Spinning

Chapter 2: A foursome?

Jake's calling, again. I silence my phone. I just want to be alone, people. Alone. Toute seule. Allein. Ensam. A simple concept, completely in my control, is rendered completely out of my control by the stupid, dense fabrics of society. And by my goddamn phone.

Vivid memories of my darling mother lecturing me on the rudeness of not calling people for a "friendly check-in" roll past like these signs on the highway. Society demands the courtesy of feigning interest in the wellbeing of others, and a simple phone call can do just that. Of course, she was talking broadly, with no specific person in mind, but as an example, Jordan, you could call me, your own mother, a little more often...

And my issues are just starting. Jake's call would have been welcome in about three hours, a sound excuse for me to duck out of the dinner conversation that will inevitably bore me with the hollow contact between my parents and the Maynards. This is another classic example of how well my mother weaves into the fabric of society. One household inviting another household over for dinner, where the two can exchange fake pleasantries, bragging stories about the children, difficulties in the local town vote, blah blah blah. I hate everything about these dinners, yet society sits me down and shoves green bean casserole down my throat until I am gagging and thoroughly suffocated.

Yet, Jake should know better than to call. At least I can tell him I hate phone calls without being kicked off the family phone plan (what's done is done). He knew what he signed up for when he asked me out for dinner, two years ago. Well, if he didn't know then, he for goddamn sure knows now. But apparently my anti-social qualities are cute and endearing and he gives a soft chuckle and a kiss on my forehead whenever I tell him I want him to leave. Goddamn it. Why the hell did I think I could cope with a boyfriend?

The ride north seems endless, as the city fades behind me and cow country opens up ahead. My mind wanders to the only highlight of the week. Friday, Adriano stopped by my desk at work. I saw him approach from about 20 feet away – his 6'5" frame and dark hair are hard to miss – and I had about 30 seconds to make up my mind. I knew what he wanted.

"Hey Jordan," he said in his sexy Brazilian accent. I stared at his broad shoulders. A bit of drool pooled at the corner of my mouth. What's wrong with him? There must be something wrong with him. He is way out of my league. Why is he talking to me?

"Hey, what's up?" I could feel my face blush with the anticipation. I could tell he could tell, too.

"It's a beautiful day out today, smooth waters...," here we go, "...I was wondering if I can take you out on the boat after work. If you're free." Boom, there it is. My sexy sailor. But I had my answer.

"Ugh, I can't today, my mother wants me home for a family dinner." Only a half lie. "How about next week?"

"Sure," he answered with his sexy half smile. Connor, my desk neighbor, was eavesdropping, and quickly turned back to his computer, seemingly satisfied with my answer. I didn't have time to deal with Connor's little crush on me. He is at least fifty pounds over any possibility of me liking him. Get a gym membership, bud.

I'm missing something. What could he possibly see in me? Adriano, I mean, but I guess Connor too. Indeed, slug like, I squirmed in bed for the majority of this morning, trying to figure out Adriano's end game. And mine, too. One date – no, not a date, an outing – with a coworker can hardly qualify as cheating...

Mr. Maynard greets me before I can even exit my Jeep, before I can put up my defensive mask, my fake persona.

"JT's in the house!" I hate when he calls me that.

"Mr. M!" I'm pulled into a trachea-crushing hug: too tight, too long.

"We are so glad you could come for dinner."

"I am too." I wish a giant, freak mutant moose had crushed me on the drive up.

The evening rolls on with greeting the rest of the Maynard family – Mrs. and the children – saying hi to mother and father, sister and brother, and every second my body endures in this congenial setting hastens the harsh coagulation of my life force, muddling my brain.

"JT, we saw John Mayer in concert last week. We were thinking of you."

"Oh, I love his music! He's so talented." I would rather plunge my face into the boiling pot of raviolis on the stove than hear John Mayer live. My eardrums are poundingly sore at the thought. Give me Led Zeppelin instead. Kanye West. Anyone else.

"Jordan, why couldn't Jake make it? Although we understand it's a long trip for him. All the way from NYC!"

"He's so bummed he couldn't make it! He couldn't get a train that would arrive in time." I didn't even invite Jake. I needed a goddamn weekend to myself. I wish he would call me now.

I feel a buzzing from my pocket... No, it can't be... Life would be too synchronous... and Life is not generous enough to give me an excuse to leave the table... and it's not him. It's an unknown number. They leave a voicemail.

It's not until after heaps of apple pie was served alongside scoops of flattery and drivel that I am awarded the peace and quiet of the bathroom. As the voicemail plays back, my heart feels light and my wrists tingle: the EnVision night security and part time sex god has Matt's phone. His voice is deep, smooth, sincere, velvety, as it purrs out of my speaker. Words not associated with sounds were now the clearest descriptors of his voice: sturdy yet sensitive, chiseled and still fluidic. Jordan, center your thoughts you chaotic clown. I shake my head; the day's socialization has rewired my senses. I need to leave.

Leave I must, and leave I did. It was largely painless. Sort of. Mother whispers in my ear as I leave, "I hope you went to church today," to which I respond, "of course I did," as I recall the morning of malaise and nothingness, and certainly not God, as conflicting battles between Adriano and Jake raged on. Mr. M inflicts permanent spinal damage as he crushes me into a hug, asking me to come visit soon, to which I reply with disgusting, dripping sweetness, assuring him that I will, while contemplating how much it would cost to buy the whole family one-way tickets to Alaska.

My Jeep door opens with the trumpets of heaven, and the angels and archangels guide me down the driveway and away from the cursed domesticity, as the angels forgive me for not going to church. The sass of the Arctic Monkeys coos through my speakers, keeping me awake. The voicemail from the nameless security guard competes with Alex Turner for the attention of my auditory nerves. And it was in that moment that I made my decision. I redirect my navigation to EnVision.

Suddenly, I'm back in their parking lot. I'm through their doors, ignoring the doorman, ignoring the front desk, knowing exactly where I want to be. His voice repeats over and over, and it gains grandeur and intrigue with each reverberation, and my heart beats with the anticipation of reconnecting his face to the voice. Are his hands as masculine and caressing as his voice?

Depression. Crashing, dowsing, dark depression. He's not there, he's not reading behind the desk. It's some older woman who smells of cigarettes, looking entirely out of place. Anyone but him is out of place.

"Hi... I received a call about a lost phone..."

"Sure sweetie, what's your name?"

"Jordan Thornley."

"Got it right here."

"Thanks."

Jordan, you grotesque gargoyle. You cannot leave here empty handed. Turn around. Now.

"One more question – do you know the name of the guy that called me? He helped me before but I didn't catch his name."

"Oh that's Eddie. You just missed him. He sometimes leaves early on Sundays. He might still be in the parking lot if you want to catch him."

He was not in the parking lot.

                                                                                             ****

I dreamt about Eddie that night. And for the next three nights. On the fourth night, dream-world Eddie took me to the backwoods to go hunting. Adriano showed up and shot Eddie out of jealousy. Adriano eventually morphed into Jake, who pointed the gun at me. I put my hands up to defend myself, uselessly, as Jake slowly turned the rifle on himself and shoots. I woke up in a cold sweat, nauseous, but mercifully alone.