Dear Reader,
For some reason when this first posted it got cut off in the middle but this should be the entire story as it is meant to be read.
MJ
STRAIGHT THROUGH
It all started because of a TV show actually. Which just goes to show that that shit is bad for you. Or maybe it shows how you never know how your whole world can get knocked around like a snow-globe in a hurricane if you're not careful.
I was washing dishes and watching, more listening to than watching actually, an old episode of Two and Half Men. Not that I usually watch that shit, but there you go. It was an old one. A re-run. From back when Charlie Sheen was still on the show. Charlie was in his therapist's office, talking to that actress who plays the butch gym teacher on Glee.
They were going on and on about something and I wasn't really hearing what they were saying, it was just, blah, blah, blah, as I ran the water. And I turned off the water and then all of a sudden the actress said loudly, as clear as day, "You know Charlie, when a man continues to go through women like water he's usually gay."
"Nooooooo," I said out loud.
"Noooooo," Charlie Sheen said.
I turned around and looked at the screen. He was staring at the therapist with his mouth open.
So was I.
"Nah," he said. Then he chuckled an uncomfortable chuckle and waved his hand like he was waving away a load of crap he just couldn't handle. "Nah," he said again.
I clicked the TV off.
"What the fuck?" I said to myself.
I realized I had forgotten to wash one pan but I was done with kitchen chores; that's for sure.
"I'm as straight as they come," I said out loud.
I grabbed my leather jacket and my car keys. "Fuck this, I'm getting out of here, I could use a drink."
I usually keep beers in the house but I was out. Besides, I was in the mood for something harder. I got in my car and drove around, not really seeing.
I drove and drove, telling myself it was stupid to get all twisted in the head over a stupid show. I just hadn't found the right woman yet. Right?
Except what if that wasn't it?
I wasn't homophobic, not in the least. But it never occurred to me that even think that I might be...? Nah.
I pulled into a bar with a big red sign and a well-lit parking lot and slammed the door of my pick-up truck way too hard. "This is ridiculous. You're not a teenager. If you were....anything... you would have realized it by now," I mumbled.
But then I wondered. Was the reason I dated and dated because I was avoiding something? And yeah, I'd had a lot of sex but I had a lot more dating that hadn't ended in sex. Was I going and going because I was trying to prove something?
Nah.
I sat at the far end of the bar and ordered a shot.
I stared at the glass and then put my face in my hands. I'm straight. I've always been straight. I'm super straight. Straight as a fucking arrow straight. Straight, straight, straight. I'm a fucking lumberjack for Christ's sake, how straight can you get?
I felt someone come up next to me to order.
I tossed my drink back.
The bartender took the drink order from the guy next to me and I said to the bartender, "Another shot, make mine a double. Actually, double doubles, go ahead and bring my next one now."
"You got it," the bartender said and walked away.
"Sounds like you've had a bad day," the guy said.
I looked at him. Tall, wiry, long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail. I wondered if he was some kind of artist or musician or something with that hair.
"Ah, my brain's just been blender-ed and I think my whole world's just been turned upside down," I said.
"Well they say that's good for the soul," he said.
I stared at him like he was from some other planet.
"After it stops sucking, I mean," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Listen, my band's playing here tomorrow night," he said. "Why don't you come out and hear us? We're really upbeat and fun but still seriously rocking, the kind of thing that will get your mind off your troubles."
He pulled out a shiny black business card with a picture of a guitar on it and handed it to me. It had his name and his band's name on it.
"Brandon," I read. It fit him; somehow he looked like a Brandon.
"Yeah," he said.
"Paul," I said putting my palm on my own chest before I extended my hand to shake.
We shook hands and I said, "You know, maybe I will come see your band tomorrow night, I could use to have some fun."
"Couldn't we all, my man," he said. "Couldn't we all."
A drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a short red dress came in and automatically my eyes went over Brandon's shoulder to look at her. He turned around to follow my gaze.
"Oh, there's my date," Brandon said. " 'Scuse me, man, nice meeting you. Hope to see you tomorrow."
He gave me a quick, friendly, light clap on the shoulder and then he was off to the other corner of the bar with the woman, who, now that I got a good look at her, was Swimsuit Illustrated level material. The two of them were in the corner by the stage, probably one of the only decently lit areas in the dark bar.
She was beautiful - there was no doubt about it. Strikingly beautiful. And I certainly appreciated it. But did I appreciate it the way I did a beautiful painting in a museum? Like it was just some intellectual exercise?
I looked around the bar. Was I actually just going to walk up to some dude and pick up a GUY in here?
Shit, I have to get out of here.
I threw some money on the bar.
I looked at Brandon and his girl over in the corner again. Yeah, she could be a model but he was... something.
Did I want him more than her?
One thought ratcheted around my head like a marble let loose in the back of moving pick-up truck: I was going to find out.
I've GOT to get out of here.
I sat in my truck in the parking lot for a good 45 to 50 minutes, letting the cold air from the cracked-open windows and my accelerating speedy-as-shit thoughts sober me up. I was glad that I had a bottle of water in the car because the drinking had left me dry. And more confused than when I started. It took a lot of deep breathing before I was ready to drive home.
I got home and surprise, surprise, didn't sleep well. Not a good thing, in fact a serious, serious health hazard in my business. Would the guys give me shit if they knew what I was thinking about?
I thought about it. I'd been with the same team of four other guys for six years. They could give a fuck who I slept with. Whatever happened, they'd have my back, which was essential in a job that had more accidents and injuries on the job than either firefighters or policemen. They might raz me but only if they thought they could get away with it without hurting me for real. We were always busting each other's balls. That wouldn't change. They wouldn't be afraid I'd all of a sudden be mack-ing on them. They were solid.
I paid extra attention at work and got through the day okay.
I ate my dinner of a roast beef sandwich with mustard standing over the sink, like usual, and killed some time before heading off to the Red Sign bar. I arrived at ten, which is when their website said the music would start.
The place was dead. The musicians were there, on stage, still setting up and tuning up.
Brandon called me over when I walked in. "Hey, Paul," he said. "Come meet the guys."
"You look pretty mean holding that guitar," I said. "You actually play it or just wave it around for protection?"
"Depends on the day," he said.
He introduced me to the guys. They all had that same, long hair, skinny to medium body, black music T-shirt, black jeans, black Converse high-tops kind of look. 'Hey look at me I'm a rock and roller'. It worked for them. Brandon was by far the tallest and the best looking.
