Page 61 of Roleplay at Randy's
Miya insistson taking the three of us out, so we all agree to hit up Randy’s Diner. She’s frequented the place the handful of times she’s visited over the years, and it’s sort of my happy place.
Rascal is the only guy at the club who identifies as anything other than straight, and though the others are cool with it, there’s a certain degree ofcis straight white dude energythat kind of gets to you after a while. That’s why the two of us hit up the place after work sometimes; it’s a way to unwind.
Matty brings Cal on occasion when I’m at work, more often if I end up taking an earlier shift or if Cal is having one of his rough nights and Matty feels like they need a reset.
There’s something about Randy’s that puts Matty at ease. Even more so than being at home. I love how comfortable he’s gotten, but there’s still a stark difference compared to his demeanor when we all get set up in our booth.
Cal and I are both on the inside with Miya on the other side of him and Matty beside me. Hannah is working today, and Matty’s face absolutely lights up. She gets everyone’s drink orders, passing signs back and forth with Matty, and it makes my chest twinge the slightest bit.
He hardly signs at home. Occasionally small ones, but nothing I couldn’t easily figure out by watching him and asking him to repeat it a couple of times. He wears his hearing aids most of the time, or at the very least the left one; he mentioned once that he lost most of the hearing in his left ear in an accident but that the right has learned to compensate. Still, he gets tired and it makes his head hurt, so he has a second one that eases the pressure, but he really only uses it when he’s out and about.
Right now, though, as Hannah returns with everyone’s drinks—hot chocolate for Matty, coffee for Miya, chocolate milk for Cal, and plain ole water for me—Matty takes both of them out and places them in their case which goes back in his pocket.
After a quiet moment, I nudge his side, and while flicking his tongue at the whipped cream in his cup, he inclines his head toward me.
“Are they bothering you?” I tap his ear, and he smiles softly.
He lifts his free hand to tap his fingers together in a sign I instantly recognize as ‘no’. At first he doesn’t elaborate, just sips from his cup with happy hums and a content smile, but when he catches my gaze still trained on him, he sets the cup down and turns to me more fully.
He holds both of his hands up, palms facing me, and then points to my face. Figuring he wants me to pay attention, I nod, and it earns me a smile.
‘Thank you’. I understand that one.
It’s slower for me to catch the next set, but Matty signs them slowly, three or four times until my eyes light up in recognition, and his smile grows.
‘This is my safe space.’
A few more signs, ones I recognize from his frequent use. ‘I can still hear you, but the chatter is quieter.’
He’s mentioned before that without his aids his range of hearing gets smaller, and it’s easier for him to tune out the background noise. In busy places it can be distracting and hard for him to concentrate. It makes him rely on lip reading and close proximity more, but he doesn’t mind it so long as he’s comfortable with the people he’s talking to.
Like us.
I focus on the handful of words that I know—half of which are from learning for a period of time to see if Cal could communicate that way—and respond in a painfully slow manner.
‘Whatever you need. At home, too. Okay?’
His smile is a little more reserved, but he gives a slow nod.
It makes my stomach twist a bit uncomfortably. From the beginning, I’d known he was hard-of-hearing and used signs intermittently. Hannah had told me that he was still learning himself, but that he would appreciate any effort to meet him where he’s at. I studied up on the rusty words I knew, tried to follow along with Hannah whenever I stopped by the diner, but then Matty had moved in and … I hardly ever saw him use it.
He always says that as long as he can see my lips moving and things aren’t too loud, then he can hear me just fine. He’s never switched to sign at home as far as I can tell. Not other than the occasional word thrown out here and there.
Why does that bother me?
Matty’s conversation with Miya goes a lot smoother. After Cal got his diagnosis at two, his speech therapist had pushed heavily for incorporating ASL to give him another option for communication, and there’s a handful that hepicked up easily enough and still uses sometimes: more, again, yes, no, and of course baby shark.
Miya had jumped head first into the ASL train, and while I had floundered to get a good grasp on it, she was an absolute natural. It definitely feeds the icky little voice in my brain telling me the only reason it didn’t work out for Cal and I is because I didn’t push myself hard enough. When he got his communication device and started making progress there, I basically dropped all notion of learning the language.
It makes me feel extra shitty to watch Matty and Miya talk and have no clue what they’re saying half of the time.
I must be missing a good chunk of the conversation because something waving in my face alerts me to my sister’s concerned stare, and when I glance over, I catch Matty with a deep frown.
‘You okay?’
I nod terse and stiff, but that doesn’t seem to appease either of them. Miya signs something, and—dammit, I can’t follow—Matty’s brow dips in response.
“I’m right here,” I say a little more roughly than I should, and Miya crosses her arms on the table.
