Psychiatrists Do It on the Couch
*excerpted*
Evan Williams
“So how do – did – you know Gerrit?” He turned to see me, though I was positive he had felt me there, watching from behind. He had retrieved a can of what looked like pineapple juice from the vending machine; no wonder gay boys loved this city – you could buy all the tools of the trade on any street corner, in any train station, even any hospital.
“He was a regular at my shows. Kind of an asshole, really, but what can you expect? That’s what all those guys are on the lookout for, anyway. Assholes.”
His bitter humor was off-putting somehow. I had an inexplicable urge to defend Gerrit, but whatever I would have said remained unspoken. He sat down in a chair that appeared as patently uncomfortable as it was ugly and expertly crossed one leg clad in black skinny jeans over the other. His new leather jacket gleamed beneath the harsh light like an oil slick; whoever had styled his hair hadn’t misplaced a strand. I suddenly wished I had brought along my camera then immediately retracted that thought. Gerrit, the poor kid, had just died, and here I was setting up a model shoot of a porn star in a hospital waiting room when I should be … what? Whatever it was I should be doing, I didn’t want to be doing it alone right now. I sat down, one nauseatingly green chair vacant between us.
“Then why are you even here?”
“Well,” he said, looking at the vending machine as if I were unworthy of prolonged eye contact, then tossing his head, not shifting a single hair, “it was my party he collapsed at, wasn’t it? I had to tell the manager to call the paramedics myself, or else your friend in there would have died on a dance floor instead. He said it was a liability that I was here, but I guess it’s more of a liability if someone dies at your own film screening, huh?” His voice had a “twinkish” quality to it – slightly lisping, sissified, even precious. At such a close distance, however, it was obvious that he was no immature barely-eighteen-year-old; we were probably similar in age. I wondered if he had gone to college, here in Vienna or anywhere. If it weren’t for his god-given good looks, I would’ve mistaken him for one of those guys I had known who thought they were too smart for school, dismissing the hypocrisy of the world around them as if ironic distance were their only salvation. “For the sake of conversation here, how did you know Mr. Party-Hearty?”
“His name was Gerrit. He was my roommate. Well … yeah, he was my roommate.” He arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and I realized he was sneering at me. He thought I was pathetic; so did I.
“Roommate, huh?”
“Yeah. I mean … yeah.” I gave in.
“Gabe the Lame-o Labia,” Gerrit would have sneered, and I realized I would have done anything to hear him berate me again, say something so outrageously uncouth I would’ve had to hold my own hand to keep from slapping him, although there would have been no way to keep me from grinning like a little kid. As if the two boys were inextricably linked to the same emotions, I thought of O’Halloran, saw him walking through the school hallways of my memories, so confident, so handsome. If I didn’t love him so much, I would’ve wanted him to be my friend. And if Gerrit hadn’t been my friend, I might have had to love him; what was the difference, anyhow?
“Who was he?”
“Who?”
“Come on, queer, I’m not stupid just because I’m good looking – the boy you’re thinking of right now – who was he?”
“Oh, no one.” The eyebrow arched again. “Well, okay, there was this guy at my high school back home in Philly.”
“It’s not called the ‘City of Brotherly Love’ for nothing.”
“Heh, no, I guess not. Anyway, I don’t know why I just thought of him right now.”
“I do.” He was looking at me now, but I wasn’t sure how interested he really was in this story I had to tell.
“Huh?” I held his gaze for a moment; his eyes were green, unreal.
“That kid, whatever his name is, has still got you by the balls in one hand and your heart in the other.” Watching his lips, I wondered what made them gleam like that, and if that something tasted good.
“Ryan. His name was Ryan O’Halloran. He was our class president and the captain of the football team.”
“And I’ll bet he dated cheerleaders and drove his Dad’s Beemer and asked for second helpings of his Mom’s apple pie.” His cheeks flushed slightly, and I noticed how smooth his skin was, like buffed porcelain.
“He won our school essay award for a paper on Byron. He’s studying law at the University of Pennsylvania.” I didn’t know why I was talking. Maybe it was because I wanted to hear a response, to see that Adam’s apple bob up-and-down; on him, that organ wasn’t awkward, only oddly erotic.
“Did Mr. Right know he had a secret admirer hiding away in the big ‘ole Closet?”
I don’t know why I told him. Maybe some things just needed to be said, sooner or later.
“On the last day of class, when they passed around the senior yearbooks, I wrote a note in his personal copy when he wasn’t looking. It was right next to his senior portrait. I never knew if he even saw it”; it had been my concordance.
“Well, what did it say?” His belt buckle was off-center around his waist, and I knew he knew it. “Oh, come on, just say it. I won’t tell, I promise.” He made a facetious show of crossing his heart. Leaning over the jutting armrests, I whispered into his ear.
He started to laugh. At first his response seemed a throw-away, an aside, but he kept at it, laughing and laughing, harder and harder. He buckled over at the waist, and his eyes watered over so heavily that gobs of moisture fell to the linoleum floor. It was a sickening sound. It came from somewhere hurt and ugly, somewhere flat, endless. I could not stand to hear something so vile spewing from someone so beautiful – it was a violation of nature. It was like watching the desecration of a statue, hearing a symphony off-key, hefting literature onto the pyre. I had to stop it; I couldn’t stand it any longer, the ugliness and the agony. I did the only thing I could think of to make it cease. Cupping his quivering chin, I kissed him.
“He was a regular at my shows. Kind of an asshole, really, but what can you expect? That’s what all those guys are on the lookout for, anyway. Assholes.”
His bitter humor was off-putting somehow. I had an inexplicable urge to defend Gerrit, but whatever I would have said remained unspoken. He sat down in a chair that appeared as patently uncomfortable as it was ugly and expertly crossed one leg clad in black skinny jeans over the other. His new leather jacket gleamed beneath the harsh light like an oil slick; whoever had styled his hair hadn’t misplaced a strand. I suddenly wished I had brought along my camera then immediately retracted that thought. Gerrit, the poor kid, had just died, and here I was setting up a model shoot of a porn star in a hospital waiting room when I should be … what? Whatever it was I should be doing, I didn’t want to be doing it alone right now. I sat down, one nauseatingly green chair vacant between us.
“Then why are you even here?”
“Well,” he said, looking at the vending machine as if I were unworthy of prolonged eye contact, then tossing his head, not shifting a single hair, “it was my party he collapsed at, wasn’t it? I had to tell the manager to call the paramedics myself, or else your friend in there would have died on a dance floor instead. He said it was a liability that I was here, but I guess it’s more of a liability if someone dies at your own film screening, huh?” His voice had a “twinkish” quality to it – slightly lisping, sissified, even precious. At such a close distance, however, it was obvious that he was no immature barely-eighteen-year-old; we were probably similar in age. I wondered if he had gone to college, here in Vienna or anywhere. If it weren’t for his god-given good looks, I would’ve mistaken him for one of those guys I had known who thought they were too smart for school, dismissing the hypocrisy of the world around them as if ironic distance were their only salvation. “For the sake of conversation here, how did you know Mr. Party-Hearty?”
“His name was Gerrit. He was my roommate. Well … yeah, he was my roommate.” He arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and I realized he was sneering at me. He thought I was pathetic; so did I.
“Roommate, huh?”
“Yeah. I mean … yeah.” I gave in.
“Gabe the Lame-o Labia,” Gerrit would have sneered, and I realized I would have done anything to hear him berate me again, say something so outrageously uncouth I would’ve had to hold my own hand to keep from slapping him, although there would have been no way to keep me from grinning like a little kid. As if the two boys were inextricably linked to the same emotions, I thought of O’Halloran, saw him walking through the school hallways of my memories, so confident, so handsome. If I didn’t love him so much, I would’ve wanted him to be my friend. And if Gerrit hadn’t been my friend, I might have had to love him; what was the difference, anyhow?
“Who was he?”
“Who?”
“Come on, queer, I’m not stupid just because I’m good looking – the boy you’re thinking of right now – who was he?”
“Oh, no one.” The eyebrow arched again. “Well, okay, there was this guy at my high school back home in Philly.”
“It’s not called the ‘City of Brotherly Love’ for nothing.”
“Heh, no, I guess not. Anyway, I don’t know why I just thought of him right now.”
“I do.” He was looking at me now, but I wasn’t sure how interested he really was in this story I had to tell.
“Huh?” I held his gaze for a moment; his eyes were green, unreal.
“That kid, whatever his name is, has still got you by the balls in one hand and your heart in the other.” Watching his lips, I wondered what made them gleam like that, and if that something tasted good.
“Ryan. His name was Ryan O’Halloran. He was our class president and the captain of the football team.”
“And I’ll bet he dated cheerleaders and drove his Dad’s Beemer and asked for second helpings of his Mom’s apple pie.” His cheeks flushed slightly, and I noticed how smooth his skin was, like buffed porcelain.
“He won our school essay award for a paper on Byron. He’s studying law at the University of Pennsylvania.” I didn’t know why I was talking. Maybe it was because I wanted to hear a response, to see that Adam’s apple bob up-and-down; on him, that organ wasn’t awkward, only oddly erotic.
“Did Mr. Right know he had a secret admirer hiding away in the big ‘ole Closet?”
I don’t know why I told him. Maybe some things just needed to be said, sooner or later.
“On the last day of class, when they passed around the senior yearbooks, I wrote a note in his personal copy when he wasn’t looking. It was right next to his senior portrait. I never knew if he even saw it”; it had been my concordance.
“Well, what did it say?” His belt buckle was off-center around his waist, and I knew he knew it. “Oh, come on, just say it. I won’t tell, I promise.” He made a facetious show of crossing his heart. Leaning over the jutting armrests, I whispered into his ear.
He started to laugh. At first his response seemed a throw-away, an aside, but he kept at it, laughing and laughing, harder and harder. He buckled over at the waist, and his eyes watered over so heavily that gobs of moisture fell to the linoleum floor. It was a sickening sound. It came from somewhere hurt and ugly, somewhere flat, endless. I could not stand to hear something so vile spewing from someone so beautiful – it was a violation of nature. It was like watching the desecration of a statue, hearing a symphony off-key, hefting literature onto the pyre. I had to stop it; I couldn’t stand it any longer, the ugliness and the agony. I did the only thing I could think of to make it cease. Cupping his quivering chin, I kissed him.