01824: One Last Time

PHOTO: Rejected on Flickr by love not fear CC BY-NC-ND

Editor’s Note: “Death by Cursor,” originally published in The Bradford ReView, and re-published in the collection Those Little Bastads and on this Website, was based on the recollections of Mr. Stanley Brooks, a police officer from the great city of Lowell, Massachusetts. However, it has come to our attention that much of the story was a fabrication constructed by Mr. Brooks and based on a one-night stand he had during his days as a campus safety officer at Kimball College in Haverhill, Massachusetts. What follows is the true story, as told to us by Mr. Matthew Silver of Dunstable, author of The Silver Family of Harwich, who, it turns out, never did manage to kill himself, at least not in the literal way that Mr. Brooks described.

These new townhouses, which his cousin hated, retained none of the character of the Cluster Houses which they now surrounded, and would someday replace permanently. Matt imagined them being plopped down by some random New England cyclone, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Tornado of August 1851. All brick and mortar, they belonged to some distant kingdom, perhaps the realm of AN, if not the land of OZ. They certainly were out of place here, amongst the brownish gray clapboard of the Clusters. But like all of the things Matt’s cousin Michael loved, Kimball was gradually being destroyed in the name of progress. Sure, the Clusters were sinking into the ground a little more each year, but that was part of the charm. Or so Michael said.

Matt had to laugh. The Clusters had had a certain appeal for him too, back when he was a prospective student, but he liked these new dorms just fine. Maybe it was his relative old age, or the design sense that had come as an added bonus with the purchase of his Gaydar, but he appreciated the poshness of these buildings quite a bit. They may not have had character, but they appeared to have all of the other perks you could want.

But they’re going to tear down the Clusters because of these things, Michael had said. And then the place where Jenna and I became Jenna and I will be gone.

Matt laughed again. It was as if Michael thought that the old Cluster Houses were going to still be standing by the time he had kids and they were old enough to come back here. It was if Michael thought that his future children were actually going to care.

“What are you doing out here, pal?” asked a gruff voice.

Matt turned to identify his inquisitor. The campus safety officer was lean of body, save for the thick middle that seemed the birthright of all constables everywhere. His head was shaved bald, but in a precise way; not a hint of stubble was to be found up there. And his face was as smooth as his dome. Although, clenched in an all-business frown as it was, it couldn’t properly be called handsome. His most memorable feature was his stare, a particular set to his eyes that seemed to proclaim he was going to get to the bottom of you, no matter what it took.

I hope he does get to the bottom of me, Matt thought, smirking. After all, if this really is the last time, I want it to be a good one.

“What’s your business on campus, pal?”

“How do you know I’m not a student?” asked Matt.

“Less than five-hundred kids here. And I know every face.”

Matt smiled. “I’m visiting my cousin. Michael Silver. Heard of him?”

The guard’s face unclenched. “Good old Mikey’s cousin, huh?”

“You know him?” said Matt.

“I know everybody,” said the guard.

“So you must be the one he mentioned, the fudgepacker…”

“Excuse me?!?”

“S’alright. We queers can call ourselves whatever we like,” said Matt. “Or didn’t you get the memo?

The frown was back. Matt had a sudden vision of this guy living in his mother’s basement. He ate chicken pot pies with the sad old maid, playing video games till four in the morning, wondering why he still hadn’t kissed a girl yet. And then, one night, he woke up with a hard-on after falling asleep to the Sox locker room report, and suddenly he was like, “Oh. That’s why.”

“So,” said Matt. “Are you?”

“I moonlight,” said the guard.

“Well, rumor is Michael’s left a room open for me if I want it. When do you get off?”

“I’m off now,” the guard admitted, checking his watch.

“Well, my dear cousin certainly set this one up well,” said Matt.

*********

“That’s death,” said Stanley, pointing at the blinking cursor. “To guys like you—writers, I mean—a blinking cursor on a blank page might as well be a bullet in the head.”

Matt scoffed. “Oh my word. Everyone on this campus really is a drama queen. Even the campus security…”

“Campus safety,” said Stanley.

“There’s a difference?”

“Yeah, if I was security, maybe I’d get to carry a weapon.”

Matt nodded his head. “Dubus wrote a story about you, about a townie turned campus rent-a-cop.”

“Which Dubus?” asked Stanley. “Junior, or the old man?”

“The old man.”

Matt felt an arm draped around his shoulder as he began to type again.

“‘She died quietly,’” Stanley read aloud.

Matt sat back, enjoyed the feel of warm flesh against his own. “We’re like the Village People, you and me.”

“How’s that?” asked Stanley.

“You’re the cop, and I’m…”

“The Jew?” said Stanley, his hands rubbing at the knots in Matt’s shoulders. “I don’t think there was a Jew.”

“I’m not Jewish,” said Matt.

“Sorry. Figured with the last name…”

“Silver?”

“Silver does sound Jewish. You know, like David on 90210?”

Matt laughed. “I’m a WASP, actually.”

“I don’t think there was a WASP, either.”

“In terms of my analogy,” Matt said, staring at the offending adverb on his screen, “I’m the Indian.”

“The Indian?”

Matt backspaced until quietly was obliterated from his document. Then he deleted the whole sentence, leaving only the blinking cursor on the blank screen again. The best masseuse in the Bay State could not pull the tension away now.

“Great-grandfather messed around a bit,” said Matt.

“Really?”

“Really,” said Matt, retyping his sentence verbatim. He examined it again, and decided it would do. He smiled, took a sip of coffee.

“You know,” said Stanley, “He’s not the only gay cop in the world.”

Matt put his mug down. “The guy from the Village People?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure he is,” said Matt, bending to rifle through his bag.

Stanley fell backwards onto the bed, groaning. “You think that, as a gay man, I would be better served by working in another field?”

“I think you’d look cute in a sailor’s outfit,” said Matt, arranging the three postcards he’d brought with him on the desk.

“What are those?” asked Stanley. “You gonna write someone a postcard? You gonna mention the hot so-and-so you hooked up with while on vacation?”

“They’re rejection letters,” said Matt.

Stanley sat up, and grabbed for them. “And you actually carry these things with you?”

“I travel light,” said Matt. “But the things I bring with me, I bring everywhere.”

“But why?” said Stanley.

“I have a little thing I do with them,” said Matt, zipping up his bag, not wanting Stanley to peek around in there.

“What’s that?” said Stanley, handing the cards back to Matt.

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Matt.

“What, I’m too stupid or something?” said Stanley, collecting his boxers from the floor.

“No,” said Matt. “I’m the stupid one. And I do stupid things. What you wouldn’t understand is why I do them.”

“Oh,” said Stanley, pulling on his pants. “Well, if you’re ever up to visit again, and you feel like doing something stupid…”

Matt groaned. “I didn’t mean…”

Stanley waved a hand dismissively. “I’m busting your balls, Matt.” He smiled and shook his thumb at the door. “Gotta go before the rest of the house wakes up. I get caught in a dorm and I lose my job.”

Matt stood, and they hugged. “There’s always the navy,” said Matt, as he gave Stanley a peck on the cheek.

“See you round,” said Stanley.

“See you,” said Matt.

*********

He counted the letters one more time, just to be certain he knew how many bullets to load. The gun was on Michael’s desk, the cartridges beside it, and Matt was feeling a bit nervous about his chances. There were only six chambers, of course, and if his count was correct he’d have just two chances at salvation. But what if he didn’t count the three from yesterday, and only took into account the one that he had found in the mailbox on the way out the door this afternoon? Those odds would be better.

Behind him, the door’s combination lock clicked four times, and though Matt knew that meant his cousin was on the way in, he didn’t bother hiding the gun.

“So, what did you think of...” Michael was saying, before his eyes keyed in on the desk, and opened big and wide.

“He was okay for a night,” said Matt. “But I don’t know if I could stomach his faux-machismo schtick for a whole...”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” said Michael, picking the .44 up off of the desk. “Are you fucking for real?”

“I told you about this. This summer.”

“You told me you were fucking kidding, man.”

“Well...” said Matt, stumbling. “I wasn’t.”

“And you were going to do it right here, right here in my Goddamn dorm room?”

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” said Matt, pulling the gun away from his cousin and tossing it back into the bag. “I’ve been trying for six months, and I’ve never gotten the barrel anywhere even close to my head.”

“Well that’s comforting,” scoffed Michael, plopping down onto his bed.

“I did shove it up my ass once,” said Matt, with a straight face. “When all of my dildos were in the dishwasher.”

Michael let loose a strained chuckle. “Loaded or unloaded?”

“Well, I pretended it was loaded. Does that count?”

Michael pulled a pillow over his head and mumbled something inaudible beneath it.

“Mikey,” said Matt, putting a hand on his cousin’s knee. “You gotta believe me. There are some things I’ve just got to do. It’s all part of my process.”

Michael sat up, tossed the pillow aside. “And you wonder why I don’t want to be an artist anymore.”

“You don’t want to be an artist anymore because you’ve found something—or, in this case, someone—to distract you again.”

“I thought you liked Jenna.”

“I love Jenna,” said Matt. “And you’re a fool if you don’t keep her around, but right now she’s just a crutch for you, another excuse. Eventually you’re going to have to look into the abyss just like I’m doing. You’re an artist, Michael. And there’s no escaping that.”

“If being an artist means I have to put a fucking gun to my head every time a painting comes out like a piece of shit, then I’m done with it, Matt. I’m fucking done.”

Matt smirked. “Maybe,” he said. “But I guarantee it’s not done with you.”

*********

“And how is it coming together?” Matt asked his cousin’s girlfriend over breakfast the next morning. “The performance?”

Jenna didn’t answer. She had a determined look on her face, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she was, mentally speaking, a million miles away.

“Jenna?” said Michael, a hint of aggravation in his voice.

“Huh?” she said. “What?”

“Matt asked you a question.”

Matt waved his cousin off. “It’s not a big deal, Michael. I was just making small talk.”

“Well, it matters to me,” said Michael. “You’re our guest, Matt, and I would think she could tear her head away from the theatre for five minutes to actually participate in a conversation.”

Jenna groaned, stood, and picked up her tray.

“Where are you going?” asked Michael.

“This is why I don’t come to meals during hell week,” said Jenna. “Nobody understands. I thought you would, but...” She turned on them, and stalked off.

A boy at an adjacent table turned and addressed Michael. “You’re not doing your job properly, Mikey.”

Michael groaned. “Oh, shut up, Andy.”

Matt perked up at the sound of the name. So this was Andy, the old roommate. The old gay roommate.

“If you were doing your job, she wouldn’t be so tense.”

Matt chuckled, and Andy gave him a smile.

Andy picked up his tray and moved over to their table. “You must be Matt,” said Andy, extending a hand.

Matt shook Andy’s hand and nodded. Andy punched Michael in the arm with his free hand.

“Ow!” said Michael. “What was that?”

“I thought you said you were going to introduce us when you got him up here,” said Andy. He turned to Matt. “Who did he hook you up with?”

“Stanley,” said Matt, suddenly wondering if he’d remembered the name right. “I think.”

Andy held a hand to his mouth and gasped. “He didn’t?!? You hooked up with the skanky security guard?”

“When did you and I start talking again?” asked Michael.

“You must hate us both,” said Andy.

“No,” said Michael. “I was looking for someone who might complement Matt, complete him, not fuck him one night and write a stand-up routine about it the next.”

“Complete him? Honey, you’ve seen Jerry Maguire one too many times.”

“Jerry Maguire?” said Matt.

“You haven’t seen it?” said Andy.

“He’s a hermit,” said Michael.

Matt frowned. “I prefer ‘recluse.’”

“Well, anyway,” said Andy. “That’s what that fucking pretty boy Tom Cruise says to Zellweger chick at the end of the movie.”

“What’ve you got against Tom Cruise?” asked Matt.

“I could write a book about what I have against Tom Cruise.”

“Don’t get him started,” said Michael, putting his head down on the table.

“The point is,” said Andy. “Michael saying he wants to find someone to ‘complete’ you—that’s a load of horseshit. It’s the same thing as saying you ‘love’ someone.”

“Whoa,” said Matt. “What’s wrong with telling someone you love them?”

“It’s so fucking overdone,” said Andy, with a sigh. “I mean, what does ‘love’ mean, anyway? And, as for ‘you complete me,’ do you know how many over-sappy, under-attractive men have tried to use that one on me since that movie came out?”

Matt smirked. “A lot.”

“You bet your fucking ass!” said Andy, standing up, working into a pitch-perfect Kinison impression. “I say, to hell with all this love and completion crap. Just come straight out and say you wanna fuck them and get it over with. The direct approach is so much more honest, and so much easier to deal with. If more men came up to me and said shit like, ‘nice shoes, wanna fuck?’ instead of this ‘you complete me’ bullshit, I’d be giving head a lot more often!”

Matt clapped at his apparent suitor’s command performance, and gave a great hearty laugh. He cast a quick glance down at Andy’s feet. “Nice shoes,” said Matt.

Andy slapped a hand down on the table and chortled. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”

Michael stood now, pulling his tray towards himself with a lurch, his half-full glass of Sprite toppling over.

“C’mon, cuz,” said Matt. “Don’t go all Bruce Banner on us.”

“Your sister told me a couple of years ago not to bother with helping you out. I should have listened.”

“C’mon, Michael...”

“Nah,” said Michael. “I’m done. You don’t want my help, them I’m finally gonna listen.”

Michael marched across the dining hall and disappeared behind a divider near the kitchen.

“So,” said Andy. “What about a one-morning stand?”

Matt looked across the length of the dining hall, waiting for Michael to reappear. But he did not.

“Matt?”

“Sure,” said Matt, shrugging his shoulders, figuring that one more time couldn’t hurt. “Why not?”

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