The Painting of Porcupine City (21 page)

“Dramatic.”

“Well, it was. Plus I was well into my celibacy experiment at that point, and not exactly a happy camper. And by then, after living with her for a year and barely hearing from him, I was totally Team Cara, you know?”

“Makes sense.”

“She even had a new boyfriend by then. Kind of a douche. Great ass, though.”

“Heh.”

“Anyway, yeah, so she took Jamar back but they’ve always had separate apartments since then. Jamar’s not a bad guy. He’s my best friend. He was just scared. We all were, facing that post-college void, you know? I had
Porcupine City
, Cara immediately swan-dove into grad school, and Jamar ran away to Colorado. It was a crazy time.”

“Sounds it.”

“What was your first year post-college like?”

“Hmm. When was that?” He fished around in his head for the year and when he came up with it, one year later than mine, he said, “I did the front doors of the library and all the lampposts along the lagoon in the Public Garden.”

“That wasn’t exactly—”

He laughed. “I know what you meant. I went to SP after graduation, thought seriously about staying. I know what you meant.”

“You thought about staying?”

“Yeah.”

“What made you want to stay?”

“I don’t know. The weather,” he said, so I didn’t press it.

Clack clack. Ffssshhttt.
Some wavy, purple hair formed across the top of the yellow head.

“It feels a little funny to have Jamar moving back in,” I went on. “I guess because for him it’s a step forward—he’ll be moving in with his wife, you know? And their baby. Man, their
baby
. And for me it’s like moving back in with my college roommate again after I’ve been graduated five—six years.”

“Houses are just trappings. Do you feel like you’re moving backward if you put on a t-shirt you happened to wear in college? Every time you put down a word, that’s the important progress, Arrowman. That’s how you measure.”

“I love when you get all mystical on me.”

He smirked. “Nothing mystical about it.” He shook his can, shook it near my ear, the
clack clack
loud and familiar. “It’s the most tangible thing there is.” He held his right hand near the bottom of his piece, splayed his fingers, and dragged a blast of paint across them, leaving in negative their print on the wall.
Fffssshht.

In typical Jamar fashion

his apartment was stacked neatly with square boxes arranged in towers of varying height like some kind of life-size board game. He was over at my place so often, it was months since I’d been here. The place looked smaller with the walls bare and the carpets rolled up. I wiped sweat off my face with my shirt and bent down for another box. His apartment was on the second floor so the walk down wasn’t bad, but it was hot out.

Normally I would’ve put up a stink, even just for show, about having to help him move in this kind of weather, but a couple of days earlier he asked me two questions: (1) would I be his Best Man, and (2) would I help him move. Once I was buttered up by the first, no way could I say no to the second. Clever guy.

Outside on the street his dad’s big diesel pick-up, borrowed for the day to do the move in, was parked in a space reserved earlier with a laundry hamper and a desk chair.

“So you’re really not giving me much time to plan your bachelor party,” I told him, wiping my forehead and waiting for him to stow his boxes with the others in the back of the truck.

“You’re
such
a comedian, Bradford. You agreed.”

“You’re really not going to let me do
any
thing? No strippers at all? No donkeys?”

“No strippers, no barnyard animals.” We went back inside and the stairwell, beneficiary of the drafts from a.c.’ed apartments, was like heaven. “We’ll go out for a beer somewhere.”

I followed him into the apartment, sighed, grabbed another box extra hot from sitting in the sun. “Are you sure? I was looking forward to seeing some boobs.”

“Try the mirror,” he said.

“Hahaha. Wait—what? What do you mean by that?”

We did another few trips down to the truck and then, sticky with sweat, I hit up his kitchen to splash cold water on my face.

“I hope it’s not this hot for the wedding,” he said, plucking at his shirt.

“Me too, I don’t want my boutonniere wilting.”

“Heh.”

“I also hope it’s not this hot that day I agreed to help you move tons of heavy shit out of your apartment. Oh wait. That’s today.” I squeegeed slick water off my cheeks. “Speaking of which, I’m not sure how much more we can fit in the truck. Or at our place, for that matter.”

He stood looking around, hands on hips. “Don’t worry, anything that’s not in a box isn’t going.”

“Oh. Really? Not even the futon? I was thinking we’d have to do a second trip.”

“No. No, just one. You’re off the hook. But if you know anyone who’d want the futon, tell me. I have a couple of guys from work coming tonight for the dresser.”

“Homos?”

“No.”

“Wait, so no Leaning Tower of CDisa?!” I went over and touched the tall CD organizer, wobbling to and fro on its bent metal leg. It was legendary.

He laughed. “I’ve been debating.”

“You should keep it. It’s amazing how much stuff you still have from when we lived together.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Feels like a long time.”

“Yeah, sometimes. I need something to drink. Want something?” He pulled open the fridge. “I have—relish and, uh, bagels.”

“Much as I enjoy a good relish-bagel smoothie, I’ll just have some water.”

I started to reach for the cupboard for a glass and he said, “I packed all but one. We’ll have to share.”

So we did, passing the glass back and forth, each keeping our own side. It struck me as cute, and once again I was happy he asked me to be Best Man, even if my duties were moving boxes rather than hiring strippers.

“How do you feel about, you know, doing it again?” he said. “I realize we didn’t give you much say.”

“Living together?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s fine. You practically live there already. So I’m pretty stoked about splitting the rent three ways.”

“I don’t just mean me, though. You-know-who will be there too eventually.”

“Fletchinha?”

“Who?”

“That’s what Mateo said you should name it.”

“Fletchy-what?”

“It’s Portuguese or something.”

He smirked. “But yeah. Come winter you’ll have a third roommate.”

“Yeah. We’ll see how it goes. —You ready to finish this up?”

We started down with another load, footfalls heavy on the stairs. A lady coming up squeezed against the wall to let us pass and my elbow grazed her tit.

“Anyway,” I said, “to be honest, I figure I’ll probably scram in the spring, depending.”

“Move out? No. Bradford!”

“You know I love you guys, and I’m gonna love this kid like crazy. But that doesn’t mean I want to live with him, know what I’m saying?”

He frowned. “Now I feel like we’re kicking you out.”

“No, don’t. Don’t. I’m thinking it might be nice to have my own place again.”

After depositing our boxes he lifted the rear door of the pick-up and we had to slam it closed against them—they slid like heavy dominoes across the back of the truck.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t think I ever really thanked you for moving in with her that year. For taking care of her when I was—” He put his fist to the side of his head and blew out his fingers. “—
Psssh
.”

“Cara didn’t need anyone to take care of her.”

“I know. You know what I mean. Keeping her company.”

“Yeah, well. I was glad to do it. It’s been good. I’ve been happy there.”

“Good. —I’ll go lock up. Don’t leave without me.”

I leaned against the truck, arms spread to let my pits dry in the breeze. Across the street a stud with a mohawk was walking a chocolate lab. He made me think of the key-touching guy. I wondered where that guy was, and whether he still had the grown-out mohawk.

Jamar came out of his building carrying the Leaning Tower of CDisa, which he wedged into the back of the truck. “I don’t know why,” he said. “All my music’s digital now.”

“It’s an antique,” I said, nodding at the bent metal structure.

“Mateo. Have you ever thought about getting a place with Mateo?”

“I would’ve been sad to see it go.”

“Have you ever thought about it?”

“All the nights that thing woke me up randomly dumping CDs onto the floor.”

“It could be good for you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“How come?”

“
How come?
How about I’ve only known him three months. Plus there’s no way he’d leave his place. Do you know how much he pays for rent?” We got in the truck and Jamar started it up.

“How much?”

I told him the number and he said, “Does that even cover his electric?”

“Who knows.”

“He must be shagging the landlady.”

“Not him. His dad was.”

“Say what now?”

“It’s a long, intercontinental drama. I’ll tell you sometime; it’s pretty great. But yeah. He’s not about to give up that kind of luxury.”

“I wouldn’t either. Dude must have money coming out his ears. What’s he do with it?”

“He sends some home to his family. I don’t know. Probably buys stock in Krylon.”

“Spraypaint?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, for his— What’s the preferred term, anyway?”

“He refers to himself as a writer.”

“What’s he write?”

“His name. His code name.”

“His
code
name. Wow.” He smirked. “You in love?”

“Don’t.”

“Heh.”

“To tell you the truth Jamar, I’ll never have room in my heart to love another until I find a way to get over
you
.”

“Oh shut up, you silly homo.”

The first week of September

had always been for me a magical time in the city. That song people sing about Christmas—about it being the most wonderful time of the year—is something I hummed during that week at the end of summer. For during that week the population of Boston swelled, eventually doubled, and the entirety of its doubling was due to an influx of college students—half of which, of course, were male. The most wonderful time of the year was the sudden arrival of 300,000 horny college boys, kissed by summer sun. And 15,000 of them, give or take a few thousand, were horny for other guys.

The most wonderful time of the year felt like standing on a diving board, bouncing, plunging into a pool of them, swimming through them like Scrooge McDuck through his money. The backstroke past countless butts in skinny jeans, the breaststroke through shaggy haircuts and scruffy cheeks, the doggy paddle amidst football pads and beat-up guitars, the butterfly into cramped dorm rooms smelling of cheap cologne and lit with lava lamps and reading lights. The most wonderful time of the year.

But this year things were different. When the college boys flooded the sidewalks I had Mateo at my side, his paint-sprayed hand in mine.

“Hold me back, hold me back!” I whispered to him, feeling his hand grip mine tighter.

“Back!” he said. “Down boy!”

This year as I strolled down the shop-lined Newbury Street, it wasn’t to find something to wear to a club, but something to give at a wedding.

“Wait a second,” Mateo said,

his hand frozen on the doorknob. He looked at us quizzically. “Thought I was late,” he added, shutting the door and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And you guys aren’t even dressed yet?”

Cara clicked off the TV. Jamar stood up, stepped easily over the coffee table and a few boxes of his not-yet-unpacked stuff, crossed the living room in two strides, shook Mateo’s hand.

“It’s casual. Cara decided we’re shunning tradition. You look cool. Thank you for coming.”

“But I’m overdressed,” Mateo complained, looking down at his tie, his hand still hanging absently in Jamar’s. I was wearing jeans and a gray vest over a mint-green v-neck t-shirt. Cara wore jeans too, and just a t-shirt she planned to exchange later for the white, lacy shirt we’d picked out together.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jamar said. He had on shorts now but they weren’t much less formal than his wedding attire: gray plaid pants and a solid black t-shirt that looked a little snug when he paraded through the kitchen last night. He gave a tug on Mateo’s skinny blue tie. “Lose this if you want and you’ll be fine.”

“Jamar,” Cara huffed, “this is why the invitations shouldn’t have said
casual
.”

“I was thinking business casual,” Mateo said.

“See? They’re going to think
business casual
.” She turned to me. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I told him casual!”

“There’s going to be so much confusion about this, I can tell already.” She looked at Mateo. “Our policy is wear what you want.” She took a breath, hugged him. “Sorry I’m acting like bridezilla. You look gorgeous in yellow.” Jamar had disappeared and he called to Cara from the bedroom to help with the suitcases.

“Do you, er, need a hand with those?” Mateo said, glancing at Cara’s belly. She was just barely showing.

“Oh he’s got it, he just needs me to supervise.” She grinned and went off down the hall.

Mateo smirked. “And what’s got
your
tongue, pretty boy?” he said, sitting down and squeezing my thigh.

“Nothing. I’m just rendered speechless by your killer looks.”

“Shush.”

“She’s right about yellow.”

“Why didn’t you tell me I could dress cool? Should I lose the tie?”

“I don’t think you should change a thing.”

“Don’t want to look like a dumbass.” He took his hand back and started undoing the tie, reverse rabbit over the log.

“You don’t. It reminds me of the first day I saw you at work. You had a tie on.”

“I looked like a dumbass then too.”

“Hey—” I leaned in to kiss him and he stopped fumbling with the tie to kiss me back. It was too nice for an inopportune moment. At the sound of rolling luggage he took back his tongue and finished removing his tie.