In Media Res

            I walk into my latest story.  I know I’ve been here before because I can remember this setting: my boyfriend’s apartment building.  The hallway beams from lights lining the center of the ceiling and the fresh white paint slathered on the walls.  The smell of paint makes me scrunch my nose.  This building makes me feel uneasy—it has an amount of quiet too serene to trust.  Here lies the type of “calm before the storm” cliché our writer likes to use.  I walk cautiously to a white door with “3-D” written in gold letters.  I knock three times and wait.  Then a man calls out, “who’s there?”

            “David, it’s me, Chris,” I say, rubbing my hands on my pants, wiping off the building sweat.  He huffs just loud enough for me to hear his disgust, unlocks the door and opens it, slowly.  He flips the light switch and I see his whole body.  He is wearing very little: a pair of white, Ralph Lauren briefs, a white tank top, and black flip-flops.  Holding the door with his right hand, he stands lopsided with his left hand in his curly black hair.

            “What do you want?”

            “I just want to talk.”  He looks at me as if he’s been through this before.  He doesn’t slam the door.

            “About what?  I have no reason to talk to a lying bastard like you.”  After a comment like this, in the middle of a story, our writer hopes that you will take sides.  This is the point where you’re told why you’re hearing this story in the first place.

            “Please, just give me a couple minutes and then you’ll never have to talk to me again.”

            “Oh, all right.”

            He opens the door completely and motions for me to come inside.  I move quickly through the doorway.  After closing the door behind us, he walks down a short hallway leading to the living room.  I follow. 

            The writer has changed a few things around since the first scene of the story.  Most of the misplaced objects are merely incidental like the couch pillows that are scrunched and strewn across the floor, but the picture of us that was on the coffee table now lies facedown.  This is symbolic for the impetus for this story; a broken relationship that couldn’t be put back together until now.  When I see this, I put my hands in my back pockets.  I can hear the faint scratching of our writer’s pencil when David looks at me, scowling.

            “So, what do you have to say?”  He collapses on the couch, grabs a pillow from the floor, holds it between his crossed arms, and then leans back.

            “I just wanted to…”

            “Because you know that no matter what you say I’m still pissed.  So what’s your excuse this time?”  I think he wants me to make a grandiose plea for his forgiveness, possibly on the six o’clock news, but I don’t think our writer is willing to satisfy the fairy tale ending today.  He is trying for something that will “surprise” his readers—he tends to lean toward quirky plot lines that don’t satisfy.

            “Come on, he didn’t mean anything to me.  You wouldn’t do it for me, and I can’t help it if I have needs that have to be met.”  This is quite possibly the worst dialogue that I have ever had to say.  It always comes to this: I say what the writer wants instead of what I am thinking.  I keep my eyes focused on David, making sure to look as earnest as possible.

            “What?  So now it's my fault that you can’t keep your dick in your pants when you’re around other men?”

            “No, that’s not what I meant.  I was just trying to say that you aren’t always there when I need physical affection.”  There isn’t a small chance that he, or any other man, will believe that this statement has any validity—I wouldn’t either.  I try to grab his other hand but he yanks them both away.  This is a way to build tension in the plot.

            “Don’t give me that.  If you had a problem with the amount of affection you were getting you could have talked with me about it.”  His eyes slightly bulge out when he says this part—a gesture with which our writer is far too fond.  “I’m not even mad that you did it, because I know that boy has been to bed with every man in the tri-state area, but what kills me is that you didn’t think talking to me would’ve changed things.”  This is the climax of this story, the part where a reader is supposed to start hoping for the best ending, and the new beginning, of this relationship—this is the point at which everything is supposed to change. 

            I look down at my hands with dramatic anguish.  I am waiting for the answer the writer wants me to give.  There is a silence for a few seconds, and then I feel David’s index finger lift my chin.  Now, I tear up and sniffle like a small child—this is the kind of melodrama prevalent in our writer’s stories.  David wipes away the tears from my cheek and says, “You have to promise me that this is the last time.”  He says the last part in a forgiving, soft voice and kisses me on the forehead.  The reader should question this quick character shift—it’s not organic.

            “I’m sorry.”  I say this in a disgustingly pathetic voice.  “I promise that it won’t happen ever again.”  Looking directly in his eyes, I say the last part so it will be more convincing.  He runs his hand through my hair, still wet from the shower that I had earlier in the story.  His skinny, pale fingers move like large salad forks.  I think it’s rather funny that I always have long, stringy hair in stories—it doesn’t seem typical of a gay man to have stringy hair.  This is what our writer considers a specific detail.

            “I know,” he says.  I lean forward to kiss him on the lips, and then, just as suddenly and out of nowhere as this usually tends to happen, our writer’s pencil drops, making a loud crashing sound above.

            We both look up.  “Do you think he’s done yet?” I ask.

            David huffs.  “Maybe.”  We both get on our feet to straighten our clothes.  He looks at me and laughs.  “Looking me in the eyes when you said all that was a nice touch.”

            “Was it really that over the top?”  He does not answer.  Then, after a few seconds, we both laugh hard.  Laughing like this reminds me of the times before all stories jaded me.

            I look around the room to see if there’s anything for us to do until our writer returns.  I have never seen such plain scenery in any other story: there isn’t a board game in sight, and the only thing on the television is some really bad Barbara Streisand movie.

            So, after I have exhausted my efforts, I flop down on the couch.

            “What kind of story are you coming from?” he asks.  This question surprises me because I am rarely asked anything personal.

            “I was flirting with Brian in a grocery store.”

            “Again?  Damn, he really likes you two together.”  He’s right.  That was my thirtieth story with Brian where we did a random sexual act in a public place.

            “Yeah, but you know that our writer’s still stuck in that sex scene phase.”  I roll my eyes.  I am frankly tired of having sex with men like Brian.  He is the kind of character that our writer likes to use when there is not enough salaciousness in a story.  He is always young, in shape, and easy; the kind of man that you would have sex with once, but, due to your arrogance, would ultimately never speak to again for fear that he would actually have a flaw, therefore messing up his ideal nature.  It’s quite a shame, really, the way we use guys.  But I guess that’s the way you have to play: do what you’re told by the writer’s pencil, act effectively in the story, or be prepared to be thrown into the garbage with the rest of the discard pile of characters.

            “Where are you from?” I ask.

            “I was in LA trying to ‘break down the barriers’ for the AIDS community.  I’m not so sure what our writer’s thinking, but he can’t save the world in twelve pages.”  I smile and shake my head because I know exactly how he feels.  Once, I was in a story with Joseph, our classic struggling AIDS victim who is skinny as a paper plate, has no money for medication, and lost his lover to the disease a few years earlier.  Trust me, it wasn’t an easy story.  From what I can remember, the plot had something to do with me taking care of his final legalities, his will and such, just before he was to die.  There was so much melodrama involved in some of those scenes that I almost got sick myself from having to go back for revision upon revision; but our writer never got around to finishing that story anyway.

            “Have you been in anything else interesting lately?” I ask.  I have worked with David many times before and he usually gets some of the worst locations.  I remember him telling me once about a story where he was a ‘rags to riches’ gay actor still in the ‘rags’ part of that equation.

            “Well,” he pauses.  “I was a DJ at a rock radio station a couple stories ago.  I saved a guy from killing himself after his boyfriend broke up with him, and I had a lot of time to listen to the music that was around.”  I reflect on what “DJ” really means and what being a DJ is like.  I don’t remember ever hearing any music besides the stuff that we listen to in dance clubs and the shower rooms in the gyms, and I wonder what rock music sounds like.

            “I bet that was a lot of fun,” I say.

            “Yeah.  It was.”  He smiles because he understands that I don’t know what he is talking about.  He gives me a small peck on the cheek.  “Thanks for asking.”

 

            This gym smells like piss.  This is not the kind of place that our writer likes to talk about—I guess he doesn’t work out himself.  Looking around this place makes me think about past stories where inconspicuous men led to inconspicuous rendezvous in the shower room. 

            I stand with a barbell in each hand flexing my fledgling muscular build.  The clanging of weight machines and the blowing of large fans is ever present in this setting.  The lifeless gray carpeting is almost as worn as the expressions on these men’s faces.  Everyone is “ripped,” as our writer would say, but it’s artificial.  It’s as if these men are merely lifting the weights out of necessity rather than a desire for fitness.  This is the brand of character that you find in our writer’s New York gym stories: he is bound by muscles, has pale skin, and has short black hair that is due for a shampoo soon.

            I bend over to put the weights down and, just then, I feel something come up behind me as if it were a ghost.  I jerk up startled.  A young man, in his mid-twenties at the most, stands directly behind me—I can feel it when he breathes.  This is the type of closeness that bothers me about our writer’s stories—he likes to show the specifics of the specific, which can prove uncomfortable for the unsuspecting reader.

            “Hi,” he says, “my name’s Joe.”  He shows me his perfectly straight teeth in a wide smile and extends his hand.  I am hesitant to shake it because I don’t like touching people’s hands—it’s just a quirk of mine—but I soon realize that I have no other choice.

            “I’m Chris.”  I don’t know why I say anything.  By this point, my name is not really important at all.  What is important is that I am tall and that I am, presumably, more than willing to do whatever he wants.  This is the part of the story where our writer makes all his plot and character development choices.

            “Do you come here very often?” he asks.  I fear what he is going to say next after such an obviously bad and “awkward” beginning.  I nod my head in the affirmative.  I wipe my hands on my T-shirt.  “Do you need a spotter?”

            “No thanks, I’m done.  I’m just going to take a shower.”  He raises his eyebrows.  I hate it when the writer makes me respond to such clichéd, sophomoric gestures.  “What?” I ask.  I smile and act coy.

            “Do you think you’ll need any help?” he asks.  I am astonished at how forward our writer has become.  Here is the point in the story where the reader should question the choices of the writer and make the decision whether or not to go on.

            “No, I think I’ve pretty much got it covered.”  I blush in a not-so-obviously red kind of way.  I wrap my towel around my neck and head toward the locker room before any further discussion can happen. 

The hallway to the bathroom is poorly lit with the exception of a line of small lights against the wall.  I walk alone, finding my way to the door with the guidance of these lights and then open the heavy wooden door that is painted an unattractive purple.

            The locker room has a kind of mold smell that doesn’t seem appropriate in a gym where men pay hundreds of dollars a year for membership, but I let the fact that it’s dirty go with the hope of later revision.  I sit down on the padded bench and it feels like someone put their ice pack on it a few minutes earlier.  This is supposed to be another specific detail, but it’s not all that important or effective—it’s just cold.  I think our writer is trying too hard.

            I am the only person here.  This is important because this is the kind of story where my actions are supposed to show my character to the reader.  I guess that is why I am alone is this part of the story.  But, then again, our writer is being rather weird about relationships between people in his stories these days.  Sometimes, when I get really lonely, I think about what our writer is like, but then, just as I am about to have sympathy for the man, he puts me in a horrible, cold place where I am as miserable as he.

            This is the new setting: blocks of concrete painted red, a bin with towels festering in it, and a series of numbered gray lockers that are not in numerical order.  I guess this isn’t the worst setting I’ve ever been in, but it sure is boring—even for one of our writer’s stories. 

            I stand up and take off my clothes.  It feels rather wet taking off sweaty clothes.  When I am completely naked I hear the writer’s pencil drop.  This is apparently the end of this scene, a time break is necessary before the story can continue.  I could have just had sex with that boy right here and had it over with, but, of course, our writer has to be difficult.  Jerk.  There will probably be a few more minutes of waiting before the action picks back up.

            I lie down on the bench and try to nap.

 

            This bar is like any other bar.  I stand by the wall and I watch the surrounding area: a few tables and some open space where the dance floor presumably is.  A boy across the room looks at me.  He is of average height, muscular, and, of course, tanned.  He looks rather familiar, but when he comes over I have to think for a second of who he reminds me.

            “Hey, what’s your name?” I ask.

            “Justin.”  He says this as if it a question, as if his name has the possibility of being Justin but could just as easily have been Eric or Mark or Brad.  I smirk.  Justin is not much different from many other characters that I have known before: he is good looking, has a nice laugh, and has enough tiny quirks about the way he stands and the way he talks and taps his foot to either make you love him or physically force him to stand still.

            “Are you sure?” I ask.

            “Yeah.” He smiles.  I am not sure if he has ever heard himself speak before or if he is just shy, but in any case, he’s unsure about what to do in this situation. 

            “Would you like to dance?” I ask, holding out my hand.

            “I’d love to.”

            We move to the dance floor.  This is what you might call a typical nightclub scene.  There are lots of other people here with us, most with their shirts off sweating so much that it’s actually distracting.  It smells like a mix between Chanel number five, a byproduct of the token drag queen no doubt, and CK B—so, to say the least and the most at the same time, it’s rather rank. 

            We start dancing.  Some recent dance hit is blaring out of the speakers.  I have heard this song in past stories, but that is not important at this point in the story—this is merely part of the background and “mood.”

            Justin’s body interests me, not sexually, but in a way that is hard for our writer to explain in words.  He is rather curvy to be a man.  I think he might have been conceived that way—even his neck and back seem rather voluptuous and smooth.

            “You’re really good looking,” I say.  I put my arms around him and continue dancing.  He freezes up for a second and then goes back to dancing.  I can tell he’s never had sex in a nightclub before because he is bracing himself after this plot device is used.  When he thinks that I have noticed his indiscretion, he smiles.  I smile back at him with the hope that he will not feel uncomfortable the rest of the night—he seems like a newcomer.  We continue the same rhythm even though the song changes and dance for something like an hour which seems like an “eternity” in our writer’s mind.

            Now, we are sweating like the rest of the crowd and I fear what will come next—because all characters know what has to come next.

            “It’s really hot in here,” he says, “why don’t we go somewhere a little bit cooler.”  I nod, and then we both move towards the door.  He puts his hand on mine, caressing it like a linen glove, and we walk out the door.

            The burst of cool air is a dramatic change from the stuffy, hot atmosphere in the bar scene.  The reader is supposed to notice that this change in climate signifies the beginning of the climax.  We are apparently in a parking lot because there are cars parked everywhere, but not necessarily in spaces.  Here, the reader is supposed to notice the chaos in our lives as is symbolized by the parking lot.  “Let’s go over here.”  He points to a dark alley around the corner.  We walk over and lean against the wall.  This is not the best of positions to be in because is shorter than me, but for now it will have to do.  He kisses me on the lips.  He character has changed—he’s more confident now.

            “What are we gonna do?” I ask.  I say this as sheepishly as possible so that he can understand that he is in charge from now on.  He kisses me again, this time rubbing his hand on my crotch.  I get hard.  And then, as our writer’s favorite part is about to begin, the pencil drops.  I assume he is unsatisfied with the rising action so far.  We will probably have to go back inside the bar and redo the whole scene again to give it more sexual charge.

            We look at each other.  “Boy, that was a close one,” he says bending over to let his arms dangle to the ground.  He stands back up, exasperated.  I am still leaning against the wall with my hair messed up. 

            “I know.”  I move to the middle of the alley where Justin is standing.  “Do you think we’re gonna have to...?”

            “More than likely, but I think he’s taking a coffee break.”  He says the last part while pointing to the sky.  “It should be at least ten minutes until that happens.”  He laughs nervously.  I really notice Justin’s smile for the first time when he laughs.  I don’t think I can remember ever seeing a guy genuinely laugh after a story.  He notices that I am looking at him.  “What?”

            “Oh, nothing.”  I shake my head.

            “What do you want to do until we have to go back?  I think I have a pack of cigarettes in this outfit somewhere.”  He looks down at his clothes in search of the cigarettes.

            I look at him.  “Let’s just talk.”  He looks up from his clothes.

            “Okay then we’ll talk.  So what do you want to talk about?” 

            I slide down the wall and sit down.  He walks over and sits next to me.

            “What’s your story?” I ask.

By Reginald Powell, AL

2003 KarMel Scholarship Entry