A Penny for My Thoughts?

The boy knew better. The boy had known better for a while. Men weren’t going to care anymore about what he had to say back in his city than they did in the big city. The boy’s words were worthless regardless of how he delivered them.

    “Then why don’t you ask him to be your boyfriend?” asked the boy after hearing the man profess his love for the other: the man-child. Not a boy, but not quite a man. A man-child. And the boy gathered this not only from the man’s detailing of the man-child: a man-child who the man described as “too quiet; too passive; too boring,” yet the man was set. He was set on this man-child just like the boy was set on the man. And the boy felt he only had himself to blame as he looked at the man take his second-to-last bite from the turkey panino the boy had purchased him, and then a sip of the peach Bellini the boy had also purchased to compliment the turkey panino which was as casual as the boy got when it came to date night. That and the triple layer white chocolate cake the boy had ordered to mask the bitterness of every detail of the man-child. But this bitterness had an ugly way of resurfacing long after any man had said his goodbyes to the boy.

And this was the case as the man and the boy said their goodbyes. The man in no way, shape, or form looking to prolong his time with the boy by offering him a ride him, or delaying his arrival to the man-child’s new home; a home he hoped to secure a place in sooner than later. It was ok, or at least the boy repeated this to himself as he walked home, the dusk sun lingering longer than it usually did, even during summer. It was keeping the boy company as he walked and walked, with home in his walking direction but nowhere in mind. 

In a last, sad, and ugly effort, the boy texted the man less than an hour into their hangout with “Hey, want to have sex again lol.” The boy knew this was desperate, but the boy also didn’t feel he had anything more to gain from the stagnant relationship so one last ditch effort seemed like the least of his woes. 

“I dunno. I think I should be good and stick to only Jimmy now,” the man responded. The boy didn’t. He couldn’t even be mad; the boy respected the man’s loyalty towards the man-child, a man-child the man loved whether he’d openly admit it to the boy, or to himself.

The boy got home an hour later just as the sun completely abandoned him not a minute too early. He reread the man’s last text, every one of his words: his choice. A choice that for better or worse, did not include the boy. Every man’s choice never included the boy. And the boy was tired of pretending he was at peace with these decisions. Peace. Peace: what a laughable concept, the boy thought as he tucked himself into bed that night. Alone. Alone with a moon that made the boy feel nothing, but he still looked at it for the sake of looking at its beauty.

The boy woke up past noon the next day, still tired. The boy was tired period. Nevertheless, he promised yet another man he would meet him for dinner, and the boy always kept his word even when so many men in his life never did. They met up for dinner at a place of the man’s choice. The man always paid for dinner, but it was always his choice; his choice of where to have dinner, and it was his choice that it always be “dinner.” But the man was nice with his words, so the boy couldn’t help but be flexible with this man’s stingy schedule, especially when this man was also so generous with compliments and texts and phone calls to the boy on major holidays, even the ones that held little significance to the boy’s existence.

So they met up for Italian at a classic, hole in the wall in the valley. Italian was second to last on the boy’s list of favorite cuisines, but the restaurant was one of the man’s favorites and only a ten-minute walk from the man’s home so it was convenient for him. The man liked convenient and peaceful as someone who had spent a good portion of his late-twenties, thirties, and early forties living and dining within a five-mile radius of his job. One he loved more than any time spent with the boy or any prospect he kept to himself.

      “How are your parents?” the man asked the boy. And while the question itself came from a caring place, the boy couldn’t help but feel neglected and offended by his redundancy. “My mom is as fine as a fifty-seven-year old, unvaccinated, diabetic can be,” the boy said, sipping from his water as the man took a small sip from his beer, Corona. The man hated beer but he especially hated Corona. “Your dad? Are you close to him?” the man asked as the greasiness on his face made his every facial contortion stand out, adding to the ugliness of his faulty memory. “He’s as good as someone who lives six-feet underground,” the boy quickly responded, resorting to his morbid humor to ease the building tension from the man’s redundancy.

     “Sorry to hear that,” the man answered the same way every man before him had.“It is what it is,” the boy said. He wasn’t trying to sound facetious. It wasn’t a laughing matter. He simply couldn’t help it. Morbid humor simply exited his mouth like word vomit every time he referred to his dead father. It was like clockwork after fifteen years.

Their meal lasted forty-three minutes which consisted of the man asking the boy more redundant questions; the boy had already told the man about where his mother lived, and about how he disliked cruises, and about how pizza was his least favorite dinner food; nevertheless, the boy sat and repeated these details as the man smiled and gave the boy a warm and seemingly engaged look. The boy had believed him to be genuine for years, seven to be exact. And every year they met for dinner, the more the boy believed the man to be genuine in his interest in the boy, but the boy was starting to realize that remembering one’s birthday was only one important, and ultimately insignificant fact. 

“I have a question for you,” the boy asked as the two women sitting next to them stood and made their way away, leaving the man and the boy to their own company and the last slice of the boy’s pizza which he was intentionally toying with. “Yes...” said the man as he wiped his forehead, some grease coming off only to be immediately replaced by the man’s natural exfoliating. The pizza was the boy’s shield as he continued toying with it, picking away at the crust. The crust was soft, just like the boy’s treatment for this man who had seemed deserving of it throughout their seven-year friendship. 

“You know your friend with the benefits you told me about...” the boy finally started his question: his inquiry. The boy had to ask even when he knew it was a pointless attempt at moving beyond just friendship. For years, the boy had never suspected he’d develop anything past a platonic desire for the man, but the man’s seemingly innate interest and happy birthday and Merry's Christmas had finally managed to penetrate him. And the boy wanted the penetration to go deeper.

      “You mean Rob, that guy? I’m still seeing him...” the man answered, answered in such an ugly way. Was this man-child really just “that guy” to the man? The boy knew the exact words he wanted to use to ask, but was unsure if he wanted to ask after the man answered the first part of his question. Nevertheless, the boy continued penetrating deeper. “Are you two exclusive?” The boy knew he was being elusive, but he also didn’t have the guts to directly ask the man; this man who the boy had always known as someone familiar; someone the boy had wanted to get deeper with; deeper through words and through body and through penetration.

      “We are, he hasn’t annoyed me yet…” the man continued, and the boy’s mind and mouth stopped definitely. How could a man that had been so interested and caring over text through birthday greetings and Merry Christmas greetings and New Year’s salutations be so indifferent about someone he was actually giving physical warmth to, and who had reciprocated the affections. The boy stopped picking at the crust and just looked at it and its ugly exterior: the opposite of when the boy first set his eyes on it.

“Hasn’t annoyed me yet?” What type of expression is that towards someone who has given you their whole body for the taking? For years? Without commitment of any sort. The boy replayed the man’s words in his mind and the response he hadn’t had the guts to give him. The boy hesitated as he looked down at that slice of pizza, and that crust becoming increasingly battered as the boy’s fingers refused to end their onslaught. Becoming increasingly ugly. The boy sat in silence for almost a whole minute, using the waitress dropping off the check as a temporary, secondary shield.

      “I... have a question...” the words slipped out of the boy’s mouth almost mechanically. It was pointless to ask. The boy had actually lost all interest in doing so, but at that point, the boy also had to ask for the sake of telling himself he did “You want to be friend with benefits?” the words finally slipped out. The man looked at the boy and proceeded to take a sip of his iced water since, unlike the boy, the man had finished toying with his pizza minutes before. The man did this for a whole fifteen seconds before ending the boy’s suffering with “If things don’t work out with my friend, maybe. We’ll see.”

Maybe. We can talk about it. If things don’t work out with my friend? What the...” the boy thought to himself as he no longer picked away at the pizza nor looked at the man, but instead looked at the time I was going to take for an Uber or Lyft to arrive. The fifteen minutes couldn’t have passed by slower especially with the boy looking at his phone for the duration of the wait. The man said two things during that waiting period. “You barely touched your pizza, no wonder you’re so thin,” and “It was nice seeing you,” as the black Honda stopped in front of the restaurant. The boy didn’t feel like lying, so he simply leaned in to reciprocate the hug the man had initiated. 

Those words replayed themselves in the boy’s head that weekend. Repeated and reiterated themselves and repeated each syllable and vowel in them. From “I wouldn’t be helping him move if I didn’t like him” to “That Guy” to “He hasn’t annoyed me yet, so there’s that.” The sentences; the words that had nothing to do with the boy: they replayed and reiterated themselves in the boy’s head. The boy couldn’t stop them from replaying. Repeating. Reiterating. 

They did this for the entire evening that weekend and while the boy hung out with a dear friend; during their dinner and dessert trip and movie. They did this even as the boy’s dear friend asked “What are you thinking?” and the boy lied with “Just tired.” 

They replayed and reiterated themselves while the boy was at work and saw so many other men and men and men and women and women and women and couples order away, some holding hands, one holding his girlfriend’s hand while blatantly flirting and smiling at the boy, especially when the boy took a brief bathroom break. The man was sitting and holding his girlfriend’s hand and shared the smiling between her and the boy as the latter waited in line for the restroom. At least this man was generous enough to split his affections between his number one and the boy; that was more than any man had offered the boy in a long time. So long the boy had forgotten if the offer had ever been made. 

“I wouldn’t be helping him if I didn’t like him,” and “He hasn’t annoyed me yet.” Was it that simple? No. Not simple. Unimaginative. Plain. Boring. Ugly. These ugly words, ugly because they sounded not just unimaginative, but not special. And most baffling to the boy was how these seemingly unimaginative and not special man-children and friends with benefits still managed to take the boy’s place in these men's hearts? Minds? Both? One or the other? They seemed to take the place the boy silently vied for in a man’s life. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” asked the boy’s dear friend as they had just dinner two nights later. The boy lied again. He lied so many times before and answered “I’m just tired.” The boy was tired, but it wasn’t the haggard feeling that comes with working long hours, which the boy had; or from writing for long hours, which the boy hadn’t despite wanting to. The boy was tired of wanting to be first place and always being second, and he was tired of thinking about that and not allowing the words to flow.

So the boy used words to reach out to yet another man; the only man that ever showed genuine appreciation for the boy’s words. The boy had been working on the piece for a while but took a small break when returning from the big city. And when rekindling his friendships with those two men from his past. But enough was enough: the boy needed to honor the unfinished writing he started on his last day in the big city, and notably honor the man who inspired it.  

     “I figured I’d send you this since you inspired it,” the boy wrote in a text shortly after finishing his four-page manuscript about his last night in the big city. The boy waited for the man’s response as he sat facing his computer screen. The boy waited to hear from the man who had, unknowingly, reawakened the boy’s passion in words. Passion in his talent. Passion in himself. The boy sent the piece and reread it for what felt like the millionth time. Repeating and reiterating random paragraphs; random moments between him and that man he left behind in the big city, to keep all the other men there company. And the boy reread and reiterated to himself every random word that man had spoken to the boy that the boy believed had some hidden meaning. And then the boy reread one specific paragraph and reread and reiterated its third sentence: “You will make it as a writer, but it’ll be a hard. No one likes an honest writer.” The boy read and reiterated that line at least two to three times before having his attention diverted to a new message.

     “Hi. Who is this?” the boy read and reiterated the four words in his mind. “Hi. Who is this?” Hi. Who is this? Hi. Who is this? Hi. Hi? There was no need for hi. Hi? Was he high? That had to be the only reason for him responding with those words the boy couldn’t stop reiterating in his head. The boy read and reiterated and processed the words for a whole two minutes before finally responding with “This is the writer you met a 3DB three weeks ago.” What more could the boy respond. What were the chances he met more than one writer at that bar, or at least one that would have actually spoken about his unpaid craft with full disclosure.

The boy couldn’t do it anymore. The boy was tired. The boy was tired of trying and failing. Trying and failing with words. Trying and failing with men. The boy tried listening to one man’s words: who chose to go for the man-child who wouldn’t listen. The boy tried using my own words with another man: who chose a man-child who didn’t have any words of his own to use. The boy tried writing in his own words to the that last man from the big city who fooled him into thinking he cared about every word coming from the boy, written or spoken. And maybe this last man did, at his memory’s convenience; a memory the boy found far less generous than originally imagined.

The boy was tired of trying to use words to be first in any way. So instead he chose to go to the one platform where words came secondary to images: social media. A platform where first was literally untraceable and therefore irrelevant. Picture after pointless pictures that the boy found comfort in scrolling through. He didn’t have to think: just a like and a scroll; a like and more scrolling and more liking and a reiteration and repetition of the motion without time limit. This was a pointless comfort but a comfort nonetheless. The boy needed comfort that not even sleep could grant him as he kept on going past his eyes getting heavy. The need to alleviate his heart’s heaviness was greater.

       “First night in Greece!” the boy looked at the picture and was tempted to press “like” for the sheer act. But he didn’t. The boy just looked at it and scrolled. He was in Greece with his man-child. Good for them. The boy wished them the best. He truly did, or at least he told himself that as he went from that man’s page and then read the message he received that morning from the man he had Italian dinner with; another man who had his own man-child to entertain. “It was nice seeing you. Hope you’re off to the start of a good week!” The boy reread the message and reiterated its words internally and then left the man on “read” like he deserved.

The boy did not respond to the man’s social media, nor to the other man’s text message, nor to his desire to message any man he needed untended closure from. Instead the boy wasted more time on social media, rereading and reiterating messages from one social media platform to those on his phone to those in his memory bank. And then he took a look at another message: his bank statement. And then he quickly looked away at all the messages. The boy didn’t need further reminders of the emotional and financial squandering he had committed those past couple of weeks.

“What’s on your mind?” asked the boy’s dear friend as they waited for their Chicken Tikka Masala and Lamb Korma. The boy had agreed to just dinner again because the dear friend was always a constant: a constant message; a constant response: a constant friend. Who was the boy to show his dear friend the ugly face of disregard and neglect. The boy was unlike all the other men in his life in that regard, or at least he strived for that standard.

     “Just wondering when the food is going to get here...” the boy lied. The boy wasn’t hungry at all. Not for food. Not for anything. But the boy wasn’t going to burden his dear friend with his ugliness yet again. This dear friend suffered every time the boy did and the boy wasn’t going to pay it forward to him yet again in such an ugly way. This dear friend, this man who throughout most of the boy’s adult life had been a beautiful constant. Perhaps the only constant man.

The dear friend dropped the boy off at home and gave him a faint smile. Though only three to four sentences had been spoken during their return ride from one side of the boy’s city to the next, the dear friend smiled faintly because he was too faint to help the boy aside from his company. The dear friend knew silence was the boy’s way of shielding the ugliness in his heart. An ugliness caused by men from the boy’s past and present, an ugliness brewing greater after each consequent heartbreak. Nevertheless, the dear friend, this man accepted the boy in all his ugliness, because to him the boy’s beauty was greater.

The boy sat and tried writing. About anything. Anything that came to his mind. Anything to make his experiences seem substantial. Essential. Nourishing. Feeding his creativity; his heart: his existence. Instead of just being a needlessly repetitive cycle of remembering and replaying and reiterating where the boy had gone wrong. Where the boy had turned into the constant fault in his ugly tales with these men. It was the only imaginable and constant explanation the boy had given himself meet after meet, day after day and night after night, year after year. Every time the boy laid in bed remembering and reiterating why he was only worthy of second place. Why he was too worthless otherwise.

The boy sat and tried writing for an entire weekend. The boy tried using the material, but there was no catharsis in the process. Why write any further about these men and their man-children? The same purposelessness applied to every man regardless of the city. And regardless of whether the boy had known them for a few weeks or throughout seven years. The boy sat and tried writing, but the motivation continuously fleeted the more he looked at his blog’s statistics: no tips. A monetary gratuity was the site’s incentive for those who took time out of their presumably busy existence to immerse themselves in the boy’s writing. And some did, as the “views” reflected on the site, but that was the extent of each reader’s generosity. Except the dear friend. The dear friend who was the boy’s number one supporter, always.

The boy sat and read what he had written before his trip to the big city, before he no longer felt like writing. Then the boy revisited the messages the men had sent him since his return to his own city, then the boy revisited his internal monologues. Even when they all sounded ugly and self-destructive. Becomes sometimes salvation arrives before the peak of self-destructions. Nothing. Nothing came for the boy. Nothing except an hour later, when his dear friend arrived for them to have dinner.

So they did. They went to their favorite cafe that usually had a line out the door and the boy stood in line for them both since the dear friend was physically limited; not so much by his age, as the boy had met plenty of middle-aged men in better shape than the boy himself; the dear friend was limited by an accumulation of life choices and genetics which rendered his body virtually handicapped by the age of fifty-three. Nevertheless, the dear friend’s heart remained in perfect health as he smiled faintly at the boy from his patio seat. The boy smiled back, also faintly. A smile devoid of any genuine joy but one that in its falseness managed to bring great joy to the dear friend. All the dear friend wanted was a smile from the boy. Who was the boy to deprive this man from one of his few life pleasures, if not his only one.

The boy smiled and looked around the patio and then at the people in line as the line decreased ever so slowly. Again—couples: men and women, men and men, women and women, and couples, period: young and a few middle-aged around the dear friend’s age and some older, a miniscule amount younger: smiling, frowning, scowling: familiar. Familiarity with the boy’s faint smile. They were a parallel, a parallel of the boy’s ugliness. And the comfort they provided him. A hideous comfort. But comfort nonetheless.

     The boy wasn’t alone in his ugliness. And if even these men and women, who seemingly had the greatest form of happiness at their disposal, could share the boy’s ugliness, then maybe one day the boy would share their similar company. The company of a man. A man without a man-child to tend to. A man tending only to the boy, even if just through sheer company like the boy did for his dear friend who only required a weekly dinner and a staged smile as compensation. Then maybe someday the boy would strike the fortune of these parallel men, women, and people. Maybe someday someone would see the boy’s entire ugliness, and love it too. And make the boy their number one. They could be each other’s number one. No man-children. No dear friend. Just the boy and the man.