Heteroflexible

“He’s being an asshole to you? Really? How long has this been going on?”

I wouldn’t say Jimmy has a telepathic way to kind of fish these things right out of my head, but that’s exactly what the boy does. “Anthony … is a difficult person to work with, yes. But that isn’t the reason I feel this way.”

“What is Anthony saying or doing? I’ll kick his ass.”

“No, you won’t. I actually want to keep my job, thank you.”

“So tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing is, Jimmy! I just—”

“Bobby, something is wrong with you.”

I glare at the floor, losing my patience. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re perfectly not. I can tell when you’re hiding somethin’ from me, Bobby. I’ve known you forever. Is it me?”

That throws me off. “You? What?”

“Yes, me. Did I do somethin’ wrong, man? Are you mad ‘cause I forgot to set an alarm last night? You’re doin’ the dance with me, Bobby, and that’s fuckin’ final. It’s just two weeks away. We don’t have time to deal with a little stage fright or whatever this is.”

I sigh and lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees and dropping my head between my knees, tired. “See, Jimmy? It’s always gotta be your way or no way. I have a valid point here.”

“No, you don’t. You’re just being weird, or chickening out, or someone said somethin’ to you.”

“No one said anything to me.”

“It was Anthony, wasn’t it. It was that fucker.”

“Jimmy …”

He’s already made up his mind suddenly. “I’m gonna go inside and deal with that fucker once and for all. He’s been a thorn in my ass since senior year. He and Jazzy fuckin’ deserve each other.”

“Jimmy … Wait, a sec. Go inside? You’re here?”

“Right out front. Was gonna see a movie. Bored as fuck at my house. Now I got somethin’ more important to do.”

“Jimmy, don’t, wait, stop. What are you gonna—?”

He’s already hung up.

I stare at my phone, wide-eyed. I glance up at the back of the closed break room door.

Then I hear Jimmy shout in the lobby.

My stomach drops through the floor.

I’m out of my chair and pushing the door open to find Jimmy standing in front of the concession counter—having pushed his way in front of a line of customers—putting his face in front of Anthony Myers.

“What’d you say to him??” Jimmy demands.

Anthony, decked out in his concession apron, hat, and bowtie, lifts his hands innocently. “Didn’t say nothin’ to your boyfriend.”

That word sets Jimmy off. “What did you just call him?” A lady at the front of the line says, “Excuse me,” but Jimmy ignores her, keeping himself right there in Anthony’s face. “I asked, what the fuck did you just call him?”

“I’m trying to help some hungry and thirsty customers here, if you don’t mind. Step aside, dancer boy.” Anthony lifts his blunt eyebrows at the lady next in line. “Hello, ma’am. Welcome to the Spruce Cinema 5. Can I get you a large popcorn and a—?”

“We’re not done!” shouts Jimmy, beating a fist on the counter.

I push myself out of the break room, despite the spinning of horror in my stomach at this scene, and put myself between the two of them. “Guys, c’mon.”

“What did you just call him?” Jimmy won’t give in. “Don’t for a second think this concession counter is enough to keep me from beatin’ that smart-ass look off your face, Myers!”

Anthony turns to me. “Bobby, would you mind escorting your lost puppy-dog here out of the building? I’m pretty sure Spruce Cinema 5 enforces a strict no-pets-allowed policy.”

And then a series of nightmares happen very fast.

The second Jimmy lunges across the counter, I’m blocking him with half my body. A large cup of soda gets knocked by my elbow, flinging its contents across the front of Anthony’s apron. The woman in front shrieks and backs away, trips over her son’s foot, and falls flat on her back. Jimmy, oblivious, keeps trying to throw himself over the counter, hands outreached to grab Anthony by the anything. Anthony, in his reflex of backing away, bumps against the loose popcorn machine tray, dislodging it and sending an avalanche of perfectly-made popcorn cascading down to the grimy floor, emptying the whole damned machine.

Pandemonium in a matter of two and a half seconds.

And I’m still trying to hold Jimmy back from adding an assault charge to his nonexistent record.

“The fuck you call him??” Jimmy’s still screaming, demanding an answer, scrambling to climb over the counter, completely set off. “The fuck you just call him??”

It’s the Jimmy Strong show. In this episode, he seeks a totally unasked-for vengeance for his best friend being called exactly what I thought he was supposed to be:

His boyfriend.

“The fuck you just—??” Jimmy screams, reaching out.

And elbows me square in the nose.

I fling backwards, abandoning my hold on Jimmy to bring both hands to my nose, which stings something awful. I’m struck instantly by a simultaneous and urgent need to sneeze and cry and scream at the same time, and none of those three things happen—except maybe an inevitable bit of reflexive just-got-hit-in-the-nose tears escaping my eyes.