In Your Skies

Chapter 1 (Part 2)

I closed the sticker and angst covered cream door with a cigarette still in hand, I shake my head and walked down the long dimly lit hallway. Passing by the awfully painted and already peeling brown walls, I took a deep breath. It smelled musky: a combination of smoke, mildew and dust. The carpet was ashy, I believe this used to be a beigey color but now it seemed like it had to go through a war, beaten down to a grayish hue strategically blotched with stains from drinks, probably.

Realizing that I’m on the fourth floor of Anya’s apartment, I unbuttoned my coat’s pocket and returned my white Bic lighter in one and the stick back to its carton in the other. As I dug both of my hands in my pockets, I played with my lighter, striking a spark inside my coat not minding that I could set myself on fire. That would be a funny headline, I pictured our local paper’s headline all in striking red caps ‘Gay Boy Lights Self on Fire, Falls from Fourth Floor’, what a death having to feel yourself ignited, eating up your flesh and incinerating your muscles and the fun doesn’t stop there, you trip at the stairwell where you fall head first and you watch the steps fly through your vision at top speed. I could I actually be the next Phoenix, a gender confused Phoenix.

I started making my way down the stairs, hearing my soles clack through the hard, shiny flooring, muffled by the carpet in the hallways. The third floor of the building could be mistaken for a satanic cult hideout; it was pitch black with the end of the hall lit by a faint red light. You can see that there are people smoking as you see them heaving in and seeing the lit part of their cig glowing in the dark, although you can’t really see neither their faces nor their bodies the glowing orb-like ends would increase in number with occasional luminous ashes being flicked off and then losing its glow. I quickly made the turn as I realized I stopped right there staring into the darkness and knowing that I can’t see them but they could clearly see me. Cold sweat breaks on my forehead as I grabbed on to the handlebars. I thought of all the blood-sucking ‘mos I’ve read and seen in the movies. I recalled watching Salem’s Lot and going batshit crazy when he taps on the windows, Count Dracula, The Silence of the Lambs, Nosferatu and Jigsaw all came to mind. A vampire who drives a Volvo also came into picture.

I reach the lobby and I was greeted by Gracia, the landlady. Like everytime I saw her she was donning an intricately designed floral sundress, she was too bright, like the sun, although Gracia would be a pink, yellow and electric blue sun. “Hola, Andy, leaving now?” she asks me with a thick Spanish accent, fixing her up-do that was as high as Mt. Everest. “Si, senora mi amor” I try to answer back in my husky Spanish voice. “Ay-ya-yay! Hurry along now and get home, tell me if you some hombre outside, yes?” she laugh with a high-pitched boisterous voice, like the lady Lacquita Shawandrah who lives across our street.

I exit the warm colored building outside and I was enveloped by the crisp, cold air. I hear the wind howling and the rhythmic shaking of the leaves. I buried my face lower into my torso, I kept my head down as I was walking, watching my breath fog and disappear and I do it again for fun. I stand by the bus stop and I watch full buses pass by, a poster clings on one side and it read: “Who are you? Find out your true self! Dial 1800-the-fuck-is-this-soul-searching-crap now for $5/minute” Okay, the latter part was added by moi but seriously, who would pay $5 a minute to find out who you are. I could spend the same amount eating greasy burgers and discover that I’m one gluttonous asshole who refuses to share or I could buy beer and say Hey, I’m a drunkard and I have 80% chances of dying from DUI.

I remain frozen, waiting for a fucking bus to come along, I’ve already been standing in this stop for 10 minutes bitching about some company trying to make a quiet profit out of deceiving people. I’m pretty confident about who I am.

I’m Andy Louis. Andy as in that snotty kid who refuses to grow up in Toy Story minus the toy cowboy and space guy because honestly I’d rather play with the porcelain shepherdess and Louis as in King Louis of France who was married to the cake-eating, powdered wig-snatching, old world reincarnation of a playboy bunny skank Marie Antoinette.

I’ve been breathing the same polluted air for 17 years now, as illustrated by this grimy old pole I’m leaning on. I am gay, don’t try to ask me since when because it’s getting pretty annoying when I everyone I meet discovers the former. Despite that, I’m not your typical flamboyant, cross-dressing, make-up worshipping gay guy that screams “I FUCKING LOVE MADONNA” type, I’m more on the subtle I-like-boys-period type. Classy as fuck type if you must. I read a lot, so don’t flip if I randomly pull out Hemingway and Nabokov as a reference in a casual conversation.

I must stop now before this turns out as a teeny-bopper bio on MySpace or Facebook, no one would want that. Also because here comes the bus, good God, finally. The bus driver who looks like he was fifty or so opened the door, showed my bus pass and went inside. Bah, I hate this part, when you have to look for a vacant spot.

My eyes targeted to this guy who was sitting alone on the middle row, his eyebrows were all scrunched up as he gazed outside the window, and the back of his hand was touching his lips as he leaned onto it without a single cup of care in the world. What an arrogant fool, I thought. Okay, before you point that flirty finger at me let me just tell you that I had to sit beside him because a.) it was the only seat available b.) it was the only seat available and c.) it was the only seat available.

I walked casually towards him, maintaining my balance as I held onto the backrests of each row. I sat down the cold black leatherette seat and for unknown reasons my heart started beating rapidly. As a defense I put on my earphones and blasted Boys Don’t Cry by The Cure, being the klutz that I am, I couldn’t move properly without rubbing my arms against his bare, pale skinned arm.  Stiff Andy was stiff, petrified by this boy who did nothing to him. I could see in my peripheral vision that he was staring at me. I was completely frozen, trying to avoid his look. He had deep set black eyes that complimented his ghostly skin, his deep brown hair all tousled and disarranged as if just got out bed. I stared down the back of the backrests decorated with vandals and adorned with chewed gum trying to distract myself, “Sarah luvz Ben 4ever” it read, another one wrote “Ben suckz.”

Was he still staring? As I tried to steal one last look, I noticed an infinity sign tattooed on his wrist, you know the horizontal eight? He dropped his arm and got up, he moved with such slyness, he bumped my leg and did not even apologize. I watched him walk with his stressed blue jeans and crinkled white shirt, I looked down and saw that he was holding Khaled Hosseini’s Kite Runner, I seriously wanted to yell out “Sohrab dies, you asshole!” and ruin the book for him. Ha! That would be perfect. But I was completely stunned because while I was preoccupied giggling to myself, he took a glance at me as he walked off the bus and smiled.

I felt my face heat up, now he thinks I’m some psycho. Now he thinks that I’m some Schizo who had hearing problems. Wait, why am I being so defensive? I don’t even like him; he wasn’t my type at all. Just because he reads a book I happen to love doesn’t automatically qualify him to my ‘To-stalk list.’

But he was.