(no subject)
So...I'm an idiot, and I'm doing NaNoWriMo. I'm stuck on my story and can't even write through the block at this point. But, I'm in love with the story, so, fuck that. I'm calling on YOU ALL for some damn help here. Here's what I've got:
I want to meet the girl with pink polka dot curtains. The one who covers herself in lights and jumps around her late 70s style room. She's totally enshrouded in mystery and time, and I want to meet her. I don't know what I'd say or do, maybe all I'd be capable of would be looking at her. But she seems infinitely interesting and she has pink polka dot curtains in her room. I want to meet the girl with enough individuality to have both pink polka dot curtains and a green plaid comforter in her room. She must be full of things to say.
The feathered mask tickles my nose as the drag queen bends low to intimate something to the crowd. She whispers to me, "Dare to dream, stud." Then she pulls me on stage with just her index finger, intent on showing me off to the crowd. "Isn't he just the biggest, butchest stud you've ever seen? Isn't he simply delicious?" She spins me slowly, letting them see my every angle.
"Do you know what they do to these fine men out there?" Hell, she's getting on a soap box for me. "They beat them, ladies, they molest them, they ruin their clothes and jobs and relationships and lives. All because they haven't got what I've got under my skirt. It's disgusting, what is done to fine young men like these." The crowd murmurs its agreement, I try desperately not to blush.
She pulls me close then, stage-whispers into her microphone, "Handsome stud, warrior that you are, never feel alone. They've made us all old before our time; our innocence is lost before its even gained. You are not alone. You have family, you have friends, you have lovers, sisters and brothers. When you have to fight, remember we fight too." now I do blush, here I thought she'd just needed a prop. But, she's seen my wounds. She recognizes me. I've been called a warrior, but, I just feel like the world's punching bag most days. And she knows that, I can see it in her eyes, and I hate that I've been seen like this.
I feel naked, more naked than the day I was born. This nakedness isn't from lack of clothes, it's from lack of walls. This queen, this gorgeous, deep voiced, high femme, brash, wonderful, cruel, catty, amazing and strong queen, has seen past my scars, and my walls and my locked doors. She couldn't have looked at me more than half a second, and she knew all there was to know about the hand life has dealt me.
Look at me, serious at a drag show. I try to pay attention, try to hear the crowd scream and shout and love on me, but, all I can do is wait for the punch line. I'm desperate to get off this stage, slink off rather, and find an empty bar stool. I need something stronger than what I've been drinking, and I need it fast. But, this queen is just looking at me, holding the mic out to me. What am I supposed to do? I don't have the words, I'm just trying to survive. I'm not looking for a revolution, just some rest.
The drag queen isn't giving me a choice, the crowd wants to hear this battered soul. I sigh, and take the mic, still unsure whether I have a story to tell. "My name is Jack," I murmur into the mic, "And all I'm tryin' to do is live. I'm no warrior, I'm no hero or saint. I've done plenty of bad in this life, same as anyone else. I just want to walk home tonight and not worry that the cops will pick me up. All I've ever asked of life is some peace, quiet and for my insides and outsides to match. I don't want to be a mascot or an example, my blood's no redder than yours. You don't want to listen to this old man talk, I'm just tryin' to live." I take the mic away from my lips, aware that the whole room has gone silent. I couldn't have done that; I'm not a crowd stopper. Not wanting to speak again, I hand the mic back to the queen, she takes it and kisses my cheek.
I hop off stage and make my way as quickly as possible to that bar stool with my name on it. I can feel the eyes on me as I wend my way through the crowd. All I want to do is shout again "I'm just tryin' to live! Let an old man have his rest!" All I want is for them to stop staring, stop acting like I'm something special. The only person who made me special died years ago.
Finally, I make it to the barstool, and order something I can't even remember how to mix any more. Before the bartender starts pouring, I stop hir and say, "Actually, just a Guinness, if you please. I don't want to be a bother." Ze smiles slightly, having seen the display I was put on minutes before, and grabs a bottle from under the counter. I take it gratefully and drink. Maybe my speech, if you could call it that, got through. Maybe they're finally hearing me, finally leaving me alone.
"You deserve their praise, you deserve to be noticed," a voice whispers at my elbow. I groan, not this again.
"Aw, hell, Clara, leave me be. All I want is some rest, goddamn it. Just let me remain here, in the shadows," I turn to look, but, she's gone.
Then, she's back, only on my other side this time. "Oh, Jacky, Jacky, Jacky…I could never let things be. You ARE a hero, you are special, important, noteworthy. Why don't you just let them have their role model? You an' me went through some rough shit back in the day," her low voice murmurs, I'm sure her eyes are boring holes in my neck.
I turn, intent on catching her eyes this time, making her look at me. She always forgets. "Clara. I'm 40 years old now. I'm tired, I'm worn, I'm beaten, broken and bruised. I've been left for dead more times than I care to count, and I've fought more fights than were my fair share. I am not the eager, courageous, 20 something year old that you remember, that you expect me to be. I grew up, even if you didn't get to," I stare into her hazel green eyes, and pointedly take a swig of my lager.
As expected, she makes an offended noise, "I'm gone ten years and you're already off the damned wagon? When're you goin' to a meeting?" I roll my eyes, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. She taps a long, red, perfectly manicured nail on the bar.
"I'm not, okay? I'm not "off the wagon"; I'm having a damned beer. I was pulled up on a stage by a drag queen who coulda been your damned twin, I had to talk to a huge fucking crowd, and you know I hate crowds. So now I'm having my well deserved goddamned lager. I don't need a fucking meeting; I need another beer," I drain the bottle and signal the bartender. She makes that noise again, but she can't tell the bartender not to give me my beer. I smirk.
"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't stop you," she warns, leaning close, as if to smack my new bottle out of my hand. I give her a look, and wait to see what she does. She reaches out to take the lager from me, and can't grasp the bottle. I try not to laugh, it's never as funny as it seems, and she pouts at me.
Clara tries to reason with me next, "Jacky, ten years. You have ten years sober under your belt, why start back up now? You know you won't stop, and who's gonna take you to the meetings now? I can't drag you to the car, I can't buckle you in, I can't make you sit there and talk about this. Please, your time isn't up yet; there's more to be done."
Again, I roll my eyes. Ten years, and you'd think I'd be rid of my damned ghost problem by now. But, no, she follows me everywhere, and for five years I talked to her out loud. People left me alone those years, thought I was crazy. Then she finally told me I didn't have to talk out loud, and I cursed her from heaven to hell for those five years before. Apparently, if someone has a strong enough pull on another person during their life, they have the option of sticking around after they're dead. I wish they'd told me that before; I would have kept the woman at arm's length. Instead, she was there for everything.
"We met in 2012, at that one darling's bachelorette party," Clara supplies, noting my inner monologue. I grumble, not wanting to be reminded. "And you said I was the most gorgeous woman in the room, and that asshole said I wasn't a woman at all," she just adds to the burn of the memories piling in the back of my brain.
I sigh, take a drink and look at her again. "And I told that stuck up butch if you weren't a woman, I was a goddamned Martian. And she never said another word," I smile slightly, giving up on forgetting for one more night. Clara nods, taps her long red nails against the bar. "I can't believe there are still drag queens around, it's fuckin' 2029 for crissakes."
She looks indignant now, "Hold on there, Mr. Monroe. So long as there's glitter, dancing, crowds and butches to be had, there will be goddamned drag queens." I snicker into my beer. Clara makes as if to slap me, then remembers she can't touch solid objects any more.
"See?" I murmur, "If you'd just let me fucking die, you could smack me around again. Like the old days."
"Jacky boy, when was the last time you did drag yourself?" She changes subject without a moment's notice.
I choke on my beer, "Drag? When did I last do drag? Fuck, Clara…We met in 2012, you died seven years later, so 2019...Musta been 2019 then." I set the beer down, swivel in the barstool to watch the performance.
She huffs, "You haven't done drag in ten fucking years? What kind of king ARE you?" She gets in my face; even dead she's intimidating when she wants to be.
"No, damn it. I haven't done drag since you died. I'm no king any more, I'm a transman. Jack Hammer became Jackson Monroe and went on to lead a hectic, secluded life. He stopped lusting for the stage the moment his spotlight burnt out. What is so fucking hard to understand about that? The Hammer pounded his last nail, and it went right in your fucking coffin," I slam a fist on the bar, then look apologetically at the bartender. Ze seems to understand, gives me a nod and returns to taking orders.
Clara tries to rest her long fingered, big boned hand on my arm, settles for hovering her hand above my arm. "Sweet stud, I'm so sorry. Have you spent ten years blaming yourself? You couldn't have stopped what happened that night; it woulda gone down the same whether or not your handsome, strapping self stepped in. And, if you remember, you did step in." She cocks her head to the side, gives me a searching look.
I'm remembering. God what an awful night that was.
'Hey, you fucking fag.' 'Where're you fuckin' goin', dyke?' We were so drunk, I hadn't even heard the commotion as we left the bar and stumbled home. Most nights, we were given drink after drink in appreciation of our performances. We drank every single one. But, while I may not have heard the hecklers, Clara had.
"Jacky," her voice was low, rough from singing all night. Yeah, she was that kind of queen. Hell, I was that kind of king, back then.
"What, sugar lips?" my words slurred all over the place, I clung tighter to her waist, hoped silently I wasn't hurting her corseted frame.
She walked faster, tried to keep me from stumbling and slowing them down, "Sweet boy, there are some gentlemen behind us that beg to differ with our desire to roam the streets unmolested. I realize you're drunk, but I could really use you sober right about now."
I heard the fear in her voice, the panic edging in, and it caused me to try and shake the haze I was in. "Shit. Shit, Clara, I'm drunk and there are thugs…Shhhhit," I let go of her and tried to walk on my own. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I slipped my hand in my pocket for my knife, there'd be a fight and I wasn't fighting on anyone's terms but my own.
"Jacky, do not do what I think you're gonna do, do not do it. Do you understand me?" Clara's voice was shrill, insistent, I knew her eyes were bulging at the knife in my hand, she never did like violence. I could hear her beg me to just walk faster, but now I could hear their footsteps, loud and echoing ominously on the brick walls around us, and I couldn't just walk away, they weren't going to let us and--
I fight my way out of the memories, still not wanting to see her, not like that. I want to see her as she is right now in front of me. "Fuck it all, Clara, if I'd just listened to you, we could have gotten away. Bruised, battered, all that shit, but, we'd both be alive now," my screwed up head tells me that if I throw back the rest of this beer and order another, I'll prove my point. So, ignoring Clara's shriek of protest, I do just that.
"Jackson Christopher Monroe. Do not drink one single drop of that goddamned beer," a voice shouts in my ear. It's not Clara, and I turn, confused.
"Stacey? When'd you get here, Stace?" I set my beer down, unaware that I am capitulating to her demand without a fight. Clara sits back on her stool and smirks to herself, she was always convinced Stacey and I would end up together.
Stacey slides into the stool on my other side. I never have figured out how Clara keeps from getting sat on by people, they just always avoid the seat to my right. "I've been here. I saw Dharma Drama's performance, with her new toy," she gives me a sweet smile, one that promises she won't rehash the performance for the benefit of preaching to the choir.
She slams a neatly manicured hand on top of mine just before I can pick up my beer. I raise my eyebrow and look her up and down, "Forceful tonight, are we?" I pry her hand from mine and take a drink of my beer anyway.
"Barkeep? Cut this man off, he's supposed to be on the wagon," Stacey shouts down the bar at the ambiguous individual from earlier in the evening. I see hir nod agreement and swear loudly. Stacey's smirk is nearly identical to Clara's, "See? Now, surely you'd want to be doing what Clara would want you to be doing, and she sure as hell wouldn't want you to be doing this." Apparently this is drinking, I was previously unaware.
I lean back and look from Clara to Stacey and realize that perhaps I shouldn't, since Stacey has no idea Clara is sitting on my right. "Fine. What am I supposed to do in a bar, if not drink?"
Clara huffs loudly, "Not be in a goddamned bar, unless you're gonna get up on stage for us." She looks pointedly at me and then at the stage.
"Fuck that," I murmur before catching myself.
"Fuck what, Jacky? Is that an offer? After all these years of me pinin' away for your handsome self?" Stacey mock falls into my lap and bats her eyelashes at me. I laugh softly and push her hair out of her eyes.
I can't though, not now. God, it's just…It's still too hard, to pursue, to be social, to act and do instead of sitting in my small studio apartment listening to Clara. Sometimes I wonder if I remain such a hermit because I want Clara to stay around. That's what brought me to the bar in the first place, concern that I was too hermit-like, mostly Clara's concern and not my own. "Aw, Stace…You know I…" I trail off, looking around the bar, the lights and colors blinding me as I search for a quick subject change.
She reaches up and touches the side of my face, the stubble there, with her fingertips. Her dark plum fingernails graze my cheekbone, "I know, baby. I've always known. But, hey, let's get out of here anyway? They'll be wanting to close soon, and we could just go back to my place and talk, or drink coffee, or both…"
Before I can respond, Clara is at my ear, "Go on, sugar. I can stay at your place one night by myself. This is something, someone you need. Rest assured, I'll find a way to keep you out of your apartment tonight. You might as well have some fun." I can tell her ghost lips are at my temple for a moment, and then she's just gone. How does she do that? Ten years and there are so many things I fear I'll never know about my friend and her existence.
"Okay, Stacey. Just let me settle up my tab," I say, signaling the bartender and sliding hir my money. Ze takes it and disappears to the cash register for a minute. Stacey grins widely and plays with hairs at the nape of my neck. I wonder if this is something I'm ready for, or if maybe I'm being an idiot yet again. The lonely part of me angrily shoves these thoughts into a box and locks it securely. I'll deal with that later. Maybe never, if I'm lucky enough.
My tab settled, we make our way out into the night. I search the alleyways and the side streets as we walk. So long as I'm around, there is danger. I hate thinking this way, I wish people would just get over themselves, worry about their own lives and stop worrying about how my life looks to them. Stacey grabs my hand and squeezes tightly, careful not to puncture my palm with her fingernails. I can tell she has her hand in her purse, on the knife I purchased her months ago, after a particularly brutal murder near her apartment.
I murmur, "Thank god you keep that on you, remember how to use it?" She jumps slightly, then gives me a wan smile.
"Shit, you scared me," she says, "Yeah, you taught me well, Jacky. I just wish I didn't need it. We're fucking forty years old, why do we need weaponry to protect ourselves?" As she asks, I pull her out of the way of a few carousers and we side step a line of homeless people sitting against the cold brick wall.
"Because," I say softly, lightly pushing her into a shallow alcove, "There are people like the assholes behind us who want to do us harm. We're just going to stand here and pretend to neck for a minute. No fighting tonight."
I can feel Stacey's heart race between us, and I hear her breath become more shallow. "Sh, calm down," on a whim, I kiss her softly, willing her to stop worrying. She melts against me, and I figure we'll be okay. I pull back and search her eyes, "It'll be okay, I'm here, we've been through this a million times."
Stacey nods. "I know," she whispers, "but, why do we have to keep going through it all? We're old, we've been old forever…When do we get to rest?" I hear her, and I hear her saying what I've been saying all along. It scares me, that I'm not the only ancient one around these parts. It's been so long, Clara was the last person to really understand where I was coming from. The question is, do I acknowledge our mutual pain, or do I push her away, wall myself up again?
"C'mon, I think they've passed," I step back and out onto the sidewalk again. I hear an almost inaudible sigh and then the sound of Stacey's stiletto heels clicking on the sidewalk. My loneliness gets the better of me again, "Stacey girl, I'm sorry…It's just…" But how do I describe what my walls are keeping locked inside?
She stops me, using a hand to push me against a wall and gets her face right in front of mine, "Jackson, I know, okay? I get it. We're tough, we're silent, we're strong. But, goddamn it all, we're fucking lonely too. Except we're not fucking. None of us is fucking anymore. Why did we stop? Hell, did it get too personal? Too hard, too soft, too unreal? Or are we so…Are we so dead inside that it just doesn't matter any more, whether or not we fuck?"
I don't know how to respond, I'm not even sure I can. She's centimeters away from my face, and again, ignoring my logical side, I lean forward and kiss her. After a second, I end the kiss and murmur, "Your lips are just too damn kissable. Why have I never noticed this before?"
"It's about fucking time you did," she says, not really angry, just annoyed. "C'mon, stud, there's a warm bed waiting a few blocks from here." Stacey grabs the collar of my jacket and drags me toward her apartment. Tonight may just be the biggest thaw I've had in ages.
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"I forgot how sexy you were naked, Shuga," a voice infiltrates my dreams. I wake with a start, and see Clara sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. There's not a chair in the corner of my room…And my walls aren't yellow…Consensus is this isn't my room. Shit, I stayed at Stacey's last night? My memory rushes back.
It's hazy, but we're shoving one another against walls and doors and stairwells and elevators and plants and just about anything that will stand still long enough for one more kiss. I haven't felt this way in months, years…Close to a goddamned decade by now. She's the oxygen to my flame, god where have I been these past ten years? It's like I was hibernating…
Now we're in her apartment, crashing into things, losing clothes as we go. She reaches down, grabs at the crotch of my boxers. "Mmm, there we go," she murmurs against my neck, leaving bite marks down my neck and across my torso as I struggle to remember how to unclasp a damn bra. I bite back a moan, and give up on the damn bra. Without a second's warning, I hoist her over my shoulder and into what I determine is her bedroom. Or a bedroom, somewhere with a bed. She squeals and it's like we're in our twenties again.
Slower now, though still intense, still fiery and passionate. "I…" My self conscious side comes out to play. She puts a finger to my lips, and fixes the problem. My damn mouth. I grin and put it to better use…
"Fuck," I murmur, coming back to the present.
"Fuck indeed, Jacky boy," the voice is amused. I flip over and try to sit up and glower at whomever is speaking. "Oh, Jacky, it's just me."
Clara. She would show up here. "You…Why are you in Stacey's apartment?" I demand.
"Can't send out a search party, and you were gone a long ass time, partner," Clara buffs her nails, where she got a nail file I'll never know. I just hope it's as intangible as she is.
Suddenly, I remember I'm naked and wrench the sheets over my midsection. A blush makes its way up my neck and over my cheeks.
"Oh, Jack," she coos, "You are just too much sometimes. You think I've forgotten what you look like, after all these years?"
I glower in earnest now, "Where'd Stacey go?" She just points to the pillow next to me. There's a note on the pillow, it says "Jackson" on the outside in neat, femme handwriting like I haven't seen in ages.
"Dearest Jackson,
Good morning, handsome. Or, good afternoon, I suppose. I know you worked late before coming to the bar, so feel free to sleep in as long as you need. I had to go into work, silly patients can't seem to go a day without me for some reason…I'll pop by around 2 for lunch--" I check the bedside clock, the digital face tells me it's one thirty, "and I hope you're up by then. Take a shower if you want. Thank you for last night, I hope that wasn't all there was to this. We'll see. Yours Either Way-- Stacey." I smile slightly and grope around for my pants to tuck the note away. Doing this, I sit up and look at Clara.
"So, you came looking for me?" I ask, mostly just curious.
She huffs and tosses the nail file at my head. It is intangible, thank god, "Of course I did, you idiot. I'm here, aren't I? It's 1:30 and you're not home. A spirit gets used to a body bein' around after ten years or so, yanno?" I smile and gesture at the nail file.
I ask, "Gonna get that?" Clara rolls her eyes and produces another one out of no where.
"No," she says bitingly, "I'll just find another." I roll my eyes and slink out of the bed.
If Stacey is going to come back to her apartment for lunch, I should look as presentable as possible, and she did say I could use her shower. I gather my clothes, what ones are in the room, and amble toward the bathroom. "Go naked, Shuga. It becomes you," Clara calls from the bedroom. I smirk and shut the door to the bathroom.
After a short shower, I throw on yesterday's clothes and hope they don't smell too bad. No amount of bad smell will get me to use her floral fabric freshener though, so she'll have to deal with man-stink if they do smell. I make my way into the kitchen, and check the clock. There's about fifteen minutes until she gets home, and I'm pretty sure I have time to make soup and sandwiches, my specialty.
"Baby," Clara's on one of the stools near the island in the kitchen. I shut the refrigerator door with my foot, my arms loaded down with ingredients.
I drop the sandwich and soup makings onto a countertop and turn to look at her, "Yes, doll face?" After acknowledging her, I begin making the soup, a creamy mushroom and chicken from scratch. The sandwiches, chicken and roast beef on rye with muenster cheese and brown mustard, won't take as long
Clara fidgets with the hem of her skirt, "Baby, you ought to know…Stacey has a--" Just then, the front door opens.
"No, shut up, it's not like that, you know Jack--Jackson? I'm back from work for lunch. A few afternoon clients cancell--" Stacey stops short when she reaches the kitchen. "Jackson Christopher Munroe," she has a special love of my full name for some ungodly reason, "are you cooking in my kitchen?" She crosses the distance between us and wraps her arms around my waist.
I grin, trying desperately to hold down a blush, "Only if you want me to be, Stacey Michelle Westman." She kisses my jaw line, unable to reach my cheek without her high heels.
"Of course I do," she says, smiling brightly, "means I don't have to for once. What're we having?" Stacey nearly skips over to the island and sets herself on the stool next to Clara's. Clara looks pissed that she was interrupted, but she won't tell me whatever she had to say with Stacey sitting right there.
I can't stop smiling. It's been years since anyone has trusted me in their kitchen, years since I've had any reason to be in anyone else's kitchen. "Creamy mushroom chicken soup with chicken and roast beef sandwiches on rye with muenster cheese and brown mustard. Sound okay to you?" Watching for her reaction, I move to the stove with the pot of soup.
She licks her lips and murmurs, "Sounds heavenly. I can't remember the last time a man cooked for me, you know that? Must have been Kev, back before all the trouble." I grumble explicatives at the mention of his name. Kev was Stacey's husbutch, once upon a time. Back before Clara died, before I even met Stacey for real. But I knew Kev.
Kev was a player. He loved Stacey with all his heart, but all his heart didn't keep him out of all of those beds. I met Kev through work, we both loaded freighters for about three months, back when jobs weren't long term investments. He talked a mile a minute about his girl, and how he wanted to do right by her always. But, just as often, he'd talk a mile a minute about "Candy" or "Mary", girls from the club where he worked weekends as a bouncer. We got to be friends, bonding over other things. I suggested that if he loved Stacey as much as he said, he should stop seeing "Candy" and "Mary" on the side. He balked, and I let it drop.
Until I met Stacey. Stacey is a force of nature. Beautiful strawberry blonde curls, ringlets really, all the way down her back, gorgeous deep green eyes the likes of which I've never seen again. She wasn't too thin, but she never let herself go either. Plus, she was intelligent and could talk circles around us factory boys. I didn't see what "Candy" or "Mary" could possibly have that Stacey didn't. Eventually, Stacey found out about her "competition" and told Kev he could hit the bricks.
This was right around the time Clara died, and I was coincidentally working with Stacey at a paper factory. She was just there until a job opened up at a clinic or a hospital, I was just there until the temp agency sent me somewhere else. We started meeting for drinks once or twice a week, until the day she realized I was drinking too much and dragged me to a meeting. Clara didn't show come back on the scene for a few more months, angry as all hell that she'd missed her own funeral.
"Fuck Kev, have some soup," I say finally, setting a bowl in front of Stacey. She grins, not saying another word, and tastes the soup.
"God, it's delicious, Jacky," she cries, taking another spoonful, "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
I do blush a little this time, "Clara. She came over to my apartment the day we met and was absolutely appalled that my cooking expertise extended to cold cereal and fried spam with macaroni and cheese. Instead of fucking that night, she marched me to the green grocers and set out to teach me how to cook properly." The memory makes me, Stacey, and Clara laugh.
"Clara sounds like she was an amazing woman; I know Lola always raved about her…I wish I could have known her," Stacey sounds wistful and Clara looks beatific. She loves being talked about, as I well know by now.
I shake my head, "I think she woulda liked to have known you too. She heard a bunch of my Kev rants after I met you and before you got rid of him. Said she thought you had spunk, you just forgot where you hid it." I cut the sandwiches in halves, in case she wants to take some for later. Then I start cleaning up.
"No!" Stacey quickly drops her spoon in her soup and sets her half of sandwich down. "Mr. Munroe, you would do well to not move a muscle. At least not to clean; sit and eat, I'll get the dishes before I go back to work."
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"Jack! Over here, bro!" Ah, male bonding rituals, how I love them. I make my way to the bar, trying not to jostle too many people in my path.
"Hey, Brady," I say, clambering onto the stool next to him. It's been a long day, all I want is a beer to unwind, and a friend to watch the game with. He claps a hand on my back, and I wince slightly. The scratch marks from last night were deeper than I thought.
He notices, damn him, "Wincing? Damn, I knew you were old, man, but not that old."
I glare, then grin, knowing he'll be pissed that I'm getting some and he isn't, "If you must know, I'm wincing because the lady scratched the hell out of my back last night."
I want to meet the girl with pink polka dot curtains. The one who covers herself in lights and jumps around her late 70s style room. She's totally enshrouded in mystery and time, and I want to meet her. I don't know what I'd say or do, maybe all I'd be capable of would be looking at her. But she seems infinitely interesting and she has pink polka dot curtains in her room. I want to meet the girl with enough individuality to have both pink polka dot curtains and a green plaid comforter in her room. She must be full of things to say.
The feathered mask tickles my nose as the drag queen bends low to intimate something to the crowd. She whispers to me, "Dare to dream, stud." Then she pulls me on stage with just her index finger, intent on showing me off to the crowd. "Isn't he just the biggest, butchest stud you've ever seen? Isn't he simply delicious?" She spins me slowly, letting them see my every angle.
"Do you know what they do to these fine men out there?" Hell, she's getting on a soap box for me. "They beat them, ladies, they molest them, they ruin their clothes and jobs and relationships and lives. All because they haven't got what I've got under my skirt. It's disgusting, what is done to fine young men like these." The crowd murmurs its agreement, I try desperately not to blush.
She pulls me close then, stage-whispers into her microphone, "Handsome stud, warrior that you are, never feel alone. They've made us all old before our time; our innocence is lost before its even gained. You are not alone. You have family, you have friends, you have lovers, sisters and brothers. When you have to fight, remember we fight too." now I do blush, here I thought she'd just needed a prop. But, she's seen my wounds. She recognizes me. I've been called a warrior, but, I just feel like the world's punching bag most days. And she knows that, I can see it in her eyes, and I hate that I've been seen like this.
I feel naked, more naked than the day I was born. This nakedness isn't from lack of clothes, it's from lack of walls. This queen, this gorgeous, deep voiced, high femme, brash, wonderful, cruel, catty, amazing and strong queen, has seen past my scars, and my walls and my locked doors. She couldn't have looked at me more than half a second, and she knew all there was to know about the hand life has dealt me.
Look at me, serious at a drag show. I try to pay attention, try to hear the crowd scream and shout and love on me, but, all I can do is wait for the punch line. I'm desperate to get off this stage, slink off rather, and find an empty bar stool. I need something stronger than what I've been drinking, and I need it fast. But, this queen is just looking at me, holding the mic out to me. What am I supposed to do? I don't have the words, I'm just trying to survive. I'm not looking for a revolution, just some rest.
The drag queen isn't giving me a choice, the crowd wants to hear this battered soul. I sigh, and take the mic, still unsure whether I have a story to tell. "My name is Jack," I murmur into the mic, "And all I'm tryin' to do is live. I'm no warrior, I'm no hero or saint. I've done plenty of bad in this life, same as anyone else. I just want to walk home tonight and not worry that the cops will pick me up. All I've ever asked of life is some peace, quiet and for my insides and outsides to match. I don't want to be a mascot or an example, my blood's no redder than yours. You don't want to listen to this old man talk, I'm just tryin' to live." I take the mic away from my lips, aware that the whole room has gone silent. I couldn't have done that; I'm not a crowd stopper. Not wanting to speak again, I hand the mic back to the queen, she takes it and kisses my cheek.
I hop off stage and make my way as quickly as possible to that bar stool with my name on it. I can feel the eyes on me as I wend my way through the crowd. All I want to do is shout again "I'm just tryin' to live! Let an old man have his rest!" All I want is for them to stop staring, stop acting like I'm something special. The only person who made me special died years ago.
Finally, I make it to the barstool, and order something I can't even remember how to mix any more. Before the bartender starts pouring, I stop hir and say, "Actually, just a Guinness, if you please. I don't want to be a bother." Ze smiles slightly, having seen the display I was put on minutes before, and grabs a bottle from under the counter. I take it gratefully and drink. Maybe my speech, if you could call it that, got through. Maybe they're finally hearing me, finally leaving me alone.
"You deserve their praise, you deserve to be noticed," a voice whispers at my elbow. I groan, not this again.
"Aw, hell, Clara, leave me be. All I want is some rest, goddamn it. Just let me remain here, in the shadows," I turn to look, but, she's gone.
Then, she's back, only on my other side this time. "Oh, Jacky, Jacky, Jacky…I could never let things be. You ARE a hero, you are special, important, noteworthy. Why don't you just let them have their role model? You an' me went through some rough shit back in the day," her low voice murmurs, I'm sure her eyes are boring holes in my neck.
I turn, intent on catching her eyes this time, making her look at me. She always forgets. "Clara. I'm 40 years old now. I'm tired, I'm worn, I'm beaten, broken and bruised. I've been left for dead more times than I care to count, and I've fought more fights than were my fair share. I am not the eager, courageous, 20 something year old that you remember, that you expect me to be. I grew up, even if you didn't get to," I stare into her hazel green eyes, and pointedly take a swig of my lager.
As expected, she makes an offended noise, "I'm gone ten years and you're already off the damned wagon? When're you goin' to a meeting?" I roll my eyes, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. She taps a long, red, perfectly manicured nail on the bar.
"I'm not, okay? I'm not "off the wagon"; I'm having a damned beer. I was pulled up on a stage by a drag queen who coulda been your damned twin, I had to talk to a huge fucking crowd, and you know I hate crowds. So now I'm having my well deserved goddamned lager. I don't need a fucking meeting; I need another beer," I drain the bottle and signal the bartender. She makes that noise again, but she can't tell the bartender not to give me my beer. I smirk.
"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't stop you," she warns, leaning close, as if to smack my new bottle out of my hand. I give her a look, and wait to see what she does. She reaches out to take the lager from me, and can't grasp the bottle. I try not to laugh, it's never as funny as it seems, and she pouts at me.
Clara tries to reason with me next, "Jacky, ten years. You have ten years sober under your belt, why start back up now? You know you won't stop, and who's gonna take you to the meetings now? I can't drag you to the car, I can't buckle you in, I can't make you sit there and talk about this. Please, your time isn't up yet; there's more to be done."
Again, I roll my eyes. Ten years, and you'd think I'd be rid of my damned ghost problem by now. But, no, she follows me everywhere, and for five years I talked to her out loud. People left me alone those years, thought I was crazy. Then she finally told me I didn't have to talk out loud, and I cursed her from heaven to hell for those five years before. Apparently, if someone has a strong enough pull on another person during their life, they have the option of sticking around after they're dead. I wish they'd told me that before; I would have kept the woman at arm's length. Instead, she was there for everything.
"We met in 2012, at that one darling's bachelorette party," Clara supplies, noting my inner monologue. I grumble, not wanting to be reminded. "And you said I was the most gorgeous woman in the room, and that asshole said I wasn't a woman at all," she just adds to the burn of the memories piling in the back of my brain.
I sigh, take a drink and look at her again. "And I told that stuck up butch if you weren't a woman, I was a goddamned Martian. And she never said another word," I smile slightly, giving up on forgetting for one more night. Clara nods, taps her long red nails against the bar. "I can't believe there are still drag queens around, it's fuckin' 2029 for crissakes."
She looks indignant now, "Hold on there, Mr. Monroe. So long as there's glitter, dancing, crowds and butches to be had, there will be goddamned drag queens." I snicker into my beer. Clara makes as if to slap me, then remembers she can't touch solid objects any more.
"See?" I murmur, "If you'd just let me fucking die, you could smack me around again. Like the old days."
"Jacky boy, when was the last time you did drag yourself?" She changes subject without a moment's notice.
I choke on my beer, "Drag? When did I last do drag? Fuck, Clara…We met in 2012, you died seven years later, so 2019...Musta been 2019 then." I set the beer down, swivel in the barstool to watch the performance.
She huffs, "You haven't done drag in ten fucking years? What kind of king ARE you?" She gets in my face; even dead she's intimidating when she wants to be.
"No, damn it. I haven't done drag since you died. I'm no king any more, I'm a transman. Jack Hammer became Jackson Monroe and went on to lead a hectic, secluded life. He stopped lusting for the stage the moment his spotlight burnt out. What is so fucking hard to understand about that? The Hammer pounded his last nail, and it went right in your fucking coffin," I slam a fist on the bar, then look apologetically at the bartender. Ze seems to understand, gives me a nod and returns to taking orders.
Clara tries to rest her long fingered, big boned hand on my arm, settles for hovering her hand above my arm. "Sweet stud, I'm so sorry. Have you spent ten years blaming yourself? You couldn't have stopped what happened that night; it woulda gone down the same whether or not your handsome, strapping self stepped in. And, if you remember, you did step in." She cocks her head to the side, gives me a searching look.
I'm remembering. God what an awful night that was.
'Hey, you fucking fag.' 'Where're you fuckin' goin', dyke?' We were so drunk, I hadn't even heard the commotion as we left the bar and stumbled home. Most nights, we were given drink after drink in appreciation of our performances. We drank every single one. But, while I may not have heard the hecklers, Clara had.
"Jacky," her voice was low, rough from singing all night. Yeah, she was that kind of queen. Hell, I was that kind of king, back then.
"What, sugar lips?" my words slurred all over the place, I clung tighter to her waist, hoped silently I wasn't hurting her corseted frame.
She walked faster, tried to keep me from stumbling and slowing them down, "Sweet boy, there are some gentlemen behind us that beg to differ with our desire to roam the streets unmolested. I realize you're drunk, but I could really use you sober right about now."
I heard the fear in her voice, the panic edging in, and it caused me to try and shake the haze I was in. "Shit. Shit, Clara, I'm drunk and there are thugs…Shhhhit," I let go of her and tried to walk on my own. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I slipped my hand in my pocket for my knife, there'd be a fight and I wasn't fighting on anyone's terms but my own.
"Jacky, do not do what I think you're gonna do, do not do it. Do you understand me?" Clara's voice was shrill, insistent, I knew her eyes were bulging at the knife in my hand, she never did like violence. I could hear her beg me to just walk faster, but now I could hear their footsteps, loud and echoing ominously on the brick walls around us, and I couldn't just walk away, they weren't going to let us and--
I fight my way out of the memories, still not wanting to see her, not like that. I want to see her as she is right now in front of me. "Fuck it all, Clara, if I'd just listened to you, we could have gotten away. Bruised, battered, all that shit, but, we'd both be alive now," my screwed up head tells me that if I throw back the rest of this beer and order another, I'll prove my point. So, ignoring Clara's shriek of protest, I do just that.
"Jackson Christopher Monroe. Do not drink one single drop of that goddamned beer," a voice shouts in my ear. It's not Clara, and I turn, confused.
"Stacey? When'd you get here, Stace?" I set my beer down, unaware that I am capitulating to her demand without a fight. Clara sits back on her stool and smirks to herself, she was always convinced Stacey and I would end up together.
Stacey slides into the stool on my other side. I never have figured out how Clara keeps from getting sat on by people, they just always avoid the seat to my right. "I've been here. I saw Dharma Drama's performance, with her new toy," she gives me a sweet smile, one that promises she won't rehash the performance for the benefit of preaching to the choir.
She slams a neatly manicured hand on top of mine just before I can pick up my beer. I raise my eyebrow and look her up and down, "Forceful tonight, are we?" I pry her hand from mine and take a drink of my beer anyway.
"Barkeep? Cut this man off, he's supposed to be on the wagon," Stacey shouts down the bar at the ambiguous individual from earlier in the evening. I see hir nod agreement and swear loudly. Stacey's smirk is nearly identical to Clara's, "See? Now, surely you'd want to be doing what Clara would want you to be doing, and she sure as hell wouldn't want you to be doing this." Apparently this is drinking, I was previously unaware.
I lean back and look from Clara to Stacey and realize that perhaps I shouldn't, since Stacey has no idea Clara is sitting on my right. "Fine. What am I supposed to do in a bar, if not drink?"
Clara huffs loudly, "Not be in a goddamned bar, unless you're gonna get up on stage for us." She looks pointedly at me and then at the stage.
"Fuck that," I murmur before catching myself.
"Fuck what, Jacky? Is that an offer? After all these years of me pinin' away for your handsome self?" Stacey mock falls into my lap and bats her eyelashes at me. I laugh softly and push her hair out of her eyes.
I can't though, not now. God, it's just…It's still too hard, to pursue, to be social, to act and do instead of sitting in my small studio apartment listening to Clara. Sometimes I wonder if I remain such a hermit because I want Clara to stay around. That's what brought me to the bar in the first place, concern that I was too hermit-like, mostly Clara's concern and not my own. "Aw, Stace…You know I…" I trail off, looking around the bar, the lights and colors blinding me as I search for a quick subject change.
She reaches up and touches the side of my face, the stubble there, with her fingertips. Her dark plum fingernails graze my cheekbone, "I know, baby. I've always known. But, hey, let's get out of here anyway? They'll be wanting to close soon, and we could just go back to my place and talk, or drink coffee, or both…"
Before I can respond, Clara is at my ear, "Go on, sugar. I can stay at your place one night by myself. This is something, someone you need. Rest assured, I'll find a way to keep you out of your apartment tonight. You might as well have some fun." I can tell her ghost lips are at my temple for a moment, and then she's just gone. How does she do that? Ten years and there are so many things I fear I'll never know about my friend and her existence.
"Okay, Stacey. Just let me settle up my tab," I say, signaling the bartender and sliding hir my money. Ze takes it and disappears to the cash register for a minute. Stacey grins widely and plays with hairs at the nape of my neck. I wonder if this is something I'm ready for, or if maybe I'm being an idiot yet again. The lonely part of me angrily shoves these thoughts into a box and locks it securely. I'll deal with that later. Maybe never, if I'm lucky enough.
My tab settled, we make our way out into the night. I search the alleyways and the side streets as we walk. So long as I'm around, there is danger. I hate thinking this way, I wish people would just get over themselves, worry about their own lives and stop worrying about how my life looks to them. Stacey grabs my hand and squeezes tightly, careful not to puncture my palm with her fingernails. I can tell she has her hand in her purse, on the knife I purchased her months ago, after a particularly brutal murder near her apartment.
I murmur, "Thank god you keep that on you, remember how to use it?" She jumps slightly, then gives me a wan smile.
"Shit, you scared me," she says, "Yeah, you taught me well, Jacky. I just wish I didn't need it. We're fucking forty years old, why do we need weaponry to protect ourselves?" As she asks, I pull her out of the way of a few carousers and we side step a line of homeless people sitting against the cold brick wall.
"Because," I say softly, lightly pushing her into a shallow alcove, "There are people like the assholes behind us who want to do us harm. We're just going to stand here and pretend to neck for a minute. No fighting tonight."
I can feel Stacey's heart race between us, and I hear her breath become more shallow. "Sh, calm down," on a whim, I kiss her softly, willing her to stop worrying. She melts against me, and I figure we'll be okay. I pull back and search her eyes, "It'll be okay, I'm here, we've been through this a million times."
Stacey nods. "I know," she whispers, "but, why do we have to keep going through it all? We're old, we've been old forever…When do we get to rest?" I hear her, and I hear her saying what I've been saying all along. It scares me, that I'm not the only ancient one around these parts. It's been so long, Clara was the last person to really understand where I was coming from. The question is, do I acknowledge our mutual pain, or do I push her away, wall myself up again?
"C'mon, I think they've passed," I step back and out onto the sidewalk again. I hear an almost inaudible sigh and then the sound of Stacey's stiletto heels clicking on the sidewalk. My loneliness gets the better of me again, "Stacey girl, I'm sorry…It's just…" But how do I describe what my walls are keeping locked inside?
She stops me, using a hand to push me against a wall and gets her face right in front of mine, "Jackson, I know, okay? I get it. We're tough, we're silent, we're strong. But, goddamn it all, we're fucking lonely too. Except we're not fucking. None of us is fucking anymore. Why did we stop? Hell, did it get too personal? Too hard, too soft, too unreal? Or are we so…Are we so dead inside that it just doesn't matter any more, whether or not we fuck?"
I don't know how to respond, I'm not even sure I can. She's centimeters away from my face, and again, ignoring my logical side, I lean forward and kiss her. After a second, I end the kiss and murmur, "Your lips are just too damn kissable. Why have I never noticed this before?"
"It's about fucking time you did," she says, not really angry, just annoyed. "C'mon, stud, there's a warm bed waiting a few blocks from here." Stacey grabs the collar of my jacket and drags me toward her apartment. Tonight may just be the biggest thaw I've had in ages.
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"I forgot how sexy you were naked, Shuga," a voice infiltrates my dreams. I wake with a start, and see Clara sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. There's not a chair in the corner of my room…And my walls aren't yellow…Consensus is this isn't my room. Shit, I stayed at Stacey's last night? My memory rushes back.
It's hazy, but we're shoving one another against walls and doors and stairwells and elevators and plants and just about anything that will stand still long enough for one more kiss. I haven't felt this way in months, years…Close to a goddamned decade by now. She's the oxygen to my flame, god where have I been these past ten years? It's like I was hibernating…
Now we're in her apartment, crashing into things, losing clothes as we go. She reaches down, grabs at the crotch of my boxers. "Mmm, there we go," she murmurs against my neck, leaving bite marks down my neck and across my torso as I struggle to remember how to unclasp a damn bra. I bite back a moan, and give up on the damn bra. Without a second's warning, I hoist her over my shoulder and into what I determine is her bedroom. Or a bedroom, somewhere with a bed. She squeals and it's like we're in our twenties again.
Slower now, though still intense, still fiery and passionate. "I…" My self conscious side comes out to play. She puts a finger to my lips, and fixes the problem. My damn mouth. I grin and put it to better use…
"Fuck," I murmur, coming back to the present.
"Fuck indeed, Jacky boy," the voice is amused. I flip over and try to sit up and glower at whomever is speaking. "Oh, Jacky, it's just me."
Clara. She would show up here. "You…Why are you in Stacey's apartment?" I demand.
"Can't send out a search party, and you were gone a long ass time, partner," Clara buffs her nails, where she got a nail file I'll never know. I just hope it's as intangible as she is.
Suddenly, I remember I'm naked and wrench the sheets over my midsection. A blush makes its way up my neck and over my cheeks.
"Oh, Jack," she coos, "You are just too much sometimes. You think I've forgotten what you look like, after all these years?"
I glower in earnest now, "Where'd Stacey go?" She just points to the pillow next to me. There's a note on the pillow, it says "Jackson" on the outside in neat, femme handwriting like I haven't seen in ages.
"Dearest Jackson,
Good morning, handsome. Or, good afternoon, I suppose. I know you worked late before coming to the bar, so feel free to sleep in as long as you need. I had to go into work, silly patients can't seem to go a day without me for some reason…I'll pop by around 2 for lunch--" I check the bedside clock, the digital face tells me it's one thirty, "and I hope you're up by then. Take a shower if you want. Thank you for last night, I hope that wasn't all there was to this. We'll see. Yours Either Way-- Stacey." I smile slightly and grope around for my pants to tuck the note away. Doing this, I sit up and look at Clara.
"So, you came looking for me?" I ask, mostly just curious.
She huffs and tosses the nail file at my head. It is intangible, thank god, "Of course I did, you idiot. I'm here, aren't I? It's 1:30 and you're not home. A spirit gets used to a body bein' around after ten years or so, yanno?" I smile and gesture at the nail file.
I ask, "Gonna get that?" Clara rolls her eyes and produces another one out of no where.
"No," she says bitingly, "I'll just find another." I roll my eyes and slink out of the bed.
If Stacey is going to come back to her apartment for lunch, I should look as presentable as possible, and she did say I could use her shower. I gather my clothes, what ones are in the room, and amble toward the bathroom. "Go naked, Shuga. It becomes you," Clara calls from the bedroom. I smirk and shut the door to the bathroom.
After a short shower, I throw on yesterday's clothes and hope they don't smell too bad. No amount of bad smell will get me to use her floral fabric freshener though, so she'll have to deal with man-stink if they do smell. I make my way into the kitchen, and check the clock. There's about fifteen minutes until she gets home, and I'm pretty sure I have time to make soup and sandwiches, my specialty.
"Baby," Clara's on one of the stools near the island in the kitchen. I shut the refrigerator door with my foot, my arms loaded down with ingredients.
I drop the sandwich and soup makings onto a countertop and turn to look at her, "Yes, doll face?" After acknowledging her, I begin making the soup, a creamy mushroom and chicken from scratch. The sandwiches, chicken and roast beef on rye with muenster cheese and brown mustard, won't take as long
Clara fidgets with the hem of her skirt, "Baby, you ought to know…Stacey has a--" Just then, the front door opens.
"No, shut up, it's not like that, you know Jack--Jackson? I'm back from work for lunch. A few afternoon clients cancell--" Stacey stops short when she reaches the kitchen. "Jackson Christopher Munroe," she has a special love of my full name for some ungodly reason, "are you cooking in my kitchen?" She crosses the distance between us and wraps her arms around my waist.
I grin, trying desperately to hold down a blush, "Only if you want me to be, Stacey Michelle Westman." She kisses my jaw line, unable to reach my cheek without her high heels.
"Of course I do," she says, smiling brightly, "means I don't have to for once. What're we having?" Stacey nearly skips over to the island and sets herself on the stool next to Clara's. Clara looks pissed that she was interrupted, but she won't tell me whatever she had to say with Stacey sitting right there.
I can't stop smiling. It's been years since anyone has trusted me in their kitchen, years since I've had any reason to be in anyone else's kitchen. "Creamy mushroom chicken soup with chicken and roast beef sandwiches on rye with muenster cheese and brown mustard. Sound okay to you?" Watching for her reaction, I move to the stove with the pot of soup.
She licks her lips and murmurs, "Sounds heavenly. I can't remember the last time a man cooked for me, you know that? Must have been Kev, back before all the trouble." I grumble explicatives at the mention of his name. Kev was Stacey's husbutch, once upon a time. Back before Clara died, before I even met Stacey for real. But I knew Kev.
Kev was a player. He loved Stacey with all his heart, but all his heart didn't keep him out of all of those beds. I met Kev through work, we both loaded freighters for about three months, back when jobs weren't long term investments. He talked a mile a minute about his girl, and how he wanted to do right by her always. But, just as often, he'd talk a mile a minute about "Candy" or "Mary", girls from the club where he worked weekends as a bouncer. We got to be friends, bonding over other things. I suggested that if he loved Stacey as much as he said, he should stop seeing "Candy" and "Mary" on the side. He balked, and I let it drop.
Until I met Stacey. Stacey is a force of nature. Beautiful strawberry blonde curls, ringlets really, all the way down her back, gorgeous deep green eyes the likes of which I've never seen again. She wasn't too thin, but she never let herself go either. Plus, she was intelligent and could talk circles around us factory boys. I didn't see what "Candy" or "Mary" could possibly have that Stacey didn't. Eventually, Stacey found out about her "competition" and told Kev he could hit the bricks.
This was right around the time Clara died, and I was coincidentally working with Stacey at a paper factory. She was just there until a job opened up at a clinic or a hospital, I was just there until the temp agency sent me somewhere else. We started meeting for drinks once or twice a week, until the day she realized I was drinking too much and dragged me to a meeting. Clara didn't show come back on the scene for a few more months, angry as all hell that she'd missed her own funeral.
"Fuck Kev, have some soup," I say finally, setting a bowl in front of Stacey. She grins, not saying another word, and tastes the soup.
"God, it's delicious, Jacky," she cries, taking another spoonful, "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
I do blush a little this time, "Clara. She came over to my apartment the day we met and was absolutely appalled that my cooking expertise extended to cold cereal and fried spam with macaroni and cheese. Instead of fucking that night, she marched me to the green grocers and set out to teach me how to cook properly." The memory makes me, Stacey, and Clara laugh.
"Clara sounds like she was an amazing woman; I know Lola always raved about her…I wish I could have known her," Stacey sounds wistful and Clara looks beatific. She loves being talked about, as I well know by now.
I shake my head, "I think she woulda liked to have known you too. She heard a bunch of my Kev rants after I met you and before you got rid of him. Said she thought you had spunk, you just forgot where you hid it." I cut the sandwiches in halves, in case she wants to take some for later. Then I start cleaning up.
"No!" Stacey quickly drops her spoon in her soup and sets her half of sandwich down. "Mr. Munroe, you would do well to not move a muscle. At least not to clean; sit and eat, I'll get the dishes before I go back to work."
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"Jack! Over here, bro!" Ah, male bonding rituals, how I love them. I make my way to the bar, trying not to jostle too many people in my path.
"Hey, Brady," I say, clambering onto the stool next to him. It's been a long day, all I want is a beer to unwind, and a friend to watch the game with. He claps a hand on my back, and I wince slightly. The scratch marks from last night were deeper than I thought.
He notices, damn him, "Wincing? Damn, I knew you were old, man, but not that old."
I glare, then grin, knowing he'll be pissed that I'm getting some and he isn't, "If you must know, I'm wincing because the lady scratched the hell out of my back last night."