Hiss And Slither
Before starting the laundry I walk from room to room and look for soiled things that didn’t get sent down the shoot. There’s a dishtowel in the kitchen and a pair of smelly white socks on the living room floor. I climb stairs and enter the bedroom I share with Sam. I walk to the rumpled bed and pull out the tucked-in sheet. More white socks and several pairs of Sam’s underwear fall to the floor. On the left side of the bed, Sammy’s side, I pick up a pair of jeans.
Sammy’s Levi’s feel small in my hands and smell of mulch and sweat. Knowing he’s likely left change or a comb in them I absently search pockets. In a front left pocket I pull out what appears to be five torn ticket stubs. They’re a bright green color.
I frown.
Why would Sammy have tickets to a Haunted House in his pocket? And why five? Why would they have last night’s date on them? Sammy worked last night… he said…
Suddenly I know the whys. Sam didn’t work. He lied. For months now… he’s been lying.
I sit on the side of the bed. I look down at his jeans in my lap and again marvel at how small they are. Almost like a boy’s jeans. A garment belonging to someone not old enough to cheat on you.
I’m unable to move for a long while.
It’s all sad and incomprehensible but realizing Sammy’s been lying to me, is so good at lying to me, devastates me most.
Pictures flash in my mind. A kaleidoscope of images, recollections…
Muddy work boots under the coffee table… A flash of olive-colored skin… A shard of laughter… A brush of male lips against male lips… Sammy in just white boxers putting a star on top of a Christmas tree… A beat up Braves cap on top of the refrigerator… The two of us laughing with George and other friends at Jerry’s restaurant… Soft snoring beside me… The look of fear on Sam’s face just before they wheel me into surgery… Sam and me running out of Target in the rain… Golf clubs tucked behind a door… Damp towels on the bathroom floor… Sam’s chocolate-y stare… Him beside me at my mother’s funeral… and my brother’s… and my other brother’s… and my adopted sister’s and my sister-in-law’s… What a fucking year.
The slide-show of memories continues. In my mind I see the last left-handed note Sam left on the counter… I see myself laying face down on a wide ottoman and recall being filled with him… slow selfish him… There’s a flash of straight white teeth… And six Bud Lights sitting neatly on a shelf in the fridge… Sam’s rude mouth below swollen eyes wrapping around an asthma inhaler… We sit side by side on the couch eating butter noodles on a cold winter night… He jogs in the park… He dances, he thinks unobserved, to ABBA… I wait for him on stone steps as he finishes testing for his GED… There’s the faint cheesy taste of his cock and Family Guy in the background as I…
I look at one of the monstrously green stubs in my hand. Like a little certificate announcing another sudden and unfair death. Life as I’ve known it for the last six years has been forever changed with the discovery of these torn slips of paper…
And they’ve been good good years. Sam’s been so easy to love… and live with. So relaxed and male and present.
It’s impossible to imagine but we’ve never once argued. We’ve never been mad at each other.
The only thing about Sam that’s ever bothered me… the only thing I ever gave him shit for… is his penchant for two word communications and responses. Sam’s a man of few words… He can answer any question, say anything with two words.
You can deliver a soliloquy to him but all you’ll get in return is a “right on”… or a “not bad.”
It’s the way he talks. Let’s fuck… Good deal… No way… Yeah fine… I’m good… Gotta go… Gonna cum… That’s cool… Me Tarzan… You Bill… Bye bye…
GODDAMN YOU SAM… Goddamn you…
I pull myself up, gather the dirty laundry and make my way back downstairs.
An hour passes and I’m folding Downeyed towels when the phone rings. I check the caller I.D. and see it’s Sam.
I push the talk button.
“Hey Hey…” Sam’s deep voice says.
“Hey Sammy.”
“I left work early and I’m on my way home… I wanted to let you know I’ll be going back out for…”
“How was the Haunted House?” I ask.
There’s a long pause. “It sucked.” My lover’s voice says. “How’d you…?”
“There were ticket stubs in your jeans pocket. Five of them.”
“Yeah… I went with these four guys I know from work.”
“It’s confusing to me that you’d have all the stubs Sam. Did you pay their way in?”
“Um… yeah…”
I close my eyes. “Do you love her Sam?” I ask.
After another pause Sammy says, “I don’t know.”
“You love her.” I say quietly.
“What makes you so sure?” A young man I’ve built my life around wonders.
“Oh… I think only a girl could persuade YOU to enter a Haunted House. Only a girl you think you love… and you’re too cheap to pay anyone’s way unless maybe you were trying to impress someone.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“What’s her name?”
“Debbie.”
With the phone cradled between my cheek and shoulder I snap a clean towel and fan it flat on a kitchen counter. “How many times have you fucked her Sam?”
“About ten times.”
“I’m sure it’s coincidence that that’s the same number of times you said you were working third shifts these last few months.”
“We need to talk.” Sam says. “I’ll be at your place in a few minutes.”
I hang up the phone. I stare out the window above the microwave. My place… Not -I’ll be home in a few minutes. Not -our place…
Yep. It’s as dead as my momma but… at least this time… I can stay in my big shorts. I won’t have to wear a suit to the funeral.
I pick up the phone and dial numbers. A voice on the other end says, “Happy Homes” happily.
I ask for the department I work in. I tell my boss I’m sick and won’t be in. My boss isn’t happy.
I know I can lose my job but I don’t care. Losing things is getting to be old hat for me.
Thirty minutes later Sammy and I are on the couch. Sam sits as far from me as possible. His narrow left hip is literally jammed against the arm of the sofa. He looks tired and more like someone who works in a coal mine than the lawn and garden department of a large Home Improvement Store. Dark rings of sweat darken Sam’s Tee shirt under his arms. His khaki-colored cargo shorts are filthy. A right knee sports a big scab…
Sam picks up the remote and flips on the TV.
On MSNBC there’s a good deal of talk about Martha Stewart beginning to serve a 5-month sentence for insider trading at the Alderson Federal Prison Camp in West Virginia.
I take the remote control from Sammy’s hand and flip the set back off.
“When I’m in the last minutes of a dying relationship I prefer no distractions.” I tell him.
Sammy nods and stares straight ahead. I have no idea what to say to him or where to start so I sit hoping he’ll start…
“You don’t know how bad I hate hurting you.” He finally says.
“It’s okay Sam.” I say gently. “One can’t choose to love a snake and then be all devastated to find out it hisses and slithers… and all my relationships end this way. Usually much sooner than six years but they all end with me being replaced by a girl.”
“I am straight.” Sam reminds me.
“Yeah… and you’re approaching thirty. I’d say you’ve probably wasted enough time here…you know… with me… with… this. You should go… and make some babies.”
Sam frowns. “I don’t know about all that.”
There’s more not talking between us. Sam still doesn’t look at me. A thigh muscle jumps under the fabric of his shorts.
“Go be straight Sam. Really. I’ll get started falling apart and then I have the, learning to live life without Sammy Drake thing, to do.”
Sam shakes his head. “I want to talk a little first.”
“Okay… talk.”
For the next six minutes I learn how over it truly is and what a ridiculous old fool I can be but I’m glad six months of Sammy lies are being replaced with some truths.
We go back to being silent.
Sammy looks over at me. “What are you thinking about?” He asks.
“About how I didn’t see it coming and how good you are at lying. Like when I asked you why you weren’t tired after working third shifts and you said you and Eugene just drove from store to store all night… and how you said he always wants to drive so you catch a bunch of little cat naps. It’s amazing considering there weren’t any third shifts or trucks or even a Eugene… I mean that was so good. You could give lying lessons Sam.”
Sammy sighs. His coffee dark hair looks dry. It needs cutting. “I guess I’m glad to be good at something.” He says.
I nod again. “You’re good at a lot of things.” I say quietly.
Sam turns to me. His wide brown eyes are sorrowful but there’s also an excitement at their nougatty center, a looking forward to a life that won’t include me. “You think I’m a snake?” He asks.
“I think you’re self-centered prick but… until a few hours ago you were my self-centered prick. I guess it’s good you’ll be someone else’s now.”
“I’m sorry Bill.”
“I know Sam and again it’s okay. It’s even normal and sort of blue… kind of…”
“Sort of what?” Sam asks.
“I don’t know… It’s weird… There’s something sexy about you fucking a girl in secret and something equally cruel about you loving one the same way.”
Sam scoots forward on the couch. “Is it okay if I wait till the weekend to get my stuff?”
“Yeah… That’s fine.”
As I walk Sam to the door I decide, from the side, he kind of resembles a duck.
Before stepping out Sammy turns to me. “Before I go I got one of them two word communications that frustrate the fuck out of you.”
“Yeah? I’m not surprised. What is it?”
“Thank you.”
Sammy steps onto the porch and then scurries down steps. I close the door and hear his Mustang start up. A second or two later I hear it zoom down Washington Street.
My Sammy is in a hurry to get somewhere.
I shut the door and fall against it. I press my head back and a glass pane feels cold where I’m balding.
“You’re welcome.” I tell an empty room.
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