Long Way Out, page 3
Despite missing his family, Russell found some consolation in the knowledge that the wife and kids wouldn’t be walking through the door at any moment. What if Tess came home hot-to-trot, as she sometimes did after they’d slept separately for any length of time? Without the assurance of negative test results, acquiescing to her desires would be ill-advised. A horny wife would place Russell in an impossible predicament, struggling to explain his lack of interest. What words in the English language wouldn’t have resulted in Tess feeling undesirable? And, worse yet, what excuse wouldn’t risk raising a red flag of suspicion? Then, it suddenly occurred to Russell that he and Tess hadn’t made love in months, maybe not this entire year — and, it was mid-April! Why was that, he wondered? Why hadn’t the idea of initiating marital sex even crossed his mind? And, more curiously, why hadn’t Tess brought it up or complained about the scarcity of their sexual activity? When she was feeling frisky, Tess was never shy about sending up a flare. “Maybe we should do it,” she’d say, with no more passion than if she was suggesting making popcorn. And, 20 minutes later, after they’d finished going through those well-practiced motions, she’d invariably sigh and remark, “That was a good idea.”
After turning off the shower, Russell looked down at his flaccid friend dangling between his legs. “You’re an asshole,” he said, with a woeful chuckle. “You know that?”
≈ ≈ ≈
Russell was in the home stretch of his sales pitch when the cell phone in his pocket startled him with an abrupt vibration. He had only owned the device for a month. And, every time it pulsated to signify an incoming call, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“You okay?” inquired the prospect, a jowly, mustachioed fellow in his early fifties.
“Oh, yeah,” Russell reassured him. “I’m just not used to... I just got this damn thing,” he confessed, pulling the phone from his pocket and trying to figure out how to send the call to voicemail. With a quick glance at the caller ID — Davidson County Health Services — Russell’s heart jumped. Within a few seconds, his entire face was burning hot. And, as perverse as it may seem, his penis misread an incoming phone call that had something to do with sex as a signal to chub up.
“Do you need to take that?” the prospect asked. “I mean, I can only give you a few more minutes. But, if you need...”
“No, no, no,” Russell insisted, faking a laugh. “It’s not important.” By that point, the device had mercifully ceased vibrating on its own. Unfortunately, Russell’s concern over his health status did not abate. Knowing that his STI test results were available served to rocket his anxiety to another level.
It had taken weeks of unrelenting persistence to get this meeting with the owner of a modest-sized home-stairlift business. Distracted as he was, Russell hadn’t brought his “A” game. But, until the phone began vibrating, his confidence had been on the high side. He was a seasoned veteran of the sales game. And, reading the room led him to believe that a few more strategically chosen questions would give him a better than 50-50 chance of closing the deal.
The previous night, Russell had crawled into the sack, bone weary from laboring all day in the yard. Adding to his physical exhaustion, he’d attempted to mute the mind babble with three, tall vodka/sodas, heavy on the vodka. Still, the nagging self-speak would not be silenced. Four onerous words, articulated by a caring, friendly nurse, as she prepared to shove a glass obelisk up into his urethra, ping-ponged between the walls of Russell’s fevered cranium: “There’s always a chance. There’s always a chance.” As long as that dreadful outcome still remained a longshot possibility, Russell’s overactive mind was pulled toward the worst of all possible worst-case scenarios like a needle to a magnet. Minute after tedious minute ticked slowly by, as he lay there stewing: Is there any gentle way of informing my wife that I succumbed to compulsive same-sex desires by sticking my junk through a hole in the wall and letting someone I’d never met before and will likely never encounter again gobble up the very part of my body I pledged exclusively to her 13 years ago like a banana popsicle? The scariest unknown of all: How would Tess respond to such unwelcome news? This was something Russell hoped he would never have to find out.
As Russell tossed and turned, he was less concerned about how miserable it might be to suffer a slow, withering death and far more fixated on the fact that a positive HIV test would force him to unveil the truth about his same-sex urges and pursuits. In his twisted, egocentric mind, Russell wasn’t remotely ready to take responsibility for his careless actions. He was far more content singing “Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me,” while picturing himself as a victim of circumstance, a guiltless pawn affected by powerful factors beyond his control. Wallowing in gloom led Russell’s insomnia-plagued brain to entertain dark, tragic thoughts: Tess and the boys motoring westward on Interstate 40; a drunk driver careening across the highway divider at high speed, wiping out his entire family in a random, fiery, head-on collision. In that imagined plotline, in spite of his transgressions and fatal diagnosis, unanimous sympathy would be directed toward the suddenly childless, grieving widower, not the innocent, collateral victims of his weakness and poor judgment.
Russell walked out of the sales meeting with yet another, “Give me a week to think about it,” a clichéd professional pleasantry that frequently led to a pass. But Russell was far less concerned about a phone call he’d be making in a week than the one he was about to return. Russell sat in his car staring at his cell phone. He was tempted to throw the cursed thing onto the pavement and stomp it into pile of useless chips and wires. But doing that would only postpone the inevitable. Finally, he gritted his teeth, pushed the requisite buttons, placed the device to his ear, closed his eyes, and held his breath. “Hi, Russell,” the recorded message began, “This is Nancy, from the lab at Davidson County Health Services. I’m calling to let you know that your test results are in. In the interest of your privacy, I’ll need to relay this information to you personally. Please call me at...” The remainder of the voicemail provided him with office hours, plus return phone and extension numbers.
“Fuck!” Russell shrieked. In the adjacent parking space, a young mother swiveled around from buckling a wiggly toddler into a car seat to launch a disapproving glower in his direction. A pre-teen boy peaked over her shoulder in Russell’s direction, tittering gleefully over this spontaneous, profane exclamation.
“What are you laughing at?” the mother admonished the youngster. “There’s nothing funny about that kind of language!” The poor kid couldn’t help himself. At that age, hearing a grown man holler the O.G. of four-letter words invariably rises to the peak of hilarity. “You want a whipping?” his mother threatened. “Cause I’ll beat your sorry, little ass!” The collateral damage from Russell’s potentially fatal mistake was already being felt outside the boundaries of his immediate family.
Russell’s hands were trembling so severely, he misdialed several times, inspiring several more expletive outbursts. As the woman in the adjacent vehicle backed out of her space, she lasered a parting sneer in Russell’s direction. Anxiety spiking, he couldn’t have cared less about what some tight-assed, abusive mother thought about him. By the time he heard ringing on the other end of the line, tears were clouding his vision. Somehow, he managed to push the correct digits to reach the proper extension. The call went to voicemail.
The playful phrase “playing phone tag” was invented shortly after the advent of the answering machine. On this particular day, for Russell, playing phone tag was less a game and more akin to psychological torture. He was just north of Briley Parkway on I-24 when the phone buzzing resumed. The suspense was too much to bear. Heart pounding and hands shaking, Russell signaled and jerked his vehicle into the right lane, provoking a startling, sustained honk. A speeding box truck promptly pulled up to the Celica’s rear bumper, as if the driver was threatening to ram it from behind. Then, the driver amplified his rage by laying on his horn again for an additional three seconds. With the phone still buzzing like a hive of bees, Russell managed to maneuver onto the shoulder. Perspiration on his fingers led to a phone fumble. Fortunately, he was able to re-snag it before it tumbled between the seats. “Yes, hello. This is Russell.”
“Oh, good,” the woman’s voice said. “Hi. I’m glad we finally connected. This is Nancy from the Davidson County Health Department.”
“Okay,” Russell said, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut to arm himself for the anticipated report.
“I have the results of your lab test from... let’s see, last Friday, the 14th, I think it was.”
“That’s right,” Russell agreed.
“Okay. Good. So, just to ensure that I’m talking to the correct person,” she said, “could you tell me your birthdate, please?” As Russell answered that and a pair of additional queries for the purpose of confirming his identity, he tried his best not to reveal how increasingly nervous and impatient he was becoming with the passing of every exasperating second. “Well, Russell,” she said. “From what I’m seeing here, it looks like you have nothing to worry about.”
Even though this was the likeliest outcome, it had yet to fully register. “So,” he asked, “what does that mean... exactly?”
“Well,” she elaborated, “you tested negative... for all STIs.”
“Including HIV.” Russell was making a conscious choice to articulate this as a statement, not as a question.
“Correct,” she stated. Russell finally allowed himself to exhale. “So,” she continued, “you’re good to go.”
“Well, that’s really super news,” Russell exuded, “super, super news!” The positive nature of this cross-the-board negative report was beginning to penetrate the emotional wall he’d been constructing for days. Meanwhile, he was suddenly self-conscious about having just uttered the word “super” three times in a single sentence, like a 90-year-old fuddy-duddy describing a corn dog at the county fair.
“But, Russell...” The woman’s voice lowered audibly in pitch to emphasize the seriousness of what she was about to ask. “Do you use condoms?”
“Of course,” Russell fibbed. He likened sex with a condom to taking a shower in a wetsuit. “Most of the time, I mean. This one time, I didn’t.”
“Well then,” she interrupted, “this time, you got lucky. Next time, your luck might not hold out.”
“But, the testing nurse told me that receiving oral sex is relatively safe. Is that true?”
“Look,” Nancy responded, “when you exchange any bodily fluids at all with someone whose health status and sexual history you don’t know, nothing is a hundred-percent safe. Even sex with a condom. Just be smart. Reduce the risk as much as you can, and you should be fine.” Russell, however, was already incapable of absorbing or comprehending the professional advice he himself had requested. These words of caution were being drowned out by the devil on Russell’s shoulder rasping, Hey, Dude, just keep being lucky!
For the next five minutes, Russell sat in his car on the shoulder of the Interstate weeping like a baby. “Thank you, God,” he murmured, casting his tearful gaze heavenward. After drying his eyes and blowing his nose, he turned the key and revved his engine. A glance in the rearview mirror to double-check for oncoming vehicles revealed a pair of happy, but extremely bloodshot eyes. His gratitude to some omnipotent, paternalistic deity was already ringing hollow. Surely, a higher power had little or nothing to do with those test results. Russell only cared about one fact: I’m off the hook. For three days, he had been totally immersed in a percolating vat of fragility and uncertainty. Now, one clear health report had rendered him bulletproof. In his mind’s eye, he immediately began envisioning innumerable elicit pleasures to come. As Russell traced the return route to the office, the strict, self-imposed guidelines he’d long imposed upon himself were seeming overly cautious. The next time there was a knock on a peep-booth door, he would no longer arbitrarily rule out physical contact, especially if that knock offered the possibility of being on the receiving end of an expert blowjob.
FOUR
“You’re certainly in a chipper mood today.” Chatty observations of this nature were rarely articulated by the office’s most uncompromising feminist. Russell had been making a particularly pitiful attempt at whistling the refrain from Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” as he and Mary Ann waited for the elevator.
Russell stopped mid-whistle. “Well, Mary Ann, life is short. It really doesn’t make sense to waste precious time wallowing in negativity.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
Russell quickly realized that if he failed to respond with pitch-perfection, he might very well find himself in hot water. It was clear what Mary Ann was really asking: Are you suggesting that I’m a Debbie Downer or, in plainer, cruder terms, a bitch? Luckily, the opening elevator doors gave him a momentary reprieve to consider a passable reply. Russell took a half-step back, offering a nod to suggest that the lady enter the car first. Mary Ann offered him a pithy sneer for his chivalry, but took him up on it anyway, while assuming the haughty carriage of royal entitlement.
“Wait, wait! Hold that elevator!” Russell pushed the “open-door” button to give Ed time to scoot inside. The presence of a third person, Russell assumed, would insure a change of subject during the ride down to the garage. “Mercy bo-kups,” Ed exclaimed, in deliberately botched French. As the car commenced its descent, Ed took notice of the mindless grin creasing Russell’s mug. “Look’s like somebody’s been enjoyin’ bein’ off the leash!” he teased.
“Not really,” Russell answered, crisply.
“Well, then,” Ed pried, “Pray tell... what’s with the good mood?”
“That’s what Mary Ann was just asking about,” Russell said, unable to hold back a grin. “Right, Mary Ann?” She, however, was pretending to be listening to voicemails on her new, company-issued Nokia phone. The two men traded smirks. It was common knowledge that there was no cell signal in the elevator. “Anyway,” Russell continued. “At the risk of tallying up unhatched chickadees, I’m feelin’ pretty darn good about the stair-lift company.” To the frequent frustration of Ed and others on the sales team, Russell tended to keep the status of pending accounts hush-hush until they were signed, sealed, and filed away. This time, however, he was dangling a carrot purely for the purpose of distracting a chronically indiscreet coworker from whatever other suspicions he might be entertaining.
“Way to kick ass, Bro!” Ed exclaimed, raising his right hand for an expected high five. Purposefully, Russell ignored this juvenile gesture. Still, he took note that Ed did have at least one admirable quality, being as he was, capable of delighting in a teammate feathering his pockets with a big commission.
“Thanks, Bro,” Russell said, putting sarcastic emphasis on the word “Bro” as he shot a sidelong glance toward Mary Ann. She continued fake-listening to her phone, while savoring a private chuckle over Ed’s clownishness.
“You-da-man!” Ed exuded, before finally lowering his still un-slapped palm. Russell’s optimism about this particular sale aside, his grin was really about having received the best possible news about his health status. And, the parts of his male anatomy dangling under that soon-to-be feathered pocket were also living in a kind of gleeful anticipation that Ed couldn’t possibly comprehend. The elevator doors opened at the garage level. “Après vous, Mademoiselle,” Ed said to Mary Ann, sweeping his hand, palm up, toward the exit with exaggerated gallantry.
Mary Ann looked up from her phone, locked eyes with Ed, and muttered a flippant, “Fuck you.”
“That’ll be the day, M’Lady,” Ed joshed, before following her out into the clangy, cavernous, underground garage. As they’d done dozens of times, Ed and Russell proceeded to trudge in the direction of their assigned parking spaces. “That woman hates my fuckin’ guts,” Ed stewed. It baffled Russell how this guy could remain so clueless. Sure, Mary Ann was a tough nut to crack. But at least 90-percent of the blame for this chronic disharmony fell on Ed’s shoulders. After all, you don’t win the hearts and minds of women like Mary Ann by acting as poster boy for every unappealing masculine trait imaginable.
“Yep,” Russell agreed. He was about to change the subject when any chance of verbal communication was drowned out by the rumble of a revving engine reverberating off the cinder block walls, immediately followed by a deafening screech of tires. As Russell suspected, the source of the racket was Mike, at the wheel of his immaculately restored, early-70s-era Dodge Charger. The muscle car pulled up alongside Ed and Russell, matching their pace as the passenger-side window rolled down. Identifying a more sympathetic audience, Ed repeated his complaint to Mike about Mary Ann, who was legging it 10 yards behind, now engaged in actual conversation on her phone.
“I wouldn’t fuck that bitch with your dick!” declared Mike. This jingoistic wisecrack made “Bro” Ed’s day, sending him roiling in peels of belly laughter. Meanwhile, Russell didn’t break stride, nor did he relinquish his grin. He pointed his key remote at his Celica, which responded with a pair of high-pitched Toyota beeps. Nothing could have better signified the stark difference in the world views of two men than the ground-shaking roar of Mike’s Detroit-built V8 next to the timid hum of Russell’s fuel-efficient, four-cylinder Japanese import. “Hey!” Mike addressed Ed. “The bee-otch may think you’re an asshole. But, at least she knows you’re not queer bate like Rusty Boy.” Mike proceeded to underline his offensive punchline by pumping his accelerator like a lion claiming supremacy on the Serengeti. Refusing to give a bully like Mike the pleasure of ruining his good mood, Russell pretended he hadn’t heard the insult. Not getting his desired response, Mike peeled out like a spoiled, zit-cheeked punk on senior skip day.
