Page 30 of Him
Intrigued now, I sit down on his bed, and he props himself on an elbow to show me. We’re leaning over the phone together, the same way we did when we were teenagers. Except we haven’t been on a bed together since…well. That night. And I’m conscious of the fact that we don’t fit so well. We’re taking up most of the surface, but I’m still practically sitting on top of him. I can feel the crinkle of his leg hair brushing mine when he leans in to show me the screen.
“It’s like a menu board. Each picture is a dude.”
Some of the pictures are close-ups but some are impossible to see. There’s a number tagging each one, too. 0.7 mi. and 1.3 mi. “It tells you how close everybody is? That’s a little creepy.”
“That’s part of the fun. If someone acts creepy, you can just block them forever. One click and they’re history. The bios are the funny part. Check this out.” He taps one of the tiles and some dude’s picture fills the screen. It says: Online now, 0.9 mi away.
“He’s too old for you,” I say immediately. “And what’s with the socks?” The guy has gray hair and leans against a red convertible. He’s in decent shape, but nobody should wear socks that tall with shorts. That’s just wrong.
I won’t lie. This is weirding me out—the idea that this man is staring down at his screen somewhere on the other end of town, tapping Wes’s picture...
Wes just laughs. “Looking at Brandr in a small town is always amusing. The odds are good, but the goods are odd.” He scrolls the picture to the bottom where the guy has added his 140 characters or whatever. The headline is “Looking 2 get naked with muscles.” And below that: If I’m online then I’m lkng to get naked. Kissing, body contact & more just ask. No fems. Sorry only attracted to whites.
“What the fuck?” I stutter.
“Sounds like a charmer, doesn’t he? That’s the internet for you.” Wes bails out of that jerk’s profile. But then his phone makes a noise and a little window pops up.
“Hey,” it says, and there’s a thumbnail of some other guy beside it.
“Someone’s talking to you,” I mutter. And now I hate this app more than I thought possible. Competing for my friend’s attention isn’t fun. So I stand up and shuck off my Elites T-shirt. I’m getting out of here tonight whether Wes comes along or not. I pull on a polo shirt, which is as dressy as a guy ever gets in Lake Placid.
“You want to head out?” he asks from the bed.
“Yeah.” When I turn around, he’s changing his clothes, too. Thank Christ.
“To think that we can be out after dark without climbing out of the windows,” Wes cracks. “That’s just weird.” He’s dressed in hiking shorts and boots, and pulling a black wife-beater over his head, leaving his arms bare.
“You can jump off the fire escape if you want,” I tell him. “But I’m taking the stairs.”
“Where are we headed?”
I grab my keys and phone. “If your manly car is available, let’s go to Owl’s Head.”
He stops in the middle of tying his shoelaces. “Yeah? I thought we’d go to a bar.”
“We’re going to do both,” I say. “But only if you can move your ass out that door.”
Wes drives a newish Honda Pilot with a sweet stereo and leather seats. But it’s a mess. I have to move several copies of USA Hockey off the passenger’s seat and throw away an old McDonald’s bag. “This is...nice,” I tease as I chase an empty cup off the floor.
“I’m not going to gay up my ride for you, Canning. Let’s go. We’re racing the daylight.”
Owl’s Head is a short hike we used to do with the group as campers. It’s a few miles out of town, and there aren’t any other cars at the trailhead when we arrive. Wes bleeps the locks, and then we’re scrambling uphill over rocks and tree roots.
I love this. Hockey is great, but it keeps you indoors. My summer sport is surfing, but I’ve always loved a good hike.
Did I mention I’m from California?
“Slow down,” Wes pants at one point.
I stop, holding on to a sapling to wait for him. “Too much for Toronto’s recruit to handle? I’d better call my bookie. Who are you playing first?”
He smacks me on the ass. “I stopped to take a picture, asshole. Carry on.”
The views really are intense. We’re climbing up a ledge, basically, and Adirondack peaks stand out all around us, dark against the early evening sky. “It’s just two more turns,” I promise.
It takes us thirty minutes to reach the bald, rocky outcroppings at the top just as the sun prepares to set behind a distant peak. Panting a little from the climb, I plop down on a sun-warmed rock and take it in.
“What a dump,” Wes jokes, sitting beside me.
