We were awakened by Bayani banging on the bedroom door.

  “Occupied,” Fletcher said.

  I laughed and then covered my mouth with my fingers.

  “What the fuck? Ashe, let me in.”

  We scrambled into our clothes; Fletcher disposed of the condom and I opened the door.

  “Oh, Jesus, Ashe, it smells like a sex club in here.” Bayani stormed into the room wearing lace-up Daisy Dukes, knee-high Doc Martens and glitter. He pushed past me without seeming to notice Fletcher. He dropped to his knees and started pulling wads of clothing from under his bed.

  “This is Fletcher.”

  “Hey, Fletch.” He didn’t turn around. “What are you still doing here? We’ve got, like ten minutes to get to the theater.”

  I glanced at Fletcher.

  “Dude, today’s Monday,” I said.

  “Seriously?” Bayani looked genuinely startled.

  “You’re in a play?” Fletcher asked.

  Bayani laughed. “Are you kidding me? He’s—”

  I hit him in the face with a pillow.

  “What? Is it some kind of embarrassing guerrilla theater? Anticorporate flash mobs or something? Hassling the shoppers in the Disney Store?”

  I’m sure Fletcher was being sincere, but this sent Bayani to the floor, laughing and rolling back and forth, then beating his heels on the floor, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. He was only a moderately talented actor, so I was pretty sure the tears were real.

  “What?” Fletcher said again.

  “Disney!” Bayani hooted and collapsed again, laughing and on the verge of hysteria.

  “What?” Fletcher turned to me.

  I didn’t say anything, but Bayani rolled onto his back, panting. “He’s fucking Prince Charming,” he said. “You know? In Cinderella? At the New Amsterdam,” Bayani said, hooting with laughter. “It’s a Disney show. Flash mobs! Fuckin’ guerrilla theater.”

  Fletcher’s eyes widened perceptibly but he didn’t say anything.

  Bayani was staggering to his knees, saying something about Tarzan being the only Disney show he’d ever heard of with gorillas.

  “Come on, man. It’s not that funny,” I said.

  This resulted in another round of panting and giggling.

  “Can you give us a minute, B?”

  Bayani pulled on a purple rain slicker and stalked into the other room.

  “Disney isn’t a defense contractor,” Fletcher said, his tone gentle but mocking.

  I couldn’t read his face, but it didn’t really matter; I was so embarrassed I wanted to die.

  “You protest people buying those shoes when you work across the street in a show that charges five hundred dollars for front-row tickets?”

  “It’s not the same thing,” I said.

  “Isn’t it?” I still couldn’t read his face. There was something there that wasn’t there before, something that looked dark, maybe angry. “Disney is not a defense contractor, but they own ABC and they use the media to shape American public policy; they fight American unions tooth and nail; they rely on underpaid foreign labor for their production base…. I could go on.”

  “Please don’t.”

  We stared at each other for a moment in silence.

  “I thought this meant something to you,” he said, pointing to the protest posters on the wall.

  I heard my father’s voice in his words. Old wounds reopened and tears welled in my eyes.

  “Maybe this was a bad idea,” I said.

  “What?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Maybe I’m not what you think I am.”

  “Don’t say that. It doesn’t—”

  “I think you should go,” I said.

  “Ashe, no—”

  “Just go, Fletcher.”

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Bayani said, when Fletcher was gone.

  “Can you just shut the fuck up? Quit your giggling and laughing and stay the fuck out of my life just this once?” I screamed, grabbing my jacket and storming out the door. I took the service elevator and went out through the back alley, heading uptown toward the park.

  I was so full of angry energy that I broke into a run, sprinting as far as Columbus Circle, letting sweat and heat loosen my joints and clear my head. I crossed into the park and plotted a rambling course toward the Bethesda Fountain.

  Embarrassment was thick inside me, viscous and hot and acidic.

  An actor? A lousy fuckin’ actor? Jesus, Ashe, I thought your political beliefs meant something to you. My father’s disapproval echoed in Fletcher’s words; they both thought I was a complete sellout. And wasn’t I?

  I stormed through the darkening park, sometimes walking, sometimes running, always trying to keep a few paces ahead of the choking shame. I was running when I passed the reservoir and staggering by the time I reached Central Park North. I collapsed on a bench, breathless and exhausted, a wreck of wounded pride. I hated myself so much I considered throwing myself in front of the Number Three bus. I imagined the scrape of asphalt on my face and the crunching progress of the tires across my back and legs. It took me an hour to calm down, but as my anger and embarrassment ebbed, a rising tide of despair washed over me.

  What the fuck had I done? Had I just sent a gorgeous, funny, smart, rich man packing because of my wounded pride?

  I called Bayani on my cell.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said.

  “Have you considered throwing yourself in the river?”

  “I was thinking of a launching myself under the tires of a crosstown bus.”

  “Right. And then I’ll be stuck pushing your crippled ass around in a wheelchair—But ya are, Blanche! Ya are in that chair!” He broke into peals of laughter.

  “Not funny,” I said.

  “You know I’m funny, bitch,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about before,” I said.

  He sighed loudly, and then said: “You white boys are so dramatic. Just call him.”

  I smiled.

  Until I realized I had absolutely no way of contacting Fletcher.

  My grandmother used to say, “Pride goeth before a fall.”

  I always hated the crazy old bat.

  I went back to work the next day, stumbling through the week in a half-dazed stupor that would have gotten me fired if it weren’t for the persistent and skillful intervention of the company’s Equity steward, Bambi. But even she was getting tired of my lackluster performances by the end of the week. She pulled me aside before the Sunday evening show and whispered in my ear: “You quit fucking up or I’m letting you tank. You got your week; now get your shit together.”

  I caked on makeup to cover the bags under my eyes and tried not to cry during the love songs. The Sunday evening performance was a significant improvement. Bambi stopped me in the hall after curtain, grabbed my arms and said, “Better. Now go home, sleep until Tuesday afternoon, and come back in here reborn. You got it, Ashe?” I nodded and slinked away.

  Bayani was waiting for me in the hallway in his street clothes.

  “There’s a package back there for you.” He jerked his head in the direction of my dressing room.

  “My walking papers?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking, no,” he said.

  There was a rectangular package wrapped in royal purple with an extravagant blue ribbon. There was a card tucked under the bow. I pulled out the envelope with trembling fingers and read the note.

  Best show all week. If the shoe doesn’t fit, the shop’s open ’til midnight—Fletcher.

  I pulled the top off the box, revealing a pair of the blue running shoes Fletcher had not bought at the shoe store on the day we met.

  I arrived at the store at ten minutes to midnight. The place was packed with tourists scooping up last-minute deals to take home to Scranton or Cleveland or Baltimore.

  I had the box tucked under one arm and I was looking for Fletcher. Courtnei approached me and said, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to return these,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s you. Where’s your protest sign?”

  “I retired the sign.”

  “Change of heart?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Did you steal these?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have the receipt?”

  “I’ve got it,” a voice said from behind me.

  I turned around. Fletcher was wearing jeans and a tight white T-shirt. In the very center of his chest, nestled in the gentle slope between his pecs, was a cartoon frog wearing a jeweled crown.

  I handed the box to Courtnei without looking at her. Fletcher handed her the receipt, took me in his arms and kissed me.

  We came up for air when Courtnei nudged Fletcher with a clipboard. He scrawled his signature on the return slip and handed her his American Express Black card.

  “Should I expect drama every time I uncover an inconsistency in your character?” he asked.

  “Probably,” I said. “Does that scare you?”

  “I guess not. How many can there possibly be?”

  “There are a lot of them, I’m afraid.”

  “So it could take years to work through them all.”

  “Decades, maybe.”

  “It sounds exhausting.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely exhaust you.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute.” He said. “And the drama?”

  “I am an actor,” I said. “A master thespian, you might say.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Not this week anyway,” he said, laughing.

  I dug my knuckles into his rib cage.

  “You came to the show?”

  “Seven times.”

  “You missed one?”

  “It was a matinee.”

  “Still…”

  “I have a life,” he said.

  “Got any pointers for me?” I asked.

  “Yeah, try reining it in a little when you do that thing you do with your left hand. You know, the thing with the flick and the bow and the kiss.” He demonstrated, exaggerating my flourish, making it look outrageously effeminate. “I mean, you’re kissing Cinderella, not Lady Gaga.”

  “I worked hard on that move,” I said, but I was laughing.

  “Right.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “Kinda gay.”

  “Ya think?” I slid my hand across his chest, tweaking his right nipple through the tight cotton.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Way gay.”

  “Any other notes?” I asked.

  “Don’t run away from me.” He put his hands on my arms, suddenly serious.

  “Never again.”

  “Never again,” he said. “Because I’ll just follow you.”

  “There’s no escaping a happy ending,” I said.

  The overhead lights flashed and the manager made an announcement that the store would be closing in three minutes.

  Fletcher wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close, kissing me hard on the mouth, recreating in exact detail the final kiss from the show.

  “And curtain,” he whispered, his lips warm against my cheek.

  SANDWICH ARTIST

  Shane Allison

  I stole the keys out of Ma’s purse. It was a damn shame that I was still living at home. My sister got out early at the sweet age of eighteen. She couldn’t take the curfews and the beatings that came if she was a minute late. I never could get it right. I should have left for New York as soon as I finished junior college. Yet, had I done that, I never would have met Armando. I waited until they’d gone to bed, fighting off fears in their nightmares. The road I live on was slick with mud, the holes overrun with rainwater from last night’s storm. I hate the house with its leaky roof, its cobwebbed corners and bad childhood memories. I’ve cried in my plate of chicken and rice, bled in the sweet ice tea. They try to keep me away from Armando with barred windows. But nothing’s gonna keep me away from my baby. I put the car in NEUTRAL and pushed it with my weight out of the carport, up that slick road, through the barking of vicious pit bulls and puddles of muddy water. I’ll do anything to get to him. Streetlights of white light my way through this ravenous night up Woodville Highway. I’d made it; I’d escaped the bear claws of my folks. I’d rather have run the streets like a Frenchtown whore than live with them another day. I was invisible anyway, a ghost caught in limbo between the heavens of freedom and the hell of slavery. I followed the yellow dashes that led me closer to Armando. Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game” was playing on 98.9, Armando’s favorite song. I was hoarse from all the hollering. Ma had given me that As long as you’re in this house speech. “You ain’t go’n stop ’til you don’ run me outta here,” I yelled. “Well, go…go’n then,” she screamed. So I’d be going, hauling ass and never darkening the door of Charlie Ash Lane again. They’d be sorry, those venomous bullies. Why couldn’t we have been the Bradys? Why couldn’t they have been Claire and Cliff Huxtable? I felt like some C-list child star. Armando and I were so close. One more paycheck and we’d have enough money to get our own place. I’d already picked out some sofas and end tables. We had our eye on this posh apartment in Verandas Villas; pricey, but nice. We’d be graduating college in three months. We were already looking for full-time jobs. We had to get away from my bible-beating parents, and his drill sergeant dad who’s a staunch supporter of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

  I screeched into the lot of Jimmy John’s Sandwich Shop. Armando was stocking chairs on the tables, smearing a wet mop across a linoleum floor. The moon was full and orange. Cars whooshed down the streets of South Magnolia. Armando was alone. The bell that hung above the door tolled as I walked in. The shop was redolent of sharp spices and baked breads.

  “Hey, babe,” I said. He stopped cleaning and walked over to give me a hug, cute in his uniform of green and black. Tufts of black hair escaped the brim of his cap. Elvis Presley sideburns ran along the sides of his face. He’s a lean Italian with a skate border waistline, a body decorated with tats.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothin’,” I said.

  “You look mad about something.” I lifted my glasses to wipe my face. “Is it your folks again?” Armando asked. “What the fuck did they do to you?” I didn’t want him to worry. Armando goes off the deep end when he knows I’m upset about something. “I jus’ got into anotha knock down, drag out with my mom again.”

  “Goddamn them,” he said.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said, taking his hand in mine.

  “No, fuck that. Look, I know you love them, but your folks are assholes.” My white knight and Prince Charming all rolled into one.

  “Forget it. Jus’ leave it alone.”

  “Are you hungry? Have you eaten?” Armando asked.

  “Jus’ a chicken biscuit from Chic-Fil-A this mornin’.”

  “Let me make you something. What do you want to eat?”

  “I been wontuh try that new chicken Parmesan ya’ll got.” Armando’s shirt was stained with who the hell knew what. SANDWICH ARTIST was embroidered in yellow on the top lefthand corner of his shirt. He wiped his wet hands dry on his pants.

  “We gotta get you outta that house,” Armando said as he yanked a pair of plastic, transparent gloves from a box next to the register. I looked at the name tag pinned to his chest.

  I remembered the first time I laid eyes on Armando. It was right here at J.J.’s. I was sick of burgers and greasy Chinese food, and it was the only place open. My weight was another thing me and Ma fought about; I got sick of Ma preaching to me: “You need tuh cut back, boy.” Armando had been the only one working that night when I walked in. I ordered the corned beef on wheat. I don’t remember how the conversation started, but Armando and I started talking about comic books and horror movies in film history. We both agreed that An American Werewolf in London kicks ass. He had a beard at the time, but still looked boyish. I watched as he sprinkled my sandwich with lettuce, pickles, banana peppers. I glimpsed the sliver of a tattoo on his furred chest through the open top buttons of his uniform. I paid for my food with a twenty.

  “Keep the change,” I told him.

  “Are you sure, man?” he asked.

  “Consider it a tip.” I watched him watch me, the two of us reflected in the glass door with the store’s hours plastered across it. I couldn’t stop thinking about him on the way home that night, with that movie-star smile, those eyes that could melt glaciers. I became a loyal customer. I tried every sandwich on the menu: from veggie to tuna and I hate fucking tuna. I would come in some nights just to see if Armando was working. Usually there was some girl with a bad dye job working, so I’d only buy lemonade or a cookie. I heard later she told him about this black dude with glasses who kept coming in and asking about him.

  “All he ever bought was a cookie.”

  I ate a shit load of corn beef subs before I grew the balls to ask him out. After a while, I didn’t want to have nothing to do with anything that ended in sandwich. But Armando and I grew to know each other very well.

  My parents found out about Armando when Ma overheard me talking to him late one night. Life had been hell since I came out to them when I was nineteen.

  “I would rather be dead than for you to be gay,” she had said. I thought telling her that I was bisexual would soften the emotional blow, but she didn’t care. I was going to hell either way. Daddy didn’t speak to me for weeks and often referred to me as a sissy when he thought I couldn’t hear. “Freaks,” he had said. He was pissed that the family name would stop with me, his freaky, sissy son. Ma tried to get me to go to church.

  “I want you to get saved like your sister.” She started crying when I refused. Her preacher said that I was just running from Jesus. She stormed into my room after she so rudely eavesdropped on my conversation with Armando.

  “Get off th’ phone, an’ come in me an’ yuh daddy room.” If looks could kill, hers would have skinned me alive.

  “Hey, lemme call you back,” I told Armando. Pearls of sweat dripped from my pits. Daddy just lay in bed with his back turned, disappointed that I was not a pussy-loving high school quarterback like he was in his heyday.

 

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