In with the New Baby

“How’s the job?” I ask.

The server comes over and I order a Corona and Damien orders another Amstel Light.

“It’s going great,” he says. “But I just keep getting more and more clients, which is both a blessing and a curse.”

“I can imagine,” I tell him. “But it’s good you’re making a name for yourself.”

“Yeah, and good that I’m keeping busy, too,” Lincoln says.

The server returns with our drinks and places a bowl full of hot roasted shell peanuts, another full of popcorn, and an order of barbeque chicken wings on the table.

“The chicken wings are on the house,” he says to me.

He holds the tray to his chest, smiles, and then retreats.

“I think he likes you,” Damien says.

“That’s cool,” I say. “A lot of gay guys are my friends and fans,” I say, as I grab a fistful of popcorn. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Damien grabs some of the shelled peanuts and opens them.

“I know that,” he says. “I’m just saying that to reinforce how much of a nice guy you are.”

I tear into a chicken wing and swig my beer.

They are really good.

“Thanks,” I say.

Honestly, I don’t feel like anything great.

“I’m just normal,” I say and wipe my mouth with the paper napkin.

“No, you are very special.”

I laugh.

“Which is what I want to talk to you about,” he says.

By now we’ve finished our drinks and the server returns.

“Another round?” he asks.

“Yeah, man,” I say and give him a big smile.

“Sure thing,” he says and leaves.

“You know what, Damien?”

“What?”

“That guy looks like some kind of athlete,” I randomly say, pointing subtly to the waiter.

He’s got long dark hair gathered in a ponytail, with a close-trimmed beard and moustache. And his chest and shoulders rival mine.

Damien nods and downs the rest of his beer.

“Did you know he was an Olympic finalist in figure skating?”

“No way!”

“Yeah,” he said. “His name is Matt, and he’s got the agility and strength that most straight men could only dream of.”

“Cool,” I say.

I’m feeling better now. I need to be out with people. And here our server, an Olympic finalist, is working to support himself.

Why am I being such a baby? Compared to Matt here, I’m a nobody.

Then again, I don’t want to end up waiting tables like him, after a long and successful career as an athlete. How depressing.

“So, as I was saying,” Damien says, perhaps noticing my quick changes in mood and wanting to catch me before I slip back down into complete despair again.

“Yes?” I ask and shove another fistful of popcorn into my mouth.

“You know that a certain Miss Amanda Nelson is full of questions about you.”

I sigh.

I figured Anne had put him up to this. I was just waiting for it to come out. Or perhaps trying to avoid this moment although I knew it would be useless to try.

“Yeah, I know.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

Matt the server comes back over.

“Hey,” I say. “Damien tells me you were an Olympic finalist?”

Matt laughs and places a fresh napkin in front of me and nods.

“I came in fourth and was one away from a bronze medal.”

“That’s awesome!” I say.

“Thanks.”

“I think you’re a cool dude.”

“And you, Mr. Lincoln Drake, I’ve been following for quite some time.”

“Really?” I ask and swig my beer.

“Yeah. Enjoy,” he says and vanishes quickly.

“I think you’ve embarrassed him,” Damien says.

“Nah,” I say. “I ain’t no one to embarrass no one.”

“So, you see, that you do occupy a certain place in the world.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Have I ever told you about my own mother?”

I look at him.

“A little bit,” I say, but I don’t really remember.

“Well, listen to this.”

Damien really opens up to me and tells me how his mother was an alcoholic who would get drunk and once he reached puberty would ask him to lie in her bed with him. And while she didn’t outright sexually abuse him, she would cuddle with him as if he was a surrogate boyfriend or father. He had never told anyone this before except for me.

“How did that make you feel?”

Damien looks over at a bunch of blonde college chicks as they enter the bar laughing and surge gaggle-like over to the bar.

“Like my mother was lost and I needed to help.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, it is,” he says and laughs. He adjusts the brim of his cap. “Especially since she wasn’t even home that much. Most of the time, she was out drinking and cheating on my dad. But she was my mother. And every time she came home, Dad took her back with open arms, until the day he died of a heart attack, which I’ve always felt was likely induced by stress from having to worry about her. And yet I still couldn’t exactly hate her for any of it, because even though she was fucked up, she was my mother.”