My Best Man by Andy Schell Read Free Book Online

Dr. Pepper and champagne. Never mind. I’m too wired to sleep. This air mattress feels as if it’s floating on a body of water. When I move, it tilts, and I fear it will capsize if I’m not careful. This blanket is irritating every nerve cell in my body. I kick it off, but then grow cold. I drag it back on. I wait for sleep. Am I too stoned? Or not stoned enough?
    Should I really be sleeping here at all?
    ;

CHAPTER
FOUR
    l stay. I sleep on the sheets she provides, wash my hair with shampoo, and listen to her records on her old beater of a stereo. And when she’s sleeping at home and not with her
    I attempt to grow accustomed to her occasional nightmares. On flight attendant seniority list, she is senior and I am junior, so we cross paths only occasionally at first. On a day off, I fly back Kansas and reclaim my car from Matthew, a 1968 Volkswa Beetle, and drive it back to Dallas. The poor old car has seen years of service, and it barely limps down to Texas. I coax it alon knowing that, if it breaks down, I’m fucked, because I just have the money to fix it.
    My second weekend in Dallas, Amity is down in Houston on , date. She says it’s a flight attendant thingmgoing out of town a date. You don’t have to clean your house, you impress your with your mobility, and you’re guaranteed to have sex, because when it’s over, you fly away.
    I’m jealous that she’s in Houston with a guy. I wish it were me, But now that I’m feeling somewhat more secure, and my stitches are dissolved, I’m brave enough to strike out on my own for night.
    I head over to the gay bars. I luck out and find a parking
     
    right in the thick of it on Cedar Springs, and as I step out of my ‘68 VW, I hear a gaggle of guys catcall my Kansas license plate. “Girl, you need to ask the Wizard for a new car!” I look at them and laugh, as if they’re just having fun with me, and they look back as if I’ve broken a rule by smiling at a stranger. A different guy says, “He ought to ask the Wizard for a friend.” That hurts. They walk on, singing “If I Only Had a Friend.” My confidence is weakened.
    I unknowingly choose a bar that’s infamous for its heavy S&M: Stand and Model. The place is named LBJ’s and I’m amazed that the Johnsons haven’t sued. It’s all glass and chrome and pretense. The floor is actually carpeted with now filthy dark green short pile carpet that does nothing to soak up the deafening sound of the thump-thump gay-boy music. Behind the main bar is a wall-to-wall mirror that the bartenders use for preening rituals during their few off moments: flick of the hair, teeth check, suck in the cheeks, change the angle. The patrons use the mirror for the same thing; these guys in Dallas act like peacocks. I order a beer, stand two feet from where I paid the bartender, and check my hair in the mirror until I’m pushed aside, little by little, by people with biceps who know each other. The place is packed, and no one speaks to me. I look for, but don’t find, a sign that says: atvs WITH SMAgg ARMS MEET HERE. I squeeze myself over to a new area near steps that lead to an elevated platform. I park awhile and try to look relaxed, friendly. Friendly doesn’t work here. Every time I glance at someone he looks away, as if he doesn’t want to be the one to tell me I’ve been turned down by the Barbizon School. As the place fills to its limits, I’m pushed farther up the stairs until I’m on the shiny platform surrounded by a chrome railing.
    Before I know it, the lights go off, and a spotlight slaps itself onto the platform and I can feel its heat, and standing inside that spotlight is a god with a microphone. “OK!” he says. “It’s contest night!” A few guys whoop and holler, but most everybody looks
     
    toward the platform stage with scrutinizing smirks, their scorecards ready. The ME, in jeans and a white tank top, has the size of hams and thighs as big as toddlers. His face is stunnin even under all that