Fate Fucks with Me
by Jason P. Freeman
Two buses passed me up Saturday night. There was some time before I had to be at work at the bar, so I walked north a half mile—for no reason, just because—before catching a third bus at Addison on Broadway. Getting on and paying the fare, I heard my name as I walked toward the back. Unexpected, my reaction was casual, unassuming, innocent really, and completely fair. My eyes wandered and face grimaced quizzically, curiously stating, "Who was that?" Then there he was, and it wasn't fair anymore. I thought, hoped maybe, that it wasn't him. No longer so casual, innocent or unassuming (I've seen him naked), I hid my surprise, wondered why someone who would drive two blocks in his fancy car, probably just to show it off, was now riding the bus, and tried not to sound awkward when I said, "Hi, Dapper John." That's what I used to call him.
"Hi," he said.
Trying was useless. It was awkward. I was just standing there looking down at him while he looked up at me.
"Just got my hair cut," he said.
"Oh!" I say, remembering: "Did you go to that salon?" Feigning enthusiasm, "Did you get the razor cut?"
"Yes," he answered.
Silence.
I was just standing there looking down at him while he looked up at me. Motioning at the vacant spot next to him, he told me to, "Have a seat."
But I didn't want to have a seat. I wanted to just stand there, as though saying hi to some random acquaintance, with nothing more to say. I'll just take my place—not the one next to you of course—but in the back, but no: I sat, my right ass lobe hanging off the bus bench and into the aisle, trying to make it so no part of my body rubbed up against his. "Hi," he said again, for the second time. "Do you like my soul patch?" I was staring at the tuft of facial hair just under his bottom lip. "I grew it right after we broke up."
So he got a new job. Executive project management, or something, I don't know, it's in Milwaukee. He would start on Monday. The truck would come the 19th. I was saddened, a little. Sitting there listening to his stories, I shared a few of mine too, and wondered, why now? He's moving away. What's the point? No time to relive, rebuild or remember. All we can do is say goodbye. Why did I have to run into him now? Fate always fucks with me. He checked his watch. "I have time for one drink," he said. It became even more awkward as he followed me into work. But it made me happy, a little.
Moments later he sat while I stood, a faux-granite bartop and a cocktail between us. He tells me he liked dating me but—I cut him off. "John, I don't need to hear it." He laughed, started again. "No, really," I said, "I don't want to hear it. What are you trying to do?"
Sometimes I feel as if I am everyone's loose end and that bothers me. Like I am nothing more than a minor nuisance, needing no more attention than a undone shoelace. You need it, sometimes depend on it, and you tie it because you have to, but it's not urgent, pressing or important. Come the end of the day you've already long forgotten about it. Yet maybe I should be grateful. At least I'm a shoelace.
His drink consumed and time for him to leave, a conflict raged within me. I didn't want to succumb to the urge. But it was Saturday night and he started on Monday and I hadn't seen him in over 7 months and now I'd never see him again. "So what?" I could hear myself saying. The words ready to be orated, say it, I told myself. Say, "You were a douchebag!" Scream, "Move to Milwaukee! Who cares?" But I didn't say who cares. I didn't even scream. With a sense of need, perhaps angst and hopefully not sadness in my voice I said, "Johnny," pausing, wanting, giving in, "Stay for one more." He would not.
He leaned in to kiss me, and I, not wanting to want to kiss him, defeated, knew that I did. No sense fighting. His loose end was now firmly knotted off. I bet his shoes were tied too.
Leaning in over the bar top to meet him, I cupped my palm along the ridge of his upper jaw and allowed my fingertips to gently caress his face. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, felt his thin lips firmly pressed up against mine and, not wanting to let go, thought to myself, this is how I will remember you.
Jason P Freeman ...having been rejected by the New Yorker many times, Jason P Freeman takes solace in knowing he can kick Annie Proulx's ass—and by the way, he read Brokeback Mountain in 1997. As the former Riding the Velvet Rope columnist for Chicago's BOI Magazine, Jason was once read by three people everywhere and was often made the object of ridicule by Kirk Williamson in NightSpots. He is a contributing editor for ChicagoPride.com and works on the editorial staff at PINK Magazine. Other bylines have appeared in The Windy City Times and in the really bad poetic anthology, Dancing in Light. Jason recently told off two other magazine editors for being, what he called, "Douche bags."
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