Lance & God

I do what God tells me to do and try not to ask questions.

After all, She created me. Without God, there’d be no Lance Sheldrake. That’s me.

Sometimes, God can’t make up her mind. She had me try several careers in rapid succession. Stockboy at an organic grocery store. Drive-thru window at a vegan fast food restaurant. I even worked at a makeup counter at a high-end department store for about a week, but it didn’t stick. (God doesn’t know much about makeup, I don’t think.)

Each job was a bit too on-the-nose if you ask me. Wow, a gay guy who works at a makeup counter? Sometimes God has no imagination. 

But now, I’m a writer. Just like God! I’m writing right now. Writing. These. Words. 

I live in a one-bedroom apartment with my ma. She takes the bedroom (moms, right?). I sleep on a pull-out couch in the living room. Most days, I don’t even fold it back up! I don’t see the point. I don’t sleep so much as sit around waiting for God to tell me what to write, what to think, what new science projects to take on. (Ma always wanted me to be a doctor.)

Ma isn’t well. She doesn’t go out anymore. Heck, she barely leaves her room anymore. On special occasions (i.e. Christmas, some 4th of Julys if it’s not too hot) I’ll put my science stuff away and wheel ma out here to the living room. I fold up the couch those days and we watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” or the fireworks, depending on the holiday. 

I find myself thinking about her a lot, even though she’s just in the other room. So close, yet so far.

Sometimes, when I leave the house, I’m not sure why I left. Do you ever get that feeling? Like when you walk into a room and forget why you’re there? That feeling can last quite awhile, hours, days, weeks. But God always sorts it out. I trust her. Lately, I’ve been feeling God pulling me to the hardware store. There’s science supplies I need there, of course. But there’s also Brian. Sweet Brian.

He remembers me every time I come in, and doesn’t seem to mind that I’m a little awkward. No matter what I say to him, he seems to understand. He even laughs at my little jokes, and I laugh at his. (That’s more than I can say about ma.)

Brian wears an orange apron. It’s not flattering on anyone else there except for him. His shoulders are broad and his pelvis is small. He’s like an upside down triangle. Like a superhero in an orange cape. His fair hair is fluffy and he has a whisper of a beard, but not like a lumberjack. Not like so many of the other men at this store, flaunting their idea of masculinity. As if having hair on your face makes you powerful.  

I spot Brian from afar. He’s working Lane 5, his usual lane. I want to do unspeakable things to him. Things that are just between me and God. I imagine what’s under his apron (clothes), and what’s under that (skin). I imagine him wearing only the apron. Does he have little fair hairs all over his body? Or is he smooth? I want to run my hands over him and find out. I stand in his line even though there are other cashiers with shorter lines. 

“More buckets?” Brian says as I approach his register. 

I’m about to say, “Yeah, you know me!” but then God suggests I say something more descriptive, so I lie. “Yeah, the homebrewing has been going great!”

“Well, you’ve gotta bring me some sometime. I’m practically your partner in crime since I’ve been the one checking you out,” Brian says with a smile before adding “...for all the equipment!” with a laugh.

Hearing Brian say “partner” and “checking you out” sends my heart aflutter. God notices right away that “partner” is a powerful word, even when used in an everyday phrase like “partner in crime.” Brian is rambling now. Something about rubber tubing. 

Suddenly, I feel like trying something. Somewhere in the margins of my mind I think of the phrase “inciting action.” Wow, I think, I guess God’s great writing is rubbing off on me. (Then I think of the word “rubbing.”)

“Well, what are you doing tonight?” I say, with God on my side.

“ I’m here ‘til 7 but I would LOVE a beer after work,” Brian says, without missing a beat. He’s looking right in my eyes and, even though eye contact isn’t really my thing, I look back.

This is flirting! I’m so proud of me and God’s proud of me too. This whole situation would normally feel so out-of-character but I’m doing it and I’m doing it on my terms. With Brian, of all people. I’m celebrating so much in my mind that I almost forget I’m still in the middle of it. Brian fills my awkward pause with another question: “Your place or mine?”

MY place?????? I feel my face flush. I’m thinking of Brian in my living room/bedroom. My sad pull-out couch. Ma in the other room, TV blaring Wheel of Fortune. The smell of old lady perfume that permeates the place. I want to run screaming from the store and never come back. (Please God, don’t make me actually do that.)

“My place is a mess,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. “Let’s do yours?”

Brian takes out his phone. No doubt to text a boyfriend who has his shit together. Who isn’t a starving writer / amateur doctor who lives with his mother. Who has an apartment he’s not ashamed to show others. 

But shockingly, he asks for my number. I give it to him and leave before I can screw anything up. By the time I’m out to the parking lot, I’ve got a text from Brian that says:

“Come over anytime after 8. 2905 N. Broadway. P.S. What’s your name again? Lol 🫠”

Here are some responses God and I consider:

“Lol all good I don’t wear a nametag like you. My name is Lance. See you at 8 p.m.!”

“You don’t remember my name??? I’m so mad! Lol just kidding. It’s Lance. See you later.”

“Lance Sheldrake. Don’t Google me I’m a serial killer lololol”

“It’s Lance. Can’t wait!”

“It’s Lance. See you tonight!”

“Ha! My name is Lance. See you at 8:00!”

I go with:

“Ha! It’s Lance. See you at 8ish!”

The “ish” proves that I’m laid back. That I do this all the time. And that I won’t spend the next 3 hours meticulously preparing my body and mind for what lies ahead.

I get home and collapse on my bed/couch. I stare up at the ceiling at the lamp that looks like it has a nipple. It doesn’t look anything like ma’s nipples, which are the only nipples I’ve seen in real life besides mine. 

The nipple lamp is making me feel good, and the longer I lie there, the more I imagine Brian there with me. It doesn’t feel so bad. Maybe he’d understand the life I’ve chosen. That I love ma so much I’ve not been able to bring myself to be apart from her. No matter what. 

I take a shower. I want to be clean for Brian. 

Then I open the fridge and pull a bottle out of a six-pack of Old Style. I pick at the label on one bottle and it comes off in a single satisfyingly wet piece. The same goes for the other five bottles. I pack them into my backpack. It’s already packed with everything else I need.

I am ready.

Brian’s street is called Broadway, but it’s nothing like the theater district in New York City. It’s a quiet residential street where nothing happens. Until tonight, God and I think at the same time.

I stand on Brian’s porch and the phrase “This is the first day of the rest of your life” pops into my head. I look down at the bag of bottles. God’s with me stronger than ever when I’m on the precipice of something like this. When anything can happen. 

I ring the doorbell and Brian answers. He’s in basketball shorts and a University of Illinois tee. (Brian went to college!) I come in and we crash on the couch, each cracking a beer and taking a sip. Brian eyes me suspiciously. “You made this?”

“Yeah, why?” I say innocently.

“It’s really good. Too Good. Tastes like… Old Style?” 

Brian’s caught me in a lie. The jig is up. I babble about the recipe as I reach into the backpack at my feet and pull out a rubber tube. It’s one Brian sold me (what can I say? I’m a romantic.) and it’s never been used. I quickly put a foot on the couch and climb over the back. Now I’m the one who looks  like a superhero. Brian turns to see what the hell I’m doing, but he finds out quickly. I reach an arm on either side of his beautiful head, wrap the strong tube around his throat, and pull with all my might. 

Brian’s kicking and struggling, but I’ve got good leverage from here behind the couch. I’m pulling downward with my full body weight like I’m about to launch one of those water balloon slingshots. His fingers claw at the tube but it’s too tight around his neck. Its elasticity means he can’t get any leverage. He’s slowing now, and after  a solid couple of minutes, he stops. His hair smells like that hyper masculine shampoo that comes in a black bottle with sharp edges. As if shampoo makes you powerful.

I release, panting, and climb back over the couch. Brian’s body flops around like a wet noodle as I undress him. He’s covered in tiny fair hairs, just like I thought. I think about bringing him home and introducing him to ma, but then a stronger thought takes over:

My God, WHY?

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.

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I ring the doorbell and Brian answers. He’s in basketball shorts and a University of Illinois tee. (Brian went to college!) I come in and we crash on the couch, each cracking a beer and taking a sip. Brian eyes me suspiciously. “You made this?”

“Yeah, why?” I say innocently.

“It’s really good. Too good.”

In one quick motion, he kisses me, gently at first, but then harder. I kiss back. Before I know it, we’re all frantic limbs and exploratory hands. We head to his bedroom and I’m shocked to see he sleeps on an air mattress. He pauses, embarrassed. “Look, I just moved in and—” Before he can continue, I push him down on the mattress. We laugh. He’s covered in tiny fair hairs, just like I thought. 

Later, in the bedroom, I look over at Brian. “I have something I have to tell you,” I say. “Let me guess, Old Style?” he says with a smirk. He reaches over to the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand. “I’d know it anywhere.” We laugh and laugh and tell the story at our small wedding in Brian’s backyard, years later. Ma’s in the front row, alive in her wheelchair.