We used to talk all the time about what we were going to do when we grow up. Chris wanted to swim with sharks on camera. Then, for a spell, he wanted to own a resort in Costa Rica that catered to surfers. I told him surfers are broke or else too cheap to pay for a room, and Chris argued that he’d go for the older crowd, surfers with families, and make it an all-inclusive destination vacation. I could never settle on something, so Chris decided I was going to be a pot farmer in California, because I’m the only one of our friends who can resist smoking the product. Chris said he’d run the store, appropriately named Potheads, and we’d recruit some of the other guys to help with harvesting and baked goods—value-added products. Chris practically had a business plan laid out for it.
But we haven’t talked about it lately, maybe because neither of us wants to grow up. The thought of being an adult is pretty terrifying. I’m still figuring out how to be a teenager.
“How about you?” I ask him. “You going to be a pro surfer, or is Potheads still the plan?”
He chuckles. “Maybe. But if Potheads doesn’t work out, I was thinking I’d go into finance like my dad.”
From what I understand, Chris’s dad shuffles rich people’s cash from one money-making venture to another and makes a killing doing it.
“Sounds boring.” And not very much in keeping with Chris’s larger-than-life personality.
“Good money, though. You know how I like nice things.” He smiles his thousand-watt smile, the one I cave to every time.
I try to imagine it. Corporate Chris in a business suit, closing the deal with his firm handshake. Weekender Chris with his classic good looks, wearing a polo shirt and loafers with no socks, golfing with his colleagues, a blonde wife waiting for him at home with a few towheaded shorties running around. Neckties and minivans and weekend barbecues. The American dream, man.
Kind of makes me sad as hell. I’m not sure there’s any way I fit in there.
“Just don’t start wearing Crocs,” I tell him.
He laughs and shakes his head. “Where do you come up with this shit?”
We finish eating and head back home. There’s this spot on the sidewalk between our driveways where we always say goodbye. I’m about to tell him I had a good time or something even stranger when his phone rings. Chris pulls it out of his pocket and glances at it. “Kelli,” he says simply.
Kelli Keyhoe, the blonde wife in Corporate Chris’s American dream.
“Go get her, tiger,” I tell Chris with a fist-bump, the bro-est form of affection I can muster, and one that I secretly hate.
“Yeah,” he says, distracted, and turns away to go answer it.
I watch Chris navigate the landscaped path up to his house. There is no hope for Chris and me. We’re friends and that’s all we’ll ever be. I’ve got to get that through my thick skull. I will beat thejust friendsdrum until the feelings have been forced back into that deep, dark cave where they belong. A cave so deep and twisted, a spelunker would get lost and perish before ever discovering those forbidden thoughts.
Game On
THAT NIGHTI decide to text Dave. We don’t text for long and it’s nothing scandalous, just aHey, what’s up, how’s it going?He tries to get me to send a picture of myself, but I politely decline—who knows what he’d do with it. We do make plans to get together over the weekend.
I work until about three on Saturday, and when I get home to shower and change, I can hear Chris and Tabs out by his pool, likely going over plans for the birthday party I didn’t agree to. I glance out the window to see them deep in discussion. My sister can get pretty serious about party planning. Chris catches me looking down and waves. I lift one hand. He motions for me to come down, and I turn away from the window like I didn’t see him.
I’m not up for watching my sister flirt with Chris under the guise of planning a birthday party, not that it’s her intention, and not that I blame her for it. It’s actually pretty clever. Still not something I want to take part in.
I text Dave while I’m changing, just a simpleTheo here. He replies almost immediately with an address. I text him back.
Drug deal?
My place. Come over.
Dave doesn’t live too far away, within skating distance. I won’t have to ask my mom for a ride, which makes things a whole lot simpler. Our apartment is set up so the living quarters are upstairs and the downstairs is a big garage. Our landlord is one of the dentists at my mom’s work who gives her a deal on rent. We couldn’t afford this neighborhood otherwise. My mom wanted us to be in a good school zone, and she got used to living in this area after being with my dad. There are more Spanish-speakers in this section of West Palm, and I think it reminds my mom of home.
I go out through the garage door and cut through the side yard of the main house so Chris won’t see me in the driveway. I hop on my skateboard, zoning out to the steadytick-tick-tickof the wheels rolling over the cracks in the sidewalk.
One of the things I like about skateboarding is that it’s slow enough to see what’s going on, but fast enough that you don’t have to be drawn into the drama if you don’t want to be. I see so much crazy shit while skateboarding, all the gritty, unpleasant things about living in a city, but also some really great things too—people spontaneously dancing or laughing, lovers wrapped around each other in embrace, a parent holding on to their kid’s hand. It’s such a nice, simple thing to do, grab someone else’s hand and hold on. So many people are content to ride around in their cars with the windows up, air conditioning on, pretending there isn’t a whole needful, lonely world out there. When I get a car, I’ll still skateboard wherever I can. I don’t want to become so indifferent.
On my way to Dave’s, I pass by Saint Ann’s, where my great-uncle Theo lives. I consider stopping in to visit him, but I haven’t seen him since Easter, and I worry he might not even recognize me. Still, I’m pretty sure my dad isn’t visiting him, which means no one is. And that sucks.
Next time.
I hop off at Dave’s address, already sweaty from the ride. He lives in a tiny house behind a slightly bigger house. Both are smaller and shabbier than our gardener’s cottage. The window-unit air conditioner hums with industry, and I question again what the hell I’m doing here outside his door when yesterday afternoon I hated his guts. Seems weird that my opinion of him could shift so rapidly. I sniff inside my shirt and decide it’s not too foul, then lift my hand to knock, but before my knuckles make contact, the door swings open.
“Theo,” Dave says with a smirk that pulls a little higher on one side, like it’s caught on a fishing line. He’s way too cocky for his own good.
