Page 17 of Spiral
“Thanks.”
“You are welcome. Give me my gear. Do not shoot fiery slapshots at me with intent to kill on your face again or I will soak your cup in grape soda and place it into the sun for drawing ants.”
I shuddered at the mere thought. “Damn, is that a Quebecois punishment?”
“Non, we are sweet and gentle peoples. I just made it up.” He handed me his empty can. “Go sort your head.” He tugged his stuff from my arms and then disappeared into the dressing room, leaving me to find a recycle bin. Seemed I had some head-sorting to do if I wanted to avoid ants in my cup. That was easier said than done since I had no clue what was wrong.
Liar. You know what’s wrong. You bailed on Jamie for something that was an innocent misunderstanding. What you’re feeling is guilt, sparky.
Sadly, I couldn’t argue with myself. I was right. I did feel bad for leaving Jamie high and dry over something that he could have no way known about me. I was a heel. I schlepped into the dressing room to peel off my sodden gear and shower. Somehow, I had to wheedle my way back into Jamie’s good graces. I wanted him as a friend.
You want him for more than a friend.
“Okay, enough from me today,” I grumbled to myself.
Charlie tossed me a worried look I waved off before dashing into the showers. I pretended not to see the other guys soaping and shampooing when they grunted hello as I passed.
Head down, eyes on your feet.That was queer kid rule number one in any locker room/community shower. I’d learned that lesson early. It had only taken one older kid hitting me to ensure I never glanced at a guy’s junk in the showers ever again. Funny how assumptions had been made about me as a child. I’d never really presented as femme in any way, but because I was a figure skater, that made me gay. The bullshit stereotypes had clung hard until I’d made the switch to hockey. Then, because I was now playing a“manly” sport, I was no longer gay. Ha, ha. Guess what, haters. I was still just as queer if I were wearing skates with toe picks or without.
I found an empty stall. Oli stood on my left, focused on me while I placed my soap and shampoo on the tiled shelf and then cranked on the taps.
“Want to grab something to eat before we rest?” Oli asked all matter-of-fact. I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to rehash the dressing down I’d recently gotten from our tendie.
“I could eat,” I replied before shoving my head into a blast of hot water.
“Cool.”
That was the entire conversation until we were seated at a smoky steakhouse with views of the Bow River. The steakhouse was hopping, every table filled with hungry patrons. I sat idly staring out at the river flowing through Calgary, a cold glass of water in front of me, my salad mostly untouched.
“People say that I’m a good listener if you’d like to talk about what’s bothering you,” Oli said as a server rushed by with two platters holding plump, rare steaks. My stomach growled at the sight. An early lunch filled with protein and veggies. Probably a better choice than a six-pack of soda and a party-size bag of cheesy doodles. “Well, Jackson says it, and so do the girls, if that matters.”
I gave him a sad smile then speared a chunk of red pepper dripping with Italian dressing from my salad bowl.
“Yeah, it totally counts.” I chewed and swallowed, using the brief pause to “sort my head,” to quote Pierre. “Okay, so you probably know what happened at the college with the study that Jamie is heading.”
“I’ve heard a little bit, yes,” he replied cautiously.
“Did he tell you that I acted like a jerk?” Our steaks arrived, two huge T-bones, medium rare, with seasoned potato wedges and broccoli florets. Our server left us with some steak sauce and a fresh basket of wheat rolls. Once the cheery young lady in a bright blue apron scurried off, Oli plucked a bun from the basket and tore it in half.
“He said nothing about anyone being a jerk other than himself,” he answered, then dipped his bun into the meaty juices leaking from his T-bone.
“Oh shit, I was hoping he wouldn’t blame himself.” I sighed over my steaming broccoli.
“He’s British. They always blame themselves for everything,” he tossed out with a knowing little smile. “Look, I know things kind of got off on a bad foot…”
“It was all me. Both feet, terribly bad. I overreacted to something unintentional. I thought I was old enough to not get hurt when I felt slow or dumb?—”
“Craig, you arenotdumb.”
“I know, thank you, though. It’s just a knee-jerk reaction. It’s like if you’re a chubby kid or a kid with crooked teeth or whatever sets you apart from the so-called norm as a child, then as an adult, you lose weight or get crowns or learn how to navigate the written word well enough to graduate college.” I forked a floret and lifted it into the air to stare at it. “In your head, you know you’ve overcome whatever adversity you may have faced and have triumphed, but in your heart, in the tiny space left over from childhood where the mean words hurt, you just have this flash of pain that makes you flinch. I flinched way too hard. Jamie didn’t know. How could he have? And I reacted as little Craig crying to his mom that the kids called him retarded.”
“Craig, speaking as a parent, I fully understand how hard it can be on kids. My girls have gone through some pretty nasty things, snide and hurtful comments, and not always from other children. Adults can be callous. Hell, as queer men we know all too well the nasty that flows down over us on the daily.”
“Amen,” I sighed, then dipped my floret into a small cup of melted butter. “But Jamie wasn’t mean, callous, or hateful. He was just doing what most people did. He assumed.”
“Yes, and he feels awful.”
I knew he did. He’d texted and called a dozen times over the past several days. I’d ignored them all because I was at first too hurt, then too embarrassed to answer him. “If you would reply to him, it might help with your inability to focus.”
