scrap post
I wanted to write something about Wendy and Stan's friendship after reading this, and I started after I'd even made it through the essay. But I just seriously don't have the freedom to write long things right now! So I'm just posting the scrap.
It's drag bingo night at Hamburger Mary's and Wendy is over it. Is it the blinding surfeit of sequins, the impossibly bad DJ spinning cliches, the absolutely atrocious food? They've been doing this for two years now, every Tuesday night, for the $4 vodka cocktails. Wendy likes a good ridiculous drink, the more neon the better, with sparkling, additive-laden salt on the rim of the glass. Stan doesn't drink so much anymore, but he's always content to nurse a PBR or two and listen to her troubles. It's just up the street from UC Denver, where Stan is in a nursing program. It's hard to believe he would make a bad nurse, but he tends to vent his insecurities over his usual burger, which is disgusting, with pineapple on it. Typically he talks too much, puts half aside, brings it home for Kyle. They don't live together, and Wendy wonders why, if Kyle is always around to finish Stan's burgers, they don't just move in together? Sometimes that transitions into Stan's second topic of general consternation, reasons he can't move in with Kyle. Mostly these amount to not feeling "ready," despite the fact that they have totally been an item since middle school.
"College," Stan will say, "our last year of college."
"Technicalities." Wendy thinks it's unfair not to count all those years of mind games and silent drunken groping and hours and hours of Stan whining, to Wendy, recounting the intimate moments that on their own meant nothing and yet, in collection, formed into muck in the gutter of Stan's neuroses. Tonight, though, they are not discussing that and so Stan is actually eating his burger. Wendy wonders only briefly if Kyle will miss the leftovers, as there's little time to do so in between her grief and annoyance.
"What is it?" Stan asks. He's eating his fries one at a time, which has been the way he's eaten fries since he was 6. She's known him 20 years and, sadly, she noticed. He dips them into ketchup (or barbecue sauce or whatever) and eats them slowly, in minute increments. So he has time to ask in between bites, "Wends? Is something off? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she says. "I'm fine." She flicks some salt from the rim of her glass. "Jesus."
"Jesus what?"
"Jesus, just, jesus." She is eating a salad, and it's not very good. She probably should have gotten her usual, some Mexican thing, but the change seemed necessary. No one comes here for the food, though.
"Seriously, Wendy. What?"
She stares at Stan, really stares at him. He's not a bad guy. He probably cares. "What do you do," she begins, and then she stops herself. She hates burdening Stan with this shit, her problems. Her totally stupid and little, tiny problems.
But then he starts on another a fry, still making an open face at her, silently asking, "What?"
"What do you do," she continues, "if you sleep with a guy, and the sex is amazing, and he says he's going to call--"
"Oh, no."
"--and he calls, and he says, listen--"
"Oh, jesus."
"--I have a girlfriend?" She brushes the salt from her fingers. "That's all."
"That's all?"
'Well, no, not exactly. ... Or, yes, that's all."
"I don't know," he says. "What did you say?"
"I said I'd call him back. Then I got in my car and drove over here."
"This just happened?"
"Yeah," she says, "right as I was leaving work." She is in research and development for Panera Bread. It's a weirdly hostile work environment. This guy is actually her supervisor. Well, not her supervisor-supervisor, but the supervisor of another division, so as she was leaving his house this morning at 4 she was somehow able to tell herself that this was totally fine, it wasn't in the exact chain of command, or whatever, so that's fine, it's not like she's morally bankrupt. Wendy read over the company policies about eight or nine times when she was first hired, fresh out of undergrad, 21 nonths ago. Now it's a bleak and snowy February, she's single, she's 24, she's sitting in this dumb Hamburger Mary's with her best friend again, she's having sort-of protected sex with her boss--
"He's not my boss," she says to Stan. "Well, he is, in that he's a director, and I'm just some underling, but I'm in R+D and he's not, so this is fine?"
He finishes swallowing his fry. "Is this a question to which you want an answer? Because, dude, I dunno." Stan literally lives as if he never left college, in a bungalow with four other queer guys who actually throw very hip parties at which Wendy feels unwelcome. She can't go over there without feeling claustrophobic. Once when she walked in one of Stan's roommates got up and turned down the thermostat and shrieked, "I think we need to dial back the estrogen in here!" and when Wendy said, "Excuse me?" he said "It's just a joke, you crazy bitch!" And the thing was, he was not even joking, he literally wanted her out, she could see it in his eyes. She does not consider Stan is be implicit in this ill feeling because he found these guys through a post on a UC Denver student housing forum and does not like them much himself. The housing situation is the third major topic of Stan’s grievances, and furthers Wendy’s confusion as to why he will not move in with Kyle.
For once, she considers herself lucky to have something more personal to worry about. “It was probably really stupid,” she says, feeling dumb again. “So was ordering this salad. A wedge salad, jesus, I came to a burger place and got a wedge salad?”
“I know something was wrong, Wendy, I knew something was wrong the minute you said ‘wedge salad.’ ” He reaches over with a fry and dredges it with blue cheese dressing from her plate. “Don’t confront him,” Stan says, and then he puts the fry in his mouth.
She leans over. “Confront him? I want nothing to do with him! Are you mad?”
“Uh.” He swallows. “Do you have a picture?”
So she whips out her phone and opens LinkedIn. She has it set to anonymous, so she can’t see who is on her profile, but he won’t see that she was checking his out, either. “He’s kinda doughy,” she says, by way of excuse. “He’s got this kind of, like, soft old jock thing happening.”
“Like-”
“Don’t even say his name!” All of high school. Most of college. That whole thing.
“Why, what is he, Voldemort?”
“Just don’t,” she says. “This is totally different.”
It's drag bingo night at Hamburger Mary's and Wendy is over it. Is it the blinding surfeit of sequins, the impossibly bad DJ spinning cliches, the absolutely atrocious food? They've been doing this for two years now, every Tuesday night, for the $4 vodka cocktails. Wendy likes a good ridiculous drink, the more neon the better, with sparkling, additive-laden salt on the rim of the glass. Stan doesn't drink so much anymore, but he's always content to nurse a PBR or two and listen to her troubles. It's just up the street from UC Denver, where Stan is in a nursing program. It's hard to believe he would make a bad nurse, but he tends to vent his insecurities over his usual burger, which is disgusting, with pineapple on it. Typically he talks too much, puts half aside, brings it home for Kyle. They don't live together, and Wendy wonders why, if Kyle is always around to finish Stan's burgers, they don't just move in together? Sometimes that transitions into Stan's second topic of general consternation, reasons he can't move in with Kyle. Mostly these amount to not feeling "ready," despite the fact that they have totally been an item since middle school.
"College," Stan will say, "our last year of college."
"Technicalities." Wendy thinks it's unfair not to count all those years of mind games and silent drunken groping and hours and hours of Stan whining, to Wendy, recounting the intimate moments that on their own meant nothing and yet, in collection, formed into muck in the gutter of Stan's neuroses. Tonight, though, they are not discussing that and so Stan is actually eating his burger. Wendy wonders only briefly if Kyle will miss the leftovers, as there's little time to do so in between her grief and annoyance.
"What is it?" Stan asks. He's eating his fries one at a time, which has been the way he's eaten fries since he was 6. She's known him 20 years and, sadly, she noticed. He dips them into ketchup (or barbecue sauce or whatever) and eats them slowly, in minute increments. So he has time to ask in between bites, "Wends? Is something off? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," she says. "I'm fine." She flicks some salt from the rim of her glass. "Jesus."
"Jesus what?"
"Jesus, just, jesus." She is eating a salad, and it's not very good. She probably should have gotten her usual, some Mexican thing, but the change seemed necessary. No one comes here for the food, though.
"Seriously, Wendy. What?"
She stares at Stan, really stares at him. He's not a bad guy. He probably cares. "What do you do," she begins, and then she stops herself. She hates burdening Stan with this shit, her problems. Her totally stupid and little, tiny problems.
But then he starts on another a fry, still making an open face at her, silently asking, "What?"
"What do you do," she continues, "if you sleep with a guy, and the sex is amazing, and he says he's going to call--"
"Oh, no."
"--and he calls, and he says, listen--"
"Oh, jesus."
"--I have a girlfriend?" She brushes the salt from her fingers. "That's all."
"That's all?"
'Well, no, not exactly. ... Or, yes, that's all."
"I don't know," he says. "What did you say?"
"I said I'd call him back. Then I got in my car and drove over here."
"This just happened?"
"Yeah," she says, "right as I was leaving work." She is in research and development for Panera Bread. It's a weirdly hostile work environment. This guy is actually her supervisor. Well, not her supervisor-supervisor, but the supervisor of another division, so as she was leaving his house this morning at 4 she was somehow able to tell herself that this was totally fine, it wasn't in the exact chain of command, or whatever, so that's fine, it's not like she's morally bankrupt. Wendy read over the company policies about eight or nine times when she was first hired, fresh out of undergrad, 21 nonths ago. Now it's a bleak and snowy February, she's single, she's 24, she's sitting in this dumb Hamburger Mary's with her best friend again, she's having sort-of protected sex with her boss--
"He's not my boss," she says to Stan. "Well, he is, in that he's a director, and I'm just some underling, but I'm in R+D and he's not, so this is fine?"
He finishes swallowing his fry. "Is this a question to which you want an answer? Because, dude, I dunno." Stan literally lives as if he never left college, in a bungalow with four other queer guys who actually throw very hip parties at which Wendy feels unwelcome. She can't go over there without feeling claustrophobic. Once when she walked in one of Stan's roommates got up and turned down the thermostat and shrieked, "I think we need to dial back the estrogen in here!" and when Wendy said, "Excuse me?" he said "It's just a joke, you crazy bitch!" And the thing was, he was not even joking, he literally wanted her out, she could see it in his eyes. She does not consider Stan is be implicit in this ill feeling because he found these guys through a post on a UC Denver student housing forum and does not like them much himself. The housing situation is the third major topic of Stan’s grievances, and furthers Wendy’s confusion as to why he will not move in with Kyle.
For once, she considers herself lucky to have something more personal to worry about. “It was probably really stupid,” she says, feeling dumb again. “So was ordering this salad. A wedge salad, jesus, I came to a burger place and got a wedge salad?”
“I know something was wrong, Wendy, I knew something was wrong the minute you said ‘wedge salad.’ ” He reaches over with a fry and dredges it with blue cheese dressing from her plate. “Don’t confront him,” Stan says, and then he puts the fry in his mouth.
She leans over. “Confront him? I want nothing to do with him! Are you mad?”
“Uh.” He swallows. “Do you have a picture?”
So she whips out her phone and opens LinkedIn. She has it set to anonymous, so she can’t see who is on her profile, but he won’t see that she was checking his out, either. “He’s kinda doughy,” she says, by way of excuse. “He’s got this kind of, like, soft old jock thing happening.”
“Like-”
“Don’t even say his name!” All of high school. Most of college. That whole thing.
“Why, what is he, Voldemort?”
“Just don’t,” she says. “This is totally different.”