What's Important Is Feeling: Stories Read Free Page B

armful of plastic cups. His T-shirt said “Put a Little South in Your Mouth.” The cups were filled with a fruity concoction, heavy on vodka, garnished with floating gummy bears. I was on my third. The party was in full swing. A sign said “Welcome Homos and Hookers!!!” The crowd consisted of the former costumed as the latter. According to Wyatt, it was the summer of leather short shorts.
    Wyatt lived in a ranch-style condo with a couple other gay guys. The décor was Hawaiian, apropos of nothing. Leis and grass skirts were handed out at the entrance, and the yard was lit with tiki lamps. We were on the porch, a perfect little outdoor stage. Ernesto wore three leis around his thick neck. He slugged his drink, crushed the empty punch cup in his fingers.
    “These fruitcakes sure know how to party!” Ernesto said. He had an arm around Wyatt.
    “Oh, you’re bad,” Wyatt said, and flicked Ernesto’s puffy cheek. My friends watched in awe, unsure whether to be embarrassed or amused. We were setting up our amps, waiting for Kendra to arrive.
    “The thing about these fruitcakes,” Ernesto explained, “is they know a lot of sexy ladies.”
    “True dat,” Alex said.
    “Depends on your definition of sexy,” Sam said.
    Claire was in a group of women with perms and press-on nails. They smoked long cigarettes, and their laughter led to coughing. The gays were teaching them dance moves. The girls giggled as they tried to two-step in stilettos. I’d never seen Claire out of work, gussied up. Maybe it was the booze and mood light, but she looked younger for once, face softened, less severe.
    Even my sister was at the party. I’d invited her by e-mail but didn’t think she’d bother. Trish had hardly been out of the house since her return. She’d arrived alone, looking tentative, too pale for summer. But the gays had welcomed her into their fold, fed her tequila shots, commiserated about her ex.
    “Oh, that sorry little man-child,” said Wyatt, and waved a finger. “He gon get what he got coming.”
    Trish was nearly too drunk to stand. “I’m a fag hag!” she screamed in my ear. “Benny, I’m a fag hag!”
    “Awesome,” I said. Soft Thunder were the only ones not having fun. We scanned the crowd for Kendra. I hadn’t heard from her in days.
    “I saw her Wednesday,” Sam said. “We went and saw Titanic .”
    “Really?” I said. “ Titanic ?”
    “Just the two of you?” Alex said.
    “Yeah,” Sam said, “Just us two.”
    “I took her bowling,” Alex said. “I think that was Thursday.”
    “Bowling?” I said.
    “Bowling’s dope, yo. Don’t fuck with bowling.”
    “I saw her yesterday,” said Roland.
    “Okay, boys,” Wyatt interrupted. “Let’s get rolling before this crowd gets any rowdier.”
    The conversation would wait. There were bigger things at hand. Sam sat behind his drum kit. Alex strapped on an American flag bandana he’d bought for the occasion. He took off his T-shirt, waved it over his head, tossed it into the audience, played the lion’s roar on his keyboard. A few people clapped. Wyatt killed the stereo. I tapped my finger on the mic.
    We opened with the sixties sing-along, vamping on the chorus for a good ten minutes before seguing into “Car.” Our third and final song was a surprise for Wyatt. We’d been practicing an awkward cover of “Like a Virgin.” The crowd gasped, applauded. Wyatt appeared onstage wearing nothing but jockey shorts. I moved away from the mic to let Madonna do his thing.
    It would have been triumphant if Kendra hadn’t then appeared. She’d snuck onto the stage and was suddenly standing next to me. Her head was completely hairless.
    There’s something unsettling about a shaven head. Maybe it’s that you can really see the skull, the shape of it, all its lumps and juttings, skin stretched tautly over bone. So little separates our brains from the world.
    Kendra blew out the melody on her un-amped clarinet. No one could hear it, but she