his across the table to Kenny.
"Thanks!"
"No problem." Stan choked down the rest of his first slice of pizza, and offered the rest of Kenny, who took it gleefully.
It wasn't until they were walking back to their lockers after recess that Kyle commented, "You know, I'd have taken your second slice of pizza."
"Oh," said Stan. He wasn't sure what Kyle was getting at.
"I mean, you didn't have to give it to Kenny. I would have taken it."
"But Kenny's always hungry."
"But, I love pizza," said Kyle. "And I thought I was your best friend!"
"You are," said Stan. "I guess."
Kyle halted in front of the door to the boys' restroom. "You guess?"
"I mean, you are! It's just — I dunno, Kenny didn't have to rake all those leaves with us."
"Yes he did! I didn't have to rake leaves either, by that logic! But I did because that's what friends do, Stan! That's what friends do! So in the future you can give me your pizza!"
"So what you're saying is, if I ever don't want something, I'm not allowed to offer it to anyone else, I have to give it to you."
"That's right!"
"What if it's something you don't want?"
"That's my choice!" said Kyle. "I mean, I shouldn't be eating three slices of pizza. Maybe I'd have given Kenny that slice, anyway. He's as thin as a rail!"
"See, that's what I'm saying," said Stan.
"But it's not about what I did with the pizza, it's about — you owe me your pizza! Because I'm helping you with your leaves and because I'm your best friend. You owe me! That's how it works between us. I help you figure out how to meet your obligations and you feed me."
"That seems more like a business contract than a friendship, or like..." Stan hesitated. "...A relationship. When do we just enjoy each other's company? Without being harried?"
"Harried? Dude, what — you're being nuts."
"I'm being nuts, but you're standing in front of the bathroom demanding I feed you my pizza. Look, I'm sorry I gave it to Kenny. He just seemed like he needed some pizza!"
"And I didn't?" Kyle asked.
It took Stan a moment to say, "No."
"What!"
"You're very well-fed!"
"I'm not fat," said Kyle, and it was true that he wasn't.
"Your family has a lot," said Stan. "Kenny, shit, he's using a pager. Like some common — I dunno, crack whore!"
Kyle turned away from Stan and put his hand on the door. Then he turned back and said, "Well, at least you don't think I'm a common crack whore. Things are just so weird lately!"
"What does that mean?" Stan asked.
"Nothing, just — I'm going to the bathroom. Don't follow me in!" Kyle disappeared behind the swinging door.
Stan lingered there for a moment, parsing this last exchange, long enough for the next guy making his egress to appear.
Unfortunately, it was Craig Tucker.
"Marsh," Craig said, wiping his nose. For a moment Stan thought Craig might have just been snorting something, so strongly of the scene outside of the bathroom at someone's cocktail party in the hills did this gesture remind him. But then Stan reminded himself that Craig was in seventh grade, Stan was in seventh grade, and they were in the middle of a Colorado public middle school at the tail end of recess.
"Hey, Craig," Stan said, letting himself be dragged away from the bathroom.
"I saw your BFFAE go in. Waiting on him?"
Stan wasn't sure if Kyle wanted Stan to wait. "Um, no."
"Cool, let's chat. It was nice of you to walk him to the bathroom. Very gentlemanly."
"We were having a conversation."
"I'll bet you were!"
At this point Stan was fed-up with all the innuendo. "Are you trying to imply that Kyle and I have something gay going on? Because I can promise you we don't. ... At the moment, anyway." Stan shrugged his shoulders, hoping to come off as better-informed on the subject of gayness than Craig did. It was definitely true at that very moment, where Stan had actual, strong memories of buttfucking, and Craig was probably doing no better than treating middle-school girls to french fries off the McDonald's value menu.
"You and Broflovski and your whole set — whatever you guys are up to, I don't care. I just want my money."
"Well, I'm working on it," said Stan.
"Work harder," said Craig.
"God, you're an idiot."
"Hey!"
"I mean, 'work harder' — you don't know how hard we're working! You're just saying it to — to come off as threatening or informed or something. But you're not! You don't know shit. I mean, really. It's very snide."
"I know Tweek said you guys rang his doorbell and asked his dad if you could rake the leaves."
"God, we didn't!" Stan couldn't recall who Tweek was; it took him a moment to put together that Tweek was a jittery kid whose family had moved away before ninth grade. "Well, whatever, Tweek's doorbell, whoever's doorbell, when you're raking leaves you don't discriminate."
"I always feel you have to discriminate or you end up with the chaff," Craig said. "Separate the wheat from the chaff, that's something my dad says."
"What? Shit, your dad's stupid."
"He is," Craig agreed. "I'm just saying, you're not applying a very smooth technique to it."
"Technique to what, to raking? Craig, you're a little turd, I don't have time for this, I have a score to write."
"A score to write?"
Stan blushed. "I mean, I have some class." He wasn't sure which class, but his schedule was taped to the inside of his locker. He hadn't known the combination and had convinced the janitor to clip the lock off earlier in the day. Kyle, who had Stan's schedule memorized, had seemed a little hurt by this. "I'll get your damn money. So long."
Stan had taken only a few steps away when Craig cleared his throat. "Aren't you waiting for Broflovski?" he asked.
"God, what's it to you if I am?" Stan snapped, though the fact that Kyle was in the bathroom had actually slipped his mind.
Stan followed Kyle home on the 2:45 p.m. bus, with an armload of homework, mostly on geography. He had been given a blank map of Europe, and was going to have to spend the night marking it with rivers, mountains, and "other geographical features" that defined the political borders he'd have to fill in tomorrow.
"I wish I could go to Europe," Kyle said on the bus. It was only now that Stan noticed Kyle's lips were very chapped, and that Kyle was not putting his fingers to his lips in deep thought but, rather, surreptitiously agitating his dry, cracked skin. "As you know, I've been reading about world history, or at least I was before you got into it with Craig and needed me to dig your ass out of it. So I'm kind of into the idea that water features that were formed in the long, long ago are responsible for the political entities we know today!"
Stan's eyes bugged a little at the dissonance between Kyle's relatively complex thoughts and his pitchy, childish tone. "Do you need some chapstick?"
"No, I don't need chapstick!" Kyle pulled his fingers away from his face. "You're one to talk! Your face looks like you need someone else to write your dating profile for you!"
"What?"
"Ugh, you know what, you're ugly!" Kyle said. "Stop looking at me."
It was an incredibly odd moment; Kyle was red now, too, pressing his face against the glass and scooping his hair to make it fall in a way that obscured his features.
"I know I'm not ugly," Stan said, though he knew that as a child he would have taken such an assessment very seriously, and likely been very hurt by it. It was obvious to him here, though, that Kyle really didn't think Stan was ugly. Moreover, adult Kyle refused to jizz on Stan's face because it was "too beautiful" and often raved about how Stan got by on his looks. "Well, okay," he said, turning away himself. "You're not obligated to look at me, either."
Of course Kyle immediately whipped back around and said, "Sorry, that was mean."
"It's okay." Stan turned back to look at Kyle, too. "I've done my share of mean shit."
"Like ditching Wendy, huh?"
Stan rolled his eyes; he'd successfully managed to hide from her all day.
"Are you gonna apologize to her, or what?" Kyle asked.
"Welp, I dunno." Stan shrugged. "What do you think?"
"I don't have the least idea what to do about girls. They're like an extra-hard foreign language to me. An extra-hard obscure foreign language. I don't even think I need to learn it."
Kyle had taken Spanish all through college and had his language requirement waived in graduate school.
~
Stan parted ways with Kyle at the front door, and Stan hung up his parka on the coat rack. Almost immediately, before he'd even slipped his shoes off, his mother had called out, "Stanley, is that you?"
She appeared in black jeans and a baggy knit sweater. Stan's mother almost never wore makeup, though she had always been fond of needless clothing details such as ruffles or unflattering V-necks. Stan had often wondered whether being overly critical of his mother's wardrobe was a typical gay kid thing, or if he just happened to be deeply particular about this. Kyle's mother, for example, dressed worse and had an unappealing, corpulent body, appearing almost as a caricature of an overbearing Jewish mother. If Kyle cared either way, either as a child or an adult, he'd never expressed disappointment. Maybe Kyle had never cared because his parents had never been conventionally attractive, whereas Stan's both were, and clearly had been desirable at some point. By the time Stan was old enough to care, though, they both seemed a little too lazy to do much about it, looking worn out and, at least in Stan's father's case, wearing an honest-to-god pocket protector in which he always carried some pens because "I'm a big deal at the USGS." At least as Stan pondered this, he identified an easy way to get his homework done.
"Your coach called," Sharon said, handing Stan a note with a phone number on it. "He said you didn't show up to the pre-season basketball meeting."
"I play basketball?" Stan asked. "Um ... oh, yeah."
"Well? The guy seemed worried about you. I said I didn't know where you were. I'm not supposed to pick you up until 4."
She stood there looking at him, as if waiting for an explanation.
So Stan gave her one. "Kyle seemed to be taking the bus home," he said.
"Yeah." She rolled her eyes. "Well, he would."
"What's that mean?"
"You just — do a lot of stuff because of Kyle, Stanley."
"Well," said Stan drawing it out a bit. If she knew, why didn't she just say something? "I wanted to ask you, actually, if you had some chapstick stuff?"
"Not really," she said. "I just have the little tube that I use. Why, are your lips dry?"
"Oh, well. No, I mean, Kyle's are very chapped, and he doesn't have any chapstick so I thought I could buy him some."
"With what money? Or do you mean you want me to buy Kyle some chapstick?"
"I meant me! I have some money. From, uh — raking leaves."
"Well." She sighed, and slumped her shoulders. "Okay. Let me — I'll go get my coat."
As they were leaving the house, Stan's sister was returning from school. She had a pretty bad car, a beige coupe that had serious rusting at the door and trunk openings. Their father had found it for her parked on concrete blocks on Colfax, and prided himself on getting a "real value." She'd once asked to paint it hot pink or maybe neon blue; Randy had forbidden it, since "this model is a classic" and "this is a classic American car!" Stan recalled that it got something like 12 miles to the gallon and had been confiscated from Stan's father's driveway by the government when Stan was in graduate school for failing to comply with current emissions standards.
"Oh shit," Shelly said, spotting them. She froze on the spot and wiped some greasy bangs from her face.
"Honey," Sharon said, "isn't that really a lot of eyeliner? Is that appropriate for school?"
"Nobody hassles me about it!"
"That's good, honey. That's good. We're going to the drug store. Do you need anything?"
"Yes," said Shelly. "Drugs."
"What kind?"
"You know, whatever. Drugs."
"Do you not want to say in front of your brother?"
Rolling her eyes, Shelly shifted her backpack to her other shoulder. "No, I'm kidding, Mother. I don't need anything from the drug store."
"Oh." Stan's mother sounded surprised. Then, flatly, she said, "That's really funny."
When they were in the car, Sharon said, "I wish your sister wouldn't be so snotty. I wish she wouldn't cake on makeup like that, either. Even if there's nothing wrong with that, it could possibly give boys the wrong impression. Sometimes. ... Unfortunately. I hope no one has that impression about your sister."
"What, that she's willing to have sex?"
"No! Or, I mean — yeah, I guess." She had always been a slow driver, and Stan relished how gently they glided to a halt at a red light on Main Street. When they had a green light again, she said, "I hope you won't be the kind of guy who treats girls like that. ... But then, I don't think you will be."
"No," said Stan. "I wouldn't." Truthfully, he'd never thought about girls much in terms of sex. Clearly they had it, everyone did. But it wasn't much of Stan's concern. He liked girls very much, and always had, in a platonic way, loving the companionable way they related to him, warm and collegial. They made him nervous, or at least some girls did. Wendy did, for instance, or had when they were young. Stan had been terrified to kiss her, to the point where it made him sick to his stomach. But he'd been 8 then, 8 or 9 or 10, and physical closeness in an affectionate fashion had made him very wary. Maybe it was a psychosexual things, but as a boy he'd preferred to roughhouse. Sometimes he'd touch Kyle, or they'd hug, but only when Stan wasn't thinking too hard about it. But he knew now that it was largely subconscious, the way they were drawn together. Anyway, he was an adult now, or maybe he never had been, but at the very least he felt like one.
The lip balm Stan bought for Kyle with their raking money was a daunting decision. Something too girly, and it would scare him away. But Stan wanted this gesture to be imbued with all his feelings, the ones he couldn't express because Kyle was a 12-year-old boy and Stan could not imagine that even if Kyle liked him, somewhat (as seemed mostly obvious), he would be willing or even able to return Stan's affection.
Yet there in the aisle with the different moisturizing products Stan found two kinds between which he was unable to choose. There was an Intensive Repair product in a medicinal green tube with a matching cap, meant to be squeezed out in a glob. This suited Stan, because he thought of Kyle as very fragile and needing to be coated in something, protected. In his head he made up a little tune about it, humming, the feeling of the chapstick.
Then there was another, something called Soft Lips, in a thin pearlescent tube with pink striping. "Glides on," it said, "making lips super soft." Frankly it had a kind of maternal vibe to it, and made Stan think of kissing the vulnerable underside of a baby's foot, or each of its little toes. Stan had never done anything like that, not with his sister's kids when they were babies. Thinking of them made him think of his sister's smeared eyeliner, which thanks to the conversation with his mother in the car made him think of sex. Looking at the pearly Soft Lips thing made Stan get a childish boner in the drug store. He wasn't even thinking of anything sexy, just of kissing Kyle's ragged lips, swollen and raw. Stan could fix this! He bought both.
On the drive home it was dark out, the sun setting while his mother had been piling bottles of Vaseline on sale into her shopping basket. "We go through so much of this," she said, which made Stan think of lube. He didn't love using it for sex, because it was slow and often became gritty, the opposite of fluid, which was how he liked to fuck: deep, brutal, full investment.
Now Stan was really hard, and he hated that his mother made him get in the car and sit there in the dark while she said, "But if you remember what I was saying before about treating girls well — the thing is, it goes for everyone. You shouldn't treat anyone like that, Stanley, anyone. Whoever you end up with, someday."
"What if I end up with no one?" Stan asked.
"You have to be kind to people anyway. You can't be bitter. See, you're a lot like your father" — if there was anything Stan didn't enjoy hearing, that was it — "in both his cynicism and his wild kind of ... uncritical approach to things. You know? You know how sometimes Dad gets super excited about silly ideas? I think you have that, Stan, that childlike kind of fascination with overly emotional stuff, or this idealization of irrational things. Or people."
Stan had been resting his head against the window, but on hearing that he turned to his mother, disbelieving, and asked, "Like Kyle?"
She didn't flinch in saying, "Well, yeah, sometimes."
"I disagree. And how does that make me bitter?"
"I'm not saying you're bitter, honey, I'm saying that your father is someone who does a bad job integrating unmitigated devotion and, well — something like unbridled hostility. And I see you do the same thing, in some ways. Like buying Kyle this chapstick — you know he can get his own chapstick. Or skipping basketball practice to take the bus home with him. You can't throw away your chance to be on the basketball team just to hang out with Kyle, or because Kyle wants you to ditch it and take the bus home."
"He didn't want me to ditch practice. We just sort of ... both got on the bus."
"And if you don't get on the basketball team because you missed today's meeting because you wanted to sit with Kyle on the bus for 20 minutes, is that worth it?"
"Yeah," said Stan. "I think it's totally worth it."
She sighed, as if the weight of Stan's answer was oppressive. "Okay, honey. Whatever you think. Just, when you don't make it onto the team, don't be bitter and angry that someone led you astray. That was you, Stan."
"Thanks, Mom." Stan was suddenly feeling less romantic about the idea of having her back.
~
Stan felt even more bitter and angry when he tried to give Kyle the chapstick the following morning. He had wrapped it in a grocery store sale circular and tied it with some leftover red ribbon, apparently from the balloons at his recent 13th birthday party. The concept of wrapping paper was a distant memory to Stan, who was used to reusable gift cloth, which came in three sizes and myriad colors. There was something quaint about the little package as he arrived at the bus stop, only to find Cartman eating a fried apple pie and drinking the same giant coffee shake thing.
"What's that?" Cartman asked through a mouthful of pie and whipped cream. "Present for your girlfriend?"
"No, it's a present for Kyle."
The concept was apparently so riotous that Cartman began to guffaw, and he laughed so hard that he choked on his half-chewed food, and by the end he had spit it onto the ground, bent over with his hands on his knees, huffing and panting. "Oh god, oh god," he wheezed, face red and shiny. "Didn't you — ah — didn't you hear me? I, I said — oof, I said, a present for your girlfriend?"
"Yep." Stan held the gift to his chest. "Yeah, I heard you."
Cartman was still laughing, "So you admit it, you admit Kyle's your girlfriend! I should have gotten this on tape—"
"You're so fucking stupid," said Stan. "It's really not funny."
"Yeah it is, just 'cause you're offended—"
"I'm not offended or anything! It's just unfunny. And you're a bit of a buffoon."
This was when Kyle arrived at the bus stop. "Who's a — oh." He looked down at Cartman, then back to Stan. "Well, what's he being retarded about?"
"He called you my girlfriend."
"Wow," said Kyle. "Clever." He blushed anyhow.
They sat together on the bus, Stan and Kyle, again toward the front. Cartman was loudly telling the story of how Stan had confessed to being Kyle's boyfriend, in between noisy sips of his melting coffee drink. Stan heard Butters say, "Really? Gosh!" Wendy's contribution was to say, "You're so awful! I'm not listening to this." He leaned into the aisle to get a look behind his seat, and saw her getting out of hers while Cartman called, "You know I'm right, Wendy!" Stan hated the way Cartman belched her name with a kind of desperation, Wehhhhndy, turning her into a whine.
Turning back, Stan took the gift from his pocket and handed it to Kyle. "This is for you," he said, trying not to grin too widely.
"What?" Kyle asked. "It's not my birthday. Hannukah's not until the end of the month." He shook it.
"It's just because I — you're my friend. Open it!"
"What is it?" Kyle asked.
"You have to open it," Stan repeated.
"Well." Kyle was already unknotting the ribbon. "I guess it couldn't hurt." He unwrapped it carefully, smoothing back the paper until it was flat again. Kyle looked at each product for a moment, fingering the Soft Lips cylinder through the plastic, blankly. He looked up and said, "What the hell, Stan?"
- Kayotics -
"What do you mean?" Stan asked.
"Why'd you buy me chapstick?"
"Because your lips looked chapped."
"They are!" Kyle snapped. "But I didn't want you to buy me this!"
"Well, a gift is something you didn't know you wanted."
"I didn't want this! I can get my own chapstick."
"Oh." Stan felt idiotic. "Well, that's what my mom said."
"You should have listened to your mom! How much did you spend on this?"
"I don't know, a few dollars? Like, 7 dollars. Maybe seven and a half."
"You need that seven bucks! I spent my whole weekend and probably will spend most of the rest of my week raking leaves so you can pay back Craig so you won't get in trouble with your parents so you can hang out with me, and you just — throw it away on chapstick!"
"Your lips looked like they hurt!"
"They do! But, that's not for you to take care of! That's not what I need! Get out of my way." Kyle gathered up his backpack and stood up on the moving bus.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm changing seats!"
"I'm not letting you out," said Stan, and to his surprise, Kyle sat back down.
"You're a fucking idiot!" he screamed. "It doesn't matter if people do nice things for you when you just — undo them!"
"I didn't undo anything. Your lips are in bad shape, and I was helping."
"Think before you help next time!" And the rest of the bus ride was silent, save for the inanity coming from behind them.
CHAPTER 6
The weekend passed slowly for Stan, stuck in the monotony of upper-middle-class living in Malibu. Kyle cooked a lot of food, and talked a lot. He badgered Stan for sex, on and off. There were times, predominantly at the end of the day, when Stan actually considered accepting, and having sex with Kyle. He had an adult body now, and his adult body seemed to find Kyle attractive. This was easily taken care of, mostly in the shower. By Monday, Stan was showering enough to draw Kyle's attention.
"The water bills are going to be crazy," he said, handing Stan a pad displaying what appeared to be a previous month's water bill. "So I really hope you get this gig because it's not like I'm going to make any money this month!"
"How much money do you usually make each month?" Stan asked.
"I don't find that funny! Just, stop taking so many showers. I feel like you're hiding from me in there!"
It wasn't true, but it also wasn't untrue. The real reason Stan felt the need to get away from Kyle was simply because it was too difficult to bear Kyle's disappointment. Somehow, masturbating with the door locked felt like the gravest insult, or even cheating. The worst was in the evening, after Kyle had tried the hardest to get Stan to consent to some kind of sex act. Stan missed younger Kyle, the Kyle who was his age, a demure boy with a fine-tuned sense of propriety. This Kyle sighed too much, and not in a sarcastic way; he seemed sad all of the time, no matter what he was doing. Stan couldn't bear the fact that he had to turn sex with Kyle down — but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Kyle was an adult, and Stan still felt 13. Kyle's body appeared to be complicated, and Stan wasn't sure where to start with it. Kyle seemed to want it really badly, which confused Stan. He had always been taught that no meant no. Stan had said "no" about 40 times now, but Kyle kept asking.
On Monday morning Stan was feeling intimidated. Kyle had slept up against Stan all night, clutching at Stan's shoulders, sort of humping the backs of Stan's legs. For a moment, waking up around 2 in the morning, Stan had wondered if maybe Kyle was actually raping him? But actually, Kyle had seemed to be crying. "Are you all right?" Stan had asked. He was somewhat afraid to learn the answer.
"I'm fine," Kyle had said, "just go back to sleep." Kyle didn't sound fine, but what was Stan supposed to do?
Now it was morning, and it was apparently the work week again. Stan had been wondering if Kyle would go to some kind of job. Around noon, after cooking Stan a breakfast of egg whites and salsa over black beans and whole-grain rice, Kyle settled onto the couch with a metal box he'd taken out of the freezer. It turned out to be ice cream, and Stan sat in the living room for the next hour and watched Kyle eat ice cream. Stan also tried to pretend that Kyle was not wearing nothing but a bathrobe. That always complicated things for Stan, because he was forced to either look away (which hurt Kyle's feelings) or stare at Kyle (which felt rude).
Finally, Stan asked, "What kind of ice cream is that?"
Letting the spoon linger in his mouth for a moment, Kyle shot Stan a curious look, as if to say, "What do you care?" But then Kyle took the spoon from his mouth and swallowed, and said, "Cookie dough."
"Can I have some?"
"I guess?" Stan must have been visibly distraught at the tone of Kyle's answer, because immediately Kyle picked up and said, "Well, yeah, of course you can have some, if you want? Go get a spoon."
This took some time, because Stan was not sure where to find a spoon. Kyle had been doing all the cooking, or at least the ordering out, and he had also set all the tables and loaded the dishwasher. Maybe the housekeeper had been putting things away, but Stan hadn't been around to observe that part of the process. Ultimately, Stan had to look through every drawer in the kitchen, finding boxes of what Stan realized was his father's grandmother's formal silver, linen napkins in crystal rings, an electronic pad embossed with "takeout/delivery," what looked to Stan like rubbery thread spools, though they were clearly misshapen and felt to Stan altogether wrong ... the spools gave him an unsettled feeling, and it briefly crossed his mind that these spools might actually be sex toys. But no, he told himself, that was absurd. Even this older degenerate Kyle wouldn't keep sex toys in the kitchen. Stan wouldn't dream of fucking in the kitchen. He slammed that drawer shut and kept looking for spoons. He was about to go back and resign himself to using that heirloom silver, and then Stan found the normal flatware that Kyle had been setting the table with. It was light, burnished chrome, hammered with what appeared to be a heavy hand. Stan took a table spoon and jogged back to the living room.
Now Kyle was sitting with his computer propped on a cushion, legs splayed open. "Jesus," he said, "what took you so long?"
"I was looking—" Stan stopped himself. Who cared what his explanation would entail? Kyle's look said everything. Stan hurried to the couch, trying not to get an eyeful of Kyle's junk. It was difficult, but he somehow managed. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry for me," said Kyle, "be sorry for yourself. I ate all the ice cream."
"You ate that whole thing of ice cream?"
Now Kyle's face pinkened with what Stan assumed to be shame. "Yeah, Stan." He slid the metal container away from him with a foot; it made a scraping noise against the slate surface of the coffee table. "I did."
"Is there more ice cream?"
"What do you care?" Kyle asked. "You don't eat ice cream."
"Of course I do!"
"Frozen vegan banana mush isn't ice cream, Stan." Kyle sounded so full of hurt and pain that it made Stan fall to his knees on the couch, making Kyle recoil. He said, "What the hell?"
"What is frozen vegan banana mush?"
"It's fucking soft-serve bananas, I dunno, you're the one who gets it, from that place on Escondido."
Something about the word "banana" made Stan need to steal a glance at Kyle's dick.
"Welp." Kyle slammed the computer shut and, gingerly, got up. "We've got Mercer in an hour."
"What's Mercer?" Stan asked.
"What's the fucking matter with you? Like you don't see the guy every week. So get dressed! I assume you want me to drive?"
"That'd be great! Could you help me pick out an outfit?"
Kyle ran a hand through his hair, sighing, his posture slumping. "I'm starting to hope this is a weird sex game," he said, "all this 'what's that' and 'I don't know' shit. On the other hand, if you think I'm going to be turned on by treating you like a child, forget it. That's my game, Stan, that's the role I want!"
"It's not a sex game!" said Stan. "I don't know half the shit you're talking about, I didn't know where the spoons were, I don't know why you couldn't save me some ice cream, and I definitely don't know how to drive! Or what Mercer is!"
"Who."
"Who what?"
"Who Mercer is, Stan, he's a couples' therapist. Anyway, of course you know how to drive, and if you don't I say it's the fault of those fucking programmable cars. Anyway, fine, I'll pick some clothes out for you. But I'm no longer finding this charming!"
True to his word, Kyle did pick out an outfit for Stan, and he did drive the car. Traffic was somewhat better than it had been on the way to the butcher, but it was uniformly frustrating. The air was still thick and smoggy, and it happened to be overcast outside, betraying the one thing Stan was certain he knew about California. The only bright spot on the drive was a moment when, paused at a stoplight, Kyle leaned over to say, "We can go out for lunch, if you want. Afterward, I mean. If you don't have too much work?"
"We can go out for lunch," Stan said.
"You haven't been working on your score a lot."
"I haven't been scoring, no."
"But you could!" Then Kyle shook his head: "Never mind, bad joke."
Stan shrugged. Too many puns were off-putting. He wasn't finding them funny.
Mercer's office was in a strip mall with four "no-damage, ASFCP-approved" tanning salons and a sushi bar, "all our fish caught humanely!" Stan found that reassuring. They walked by an American Apparel with four neon-print-clad mannequins in the window, perched on white pilasters. Then there was a bakery called "Everything Spelt."
"Spelt how?" Stan asked.
"It's a pun," Kyle answered stonily.
Stan rolled his eyes and said, "Oh."
This just made Kyle moan as if exasperated, and say, "It's too much!" They had reached their destination, an office waiting room with a lot of windows. The doors and fixtures, as well as the furniture, were all natural wood. Kyle went to sign in, and barked at Stan, "Stay put!"
So Stan sat on a natural-wood chair with a flaxen cushion, flocked with twiny trim. The whole office was a bit much for Stan, between the modernist touches of the white walls and wide windows, and the unpolished, unbridled look of the fittings. Also there were pad-pamphlets with unsettling titles such as, "Being the Best You" and "Making It Work, Together," and "Conquering Your Fear of the Self-Driving Vehicle." That seemed the least personally resonant to Stan, so he picked it up and began to study it. The first paragraph began, "Are you feeling ill-at-ease with the concept of a self-driving car? Does the term 'auto-guide' drive you out of the room? Every year, for every 10,000 Americans who gain auto-guide licensing, another 194 seek treatment for fear of self-driving or programmable vehicles. (Statistic courtesy of the United States Department of Transportation.)" The next paragraph began, "You no longer have to let your fear stand in the way of integrating this fantastic new technology into your life—" But then Kyle came over and knocked the pad out of Stan's hands.
"Hey!"
"I don't need help," said Kyle. "Those machines are untrustworthy. I can drive my own car, thanks!"
"I didn't say you couldn't?"
"You were thinking it," said Kyle.
"Thinking what?"
"That I'm a pussy and I need to get over myself. I don't! Those things are death traps!"
Stan was going to say, "What things?" but they were then called and led back to a cushy office by a middle-aged man wearing a bow tie and suspenders.
"How's this week been?" the man asked, before Stan had a chance to turn to Kyle and mock the guy's outfit.
"Well, it's Monday," said Kyle, "it's hardly been anything!"
"Then how was the end of last week?"
The office had a couch in it, a club chair, and a very modern-looking desk chair, that seemed as though the cushion were suspended in air. It didn't seem comfortable, crammed under a desk that faced the window. But that man pulled it out and sat on it as Kyle dragged Stan down to the couch.
"Ridiculous," Kyle was saying, "almost impossible. We're having a dinner party on Friday, did I mention?"
"Yes," said the shrink, "I believe last week you mentioned that."
"Well, it's very stressful. This producer knows a friend of ours, and he somehow — I don't remember how. Stan, do you remember how?"
"No," said Stan, "how what?"
Kyle rolled his eyes, but continued. "He's trying to suck up to Stan, I guess — Graham is, I mean, this friend — and he got this producer interested in Stan's work. So now he's producing this kids' flick, it's a big deal, and he's interested in tapping Stan to do the composition. But, you know these industry people, they can't take anyone based on merit, they just want to see how much effort you're willing to put into sucking them off. Now, you know me, there's nothing I put more effort into than sucking some middle-aged industry-type off."
"Kyle!"
"You know I'm not being literal!" Kyle rolled his eyes, and to Mercer he said, "Suddenly everything I say, he's taking it so literally."
"That's interesting," said Mercer. "Stanley, do you think there's validity to what Kyle is saying?"
Stan found this man's tone to be very paternal and condescending. He knew he was meant to find it slightly annoying, in a productive way, but all he could think was that finally, someone was treating him in a way that didn't make him want to claw his eyes out. "What, about me being literal?"
"Yes, you!" said Kyle.
"Shhh." Mercer waved his stylus back and forth; he wasn't holding a pad of paper, as Stan assumed shrinks typically did. "Let him speak."
"If I'm speaking literally about things it's probably because I don't know where I am or what the fuck is going on," said Stan.
"That's interesting." Mercer reached for a pad on the desk, and leaned in. "Can you expand on that?"
Stan was about to roll his eyes, and then he figured, what the hell? Why not tell this guy? What was the worst that could happen? That he thought Stan was crazy? Maybe it would turn out that Stan was crazy, that his entire life had elapsed already and one morning, he'd just woken up and forgotten all of it, collapsing under the pressure. At least that would be something. At least then Kyle would understand that the things Stan was doing, refusing Kyle's advances, were certainly not meant to hurt him.
"Welp," said Stan, feeling suddenly very free to speak at will, "I don't know what's going on because I'm 12. ... Well, 13. I just turned 13. Sorry. I meant 13."
Kyle shot Stan an outraged look. "Don't waste this time! This is supposed to be about us!"
"Let's hear him out," said Mercer. "This is interesting. Why do you feel like you're 13?"
"No, I am 13. I went to sleep one day and I was 13 and in my own bed in my parents' house, and I woke up the next day in California with this gross — old body, with Kyle, and I'm still 13."
"What hogwash!"
"This is interesting," Mercer repeated.
"I'm being literal now," said Stan. "I'm being very literal. I am 13, literally."
"So you're using 'literal' in the 'figurative' sense," said Mercer.
"No," said Stan. "No, I'm 13 years old."
"Bullshit!" said Kyle. "Every week we come here and you roll your eyes like it's a waste of time and refuse to cooperate and suddenly, out of nowhere, now you want to play this game?"
Stan turned to Kyle, trying to seem as genuine as possible. "I'm not playing any game," he said. "I swear, dude, this is real, I'm being serious."
"This is just some mind game!" Kyle shouted. "You won't touch me, you haven't touched me in days, you don't appreciate anything I'm trying to do for you, you refuse to drive anywhere, now you're making up some stupid riddle about feeling 13—"
"I am 13!"
Mercer broke in. "Well, okay. Let's — let's back up. We're not here to dismiss anyone's feelings. If Stanley says he feels like an adolescent, maybe we should brainstorm why he might be having these feelings."
"Because he's trying to make up some excuse for when he leaves me! He doesn't want to take responsibility for anything!"
"What! Dude! Why would I leave you?"
Kyle was starting to get a bit weepy now. "Because I'm a bloated old middle-aged hag and you're constantly surrounded by cute guys you could actually get because you're successful and have talent and a career and I've never done anything with my life and all I'm good for is having sex with and clearly now you've got someone else, because I'm completely used up, and why wouldn't you?" Kyle wiped at his eyes. "And for the last time, stop calling me 'dude'!"
"No, I mean, why would I leave you? I have nowhere else to go. I can't drive!"
"Oh," said Kyle, "that's super reassuring!" Then he burst into tears. Through sobs, he managed, "My whole life, all I've done is support you. Any scrape you needed to get out of, I was there. And now — now you're going to finally get what you've always wanted, a real film score, and just in time to run off with your little boy and leave me alone in that huge house with no one and I won't be able to pay the mortgage and I'll be 36 and have to move back in with my parents!"
"What little boy?" Stan asked. "I don't have a little boy. Kyle, I am a little boy!"
"Well." Mercer clicked his pen. "This is interesting, this is really, really interesting."
"Oh, fuck you!" said Kyle.
"Kyle!" said Stan.
"Well," said Mercer. "I think this is really productive!"
~
When they finally left the office, Kyle was still crying. "I've done everything!" he was wailing. "For fuck's sake I had my ass scooped out for you!"
Stan had no idea what that meant, but it sounded disgusting. "Okay." For the first time, he reached out, touching Kyle's forearm. They were standing in a parking lot, the sun beating down, engine noises and the sound of a gentle breeze rustling the palms and acacias blunting Stan's words. "Kyle, please, stop!" Stan was nearly on the verge of tears. "I don't think you understand! I don't know how to deal with this!"
"Of course you don't!" said Kyle. "If you did, you wouldn't be leaving me."
"Why would I leave you?" Stan asked. "Kyle, I'm fucking lost without you! Don't you get it? I'm fucking scared!" Now there were tears in the corners of Stan's eyes, and his voice was beginning to wobble. He bit his lip and turned away, hating to be seen breaking down like this. Whatever else he felt about how old he was, he knew adult men were not supposed to cry unless they were ridiculously confident in their own masculinity. Clearly Kyle was, but Stan felt hugely ashamed, crying in public. In front of Kyle.
"Oh." Kyle grabbed Stan by the shoulders, reaching up to do so. "Stanley, no, you — why would you be scared of anything? You're strong and handsome and talented and I'm—"
"I really, really need you," said Stan. "It doesn't matter if I'm being literal or not, okay? The fact is I need you, so bad—"
"I need you, too! At the very least for money, Stan. I have nothing without you, my whole life is built on being with you—"
"I really don't know what to do!" Stan wiped at his eyes. "I'm not lying, I don't know how to play the piano, I've never composed anything in my life, I'm really freaking out, I don't know how to talk to Hollywood people—"
"Obviously we have to help each other here," said Kyle. He wiped at one of Stan's eyes, though he was still crying himself. "I don't know what's going to happen in the future. I just know that we need to get through this week. If we get through this week we can reassess."
"Okay," Stan breathed. "If this is my life — if this is my life, dude, I want to spend it with you. We got this far, apparently, so—"
"Do you promise me you're not having an affair?"
"A what? Kyle, why, who would I be having an affair with?"
"I dunno," said Kyle. "Maybe Asher."
Stan missed a beat. Then he said, "Who the fuck even is Asher!"
"You know, Graham's boytoy."
"Shit, I hate that guy!" said Stan, though he didn't really know Graham.
"He's contemptible," said Kyle, "but what are you going to do? These are our friends, Stan."
"You've always been my only friend."
"That might be the sweetest thing you've said to me in a while."
It was hard for Stan not to smile at that. "Good," he said. "No matter what's happening, I'd be alone without you, okay? Totally alone."
"Good," Kyle agreed. "Good, I'm glad. Just — are you sure you're not having an affair?"
Knowing it was essential that he didn't miss a beat on this, Stan immediately said, "Of course I'm not having an affair!" After he said it, though, Stan had that same burning feeling he experienced when some little asshole accused him of being gay, and he denied it. (This was Eric Cartman's specialty.)
Later that night, in bed, Kyle was reading something on his tablet, and Stan was lying in bed, wondering. "Hey," Stan said, rolling over.
"Hey what?" Kyle asked. He had his fingers in his mouth, or just lighting touching his lips, anyway. For just a split second, it made Stan want to reach out and kiss him.
Yet Stan resisted. "Whatever happened to Cartman?" he asked. "And, like, Kenny? And all those other people?"
Setting the tablet aside on the table by his side of the bed, Kyle sighed. "Whatever happened to those people? They're losers, Stan, they're all stuck in South Park."
"All of them?"
"I mean, not all of them, but — you know. That's how it is with people who figured into earlier parts of your life. You see the ones you see, and the others, I dunno, you run into at Christmas. Don't you run into Kenny sometimes? At mass, or something?"
"Oh," said Stan, "do I?"
"I wouldn't know," said Kyle. "I never go. I think you said you did some year — two years ago? Whatever, he's a loser. Most of them were losers."
"Wendy?"
"Wendy? What about Wendy?"
"Is she a loser?"
"Who knows? She studied abroad in Dijon and met that guy and never came back. Maybe she's got eight kids now. Maybe she moved somewhere else. Who's to say?"
"But do her parents still live in South Park?"
"I guess," said Kyle. "Is this because we had that fight today? And you said you never had any real friends besides me? Because if so, just — I do think these people were your friends, Stan, or our friends, it's just that — being a kid, you have these kid friendships, and they're very difficult to gauge the reality of." This sounded to Stan like something from an undergraduate psychology textbook, but Kyle seemed to really mean what he was saying. "When you're a child you only get to be friends with the people you're exposed to, so in effect you don't really get to choose who your friends are. I guess, what I'd say is ... hm. Well, if I had to say something, I suppose I'd say what was always so special about us, or when I knew we were meant to be together, was that we always seemed to pick each other. Like, we chose to go into this, you know?"
Stan really didn't, but he said, "Yeah."
"So if you're feeling insecure, or whatever, I know today was rough, but — don't."
"Okay," said Stan. He was about to consider the conversation over, but when Kyle reached for his tablet again, Stan had a thought that just popped out: "Whatever happened to Craig?"
"Craig?" Kyle asked. He dropped the tablet on the covers. "Craig Tucker?"
"Yeah," said Stan. "Uh — that guy."
Kyle rolled his eyes. Kyle seemed to do that all the time. Stan wasn't sure if he found it vexing, or kind of attractive. The more he looked at older Kyle, the more he found Kyle's features sort of cute, the way Stan found Wendy sort of cute, too. There was something attractive there, and perhaps if the fundamentals of the present situation were different — if Stan were an adult, too — he might lean over and kiss Kyle right now, fully, on the lips. But no tongue, or anything. Nothing else. Just full-on kissing.
"You know," said Kyle, picking up the tablet again. "It's too bad there's no Facebook anymore. Fucking antitrust lawsuits!"
"What's an antitrust lawsuit?" Stan asked.
"Do you really think you can't play the piano?" Kyle replied.
"What? Dude, I know I can't play the piano."
"Right, you keep saying. Well, how about this? If you can't play for them, if you're really blanking — I mean, if you're having a temporary mental-creative block — I think we can still pull this shit off. I don't know if we can get you a contract, per se, but — well, I think we can do it!"
"Do what?"
"Give the best fucking dinner party ever."
"Oh!" said Stan.
"At the very least it'll keep them interested."
"Well, that sounds fine. What do I have to do?"
Kyle thought for a moment. "Whatever I tell you to!"
That didn't sound so bad. "Okay."
"And, you know. Just be your charming self!" Kyle leaned over, and planted a soft kiss on Stan's cheek. Then he rolled to his other side and snapped off the light.
Stan lay there in the dark, hand on his cheek, dick throbbing in his boxers, remembering the feeling of Kyle's warm, dry lips on his skin. This could be his life, he figured. It was imperfect, and he was not overall certain he would be able to master the art of dinner party lingo, let alone composing a film score. But if he really had grown up and forgotten the past 25 years, well, it could have gone so much worse. Stan thought for the first time that he was going to be able to make the most of this.
~
It was a trying week for Stan, who felt useless to help Kyle, or himself. On Tuesday Kyle called all of their dinner guests, making a final list of attendees, and then a seating chart. Stan watched over Kyle's shoulder as Kyle sketched an outline of their dining room table, then six places, then started filling them with guests. Kyle placed Stan at the head of the table; Kyle placed himself far away, nearest the kitchen, next to Victor, the producer, whom Kyle seated at the opposite head of the table, across from Stan.
"That doesn't make any sense," Stan remarked, gazing into the tablet's screen.
"What doesn't?"
"Why aren't I next to you?"
Kyle scoffed. "You mean, 'why aren't I next to you?' "
"I don't know," Stan said. "Why aren't I?"
"It's politicking," said Kyle.
"Huh?"
"Come on, Stan, you've been to enough dinner parties. When you're wining and dining someone, you try to give them a place of privilege. You're the head of the household, clearly, so you sit at the head of the table, but we can't place Victor anywhere subordinate to you, so he's got to sit at the head. Then, as the evening's hostess" — Kyle rolled his eyes as he said it — "it's an honor to sit near me, so I'm putting myself next to Victor. Then we distribute people evenly according to where they best fit. Graham knows Victor so I'm putting him on Victor's other side and across from me. You know Butters—"
"Butters?" Stan asked. Suddenly he felt almost pathetic in how excited he was.
"Yes, Butters!" Kyle pointed to the place where he'd seated Leopold. "Butters knows you but he doesn't know anyone else, so I'm seating him on your left, so that puts Butters and Graham, both of whom we know, near Azure, who's coming with Victor."
"Oh! Well, I don't get it — I mean, why not sit her next to Victor if they're coming together."
"They already know each other," said Kyle. "Shit, I've been doing this for too long. Listen, it's about creating little pockets of social activity. You don't want anyone to feel left out, but you don't want anyone overwhelmed. You don't want the conversation to center around one guy who's the king of the dinner table, but you also don't want anyone to have to make too much effort. And you definitely don't want awkward silent moments! Making a party is like, kind of weaving something really complicated together, you know?"
Stan didn't, really, but he nodded and said, "Makes sense. I guess. Gosh, you're really smart."
"Thanks," said Kyle, though he sounded as though he felt less than flattered. "Glad I could use my doctorate for something productive for once."
"You got a doctorate in party planning?" Stan asked.
"Don't be an ass!" Kyle turned away and went back to planning his seating chart. Then, a moment later, he looked up, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you suddenly so interested in this?"
"Interested in what? The party?"
"Well, yeah, I mean—no, like, party-planning, or, what I'm doing with my life, or whatever. I guess. My housewifing, or ... whatever."
"I guess I just think you're kinda cool," Stan said.
"Thanks," said Kyle. "I feel pretty flattered. That's nice."
It was difficult for Stan to tell if Kyle was being serious. It sounded as if there was some hurt in his tone. "I do appreciate this, dude. I mean, Kyle. I mean — everything you're doing for me, I know it's a lot of work, so. I guess I just want to say—"
Kyle interrupted Stan, getting up. "That's okay! I know. Just — let's save these conversations for next week, okay? Let's just get through this."
"Okay," said Stan, "I guess." All of a sudden he was greatly looking forward to picking this conversation up again next week, looking forward to something in his life here. It was a new feeling, and it didn't seem entirely weird.
~
Kenny could not come raking on Wednesday afternoon. He sat square in the middle of the free-throw line at the public basketball court after school, interrupting a game of HORSE.
"I'm not fucking raking with you," Kenny said, planting himself on the ground. Kyle was brandishing a rake, pointing the rusty end square at Kenny.
"Like hell you're not," said Kyle.
"I'm not, I'm not and you can't make me!"
"Then what are you going to do?" The rake was perilously close to Kenny's face.
"I'm playing HORSE with these guys." Kenny stood up and brushed his jeans off. They were weirdly dusty, and Kyle took a step back, not wanting to be contaminated.
"I don't remember saying you could play with us." This was Clyde Donovan, a large boy from whom Stan had received a Christmas card every year since graduating high school. At 37 Clyde was unmarried, seemingly sexless, and the owner of a very large, very hairy, white dog. Kyle (adult Kyle) liked to surmise that Clyde was paying for multiple photo shoots every year with this dog, because the Christmas card always had a standard format: a picture of Clyde and the dog, each of them in a different seasonal sweater. Most recently they had been ready for Valentine's Day, the Fourth of July, Halloween, and Christmas. The dog's name was Whitey, which Kyle found funny and Stan found offensive. "There's no meanness behind it," Kyle would say, "Clyde Donovan doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He's just stupid."
Stan didn't know if this was true, but he did know that Clyde had a blonde girl hanging off of him. It was Bebe Stevens, one of Wendy's best friends, and while she seemed to be dating Clyde, she was giving Stan a troubling, accusatory look.
"I will do anything to get out of raking," Kenny insisted. "Donovan, I challenge you to a game of HORSE."
The third person in their party, a black boy with well-trimmed nails and hair, stepped forward. "We already started a game of HORSE," he said. "It's nothing personal." Token Black was married to a Brazilian former model and lived in a great Victorian in Denver. He was the president of a nonprofit that trained low-income children in rural parts of Colorado in tech products and graphic design software. It was also rumored that he owned a lion.
"It's personal!" said Bebe.
"How is it personal?" Kenny asked.
"He knows what he did!" Bebe stepped away from Clyde, crossing her arms. She was clearly talking to Stan.
"Me?" Stan asked, unsure of what business they had together. "What did I do?"
"You stood up Wendy!"
"That's ridiculous!" Kyle interjected. "That was all of like, four days ago!"
"It was five days ago and if you'd been stood up, you'd damn well remember."
"If I were stood up I'd get over it, Bebe," Kyle said coolly. "I'm an adult. Or, I mean, I'd be mature about it."
"It's not about that one time," she said. "If you think it's about that one time, you're stupid. It's about a pattern of behavior! That's Wendy's term. It's very hurtful to be constantly neglected."
"I don't neglect you," Clyde interjected, needlessly.
"If you did I'd shove a shoe down your throat."
"That's very violent!" said Token.
"Token, man," said Kenny. "There are worse things."
"What the fuck, Kenny?" Kyle took a step forward, clearly no longer afraid of getting dirty. "You were supposed to catch that ball! If you had caught that ball Stan wouldn't be in trouble!"
"Oh, shit," said Clyde. "Is this about Craig's drama?"
"What drama?" Token asked.
"Marsh threw a football through Thomas Tucker's windshield."
"Ohhh." Token shrugged, stepping back. He was generally aloof, and even in adulthood, Stan liked him. "Man, that's rough. I wouldn't cross that guy."
"Why not?" Bebe asked. "Craig's parents are okay. They're never home when we come over and we drink their beers."
"That guy's just kind of a jerk," said Token. "You guys have my sympathies."
"How is never being home and letting your kid's friends steal beers being 'okay'?" Kyle asked. "Christ, those are the sort of people who would extort a kid."
"They're extorting you? That's rough, man. That's really rough. There's got to be some way out of that. Why don't you just tell your mom and dad what happened?"
"Well, I—" Stan looked to Token. He remembered feeling overcome five days ago by the idea that his parents absolutely could never find out. Now he wasn't so sure why he didn't just tell them. Even in old-time money, how much was 200 dollars to an adult, really? Didn't Stan's dad work for the government, kind of? Surely it wouldn't be too much out of his wallet.
Unfortunately, before Stan could voice this to Token, Kyle stepped in. "That's absurd!" he cried. "Stan'll be grounded!"
"So?" Bebe took a step toward Kyle. "Why don't you let him think for himself? Why don't you let him take responsibility for his own actions? Stan doesn't care who he hurts!"
"Why do you care about Wendy so much?" Kyle asked. "Are you gay for her, or something?"
"Gay for her? Ha! That's a laugh. Figures you'd only understand caring about someone you were gay for."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Kenny spoke up. "It's pretty obvious, dude."
"God dammit I am not gay!" Kyle cried, and he picked his rake back up. "I am trying to be responsible! Nobody else ever manages these situations and I am trying to manage it! Everything always goes to shit in this town. Always! And I for one am not going to stand by and let it happen! I am going to get out of this town unscathed and if that means starting with placating Craig Tucker, I'll do it!"
Then Kyle turned to Kenny. "And you! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You were supposed to catch that ball! You owe us!"
"Oh, bullshit I owe you," said Kenny. "Sorry I didn't catch your precious ball. Maybe Stan's throw was bad!"
"It was a good throw!" Kyle insisted.
"Maybe we could make him throw it right now," said Clyde, "like, to Kenny, and see who's right?"
"That's stupid, man," said Token.
"I don't want these guys hanging out here if they're going to cause drama," said Bebe. "Everywhere drama!"
"What drama?" asked Stan.
"Wendy! You're such a dick to Wendy! She's going to do something really stupid and it's going to be your fault!"
"How is it going to be my fault?"
"Wait," said Clyde, shaking his head. "Wendy's going to kill herself?"
"No!" Bebe reached out and slapped him. "No, god, don't over say that! I just mean — she might start looking at other people. Some people care about what they have."
"I care," said Stan, though not about Wendy, he didn't. This entire conversation on the basketball court was, for him, simply a delay to spending more time with Kyle.
"Then be a man and do something about it."
"Are we going to do this ball toss? Stan can't throw for shit."
"Shut up, Kenny!"
"No, Kyle, you shut up! I'm not your slave. And it's not my fault I didn't catch that ball. Why isn't it Stan's fault that he threw it toward a bunch of cars?"
"That's where you were standing!" Kyle said.
"Then why didn't he throw it to you?"
"There were cars everywhere! You know that."
"Then it was bound to happen that someone might damage a car, I guess," said Kenny. "It could have been any one of us! Or none of us! And it happened to be Stan. I'm sick of being the victim of random chance. It's someone else's turn now! It's not my fault you're a little control freak."
"I am not a control freak!" Kyle poked at Kenny with the rake.
Kenny hopped away. "Nope, I'm done. I'm out." He turned to Clyde. "I'm playing HORSE with you guys."
"Get lost," said Clyde. "My dad says it's not good for me to be around this kind of negativity. That's why he won't let me hang out with Craig."
"That's mean," said Token. "Kenny, if you want to play with us you can sit out until the next round."
"Deal!" said Kenny, and he went to go plop himself down on a bench, where he sat with crossed arms, hunched over.
With a healthy bounce, Token whacked the ball to Clyde, who failed to catch it, and ran after it as it dribbled slowly down the court, toward the chain-link fence.
"Okay," said Clyde, panting as he trudged back to the group. "Um, how did you shoot again, last time?"
"Give it," said Bebe, and she plucked the basketball from his arms.
"Come on!" Kyle cried, grabbing Stan by the hand. "We're leaving. This is ridiculous!"
"That ungrateful asshole!" Kyle squealed, when they were trudging down the road, rakes balancing in their hands. "After everything I've done for him!"
"What have you done for him?" Stan asked.
Kyle paused in the road, kicking at the newly laid sod on the parkway next to them. "It's the principle!"
"What principle?" Stan grabbed Kyle by the hand, instinctively. When Kyle recoiled, Stan dropped the hand and said, "Come on. I didn't want him around, anyway."
"You didn't?"
"No."
"But we can rake more yards—"
"Whatever," Stan said quickly. He no longer much cared about the yards, or the money, or Craig. The autumn afternoon sun was disappearing behind the pines at the end of the block, and Kyle's hair was lit up as the light shone through. The most beautiful color, Stan thought, and he wondered when he had last taken in Kyle's hair. Hadn't it been far too long? "I don't care how many fucking yards we rake. All I really care about is spending this time with you."
Kyle's eyes grew about eight sizes, and he said, "Do you mean it?" He had turned bright pink, and bit his lip.
"I mean it!"
"Well. At least that's flattering!" Kyle hoisted his rake again, and made his way up the garden path toward the next doorbell.
CHAPTER 7
The energy Kyle demonstrated in his party-planning as the week drew to an end was relentless and unwavering. Stan found it a touch frightening. Kyle spent an hour on Wednesday morning in the guest bathroom, programming the lights so that they glowed at "optimal intensity." After a time Stan broke down and asked what this meant.
"Well," said Kyle washing his hands, gazing at himself in the mirror. "When one walks away from the dinner table and into the powder room, one likes to see himself in the best light. I mean, literally."
"So?"
"So?"
"So, what does that have to do with the — our party?"
Turning to face Stan, Kyle said, "You want these people to have a good time, Stanley, don't you? Don't you want them to be in a good mood? You want them to hire you, and — and you want them to look forward to more dinner parties. Typically they'd hire you on the basis of the work you're doing for them, but since you claim to be unable to write, well, I suppose we'll just have to force them to look forward to a long-term working relationship." Kyle reached for the light switch. "Yes," he said, turning back to spy himself in the mirror again. "This light is very kind. That'll do." He snapped it off and left the room, bypassing Stan as he did.
"Where are you going?" Stan asked, unsure whether to follow. He was at a loss, unable to leave the house and unable to find anything to do inside of it. Kyle now seemed more invested in putting together this dinner party than in bothering Stan about sex. Stan worried that Kyle was no longer attracted to him — up until the point where he realized that Kyle was, at least emotionally, a good 25 years Stan's senior.
"I'm going to the kitchen to cut mangos."
"Why?"
"So I can make mango ice cream." Kyle paused and leaned against a wall. He was wearing a robe again, though this time, he had it loosely tied in the front so that the most Stan saw of his body was a sliver of chest and scraggly red chest hair. This made Stan recall the feel of it on his face when he woke up with Kyle that first day. Had it been almost a week? "To go with the soufflés I'm making. You know."
"Soufflés?"
"Yeah," said Kyle, "Grand Marnier."
Stan wasn't sure what Grand Marnier was, just that it was alcohol, and that there was a dusty bottle of it in his parents' liquor cabinet, which indicated that they didn't really drink it.
"Those don't really go together, of course," Kyle continued, "but I just figured, well — I wanted to." He sighed, crossing his arms. Now Stan couldn't even see that sliver of bare skin. "You can sit with me, you know — if you're not doing anything."
"I can help," Stan suggested.
"I mean." Kyle seemed surprised. "If you want?"
"I should, yeah, I mean — it's my party, right?"
"Well, yes, but it's not like you've ever felt compelled to help before. You know, not for a while."
"Seems wrong," said Stan. "I should help."
"Then come along," Kyle replied, and he began to shuffle away.
It was just then that Stan noticed that Kyle was barefoot. Not that the condition of Kyle's feet mattered much, but it got him wondering about whether Kyle's feet were cold. Stan also wondered why he should care if Kyle's feet were cold, and then he thought about whether Kyle's feet were dirty. Part of Stan desperately wanted to check. Another part was somewhat dismayed at himself.
In the kitchen, Kyle set out about a dozen mangos. He also took out a steel jug of cream. Stan knew it was cream because it was so strongly scented that he could tell from the other side of the kitchen. Kyle had a canister of sugar, and a tin marked "gelatin, pre-bloomed," in what Stan knew to be a sloppier version of Kyle's handwriting. Lastly, Kyle disappeared into the pantry and came back with a machine that looked like it had seen a considerable amount of use, the white plastic yellowed with age. It was also stylistically different than nearly everything else in the house, save for some odds and ends Stan had found in his closet and office. Though the shape and heft of the machine, with its cylindrical appearance and variety of knobby gray buttons, had a sort of familiar millennial look to Stan, it was also obvious to him that this was an antique.
The whole time Kyle had been setting up, he had been relatively quiet, save for the soft grunts he made waddling to the counter with the heavy ice cream-maker in his hands. Now he said, "I like to think your mother would be happy I still use this."
"I guess she would be," Stan said, and suddenly he felt a bit sick, and missed her very much.
"I'm sure she never wished for me to constantly gorge myself on ice cream."
Not sure what to say, Stan said nothing. He was still thinking of his mother, and wondering if he'd ever seen her again by virtue of returning to his own life in their little suburban home. Then, Stan felt badly. It was unreasonable for a 13-year-old boy to love his mother so much.
For a time Stan sat in the kitchen and listened to Kyle chat about nothing while he skinned and gutted mango. There were restaurants Kyle wanted to try, gym memberships he refused to cancel even if he wasn't using them and hadn't for a while. "The dues are negligible when the initiation fees are taken into account," he insisted. "Plus, what if I wanted to swim?" He then seemed to turn to Stan, expecting an answer.
"Oh," said Stan. "I'm not sure. Do you swim?"
"Well." With two fingers, Kyle scraped pulpy jewel-toned mango from the blade in his hand. "Not since college, you know."
Stan's only memories of Kyle and swimming were of Kyle throwing fits about the likeliness of urine in public pools. He tried to imagine his boyish Kyle swimming laps. It seemed impossible. Kyle did not flail about; his body was tightly controlled and Stan wasn't sure that Kyle would expose himself to the smooth, broad movements that were required of swimming, leaving the body vulnerable.
But maybe adult Kyle swam. What did Stan know about it? Now Kyle was sucking bits of mango off of his fingers, and apparently out from under his nails.
As Kyle moved to the sink to wash his hands, he said, "I'd like to get back to my book."
"Yeah?" Stan stood up and went to peer into the bowl of cut mango, which smelled divine.
"Well, yeah," Kyle was saying, over the rush of the faucet. He pumped globs of pearly soap into his hands. To Stan, it seemed a highly sexual action, Kyle staring down at his long fingers as he washed them. "I feel so useless most days, you know? I'm sorry I spend all of counseling bitching about you. It's not like I don't have issues."
"Um, well." Stan wasn't sure what to say. "Everyone has issues."
"Mine are so endemic. And to act as if that's not part of any problems we share together in our relationship is relatively awful of me. I'm sorry." The faucet off, Kyle shook the excess water from his hands into the stainless steel sink. He grabbed a homely dishrag from the windowsill and rubbed his fingers with it. "Admittedly," he said, walking back toward the bowl of wet mango, "my shrink encouraged me to say these things."
"When did you go to the shrink?" Stan asked, taken aback.
"I didn't feel like leaving the house today," he said. "I was just feeling — out-of-control, I guess. I was going to ask you to drive me—"
"I don't know how to drive!"
"—so I had an appointment over the phone. Don't tell me it's a waste of money! I know it's a waste of money. But it's a waste of your money." Kyle sighed. "And don't give me that shit about not knowing how to drive! What is it with you?"
"Nothing, I—" Stan noticed Kyle's finger in the bowl of mango.
"Don't worry. My hands are clean. Do you ... want some mango?" The trailing off in the middle of Kyle's thought caught Stan's attention.
"Sure." Stan had never actually had mango. Not fresh mango, just cut, soft and buttery in texture, heavenly scented. Stan had tried mango-flavored things: a chilled pudding at a dim sum restaurant; low-fat yogurt; a fried pie at a fair in Denver.
Stan expected Kyle to spear a piece on a fork and proffer it to Stan, but Kyle produced no fork. Instead, he lofted a piece of mango with his hands, and said, "Here you go."
It was instinctual; Stan didn't mean to open his mouth, but he did, and Kyle fed the mango right to him. Stan's lips closed around both the mango and Kyle's fingers, the taste of both the fruit and the pearly soap overwhelming Stan's senses. He closed his eyes, dick jumping to life, causing his body to buckle, and he rested his hands on the counter.
- Kayotics -
"Good, huh?"
Opening his eyes, Stan saw Kyle (whose fingers were still in Stan's mouth) grinning at him.
"Ripe, right? Kind of perfect?" Kyle pulled his fingers away.
Suddenly, Stan felt embarrassed. "I'm, um—" He was desperately aroused, and couldn't endure it.
"I have to get back to making ice cream." Kyle walked back toward the sink, a look of satisfaction on his face.
Stan fled.
~
He spent the rest of the day in his office, or that other Stan's office, cowering away from Kyle. There had been only one short pit stop in the powder room, the one with optimal lighting, where Stan had beaten off as quickly and efficiently as possible, wiping all the evidence away with a neatly folded hand towel. He then felt guilty, but figured that maid, Rosa, would get it, as she seemed to get everything.
Attempting to tinker at the keyboard, Stan found that he was unable to turn it back on. So he let his fingers mimic some of the chords he had learned in the past weeks, depressing the keys so they made dull clacking sounds. He felt imprisoned in this room, with its wall of books and piles of papers and optional technologies. Stan could not relax when he felt stifled, yet if he went out there, he would undoubtedly have to face sex-craved Kyle who would possibly try to make Stan suck on his fingers again. Stan vowed to stay away.
It was no use. After a seeming eternity of this, Kyle came and knocked on the door anyway. "What are you up to?" he asked, sweeping in to sit on Stan's lap. "Psyching yourself up for tomorrow?"
"Kinda, I guess," Stan demurred.
"Ice cream's in the fridge," said Kyle. "I need a bath. Then I have to get to the fish. I can wrap it so it's ready to go into the oven tomorrow. Stan, are you okay?"
"Me? Yeah, I'm — fine, why?"
"You just seem distracted! Did you get enough to eat? Did you want some lunch?"
The thought of asking Kyle for anything, let alone another meal of old-people food, put Stan off lunch entirely. "I can get my own lunch. Um, if I want it. But — thanks."
"Oh." Kyle slipped off of Stan's lap and pulled his robe together. "Well, at least try to get out today, Stan! I'm getting worried about you."
"I'm okay. Uh. Where would I go?"
"I don't know! Take a drive, get a coffee, go down to the beach and take a walk."
"I'm not sure—"
"Then just go out into the yard or something," said Kyle. "Christ, could you make it any harder to help you?" He left shaking his head. Then he turned around and shouted, "I'll be upstairs if you need me! You know, for now."
"Thanks," said Stan, but Kyle didn't return to say 'you're welcome.'
Stan let enough time elapse so that it was likely Kyle had made it into the bath. Then, Stan got up. He was sick of sitting in that office, of sitting in the house. It was very bright out, another cloudless day. Stan found the idea of it appealing. He felt a kind of discomfort when that voice announced, "Back door open," and it gave Stan pause. But then he figured the damage was done, and Kyle had told him to go outside anyhow.
The garden was well-manicured and picturesque, the kind of thing Stan expected to find in a magazine. He knew nothing of landscape design, but there was an obvious artistry to how everything was planted, even where walkways were laid. Stan crossed a little bridge over an artificially curved stream. It was just past midday and the sun was at its zenith; it was bright out, but not too hot. The real problem was the air quality, which was poor; Stan found himself moving slower than he would have liked.
Across the yard was the pagoda structure, which Stan had not dwelt on since his first morning here. Curious, he approached it. The thing seemed to have a door, and Stan pulled at the handle. It seemed to be stuck, so Stan used his foot against the wall for some leverage. It was difficult, but he pulled the door open and gazed inside.
At first it was difficult for Stan to say what he was looking at. There were tatami mats on the floor, plush cushions on wooden benches, a bar cart made of bamboo, and for decoration on the wall, a hanging kimono. It was unlike anything Stan was familiar with, so he drew closer. Then he walked clear into a box.
Looking down, Stan rubbed his shin where it had hit the box, which was of plain cardboard. He turned, and found the pagoda was full of boxes — many boxes. For a moment he feared to look into one, his breathing labored, able to choke out only, "What the hell?" This was when he noticed the faint mildew smell, which was distinct from the way the rest of the house was scented, floral and clean, like Kyle.
It was really an unbearable number of boxes, five or six tall in some places, and they were by no means small. The pagoda, Stan realized, was deceptively tall; the height of the space rose up into the chapel roof, and Stan looked up to see a row of clerestory windows that let in kind, natural light. What was this place, Stan wondered? What was in those boxes?
There were a few minutes when Stan sat down on the tatami mats and put his head in his hands, thinking. He breathed somewhat easier on the floor like this, and needed the pause to rationalize this to himself: this was his house, his pagoda, his boxes. Right? Kyle was his husband — or, no, they weren't married, but Kyle was clearly his. Something in Stan seemed to fold, and he was flush with the realization that this was his life. His house, his boxes, his Kyle. Why shouldn't he look in them?
Getting up, Stan found one box that sat on the floor away from the greater mass. This was the one he'd tripped up on initially, and he found a bit of the tape that held it together was coming loose, as if someone had opened and repacked it. For a moment Stan suspected foul play, but he realized that was ridiculous. He didn't know what was in this box, and therefore had no reason to suspect anyone wanting to go through it. Moreover, though the door was clearly unlocked and the pagoda itself was in the middle of the open yard, the lot itself was large and set back from the road. And, Stan assured himself, Kyle would not keep anything valuable in a pagoda. There was just something about this situation telling Stan that Kyle had no interest in these boxes.
So Stan tore the tape off the box, and unfolded the flaps. He dug inside to find — cloth. Clothing. Old clothing! These seemed soft and worn, and Stan wondered whose they were. Initially he suspected they were his, pulling out turtleneck sweaters with narrow sleeves that tapered toward the wrist. This was the sort of thing he would do, squirrel away all of his old clothing, as with the old keyboard and the music and books, when clearly print matter was mostly obsolete.
Making piles, Stan began to clear the box, pulling small pairs of slacks and more sweaters. This wasn't his clothing — it couldn't have been, unless he'd at some point embarked on a very unfashionable drag career. It could have been Kyle's, he figured; Kyle seemed the type. But for all his fussiness, Kyle didn't wear women's clothing, and Stan acknowledged this with a sigh of relief. "Even if I'm having amnesia," Stan said to himself, "I'd probably recognize my own stuff," much the way other elements of this future life seemed at once strange and familiar.
Then, at the bottom of the box, Stan pulled out a dress. That was unavoidably an item of women's clothing, and Stan held it aloft, looking at it, trying to place it. Someone he knew wore this, a dowdy gray thing with a sharp V-neckline and many awkward creases in the long, matronly skirt. The air quality and getting up on his knees had forced Stan to breathe deeply again, and he got a whiff of it — home. This dress smelled of his kitchen, his bedroom, of the folded cloth napkins in the dining room china cabinet. It smelled of South Park, and Stan knew this dress was his mother's.
He dropped it, and stood up, though he instantly felt dizzy. Stan felt the acutest pain he had experienced in some time at the sharp realization that he had lost something. He tried to plug these thoughts up, unsteady on his feet, staring down at the pile of clothing. He put a hand to his jaw and felt his eyes begin to water. He had lost something, he knew — his home. His childhood! He tried to reassure himself, rationalizing that South Park was still there, it was only a plane ride away. Hadn't Kyle said his friends were all back there, in South Park? Surely his family was, too, his mother and his father. Maybe his sister was as well, or maybe she'd grown up and left like he did at some point. Stan felt a tug in his chest, the kind of metaphorical heartbreak people wrote about in the sorts of teen girls' novels Wendy read aloud to him sometimes, when he let her. Jesus, this feeling! What happened?
God, he'd just turned 13, and now somehow it was all gone, everything he knew and loved. Even if it was still there — even if, like Kyle, some version of his house and his family and South Park was still extant in his life, accessible in some form — it wouldn't be the same. It was all gone! Stan reminded himself that grown men didn't cry, and neither did 13-year-old boys. There was no excuse. So he would pretend nothing had happened, he would leave the clothes on the floor and back out and wedge that difficult door shut—
The strength of the sun was shocking. Stan's trachea tightened as he tugged the door into place. He would go inside and Kyle would know what to do. He had to be with Kyle. Kyle would fix this; he would make this feeling go away.
But Stan was shocked to see someone else standing there, by the pagoda. It was a man — well, a boy, someone older than Stan felt but younger than he knew he looked. The boy stood there in knee-length white denim shorts and a pastel-yellow T-shirt, the color of storybook butter. The shirt was so thin, papery in texture, that Stan could see the boy's nipples.
"Hi," said the kid, and he sort of tilted his chin into the air. His hair was blond, though much darker than the T-shirt, and his arms were crossed; he held his elbows at his hip bones. It seemed awkward to Stan, somehow acrobatic.
"Um." Stan was really not sure what to say. "Hi?"
"Hi," the boy repeated. "Is there any sort of reason why you're not returning my messages?"
Stan blinked. It was too smoggy and too bright to deal with this. "Casey?
"Yeah?"
"Dude, I—" Stan swallowed. "Hi."
"Hi," said Casey, for a third time. "Are you, like, busy?"
"Me? No." Stan had to brace himself against the door to the pagoda. "I'm not. I'm, um — not busy."
"Because you're ignoring my messages!" said Casey. "And you ditched me!"
"I didn't ditch you," said Stan, though he really had no clue, and felt bad if he had, in fact, ditched Casey. "I haven't been checking — um, answering — my messages."
"I waited all yesterday," Casey said. "All evening I sat at that stupid bar you like. It was horrible! Lesbians kept talking to me!"
"So?"
"You know I hate that!"
"Calm down, dude." Stan was thoroughly disinterested in dealing with this at the moment.
"I am calm!" This reminded Stan of something Kyle would say, particularly when he was on the cusp of freaking out. "Just because I'm the other woman doesn't mean you can treat me like I don't have feelings. My therapist said I'm not supposed to let myself be treated like this!"
"What is it with people in this town and therapists?"
"Don't be snarky about it!"
"I'm just saying! Listen. What can I do to get you to go away?"
"Excuse me?" said Casey. "You owe me a date. At least a meal!"
Stan did not like anything about his kid one bit. "I don't owe you anything," he said. "Look, I — I'm involved with someone else."
"No shit. You don't have to give me your lecture again, about how you won't leave your little wifey. About how this isn't serious. That was our deal! You didn't have to be serious about it if you treated me with respect. But standing me up, ignoring my messages — that's not very respectful!"
"You're right," said Stan. What else was he supposed to say? "It's not very respectful. I'm sorry. Just—"
"Just what?"
"Just." Stan became very quiet: "Don't call Kyle my 'little wifey,' " he said. "He's pretty great."
"Pretty great!" Casey scoffed. "I don't want to talk about her anyway. This is about me and you!"
"There is no me and you."
"I know! I'm just saying—"
"I mean, there is no me and you because — because, um. I'm dumping you!" Stan was shaking, his heart beating wildly, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
"Excuse me," said Casey, "are you being serious right now?"
"Yeah," said Stan. "You bet I am!"
"Shit." It was only here that Casey's posture took on a bit of slack, and he began to bite at his thumbnail.
For a moment Stan pitied him. Not a great deal, but enough. "You, um, seem like an okay guy?" He reached out to pat Casey on the shoulder, tentative. Stan was afraid something might go wrong, that Casey might freak out and storm into the house and tell Kyle everything. It was odd, being held accountable for a situation Stan didn't recall initiating. "You know, sometimes this stuff doesn't work out?" Stan shut his eyes, unable to look at poor Casey — but then, when he shut his eyes, all he saw was his girlfriend, Wendy Testaburger, as if he was saying this to her. So, Stan opened his eyes. "You'll find someone, you know. You're young and — cool."
"Cool!" Casey spat, like it was ridiculous.
"Yeah, dude," said Stan. He withdrew his hand, crossing his arms. "You know, it's weird that I just like, found you here."
"Well, you stood me up! And you didn't answer my messages!"
"Yeah, I'm—" Stan saw the look of hurt on Casey's face, and he softened. "I'm sorry, dude, that wasn't right of me. I should have replied to your messages."
"Oh." Casey brushed some hair from his eyes; he was squinting in the sun. "No, it wasn't! So, apology accepted."
"You're — cool with this?"
"I really just wanted you to like, admit what you did. See, my therapist—"
And Casey went off again.
When Casey had gone, and when Stan went into the house, it smelled sweet, like Kyle was cooking. The couch looked inviting, and Stan went to sit down, sinking into the cushions. He rubbed his eyes. He listened. There were sounds of clanking coming from the kitchen, and the dining room table was now set. Stan had no interest in table settings. He put his head in his hands; he just wanted this miserable experience to be over. He was plagued, though, by two possibilities. What if this experience never came to an end — what if this was his life?
And worse: What if it was all his fault?
~
It happened on Thursday morning, on the way to the bus stop.
Kyle had come to Stan's door, which was unusual. Stan did not remember Kyle meeting up with him at home before school, at least not in seventh grade. Stan was only half dressed, his shoes and socks on, but he was not wearing a shirt. In truth he had been studying himself in the bathroom mirror, enduring his sister's knocks on the bathroom door. He had opened it, and asked, "What?"
She had looked down at him, her eyes puffy, his skin sallow. "I need to put on foundation," she'd said. "Get out of there."
"My school starts a half-hour before yours," Stan had said, "and I need to walk to the bus stop."
"So?"
"So? You have a car!"
"You owe me 30 bucks," she had said, "you owe me 30 bucks so I suggest you get out of the bathroom — what the hell are you doing in there, anyway?"
He had been looking at himself, looking at his chest. Looking for signs of chest hair. Trying to remind himself he was an adult. Failing. "Nothing," he'd said. "Just — mind your own business, Shelly." She never minded her own business, she'd never learned. Forcing him to play the piano for their father, forcing him to come home, trying to drag him into her life with her need to absolve her guilt over not being there—
"Do you want mom and dad to find out?" she was asking. "Because, I'll tell them—"
And then the doorbell had rung.
"Who the hell?" Shelly had asked, a look of guilt on her face. Stan most certainly had not asked her what it was concerning.
Stan saw his mother in her bathrobe, come stumbling out of the bedroom. "Wasn't one of you going to get that?" she asked, on her way down the stairs.
"Shelly's in my way," Stan had said.
"Stanley's being a little shit," she'd countered.
And while Stan was waiting for his mother to reprimand her for using the S-word, Sharon had gone downstairs and opened the door.
"Hi, Mrs. Marsh." It was Kyle. He sounded nervous. "Is Stan home?"
"Well, of course he's home." Sharon Marsh sounded annoyed. Disgusted. "It's just — honey, it's cold out. Come inside."
Stan heard the door shut, and he heard Kyle running up the stairs. "Stan?" Kyle asked, reaching the landing.
"Honey," Stan's mother said, following behind Kyle. "Honey, were you expecting a visitor? At 6:30 in the morning?"
This was when Shelly shrugged, and made a face, as if saying, "Well, you're in trouble anyway" — and she shoved right into the bathroom. Stan even heard the lock click.
Standing there, at a loss for what to say, Stan moved aside. He was shirtless, and Kyle was staring at him. Kyle was wearing a parka, and a hunter's cap that hid his hair.
Stan was shirtless.
"Stanley, you can't keep doing this," his mother said, hands on her hips. He could see part of her bare chest peeking though the folds of her robe. Stan wanted to rest his cheek against it. He wished she would embrace him. Instead, she continued, "Look, I know we say sometimes Kyle is family — no offense, Kyle — but you can't invite him over here at 6:30 on a school day!"
"I'm sorry," Stan choked out. He crossed his arms over his chest.
"No, you're not," said Kyle. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Marsh, Stan didn't invite me, I just came—"
"Can't you two just meet at the bus stop?" she asked.
"Of course," said Kyle. "I'm really sorry, I hope I didn't disturb anything."
"It's fine, sweetheart," she said. Her hair was mussed and she seemed so tired. "Just, it really is early, in our house."
"I just had to meet Stan before school!"
"It's all right, it's fine," she said. "We'll talk about this later, Stan."
"I didn't do anything!" he spat.
"Well, we'll just — look. I'm getting back in bed. Good morning, boys. I'm getting back in bed for half an hour. If only." And she left, shutting the door behind her.
Now they were alone, in the morning dark of the hallway. There was a skylight, but it was too early; the sun was shining on the other side of the house. Stan had not lived here for years and yet he remembered which face of the house was the eastern side and which rooms became bright earliest in the morning.
"I'm sorry," Kyle said. His voice was sharp with worry. "I didn't mean—I had to see you—they're always at the bus stop before me—"
"It's okay," said Stan, taking Kyle into his room. He switched the overhead light off; the yellowish glow of that football lamp by his bed was all Stan needed. Kyle looked better in soft light, anyway. His hair was peeking out from under his hat now, and Stan closed the bedroom door, licking his lips. "What's up?"
"I wanted to talk about something." Kyle seemed to be nervous. As he sat down on the bed he pulled his hat on tighter, pushing his loose curls back underneath.
"It's hot in here," Stan said, "I mean, it's — we have the heat on, so, you can take off your hat if you want."
"I'm fine," said Kyle. "It's just..." He trailed off, and Stan glanced down at him. They linked eyes for a moment, but Kyle looked away.
"Is it about the money?" It was unlikely that Stan would be able to extricate himself from this situation. Craig was already sending Stan threatening notes online, reminding Stan that he had two more days, one more day ... now Stan had no more days, and he was about 60 dollars short. Raking was not as lucrative as Stan might have hoped, though he also was unsure whether he cared. The only thing at stake, he felt, was being able to spend time with Kyle. It was odd, having an adult perspective on one's youth, in one's youth. The little things that weighed heavily on grade schoolers absolutely did not matter.
"It's not about the money," Kyle said. "It's more about that thing Bebe said yesterday."
Stan's attention perked up as he fell into his desk chair. He was still naked from the waist up. He felt his little nipples hardening. The thought of it brought him some satisfaction, and he smiled, trying to recall what it was that Bebe had said. He couldn't. "Which thing?"
"About—" Whatever Kyle's next words were meant to be, he swallowed them. "The thing about you and — Wendy."
"What about me and Wendy?" Stan asked.
"Well, she's your girlfriend."
"I guess," said Stan.
"Well, that's just it. What do you mean, you guess?"
"I mean, I guess, yeah, she is my girlfriend. It's no more complex than that." Grade schoolers' relationships, Stan felt, were anything but complex.
"It's just that like Bebe said, you're not very nice to her!"
This peaked Stan's interest. "Well, why does it matter if I am?" he asked.
"I'm just interested. No reason."
"Bullshit, no reason. Kyle, you're nothing but reason. You have a reason for everything."
"Sometimes I just want to know things, or I want to tell you things." Kyle's voice became quiet. "I just wanted to tell you that you're not a very good boyfriend to her, is all. Bebe was right about that."
"I still don't see that concern it is of yours."
"Because!"
"Because why?"
"Because I hate to think—" Kyle stopped himself. "Never mind! This is stupid! I'm leaving!" As he got up off the bed, his hat shifted, and some of his hair fell loose again.
"Just sit down," said Stan.
"Why should I?"
"Because as long as you're here, we should at least walk to the bus together. You don't need to walk alone in the cold."
"Maybe I don't want to walk with you," Kyle said, though he did sit back down. "I've been thinking about it, and I am upset that you aren't a good boyfriend to Wendy. She's not my favorite but it's bothering me!"
Stan got up now, and walked over to the bed. He sat down next to Kyle, the bare skin of his upper arms grazing Kyle's parka. "Wendy's my problem," said Stan, and as soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew that it was true, and he knew he would have to do something about it. More pressing, though, was Kyle. "We're not married," said Stan, "so you don't have to worry about it."
"But what if someday you guys are married? I hate to think you'd be a bad husband, or at least as bad a husband as you are a boyfriend!"
"I meant me and you," said Stan. "We're not married."
Kyle's face went pink. "Nope, we're not, but seeing as I'm your best friend, it's really important that I talk to you about these things." He inched away from Stan.
"And about the raking, I mean, the money."
"I hate to think you'd get in trouble!"
"But if I did, what concerns you about it? What concerns you about who I date and how I get in trouble or don't with my parents?"
"You're talking like a shrink!"
"Well," said Stan, "we've been seeing one, so." He put his elbow on his thigh, hunched over, and his chin in his hand.
"You're seeing a shrink?" Kyle asked. "Why didn't you tell me!"
"Oh, I'm sure you're aware of it," though of course the kid sitting in front of Stan could not possibly have been. Kyle's eyes were unfocused, but in them, Stan was sure he saw the signs of total panic. Suddenly, he knew what he wanted. "Please just tell me what you're feeling right now."
Kyle got up off the bed, leaving Stan alone there. "I don't know what I'm feeling!"
"Yes you do," Stan said.
"No I don't," said Kyle, and he started to cry. "I'm just trying to be nice to you! You're my best friend and I—"
Long ago, Stan had become somewhat immune to Kyle's tears. "What if I felt the same way?"
"Bebe's wrong!" Kyle sobbed. "She's wrong and you need to put on a shirt! It's indecent! It's disgusting!"
"You interrupted me getting dressed," Stan said. "Do you want to help me pick a shirt out?"
"I'm leaving!"
"Please don't leave! You only just got here!"
"Figure out your own shit!" said Kyle. "You're unhealthy for me! You're unhealthy to me and you're mean to Wendy and you're mean to me, too! A nice person doesn't do this to another person! You know what I mean!"
"I know," said Stan, but Kyle was already fleeing downstairs.
The day was long, and it did drag on.
CHAPTER 8
The outfit Stan was meant to wear to dinner was left on the bed for him. That was the extent of Kyle's planning genius, down to the pair of loafers. Stan slipped them on around 6:30 p.m., dreading the rest of the evening ahead of him. Would he know what to say to these people? Was it possible to back out now? Of course it wasn't. Stan sat on the bed in his jeans and blazer and green loafers, trying to talk himself into it. He could do this, couldn't he? How hard could it be?
"We can do this," Kyle said. Stan looked up to see him standing in the doorway. Kyle was wearing a green cable-knit sweater that matched the color of Stan's shoes; he was not sure that this was unintentional. Other than that, Kyle wore black slacks and white gym shoes. "How do I look?" Kyle turned, showing off his ass. He peered over his shoulder, a small smile on his face. Stan chose to interpret this as a look of hope.
"You look good," said Stan, and he meant it. Inexplicably, unexpectedly, he found himself opening his arms. "Come here," he said, the tightness in his own voice frightening in itself.
"Oh." Kyle stepped forward, and came to perch himself on Stan's lap, wrapping his arms around Stan's whole body. It was the first time he'd sat on Stan's lap by invitation. Kyle's hair bristled under Stan's nose, and Stan breathed it in. "It's okay, Stan. It's going to be okay."
"What if I fuck up, though? I don't know what I'm doing."
"Everyone feels that way."
They sat there for a time, until the doorbell rang.
While it was hardly a shock, it was still a disappointment for Stan to discover that he found Graham Tiller reprehensible. He wore a checked blazer with forest green pants, and while the individual components of this outfit were cut strikingly well, Graham Tiller also had a comb-over, and a high, nasal voice. He stood with one hip jutting out, hand on his waist, blazer pushed back against his forearm. Something about it screamed to Stan, "villain in a movie about an art heist." Unfortunately Graham Tiller seemed to have no motivations other than dragging Stan into a corner and talking about sex while he sipped the lychee-infused martini the hired waiter had made for him. Stan had declined a drink himself.
"These boys just get so moody," Graham was complaining, like Stan knew what was going on. "You know Asher is furious he wasn't invited."
"Um, sorry? Should we have invited him?"
Graham laughed. "Don't worry about it. He'll get over it." Graham was starting down into his drink. "He's been bitching to me about going skiing over Christmas. Swiss Alps. So." Graham looked up and gave Stan a curious look. "He'll get over it." Graham took a swill of his drink, and Stan looked away. "I'm sure you're disappointed he's not here."
"I guess," said Stan, who did not know thing one about Asher, and wasn't sure why he should care if Asher was or wasn't at the dinner party.
"I guess it's not that kind of party," Graham said.
Stan felt stifled by this man's ability to talk. It was like Kyle, but so impassive. Stan wondered if it wouldn't be rude to go upstairs and ditch his own party.
"Victor doesn't swing that way, you know, and he's very businesslike about things, anyway. At Penn, you know, he ran the house with an iron fist."
Stan still had no idea what or who Graham was talking about. "Okay, whatever," he said, arms crossed, back to the wall.
"Are you going to play for us tonight?"
"Play what?"
"Anything," said Graham, "whatever you've written?"
"I didn't write anything," Stan replied.
"That's a bold move. Studios don't want to take a chance on an unknown," said Graham, "but then, perhaps this evening can serve as bait, and you can hook him later—"
It was about here that the doorbell rang, and Stan couldn't help exclaim, "Thank god!"
"Oh good," said Graham, staring into the empty martini glass, "that'll be Victor."
But it wasn't Victor. It was Butters Stotch, bearing a bottle of wine.
"Oh my god," Stan said, clinging to Butters at first sight. "You're here, you have to help me."
"Um, hey Stan," said Butters. He was wearing a soft merino sweater, checked lapels hanging over the neck. He wore his hair short and his gray slacks baggy. To Stan, he look distinctly different from everyone else, everyone else in LA or everyone else at all. The weird thing was, as they stood embracing in the doorway, Stan couldn't call to mind anything about Butters back in South Park, the Butters who was Stan's age. "Okay, it's okay," Butters said, patting Stan on the back, trying to get them out of the threshold and into the house. The voice kept saying, "Front door open, front door open."
"Stan," said Butters, finally. "The door."
Blushing, Stan let go. "Sorry," he said, getting out of the way so Butters could step inside.
"It's not a problem! I, ah, brought this for you guys—" Butters said, handing over the wine.
Stan ran his fingers over the date. It was 12 years old. "Ah, thanks, Butters."
"No problem! Thanks for inviting me! You know I just love this kind of stuff!"
"Yeah," Stan agreed, right as he was hit with the realization that he didn't know what Butters did for a living, why he lived in LA, if he was married, or even if Butters liked women at all. This thought became transfused, quickly, into the idea that perhaps Stan and Kyle had no straight friends whatsoever. Maybe this was how it was when you grew up; maybe people just separated into tribes, the way kids used to assess their own social standing by where they sat on the bus.
"I want to say hi to Kyle," said Butters. "Is he—?"
"Yeah," Stan insisted. "Let's say hi to Kyle."
Kyle was in the kitchen pureeing soup with a bulky immersion blender and barking orders at that waiter he'd hired. "If guests are just standing around you can't just let them stand there! If you see someone just standing there you have to offer them a drink!"
"Yessir," said that waiter, Rosa's brother, whoever he was.
"So, go! I'm not paying you to do everything myself!"
"Kyle!" The blender was running, so Butters had to yell over it.
"Butters!" Kyle shouted, turning the blender off. "You're not supposed to be in the kitchen!"
"Oh, sorry." Butters blushed. "I just wanted to say hello. I brought wine!"
"I'm serving cocktails. Go find that waiter and he'll offer you a cocktail. Did you see Graham?"
"He's out there," Stan said.
"Oh, I'm fine with water until we have some dinner," said Butters, "because I'm driving."
"But doesn't your car drive itself?" Kyle asked.
"It's still illegal."
Kyle turned the blender back on, and the great whirring noise returned. "It's pumpkin soup," Kyle shouted over it, "with curry. And vegetable stock! Don't worry. It's vegetarian."
"I'm not vegetarian!" Butters said, but Kyle's concentration was back on the soup.
The doorbell rang again.
"You'd better go get that, Stanley," Kyle said, turning off the blender and pulling it from the great pot in which he was, apparently, preparing soup.
Then, to Stan's surprise, a voice said, "Front door open."
"I guess they let themselves in!" Butters cheered.
"Oh, Jesus!" Kyle smacked his forehead. "Go, go!"
"I should go?" said Butters.
"No, Stan! Stan, you have to get out there! Butters, you — you, stay with me. Let's chat."
"Sure," said Butters.
"What are you doing?" Kyle hissed, over the sound of guests chatting in the foyer.
"Front door closed," said the voice. After all this time, Stan imagined it to be the voice of the house itself.
"I'm going," said Stan, fleeing from the room. He did not want to know who was at the door.
It was a couple, though, and they seemed to know Graham, who had let them in. "Marsh!" he cried, waving Stan over. "Get over here."
Stan crossed the great room, passing the dining table, all set for the meal that Stan was positively dreading. He enjoyed pumpkin pie, once a year, on Thanksgiving, but the thought of eating pumpkins, or a soup make with pumpkins, unsettled him.
The couple at the door was indistinct in their appearance: a short man without any hair, and his wife, whose hair was dark and black as Stan's, but chin-length and angular. It looked expensive that shimmering hair, and while Stan knew nothing of how women groomed, and less about the economy of grooming, he figured she must have cut it for this occasion, for it looked new, in addition to looking expensive. She said, "Hello," and Stan said, "Hi," mentally berating himself as she stepped away from the other two, Graham and that man, for assuming she was his wife.
"Hi." Stan instinctively crossed his arms over his chest. She made him nervous.
"Azure," she said, extending a hand.
Reluctantly, Stan took it, saying, "Stan." He realized that the other man, that one over there speaking to Graham, must be Victor.
"I've been asking around," she said, the sweep of her angular hair casting a long shadow across her cheek. "I hear your dinner parties are legendary."
"Not mine," Stan croaked. For all that she seemed friendly, he found her impossibly intimidating. "Kyle's. My, uh—" Stan found that his mouth had gone completely dry.
"Marsh!" Graham barked, dragging this Victor toward them. "Pull yourself away from the ladies for a moment."
"So," said the man who must be Victor. Stan was fascinating by the way the overhead light shone off Victor's head. "This is the composer."
"I wouldn't go that far," said Stan.
"I was going to tell you about my project, though your friend Tiller here tells me this is purely a social call. And I said, this is Hollywood, Tiller, there is no such thing as a purely social call."
"Well," Stan began.
"Please," Graham scoffed. "This is fucking Malibu."
"What's the difference?" Victor asked. "Nice place."
"Thanks," said Stan. "I promise I'm not responsible for any of it."
"So, you've met Azure," Graham said, unsteadily, giving Stan a look that suggested Stan could be doing more than he was.
Stan had no idea what that might be. "Yeah."
"Barely," said Azure.
"Barely," Stan repeated.
"And you know Tiller from—"
"The Philharmonic!" Stan didn't know where he remembered that from. Had Kyle mentioned it? "I'm, um, interested in music, obviously—"
"Obviously," said Victor, with a roll of his eyes. "Tell me about your body of work."
"Well." Stan felt trapped in this circle of people, wondering if there wasn't a chance somewhere for an escape. Could he excuse himself for the bathroom? He felt himself beginning to sweat. "I, uh, went undergrad at, um, Berklee. Then I'm from Colorado, so I, um—went to Colorado—"
"Where in Colorado?" Victor asked.
"Boulder, Vic," Graham said, with a sigh. "I'm sure I mentioned all this?"
"You mentioned a brilliant composer you said I needed to meet."
"You do!" said Graham. "And here he is. I believe you were a child prodigy of some sort, Marsh, is that right?"
"Most definitely not." Stan wasn't sure he could make it through this dinner without bursting into tears.
To Stan's great relief, the waiter appeared, trailed by Butters. "Speaking of Colorado!" Stan grabbed Butters' arm and pulled him into the group. "This is our childhood friend. From Colorado."
"Hi," said Butters. "It's true, that's me."
"What's your name?" Victor asked.
"Butters," Stan said.
Butters gave a short laugh. "Well, that's my childhood nickname. Leopold Stotch." He extended a hand, first to Azure, then Victor. Then he and Graham exchanged a short nod. "I coach women's golf at USC."
"Golf, huh? You any good?"
"Better at coaching than playing, obviously, or I probably wouldn't be coaching!"
"Didn't know women's golf was big at USC."
"It's not," Butters said.
"That's a sweet name," Azure said. "Unusual, at least."
"What is?" Stan asked.
"The name 'Butters.' "
"Oh, I dunno," said Butters. "It kinda reminds me of being 9, you know, and sitting in the back of the school bus."
"Butters," said Stan, "you were not cool enough to sit at the back of the school bus."
"Then where'd I sit?" Butters asked.
"Up front," said Stan, "with me and Kyle."
"Well, it was 20 years ago," said Butters. "I mean — oh gosh, 30! Forever ago. Who can remember where they sat on the school bus?"
"It feels like yesterday to me," said Stan, taking a step back. "As if — as if I can picture myself on the damn bus. I can feel ... the rickety seats, and the smell—"
At this, Victor put his hand to his chin, seemingly deep in thought.
"What did it smell like?" Azure asked.
"Well, like — the weather outside. Wet snow. Perspiration. And — and whoever you were sitting next to! If you were sitting next to someone who had a particular scent..." Here Stan was thinking of Kyle, of Kyle's wiry hair peeking out from underneath the hood of his parka or the hat he would have been wearing.
"Faintly of motor oil?" Graham asked.
"Yes," said Stan. "Definitely, um, some of that. If — well, for a long time in elementary school we had the same bus driver, and she had the most particular smell. Like she had birds living in her hair?"
"Ew," said Azure.
"I don't remember that," said Butters. "I just remember sitting in the back, and being jiggled around a lot, feeling kind of nauseous."
"Nauseated," Graham corrected.
"Nausea was some of it," Stan said, "if you were sitting next to someone you liked, or you liked someone and knew where they were sitting, you might be fixated on that person, feeling their presence, I mean — oh god, I'm babbling, I'm making an idiot out of myself."
"Don't be sorry," said Butters. "That's a sweet thought."
Victor looked up. "Well," he said, and his demeanor seemed to have changed. "This is interesting."
"How so?" Graham asked.
"Well, if Marsh here can translate these feelings he's narrating into a score—"
"He could!" Butters exclaimed. "That's what Stan does! He wrote a song when we were kids—"
"Oh?" Victor seemed interested.
"No, I didn't," said Stan, "what song?"
"You remember!" said Stan. "The hybrid cars song!"
"Oh." Stan was disappointed, having hoped Butters meant some song he'd wrote maybe in high school, that maybe he was presently unaware of. "Oh, that stupid song."
"How does it go?" Azure asked.
"Oh, you know," said Butters, "it was kinda like a protest song — Stan wrote it when he was 10!"
"I was 9," Stan corrected.
"Play it for us," Graham suggested.
"I could if I had a guitar."
"Aw, just bang it out on the keyboard," Butters said.
"I can't bang it out on a keyboard," said Stan. "Only a guitar."
"You artists are very particular," said Victor.
"Please," said Graham, "you can't rush art."
"You can when there's an option on the rights to a story that's expiring at the end of the fiscal year," said Victor, "and you have to get this bitch into production or you lose those rights. You know that, Tiller."
"I have the least understanding how options work."
"Well, Butters—"
"Leo."
"Well, Leo," said Victor, "I don't have time to explain the details of the business now."
"The regulations have been vicious," Graham said, to Butters. "That's all."
"I thought Hollywood was supposed to be liberal!" said Butters.
Victor just laughed at this. "How come you've got a sense of humor, and this one doesn't?" He nodded toward Stan.
"Oh, Vic," said Azure. "Don't."
"Are we eating something?" Graham asked. "Is anyone else coming?"
"I guess not?" Stan asked. "Let me — I'll talk to Kyle."
"Where the hell is Kyle?" Graham asked. "Poor guy, is he really in there cooking?"
"He takes this shit seriously," said Stan. "One moment, please."
When Stan returned to the kitchen, Kyle was hunched over the dining table, head in hands.
"Oh, um." Stan paused by the ovens, unsure what to say. "It smells good in here?"
Kyle turned to look at Stan. "Is that a question?"
"No, I mean." Stan took another step closer. "It smells ... good in here?"
Sighing deeply Kyle sat back. "I don't know if I can do this," he said.
"Do what?" Stan asked. "Make dinner?"
"Pretend everything is fine."
"Oh." Stan approached the kitchen table, taking a seat next to Kyle. "Everyone wants to know where you are."
"Well, you could have said I was in the fucking kitchen!"
"I did."
"You should be out there with those people," said Kyle. "You'd better get back out there or you're going to blow it."
"I don't know what to say to people! Business people! I have no fucking idea. I need your help."
"I have to finish plating dinner," said Kyle. "I can't be in two places at once. And I can't keep going like everything's okay. What's going to happen when these people go home? What then?"
"I don't know," said Stan. "We'll go to sleep I guess?"
"I don't want to keep putting meaningless tasks between me and my problems," said Kyle. "And it's become clear that you're one of my problems."
"Uh." Stan was curious what the others were, but he didn't feel it was his place to ask. "Well, look, I'll — I'll be out there soon."
Kyle did not appear until the meal was served. He directed the conversation mostly toward Stan's accomplishments, the commercials he'd worked on, the quality of his master's thesis. "It was moving, genuinely moving," Kyle insisted, though he provided no further context. "I can't hear it without crying. It's just — so incredibly reflective of that period in our lives. I'd call it almost manipulative."
"This all sounds very impressive," said Victor.
"I'm telling you," said Graham. "This is the guy you want."
"We don't have to talk about that," Kyle insisted. "I just hope the steaks are to everyone's liking."
"Great!" said Butters. "Always great. I'm always so grateful to be asked over to dinner."
"Next time you have to have us over," Kyle insisted.
"Aw, gosh," said Butters. "You know I can't cook."
"So," asked Azure, gesturing toward Kyle with her glass. "What do you do?"
"He's a historian," said Graham Tiller, fiddling with his silverware.
Kyle blushed, deeply. "I'm not."
"Don't be modest!" said Butters.
"I am being modest," said Kyle. "I have a degree, but I never did anything with it. So I doubt I could call myself a historian."
"What kind of degree?" asked Victor. "From where?"
"Well, you know," said Kyle. He was sitting up straighter, clearly both embarrassed and flattered by this interest in his professional life. "Boulder. I started working on it when Stan was doing his master's, and then I kind of finished up coursework and we moved out here, so it took me some time to finish the actual dissertation. They nearly kicked me out of the program for taking so long. So I guess you can say I barely finished."
"Dunno," said Victor. "Never went to grad school."
"But you did finish!" said Butters.
"You didn't miss anything," said Kyle. "Those people are all pretty full of themselves. Everyone just wants to prove they know the most about everything. Which is impossible, of course, no one knows something about everything, let alone the most. But at the same time, you sort of start to feel like maybe, yes, you do."
"So what do you do with it?" Victor asked. "I mean, the degree. We're always looking for, you know, consultant historians, for costume dramas, that kind of thing."
"I don't do anything with it! That's flattering, thanks. I was trying to turn my dissertation into a book, you know, but I guess — life got in the way."
"Life, like—"
"Oh, just — you know, worrying, having a social life." Kyle reached for his glass of wine. "There's no, you know, period in which I concentrated. I was interested in world history, sort of like how one aspect of something that's happening somewhere on the globe alters the course of events everywhere. I developed a kind of overarching theory about resources, about global dispersal of natural resources — no one wants to hear this."
Kyle glanced around the table, looking for someone to egg him on. When no one replied, he took a long sip of his drink.
"You'll finish it sometime," Butters said.
"I don't know if I care anymore."
"Do you seriously not care?" Stan asked.
"I don't know," said Kyle. "Man, was the last time you asked me if I cared about my own book?"
"I don't know," Stan echoed. "Never?"
"Eh." After another drink Kyle set his glass down. "You're busy. Writing me little songs."
"You write him little songs?" Azure asked. "That's romantic."
"Don't even think about it," said Victor.
"It can be a little nauseating," said Graham Tiller, "but it's sweet." To Victor, he said, "I told you this guy was sentimental."
"You haven't played us anything yet." Victor leaned toward Stan. "Can we hear one of these songs? What am I supposed to make of you if I can't hear a sample of your work?"
"Um." Stan was trembling fiercely. "I can — later."
As of sensing Stan's fear, Kyle gave a short, charming laugh, waving his hands as if the very thought were ridiculous. "This isn't about business!" he said, his tone light and forgiving. "Let's leave the business for next week. This is just a social thing, you know?"
"I'm sure I sent you a portfolio or something," said Graham Tiller.
"Yeah, I could ask my girl, I could double-check on that."
"I know," said Kyle, standing. "This is probably a good time for dessert."
"What's for dessert?" Butters asked.
"Soufflés and mango ice cream," said Kyle, picking up his own plate. "No one get up! I'll get these cleared. Just — sit tight!" he disappeared back into the kitchen.
~
Stan had literally never dumped anyone. He only realized this as he was waiting for Wendy at her locker, after lunch. She had one on the bottom, and Stan had sat down in front of it, so that she couldn't miss him. Now he wasn't sure she was coming; the lunch rush had already passed, and now it was recess. So he had been thinking about Wendy for 10 minutes. He was trying to figure out, had he ever actually dumped her? They stopped dating, at some point. Somewhere between seventh grade and high school. He couldn't recall her dumping him. (Stan had never been dumped, either.) By the time she materialized, he had come to the conclusion that their relationship had never really ended; rather, it had petered out.
"What's up?" Wendy asked, when she did show. Her hair was looking very clean and very staticky, Stan noted, and she had on a blue sweater that slouched off one exposed shoulder. This sweater fell to her thighs and underneath she wore yellow jeggings. She pushed her weight back on her left foot, as if drawing away from Stan.
"Your friend Bebe's pretty observant." He got up, dusting his pants off. He never sat on the floor anymore, he realized, unless it was on those tatami mats in the pagoda in his backyard. (He and Kyle had once had sex in there, and the mats had given Kyle horrible burns on his forearms.)
"I know," said Wendy. "That's it, that's what you're doing here?"
"I'd like to talk to you," Stan said.
"Very well." She shrugged. "You know, Kyle was crying at lunch. It was kind of tragic. Where were you?"
"Waiting for you. Can we not talk about Kyle? This is actually not about Kyle."
"Stan, when isn't it about Kyle with you? He's your little shadow."
"I know."
They were ambling down the hallway now, passing empty classrooms. Stan tried to ignore the white paint peeling off the painted cinderblock walls. It depressed him to think about how badly underfunded this school was. "Look," Stan said, "I don't think anyone appreciates being fucked around with. And I've been fucking you around a lot, I guess. So, I'm sorry."
"Oh!" she said. "Thanks!"
"Yeah. I mean, I'm sorry for being such a shitty boyfriend to you. You're a really cool girl." Stan wasn't actually sure that she was, though he liked the color of her sweater and admired the bold way she'd paired it with those jeggings. "I think, all things considered, a cool girl like you shouldn't be going out with a shitty boyfriend like me."
He expected her to be upset. She pushed out a deep sigh. "Yeah. I know."
"Yeah. So, I mean — we really shouldn't be dating."
"Probably not," she agreed. They were paused in the middle of the hallway. There were seven minutes left of recess, and it was eerily quiet. "I mean, we started when we were what, 8?"
"I guess," said Stan. "Yeah, 8 seems about right."
"I mean, that's not real dating."
"No, it's not. Real dating is about someone you desperately want to spend time with. And that kind of shit. And someone who can take care of you. And I can't take care of you, Wendy. I'm sorry."
"It's okay!" she said. "Really. I don't really need to be taken care of."
"And wanting to kiss that person," Stan continued. "And feeling, you know, sexual things."
"Wow. That's, um, kind of a lot of info."
"Well, I can't feel sexual things for you," said Stan.
"Because of Kyle?"
"I mean — I guess, but. More because I'm just not into girls, you know. At all."
"Oh." She blinked. "Then how could you possibly be attracted to Kyle?"
"I didn't say I was attracted to Kyle!" Stan said, though he was grinning at her joke. It was a bit mean, but it reminded him of his Kyle, of the graceful curve of that Kyle's back when he arched into a climax, of the way that Kyle licked ice cream off his fingers, and fed Stan forkfuls of cake. "Just — it's not you, you know?"
"It's okay," she said. "I won't tell anyone."
"I don't care if you do."
"But I won't," she said. "I'd appreciate discretion, too. I kind of like someone." Her eyes lit up, but her face was flush.
"Who?" Stan asked.
"Oh, god — well. Eric Cartman," she said, quickly. "He, um — meh. I can't explain it!"
"He's pretty gross," said Stan. "He lives with his mother!"
"Well, who doesn't?" Wendy asked. It made Stan sad, just slightly. "He is gross, though, so — please don't tell anyone. Don't tell him. Don't tell Kyle!"
"I won't tell Kyle," Stan promised. "We've got other things to worry about, me and him."
"I suppose. Can you, um, tell your sister thanks for the volume trick?"
"I will." Stan gave her a sad look.
"It's okay!" she said, and she pulled him into a hug. In a whisper, she said, "Thanks for telling me."
"You're welcome," he replied. They remained in the embrace until the first warning bell rang.
~
"Well," said Victor, heading toward the door. "It's really getting pretty late."
"It's only 9," said Graham Tiller, looking at his wrist lazily, as if he had a watch. "Let's have a cigar."
"I don't smoke cigars," said Vincent. "And I've got some costumer designer from the costume designer's union who wants to chew my ear off at 8:45 tomorrow."
"Sounds horrible," said Kyle.
"I've never smoked a cigar," said Butters. "What are they like?"
Graham sat forward. "Tell you what," he said, "I got some contraband as a favor recently. I could do a favor and get you a sample, if you could find some time to take me out and show me some of these coaching pointers of yours."
"Gosh," said Butters. "I dunno, I'm not ... I don't think I need any samples?"
"Then how about just out of the kindness of your heart?"
"Well, I dunno." Butters seemed to be at least considering this proposition.
"We're really going," said Vincent. "Tiller, I'll — you know what I'll do."
"Great," said Graham, in an uneasy way.
Kyle leaned over to whisper in Stan's ear, "You'd better go follow that man to the door and seal the deal, unless you want to sleep in the fucking pagoda tonight!"
Stan understood. He stood up, rushing to follow Vincent and Azure to the door. "Here," he called, voice echoing in the foyer. "Let me show you out."
"This wasn't the worst evening of my life." Vincent paused at the door way.
"It wasn't? Uh — good! I'm glad."
"You seem like a bit of a drip, Marsh, but that thing you said, about sitting on the school bus..." There was a pause, and Victor took a deep breath. "Tell you what. Here's what I'll do. I'll make sure my secretary gets you a copy of the script. You can read it over and, maybe at the end of next week, we can get lunch and discuss what kind of mood you're thinking. You know — you can pitch me an idea, for like, the vibe of the kind of score you'd write, or whatever. Um, what's a good time, oh — Thursday or Friday."
"Sure, ah — I can do that!"
"Great, then, that's that—"
"Yeah, hey — Azure!"
She had been standing behind him the whole time. "Yes?"
"You have a tablet? Can we write this down?"
"No, nothing like that fits in my purse! Use your phone, darling."
"Oh!" Victor pulled his phone out, and began to tap something in. "Friday ... mm, how's 1? Or 2?"
"Either's good," said Stan, not knowing his own schedule.
"Let's do 1:30."
"Sure, I can do 1:30."
"Great," he said. "I'll see you then."
"Yeah, totally," Stan agreed.
"It was a lovely party," said Azure. "I'll need that mango ice cream recipe."
"Oh! Okay, I'll tell Kyle."
"Yes, please do. I ought to make that for my mother-in-law."
"She wouldn't give a shit," said Victor, and then he turned away, pulling his car key from his pocket.
"Well, darling," Azure was saying, "are you certain you're all right to drive?"
"Does it matter?" he asked. "Damn car can drive itself."
This was where Stan closed the door on them.
~
Kyle had been scarce all day, and Stan missed him greatly. He felt a sense of ease regarding the situation with Wendy, and curiously, the money he still owed to Craig was not bothering him at all. It was only Kyle that was of any concern to Stan. Their conversation that morning had been disturbing, though not in a profound way, merely enough to leave Stan feeling unsettled as he made the conscious decision to blow off basketball practice and go straight home to talk to his mother or play with his old dog or just stew. He hadn't done any homework that week, either, what with all the raking. But that was the great thing about having perspective on his entire childhood at once: Stan would know all the answers on the tests, the same way he knew he'd never become a basketball player and wouldn't regret quitting. Or, in this case, not bothering to show up. He packed his bag after last period, wishing Kyle would show up to walk home with him, but knowing Kyle wouldn't.
As Stan was pulling on his scarf, someone in black jeans came to stand next to his locker. Stan looked up and saw that this was Craig.
"Hey," Stan said, straightening up.
"Hey, Marsh," said Craig. "I want my money."
Stan knew what he had to do. He sighed, bending over again to scrounge in the front pocket of his backpack for the wad of cash that Craig was now demanding. "Here you go," he said, standing up. If this was going to go down, Stan at least wanted to look Craig in the eye.
Sure enough, Craig counted, then counted again. Craig scowled, and while he counted, Stan noted that Craig's hair was very greasy, nearly matted to his forehead.
"Where's the rest?" Craig asked, looking up.
"That's it."
"This is it?"
"Yep," said Stan.
"Are you shitting me?"
"No, why?"
"You can't be serious!" Craig exclaimed.
Stan was growing tired of this, of the meaningless social obligations that peppered the middle school experience. "Look," he said, slamming his locker shut. "That's what I have. I think it's an impressive effort."
"Impressive my ass," Craig said. "Where's the rest?"
"There is no more, that's it."
"This is unacceptable!"
"Oh, well," said Stan. "Not my problem."
"It is so your problem! I'll tell my dad! He's gonna be super pissed!"
"I'm really not afraid of your dad, Craig."
"You should be! He'll tell your parents."
"Well, let him do that! Who cares? I mean, really, I have more important shit going on. Who fucking cares."
"You should care, Marsh. Because I am going to destroy you."
"How could you possibly destroy me? You're, like, 12."
It took a moment for Craig to collect himself against the insinuation that he was powerless against Stan. Finally he said, "Well, I guess your parents will just ... find out about this. I tried to help you out, but—"
"You weren't trying to help me out, you little shit, you were trying to make 20 dollars."
"Is it so wrong to want to make 20 bucks?" Craig asked. "Especially if it helps a guy out at the same time? That's your problem, Marsh, you take everything so fucking seriously, until you don't. I am an entrepreneur."
"Like fuck you are," said Stan. "You're going to grow up and be the manager of a Denny's."
"Like hell I am. You'd like that!"
"No, I wouldn't. Because, guess what, I really couldn't care less. Fuck you and fuck your 200 bucks. Whatever happens, happens. I'm not afraid of you. You're a fucking child."
"And you're what, the king of the Netherlands?"
"No, I'm too mature to have this conversation."
"That's bullshit," said Craig.
"Whatever," said Stan, "I am leaving." He lifted his hand and, with a flourish, extended his middle finger.
"Fuck you!" Craig exclaimed, returning the gesture.
Stan did not say anything in response. He simply hoisted his backpack and left Craig standing in front of the lockers. He was desperate to get home.
~
Upstairs, Kyle ran his fingers through Stan's hair, led him to the bed, pressing short kisses to Stan's jaw. "You did it, you did it," Kyle whispered, his hands finding Stan's shoulders, sitting him at the edge of the big mattress. "My hero."
Stan pulled Kyle into his lap. "We did it together!" He realized the tone of this moment was subdued, and covered his mouth. "Kyle, I owe you everything—"
Kyle put a finger to Stan's lips. "Sh." He pecked at the corner of Stan's mouth, then licked, then opened up, wide, sucking and stroking with his tongue. This time, Stan shuddered, and let Kyle in, their faces touching, Kyle's hands in Stan's hair. Stan groaned when Kyle said, "Shhhh," against his mouth, and got up.
"Don't leave me?"
"I'll be right back." Kyle blew a little kiss, which was corny, but it made Stan's heart throb. Truly, he could feel it, growing bigger inside his chest. This feeling, this enveloping feeling — Kyle disappeared into his closet, and Stan missed him. Stan sat on the bed, shaking, the edge of his worries dulled, just wanting Kyle to come back, wondering if he should dare follow.
When Kyle did return he was naked, no slacks, no bathrobe. He just stood there, his hand still on the closet doorknob, all of his pink flesh flushed. It was really the first time Stan had gotten a good look at Kyle, without clothes or sheets or angles to obscure him. He was shaped unfairly, bolted together, soft and ill-defined except for his behind, which even from the front Stan could tell was tightly drawn into a slope of premier shape and attitude. Kyle's erection, Stan finally saw, wasn't half-realized at all, it just bent low and too long to support itself. Stan realized his was hard, too, and he was leaking, boyishly, into his pants. Kyle was nothing like any person he could conceive of wanting so badly, and yet he did, his heart pounding, wanting to know the right thing or say or do to tell Kyle how beautiful Stan thought he was, how much he wanted Kyle to come over.
"Oh," said Kyle, after he'd been standing there for a moment. "You're still dressed."
"I didn't know if it was okay—"
"It's all right." Kyle shut the closet door and tipped forward. "I'll help." He sat on the bed next to Stan, nipping at Stan's jaw again, and began unbuttoning everything. Kyle's breath was everywhere; he was warm and dry, his cock dripping fluid now onto Stan's jeans. "Sorry," he said, inching away as he noticed.
"No," said Stan. "Please don't go."
"You're so nervous." Kyle folded the shirt he'd just pulled from Stan's shoulders. He put it on the floor. "What's wrong? Everything's great, Stan."
"I'm just..." This was the first moment when Stan understood that they were going to have sex, that it was inevitable, and how badly he wanted it.
Kyle touched Stan's bare chest, fingertips brushing the thick mat of fine hairs, inhaling Stan's scent by nuzzling the place where Stan's hairline met his neck. "Don't be nervous," said Kyle, his tongue darting out just briefly enough to make Stan's cock jump. His pants were still on, the fly unbuttoned. Stan wanted to tear them off the rest of the way, but he was so nervous, terrified to move. The moment was so perfect, but it felt all too fragile, as if the wrong move might leave it fraying, falling apart in his hands. And just when he wanted so badly to embrace it in full.
"I want you inside of me," Kyle whispered at the shell of Stan's ear. That did it, surely, that made Stan unable to resist pulling his jeans off and letting them fall to the floor. Now his erection was restrained only by thin boxers, and when Kyle sucked gently as Stan's neck and Stan shifted, slightly, his dick forced down the elastic waistband of his underwear, revealing itself.
Before Stan could flee, Kyle clutched it, exclaiming, "I need this!"
"You do?" Stan asked. Kyle's fingers were tensing on the head, drawing up around it, smearing the fluids across it with his thumb.
"It's been so long, Stan, like a week. You know I can't go a week! I've been playing with myself in the shower, trying to keep my ass all stretched out for you."
"Oh my god," said Stan, shutting his eyes. He lay back on the bed, unsure of what he should say or do to keep from ruining this moment. He felt Kyle's hands leave his dick, and then Kyle's fingers under his boxers, slipping them down his thighs. When Stan opened his eyes again Kyle was on the floor, kneeling at Stan's feet, which dangled from the bed. "You don't have to," Stan said, afraid Kyle would take this as a cue to leave.
"Fuck, I want to," Kyle replied, his voice dark and heavy, laden with want. "Just—" He grabbed Stan's erection again, as if using it to hoist himself up. "Okay, yeah." Stan felt Kyle's torso against his legs, reveling in the way his short leg hairs felt against Kyle's nipples as they moved against Stan. They were hard, those nipples; Stan tried to imagine them as he lay back, groaning, unable to process how much he wanted this.
When Kyle was more steady on his knees, he yanked on Stan's thighs until he was spread open awkwardly at the foot of the bed, the angle pressing into his behind. "Okay," Kyle breathed, "okay, I'm a little rusty but I think you need this—" and he plunged, lips sliding against the head of Stan's cock.
It wasn't like nothing Stan had ever felt before; it was more like jerking off with a handful of conditioner in the shower than Stan could have imagined. But there was something about knowing it was Kyle's mouth on his dick that made Stan cry out, "Oh my god!" and lurch upward.
"Shhh." Kyle pushed Stan backward. "Don't come," he said, words slightly garbled, though clear. "I need this dick in me, okay? I'm just going to get it nice and ready to slip inside of me."
"Okay." Stan felt as though he might cry at the thought. "But I don't know, I've never—"
There was no reply. Kyle had taken Stan's dick in his mouth, deeper this time. He was rubbing Stan's balls, too, tugging at them slightly.
Stan felt consumed by his senses, both lust and need, the need to tell Kyle everything he'd ever felt: You're my first, you're my only, I'd never want this with anyone but you. But Stan was unable to make sentences that followed any coherent line of thought. All he could do was let Kyle suck him — though Stan was shocked at how unlike sucking it was. It was Kyle's hands and tongue that did most of the work, pushing back Stan's foreskin as far as it could go, or tugging at Stan's pubic hair.
When Stan felt he could go no further without exploding, he began to whimper, pushing his hips back against Kyle. "I'm gonna," he started to say, "Kyle, I — I'm, I—"
Letting Stan's dick fall from his mouth, Kyle sat up and said, "Good boy. Good boy, thanks for telling me." He grabbed Stan's cock and gave it a soft squeeze. "We can't waste this. You know I need it inside of me."
Trembling, Stan shook his head. This was the scary part, the part where Stan expected Kyle to be most disappointed. "I want to," he said, and it was genuine. "I want to, so much."
"Do you need it?" Kyle asked.
"I do."
"What are you going to do with this fat cock?"
"P-put it in you?"
"Yeah, that's what you're going to do," said Kyle. "You're going to give me what I want."
"I will," said Stan. He how small he sounded when he said it. "Just, I don't know how. Please show me?" This came out fragile, barely a whisper.
"Show you what, Stan?" Kyle was sitting next to Stan now, pressing brief kisses to Stan's jaw, and to Stan's temple.
"I've never — I don't know how."
Stan was expecting Kyle to lose his patience now, afraid of how lost and clueless he sounded. But Kyle didn't seem angry. Instead he touched his lips to Stan's more fully, enveloping Stan in a kiss that opened and then almost instantly closed with Kyle's teeth around Stan's lip. To Stan, who had never so much as frenched anyone, it was shocking. He had exchanged a number of brief, dispassionate swipes with Wendy, and those had been exciting, for a time. Then they had become prefunctory, and then Stan and Wendy had stopped kissing at all. It had always been Kyle Stan wanted to kiss, and here it was, and it was both difficult (Stan was having trouble breathing) and painful (Kyle's teeth were a factor) and arousing, too. It was all Stan could do to slide his hands against Kyle's back, feeling the warmth of Kyle's skin against his fingers. Stan's hands were aching again, but they felt better against Kyle's back. Even the weight of Kyle on Stan's lap felt right, as if it belonged there. If Stan was to die someday, this was how he wanted to go: completely smothered in passion, barely able to breathe. His rational mind fought back at how stupid and how loud every thought inside his head felt. Also, he was gripping Kyle's back as if holding on for dear life.
"Hey," Kyle said, his words sodden, grabbing at Stan's wrists. "Stop that. I need you. Right now."
Intellectually, Stan tried to work out what he would do: push his dick inside of Kyle, and then do it again, and again, until he came. It wasn't as if Stan hadn't thought about it before, what exactly it would entail. His fantasies has never encompassed this Kyle, with his vulnerable insistence on being fucked, or at least gratified. Stan called to mind Kyle on the living room sofa, fucking himself on his fingers, looking at pornography. If the evening's events had shown Stan anything, it was that this Kyle was a mystery to him. All Stan had to do was push his dick in, simple as that. Yet he remained frozen, willing himself not to burst into tears of relief.
"Stan?" Kyle asked. He'd tucked his lips against Stan's neck again, and was playing with Stan's hair. "I need—"
"I'm sorry," Stan mouthed, unsure if he was saying these words or not. "I can't, I don't know what to do."
Kyle's lips tensed, and he seemed annoyed for a moment. And then something remarkable happened: a look of intense kindness came over his face. "Poor Stanley," he said, in a tone that sounded sincere. "I know, shhh. Let's—" He didn't finish his thought. Instead, he let go of the back of Stan's neck and rather ungracefully spit into his own hand.
"Wha—?" Stan was insure of the significance of this gesture, thought in short order Stan was sighing as Kyle grasped Stan's dick.
"I'll take care of it," Kyle said, sort of rubbing the spit into Stan's erection.
Stan's head fell back, thinking this was it, he was going to come. Another guy had never brought him off before, and there was something immense and frightening in the idea of it, even as Stan wanted it more than anything. For a moment, nothing happened at all.
Then Kyle climbed back atop Stan's lap, straddling Stan's thighs. Kyle steadied himself against one of Stan's shoulders, and with his other hand he grasped Stan's dick again. It was all happening very fast, somewhat too fast for Stan to know what exactly was happening. A transitional moment was occurring, and Stan felt lucky to be a part of it. He felt the need to thrust, suddenly, but Kyle said, "Not yet!" and instinctively, Stan stilled. Kyle's cock was pressed to Stan's stomach, and Kyle was making the most sublime face, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, his pupils big and dark. He buried his face in Stan's hair, and Stan felt him sink down, quickly.
It had happened so fast that Stan needed a moment to gather what had happened: he was inside of Kyle.
Tears sprang to Stan's eyes. "Oh my god," he sobbed, not sure if he was managing this situation properly. Kyle was seated on Stan fully, shuddering, as if he had climbed a mountain. His breaths began to steady, and Kyle began to pull back up.
For just a moment Stan worried that Kyle was leaving. Then, quicker than he'd slid down the first time, he slapped his ass back onto Stan's lap.
"You're the only one," Kyle whimpered, sounding somewhat breathless. "The only one, I can't, I can't — the only one."
"You too," Stan agreed. He was overcome by feelings, by his instinct to actively respond physically to what Kyle was doing. With his free hand Kyle grabbed one of Stan's and wrapped it around his dick.
Stan pumped it unsteadily, delighting at the slickness. He had touched his own cock so often in the past several days that he was unable to stop comparing Kyle's to his own. His was larger overall, in both girth and in general feeling. Kyle's was long, though, and it felt comfortable in Stan's grip. It seemed to fit, as though Stan had held it in his hand a thousand times. It twitched as Stan's stroked it, leaking precome. As Kyle fucked himself on Stan's dick he thrust into Stan's fist. For the first time Stan opened his eyes fully and looked, really looked, at Kyle mid-coitus. Kyle was fucking beautiful, Stan thought, and he had to look away as he was gradually overcome by his own mounting climax. When he was able to turn back to Kyle, proud of himself for keeping it together, Stan noticed Kyle was crying, tears streaming down his face, hanging precarious from the tip of his nose.
"It's okay," Stan choked out, too caught up in the moment to manage much else.
Like a dam burst, Kyle wept, "Please don't leave me!"
"I — ah — I wouldn't, I would never, I—"
"This is all I have," Kyle cried, his pace becoming more erratic. "I need it, you're the only one, don't—"
"I won't," Stan promised, though he would have promised anything. "I love you," he managed, hissing it through clenched teeth.
"I know, me too. I know—" And Kyle came.
After Stan had come, too, they showered together. Finally Stan saw the use of this large shower; it was really best to do this with someone, he figured. In a sense, as Kyle rubbed organic soap into Stan's chest hair, Stan didn't feel much different than he ever had. In another way, now Stan felt like he had a little secret to keep, like the sex he'd had with Kyle was an illicit truth they shared, that no one else could ever know. In one sense Stan was sure this was correct, at least in the way that Stan still knew, somewhere, that he was 13, and that years of his life had vanished. If Kyle knew he'd had sex with a 13-year-old, Stan figured, Kyle might have been upset. In another sense, he felt more content now, arms looped around Kyle's shoulders as the jet of the shower rained down on them.
"Isn't this better?" Kyle asked, wiping suds from Stan's eyes.
Stan didn't need to ask what. "Yeah," he said. "It is better."
"We can work on this stuff later," said Kyle, "you know, all that like — boring grown-up shit. Just promise me you're not going anywhere."
"Where would I go?"
Kyle didn't reply. There was nothing else to say.
CHAPTER 9
Trudging home, Stan felt the wind at the back of his neck. He wished he'd worn a scarf, but with Kyle's surprise visit that morning, there's been little time to prepare for anything. Stan had barely remembered his backpack, now full of the worksheets and textbooks he'd need to consult to finish the work he'd put off all week, raking. He didn't expect it would take long; this children's busywork was so easy. Stan wished it had only been so easy when he was actually in school. He'd have wasted so much less time putting it off.
If Stan thought he was cold, it was nothing compared to how chilled Kyle looked, sitting on Stan's front stoop. Stan had certainly not been expecting to see Kyle again that day, and while he was glad, it was also a bit of a shock to witness Kyle's cheeks reddened from the wind and his lips greasy with chapstick. Stan wondered if it was the chapstick he'd bought for Kyle earlier in the week.
"Jeez," said Stan, taking off his backpack at the front door. He felt awkward towering over Kyle, and sat down beside him, the cold surface of the concrete very distinct and uncomfortable through the ineffectual thinness of Stan's jeans.
"I don't honestly know," said Kyle, who Stan believed to be blushing under the cold. "I just, um. Wanted to talk to you."
"Cool. Because that went great last time."
"If you're going to be a dick, I'll go!" Kyle exclaimed, though he did not get up to leave, or move at all.
"Do you want to go inside? You must be pretty cold."
"I'm fine." Kyle paused, breathing heavily. "I am a bit cold," he corrected.
"Let's go inside and have a hot drink, or something."
"I don't want a drink," Kyle insisted.
"Well, come inside anyway."
"Fine!" Kyle stood up. "Fine, I already agreed, anyway. I already said I would!"
Stan used his house key to unlock the front door, and immediately his mother called out to him: "Stanley! Is that you?" It sounded as though she was in the kitchen.
"It's me," Stan confirmed, pulling off his gym shoes. Beside him, Kyle removed his coat and carefully folded it before placing it on the ground next to his shoes. "Um, Kyle's here."
She emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel, scowling. "Oh," she said, balling the towel, "Kyle, you're back."
"Yeah," Kyle said, sounding rather uneasy. "I'm sorry, I just — I had to talk to Stan."
"It's all right, honey, you're always welcome here."
"I know it's crazy—"
"No, it's fine, don't worry about it. Are you cold? Did you want me to make you something?"
"No, I'm fine. Um — thank you. I'm not cold."
"We're going upstairs now," Stan announced.
"All right, Stanley, do whatever," she said, as if she suspected they were up to something unforgivable.
Upstairs, Kyle immediately sat down on Stan's bed, crossing his arms, scowling.
"So what's up?" Stan asked, shutting the door behind him.
"Fighting this morning." Kyle didn't shift his position at all, kept perfectly still. "Doesn't sit right with me."
"Doesn't sit right with you?" Stan kept his back firmly against the door to his bedroom. "You started that shit, you know. Not me."
"But I had a point."
"What was your point, that I'm a bad person?"
Kyle turned away, swallowed.
"I guess," Stan agreed. When Kyle didn't reply, he added, "I told Craig to fuck off."
"Great," said Kyle. He shifted so that his legs were crossed. "After everything I did to help you! And you just tell him to fuck off?"
"Yeah," said Stan, "because my options were, what, just let some little shit walk all over me? Play some middle school power game? That kid's a fucking loser."
"But everything I did—"
"I didn't ask you to do it! I didn't ask you to do it for me, Kyle! You did it because you wanted to! You did it because you wanted to be in control of the situation. You think after all this time I don't know you?" Stan felt his hands sweating. He knew he might not be speaking to the Kyle sitting on the bed over there, exactly — but these were things he needed to say." I'm — I'm not saying it wasn't good of you, or the right thing to do, or that I don't appreciate it, and love you for it. But, man, I could write you a fucking song about how all you ever do is make decisions for both of us and then get pissed at me for not being sufficiently grateful. It's not that I'm not grateful, it's just, you're an adult, for fuck's sake. If putting your own life aside to micromanage mine makes you happy, fine. But don't fucking sit there and pretend that I forced you to do it, or that you don't fucking love it. You love being in control, Kyle. Admit it."
Stan waited for Kyle to say something as Kyle fidgeted. Finally, he thought he saw Kyle eke something out. "Sorry?" Stan asked. "What was that?"
Kyle cleared his throat. His posture now was decidedly less offended and sadder. "I said, I'm not an adult," he croaked.
"Oh."
Stan came forward, and joined Kyle on the bed. He regretted that his boyish frame was not heavy enough to sink into the mattress fully. That would have made this next conversation fittingly dramatic. "Well," he said, trying to catch Kyle's eye. "I dumped Wendy."
A confused expressed came over Kyle's face. Then he shook his head. "Oh," he said, scooting away from Stan, putting distance between them. "Did you?"
"Yeah. Because, you were right. I was a shitty boyfriend to her. And, I don't think I could ever be a good one. So, I dumped her. She was fine with it."
"Oh! Well, good." Kyle slid farther away.
"And another thing," Stan continued. "I'm sorry I wasn't more supportive of your interest in world history. I think if you want you could grow up one day and be a historian. You could write a book if you wanted, you know?"
"I guess?"
"I mean, you've always been very supportive of my interest in — you know, piano. So, I just wanted to say, um, thank you. And, I'm sorry. But mostly thank you."
"Okay." Kyle's face seemed blank; Stan noticed that he was crossing his legs as tightly as possible, and clenching his fists. "You're welcome, I guess, dude — yeah."
"How do you feel?" Stan asked. He got up and sat down again right next to Kyle, so that their thighs were touching.
For a moment, Kyle was unable to answer. Then, in a small voice, he said, "My downstairs feels pretty confused."
"That's one way to put it," said Stan, although he smiled at it.
"You don't understand," said Kyle. "I feel like there are all these different things building up inside of me, almost physically, and I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to expel, but something has to go."
"You're horny."
Kyle took massive offensive to this. "I am not!" he hopped off the couch, backing away from Stan. "And even if I am, don't you dare talk to me about it like you know what that even means!"
"I know what it means," Stan said quietly, and at least in an academic sense, he did. He had to remind himself that he'd had sex, a lot of sex, with multiple partners, across a span of many years. He regretted the fact that he couldn't mention this to Kyle, who was now scarlet, hints of tears in his eyes. Kyle wouldn't believe him anyway.
"You are so full of shit!" Kyle yelled. "You are so full of shit, Stan!"
"You are," Stan insisted, "and you wouldn't be freaking out and yelling at me if you weren't."
"I'm what, I'm full of shit?"
"No, you're fucking horny."
"I have to go," Kyle choked out, tears falling for real now. "I have to go, you're an asshole, leave me alone!" He fled the room, and Stan waited only a moment before he got up to follow. He expected to hear the slam of the front door, but then he heard Kyle on the steps, running back upstairs.
Stan merely stood there.
Kyle tripped on the landing, and Stan was prepared to catch him, but then Kyle got up and repeated, "You're an asshole!" and ran right into Stan's bedroom. Then he slammed the door.
"Dude." Stan knocked at his own door. There was a peeling construction-paper sign affixed with scotch tape that read, "No girls allowed!" Wendy always told him it was babyish and stupid. Or maybe that had been his sister. He couldn't remember. He was so exhausted, so sick of this shit. "Dude," Stan repeated. "Open the door."
"No, fuck you!" was Kyle's muffled reply.
So Stan shrugged and opened the door himself. Kyle hadn't locked it. "Come on," he said, stepping into the room. "Kyle, I'm sorry, I was joking."
"You weren't joking," Kyle said. He was sitting on the bed, cross-legged like an Indian princess in some pencil-illustrated children's book about the frontier. His face was puffy and wet with trails of tears. Stan wanted to kiss him, so much.
"Well, I sure didn't want to do — this."
"Bullshit you didn't," Kyle wept. "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you, Stan, what's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you," Stan said, quietly shutting the door. "I'm an asshole, but nothing's wrong with you, Kyle, you're great just as you are. I swear. I promise."
"I'm not," Kyle said. He'd stopped crying and was now wiping snot from his nose with his sleeves. "I'm not, you're right, I am horny."
"Oh." Stan came over and sat on the bed.
"You might not want to sit there," Kyle said. "You might not want to, because I'm a sick freak and I think I might like it."
"Well, yeah, we're friends, I like sitting next to you, too." Stan scooted closer.
"I mean more like, later, when I go home..." Kyle's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll be thinking about this, about sitting on your bed, and you telling me I'm horny because I feel all confused about — about all this shit — and me realizing, well, yeah." Kyle sniffed, sucking in dribbling mucus and tears. "Oh, I'm disgusting, you don't want to sit here with me."
"I do," Stan insisted. His voice was low, too.
"Why," Kyle said, "why would you—"
"Because." Stan turned to face Kyle, grabbing one of his clammy hands. Kyle's fingers tensed in Stan's and he looked away. "Oh, no," Stan said, using his other hand to tilt Kyle's head back. It was slightly forceful, but Stan figured Kyle liked that sort of thing. He wondered if Kyle became harder when Stan touched him. Certainly Stan was conscious of his own arousal, half-formed but very present, threatening to bloom into a full-on erection. Stan tried to pay it no mind. He took both of Kyle's hands into his, and he said, "Always remember who you are."
This time, Kyle didn't look away; he leaned in as Stan kissed him, light on the lips.
They lingered for a moment, Stan conscious of the clock ticking, of Kyle inhaling and exhaling through his nose. Stan could feel it on his upper lip. They were breathing in the same air, and then Kyle pulled away. It had only been a few seconds, but now he seemed more confused than ever.
"Why would you do that!" he demanded.
Stan thought for a moment. Why had he done it? It wasn't a prelude to sex; Stan wasn't sure if he could have sex with this stunted little body, and he didn't think he wanted to. He tried to remember his first kiss with Kyle, not the one that had just happened but the one Kyle had initiated years ago, over aglio e olio in a little Tuscan restaurant near campus, freshman year of college. A single candle had been flickering on their table. Kyle had been extremely stressed over a history paper; Stan had kept repeating, "It's only four pages," but Kyle had always had trouble forcing himself to get his ideas down. They weren't roommates that year, not yet, and Stan went back to his quad and slept contentedly with the lights on as his suitemate wrote a response paper on Sartre. It bothered Stan that he knew this only because Kyle had repeated it to him later. Stan claimed not to remember, not even the part about Sartre. He couldn't recall where Kyle would have heard about the Sartre thing. Maybe he had just made it up.
Stan wished he had the capacity to even invent memories about that period of their lives, their early years in Boston. The only ones Stan retained were about helping his mother pick out a wig, having to buy his sister a last-minute flight home from Germany that took layovers in Madrid and Newark before landing in Denver. Stan had a strong memory of Kyle sitting in his lap in a gray hallway with matte prints of irises on the walls, Stan's father emerging from a room with a pink door and saying, in a brittle voice, "Sharon's not—" and then that was it, "Sharon's not," and no further information. Stan resented him for not finishing that sentence, for not pulling Stan into the room with him even 10 minutes prior, for calling her fucking "Sharon," like Stan wasn't there, like he wasn't her son, the last thing anyone would ever say to him about his mother in the present tense denied him. Sometimes Shelly would say, "If it makes you feel any better, no one even told me! I was on a plane!" As Shelly probably suspected, that did not make Stan feel better in the least.
Kyle was looking at Stan, and Stan was looking at Kyle. A feeling came over Stan, a feeling of relief, that there was no one in this room with them; it was not a hospital corridor or an Italian joint with red-and-white-checked splatter-resistant tablecloths. They were in Stan's little bedroom, and it was night, and Stan's parents weren't here now. "Why would you do that," Kyle repeated, "what are you doing to me?"
And Stan breathed out, "I kissed you," the words startling to him, as if he hasn't kissed Kyle a million times before. He had to remind himself that, in fact, he hadn't.
"Why did you kiss me?" Kyle asked.
"Because," Stan said, "because I want you to remember who you are."
"And who am I?" Kyle asked. His lips were a little plump, and in them Kyle saw an echo of the man this boy would grow to be, his lips swollen after an evening of rough sex, sucking down a milkshake, ordering the help around.
"You're the boy I'm in love with," Stan said, his voice shaking with tears of his own. Don't cry, he told himself, please don't. Of course, Stan couldn't help it. "Stay over tonight," he pleaded, grabbing one of Kyle's hands, yanking it into his lap.
Kyle's fingers brushed Stan's erection, and Kyle said, "Okay, yeah." He swallowed, wetly. "Let me go call my mom."
Kyle picked up his cell and left the room, looking back to send Stan a shaky smile.
~
Kyle Broflovski awoke sweating, the ceiling fan circling above his head. It was morning, the pale light of 8 a.m. shining behind the curtains, and Stan was twined around Kyle's torso, their flesh so clammy it felt stuck together.
There was a moment of haze through which Kyle tried to recall his dreams; at first he knew only that they were memorable, but not why or in what regard. Slowly it occurred to him that he'd been dreaming of himself and Stan, their first kiss together, an afternoon 25 years ago (almost to the week, if not the day) when Stan had said in a quiet voice, "Remember you're the person I'm in love with." Since then above all else Stan had meant the world to Kyle, but until the night before following their strategic dinner party, it had been quite some time, years even, since Kyle had truly felt that Stan was in love with him. Now, with Stan's warm breath smelling of clean mint against Kyle's shoulder, Kyle thought about the sex the night before, and he felt whole. He was chubby, bored, listless, out of his mind with jealousy, certain Stan was having an affair, obsessed with the void in their small lives: no pets, no children, their families miles away and years behind them. But this much Kyle somehow knew: Stan loved him.
Kyle wanted to say something to Stan in this moment, something like, "I love you too," but the poor man looked exhausted. Feeling altogether too alone to stay in bed another moment, Kyle removed Stan's arms from his waist and slid away. There was a moment of unrest as Stan stirred, and Kyle felt bad for waking him. But then Stan rolled over, and Kyle shrugged. Perhaps Stan was just determined to fall back asleep? Either way, Kyle figured, he wasn't getting up now. Kyle went to go pull on his bathrobe.
In the bathroom, Kyle stood in front of the mirror, sighing at his own reflection. This was his life now: the very beginning of jowls, hair thinning, eyes deep and ringed with sallow skin. Robe hanging open, Kyle could see the shape of his stomach pressing against the bathroom marble, nearly sitting at the edge of the sink. Briefly he was horrified anew that there was enough to perch there, until he considered the sex he'd had with Stan the night before. In front of the mirror, Kyle began to grow hard. He thought, for a moment, of waking Stan and asking sweetly for a blow job; the very thought of Stan's mouth made Kyle harder, his dick beginning to leak between his very legs. But rarely was Stan in the mood for that lately.
Brushing his hair from his eyes, Kyle lurched to the toilet, not bothering to shut the door. He straddled the seat with his robe hanging astride the bowl, skimming the marble on the floor. Something about keeping the robe on as he took his cock into his hand and stroked heightened the eroticism. Thinking about the night before, it wasn't long until Kyle was spilling into his hand, wiping the evidence away with a wad of toilet paper he dropped into the toilet. He considered flushing, but thought better of it, wondering if Stan might spy it in the toilet and feel, for just a moment, a shock of envy, or at least of disappointment, in Kyle's masturbating alone over the toilet as Stan snored in the next room. Washing his hands, Kyle sighed at his reflection again.
Knotting the belt of his robe Kyle swept downstairs and into the kitchen, wincing at the daylight. The house was buzzing with mild sounds: the dishwasher, the ceiling fans, the sprinkler system outside splattering against the window panes in the dining room. Kyle noted that he'd have to speak to someone about that. Stepping barefoot across the floors Kyle thought he heard a certain faint creaking sound, and he banished the idea that it was coming from his own body by reminding himself that the heat and humidity of Southern California brutally warped foundations, that the house itself must be groaning. That had to be it.
As a pot of coffee brewed Kyle thought about how much he missed printed newspapers. Ink on his hands made him feel productive somehow, though it wasn't due to having done anything, per se. Stan was judgmental about this, always going on about preservation and sustainability, but then Stan refused to write music on anything but antiquarian lined paper. They both had their things, Kyle supposed, spreading the paper out on the kitchen counter as he held his first cup of coffee. The sprinklers seemed to have shut off, and as he set down the mug after his first mouthful, the house felt very quiet, very still. For a few minutes Kyle wondered, hoped even, that Stan might come barreling into the kitchen, saying good morning by taking a handful of Kyle's ass. But as the moments slipped away this felt increasingly unlikely. Kyle folded the paper back up and grabbed his mug, fleeing to his office.
With the party out of the way there was little left to do. He wrote e-mails, short ones, to his guests:
Last night was such a success! Thanks for being a part of it. Stan and I always appreciate good company. Best wishes on [here he filled in something appropriate to personalize the note]! Please let us know how it goes. Our home is your home.
This couldn't have been less true; Kyle felt it was mostly his home, but he was used to writing what he had to write. Finished with this task, he closed his e-mail account and stared at the screen. It was sunny out, the shadows of paperweights tall across the surface of his desk. Licking coffee from his lips, he opened the file that contained his life's meager work.
And there it was:
Only with the advent of technocapitalism did the concept of global history truly come to light. It is my aim in the present work to discuss and analyze the
Kyle began to survey the document, scanning the bits and pieces of thought he'd jotted down over the years. Some pages were laden with footnotes; others bore only stream-of-consciousness observations. Some ideas, after several months away from the project, embarrassed Kyle in their simplicity. He hated how he phrased things, and especially despised the false confidence in most of his writing. Really he had no idea what he was doing.
Determined to impose some kind of structure on this project, Kyle opened a new document and began to construct an outline. If he could come up with actual chapters organized around coherent points, maybe he could actually finish a chapter, then another, finally completing the project in this manner while repurposing his text where necessary. As he skimmed what he had, it occurred to him that he wasn't a bad writer, and in fact, some of these things he'd jotted down over the years made an awful lot of sense, or they sounded plausible while Kyle read them aloud to himself.
~
Stan stirred in bed, stretching. It was morning, and he pulled the covers tightly over his head, wondering what fresh hell the world had in store for him today. He stretched, hoping his mother wouldn't come in to demand he get up and go to school, feeling for the wall with his open palm. When his hand reached into nothing but thin air he shrugged the linens from his head and gazed up, seeing the diaphanous wrap of fabric around the canopy on a four-poster bed. Stan felt shocked, to say the least. He turned over onto his belly, burying his head in one of a wall of pillows. There was a moment of unfamiliarity when his cock became trapped under his weight. He was used to having a small one now, and a slim little body to boot. Suddenly a number of sensations became tangible at once: The coolness of high-quality sheets; hair on his chest and stomach; the long-term bite in his sides and back of decades sitting hunched over a keyboard. His head felt heavy, the slight ache of a hangover behind one eye. Perhaps it took several minutes to admit the truth to himself because the best was empty beside him. He longed as he gaped at the empty space for Kyle, young Kyle, the boy he knew back in South Park. Then he thought of Kyle, his Kyle, with his pert ass and care-worn features, the gait of his body uneven. Stan's thoughts turned from whimsical to carnal as his dick hardened, beginning to drool. It had been a long time! The sensation was unfamiliar at first, but as he rolled over onto his back and into the fading warmth of Kyle's side of the bed, he breathed a sigh of relief.
He was home.
The hardness subsided after pissing, slamming the toilet seat shut before flushing. This was his bathroom, his toilet seat, his fucking house. He heard the whir of a vacuum and wondered how long he'd slept for. Whatever had happened, Stan didn't want to know. He longed for Kyle, and the thought of finding him revived Stan's erection, stretching the wafer-thin linen fronts of his softest yoga pants even as he pulled them on. There was only a pang of longing when Stan thought of his childhood wardrobe, its primary colors and childish irony. Here he slid on a fitted T-shirt of pure cotton, a wheaten color and texture that made Stan feel rich. He didn't put on any shoes. Being in his own wardrobe filled him with gratitude and relief. He felt the urge to look through his hanging slacks and, after telling himself it was stupid, gave in, feeling the weight of every fabric against his hands. Stan knew in that moment that he had forgotten what it was like to be an adult, to have a home of one's own.
Stan's thoughts turned to his would-be husband. Where was Kyle? He hated getting up unnecessarily. Stan wasn't sure what day it was. Kyle could be busy, but he was more likely downstairs. He was unlikely to be out; that, Stan was sure of. On his way downstairs he passed Rosa, who was vacuuming the dust from the narrow crevices in the stairs. Stan greeted her with a polite, "Hello, good morning," which was all he really ever said to her. She was Kyle's business.
She smiled at him. "Good morning," she said, a warmth in her voice Stan didn't recognize. "Was it a good party last night? There were plenty of dishes—"
Having not been to any party the night before, Stan certainly had no idea, but he felt it was right to return her smile and say, "Oh, yes, wonderful! Thanks for getting that," and keep walking. Two steps down, though, he thought of something and turned around, asking, "You haven't seen Kyle, have you?"
She snapped off the vacuum cleaner with the heel of her bare foot and said, "I saw him in the kitchen about an hour ago."
Nodding, Stan said, "Oh, thank you," and she thanked him, too, and turned the vacuum back on.
The kitchen was vacant, but it smelled of coffee; Stan helped himself to a mug, wincing at the weight of the pot as he poured from an awkward angle. Kyle would harangue him about seeing an orthopedic surgeon; there was apparently a procedure that relaxed the strain on the metacarpals, would ease his radiocarpal joint. Though Stan generally disliked pain as much as any sane human being, his wrist discomfort was like a badge of accomplishment, as the more and harder he played the more his joined ached. Plus he felt so long as his wrists hurt he had a handy way to excuse himself from giving hand jobs, which he found monotonous. Maybe those should hurt anyway. Kyle was the sort of person who saw problems and had to find a solution. Stan preferred to live with his problems; Stan came to love them. He went to the fridge and withdrew a pitcher of almond milk, from which he poured but a thimbleful into his coffee. The color was now a muted kind of burnt sienna. The warmth felt good on his wrists and he carried the mug with two hands to Kyle's office.
Stan knocked at the door, though it wasn't shut; Kyle's hair was visible over the monitor, his ankles locked as he typed. Stan stood there and watched for a moment, feeling lecherous, his dick continuing to jut out, evidencing his arousal as he sipped his coffee, leaning in the door frame. It got worse when Kyle poked out his tongue as he typed, causing Stan's cock to jump.
Stan announced himself by saying, "Knock knock," and stepping into the room. Kyle paused in his typing and looked up, locking eyes with Stan. As soon as they'd made contact, however, Stan's gaze dropped to Kyle's chest, then his belly and lap, everything on display where the robe has fallen open. For Stan, the real treat in this sloppiness was Kyle's cock, which was just as Stan remembered and idolized it: pale, long, and naked, looking good enough to swallow whole if Kyle would let Stan. Stan's gaze hopped from Kyle's dick to his eyes and back again, each time noting that Kyle's dick was thickening just slightly, barely resistible.
Clearing his throat, Stan took another step closer, leaving his coffee on the desk.
"What are you staring at?" Kyle demanded.
"Well, you," said Stan.
"Thanks, but I'm not worth looking at."
"Oh, Kyle." Stan was genuinely hurt. "I want you so bad." He cringed at the way his voice softened, betraying how much he'd missed Kyle, his wonderful particular Kyle, over however long it had been, a mere week or whatever. "What are you up to?" Stan asked, to bolster his confidence.
Kyle picked up his mug of coffee and, when he peered into it, found out it was empty. He refused Stan's proffered cup, saying, "Not with that gross almond shit in it, no thanks," and set his mug back down. He rubbed his eyes. "I'm working on my book," he said, like he did that all the time. "Nothing cool."
That just about did it. "I think that's great!" Setting the mug back down, Stan flew to Kyle's side, wedging his full weight against the arm of Kyle's chair.
"Knock it off," Kyle said, pushing at Stan — but it was lazy, and he ultimately accepted the encumbrance, wrapping his arms around Stan's torso and saying, "Good morning."
"Morning," Stan repeated, kissing the top of Kyle's head.
"What?" Kyle asked.
"Nothing," Stan said, thinking back to his past week. "I'm just so happy you're working on it!" He ran a hand through Kyle's hair.
Around Stan's waist, Kyle's grip tightened, and for a moment, he stilled. This sentiment felt familiar to him, and at the same time it felt as if Kyle had never heard Stan say anything of the sort. Then he buried his head in Stan's cotton shirt, and inhaled deeply. "You smell different," he said, the words coming out muffled.
- paramécie -
"Why would I smell any different?" Stan asked, though there was a nervous quality to Stan's voice. He wondered what had happened to Kyle while he was away, or if any time had passed at all. In a way, Stan was sure, things were exactly the same as he'd left them.
Kyle reached for the keyboard, then suddenly withdrew his hands. "Are you going to score today?" he asked. "While you were sleeping we got a delivery by courier. I think it's your script."
"Script for what?"
"Churchill Downs," Kyle said. "Working title only."
"Oh!" Stan continued to tussle Kyle's hair. So time had passed, but things seemed the better for it. Stan told himself not to mourn for whatever he hadn't been here to bear witness to. Everything seemed to have worked out. "Well, you can't score off a script, you know, I at least storyboards for that."
"Right, okay."
They sat for a moment, Kyle sighing into Stan's neck, his dick pressing into Stan's thigh, slicking Stan's cotton pants.
Sitting up straighter, Kyle yanked at a loose piece of Stan's hair and said, "I'm not trying to chase you out of here, but I'm trying to write—"
"Oh!" said Stan. He slid off the chair, feeling a little hurt. "Well, yeah, sorry. I'm glad you're writing."
"Yeah," Kyle agreed. He looked up. "Could you get me some breakfast? Like, a bowl of Chex or something?"
Stan readjusted his pants. "With almond milk."
"Pffff, no, not with almond milk, Stan, jesus." Kyle shut his eyes, but when he looked up, he was grinning. "I deeply considered having ice cream for breakfast."
"Well, I'm glad you didn't. That's really not a very healthy breakfast." Stan started to leave the room, relief coming in the form of Kyle's fingers on the keyboard, a subtle clicking sound that Stan hadn't heard in ages.
Kyle called after him, "Thanks!"
Stan turned to take one last look at him sitting there, typing away.
"No problem."
The End
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