Two Boys Kissing(11)
Your humor is your compass and your shield. You can hone it into a weapon or you can pull its strands out to make your very own cotton-candy blanket. You can’t exist on a diet of humor alone, but you can’t exist on a diet without it, either.
All the quips in the world couldn’t prevent Oscar Wilde from becoming a lovesick fool. But he rallied at the end. More than one of us borrowed his last words, staring off into the distance and uttering, “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.” There were even variations: “Either the mayor goes, or I do” or “Mother, either those shoes go, or I do” or “Honey, either that mustache goes, or I do.” Maybe not our exact last words, and maybe not Oscar Wilde’s exact last words, either. But you get the point. When the end comes, there will be important things to say, for sure. But there will also be that last laugh, and you will want it.
Laughter rarely lasts longer than a few seconds, it’s true. But how enjoyable those few seconds are.
Before Harry and Craig begin their kiss, they are presented with some gag gifts.
Harry’s parents present the two boys with a canister of Binaca. We laugh when it’s clear that neither boy knows what it is. How would we explain it to them? That long ago, when you wanted your breath to be doused with mint, you’d pull out one of these slim metal tubes and spritz a little Binaca into your mouth. Whether you were covering up booze or covering up a more general sourness, you could rely on this hissing blast to do the trick. It didn’t taste like anything natural, and if you were doing it before kissing someone, it always worked best if you both took a dose, so you could taste chemical together. In our arsenal of subterfuge, it was a largely harmless selection. We’re amused by its presence now, in the same way that Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez are amused. After an explanation, Harry and Craig thank them, but neither of them tries the spray. They’re chewing gum instead.
Their friend Rachel shows them that she’s decorated a bedpan with the face of an infamous radio talk-show host. They won’t be able to use it during the kiss, but maybe right afterward. Smita takes out a bag of valentine hearts—not easy to find in the off-season—and shows them she’s filled the whole bag with hearts that say KISS ME on them. Another friend, Mykal, has gone with another holiday and has attached a piece of mistletoe (also hard to find in the off-season) to the end of a fishing line, so he can dangle it over their heads as they kiss.
Finally, it’s Tariq’s turn. He’s been setting up the cameras, making sure everything’s been positioned right, so the lamps that illuminate the yard will also light Harry and Craig once night falls. If the kiss works, nobody’s going to take their word for it. Everything needs to be documented precisely, so Tariq’s got an army of cameras at the ready and a troop of reinforcement batteries on hand. Not only will the kiss be recorded, it will be streamed live, so no accusation can be made that the kiss was faked, or that any break was edited away. Three of the teachers from school have offered to take shifts as witnesses. Ms. Luna, the head of the math department, is starting.
But first Tariq has his gifts.
The first requires him to drag a duffel bag over the grass.
“Is that a body?” Harry asks.
“Or maybe just a head?” Craig wonders.
They are not far off. With a grin, Tariq lifts out a bust of Walt Whitman to preside over the event. Then, to mark the occasion, Tariq recites one of Whitman’s poems:
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,
Arm’d and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
Everyone applauds.
Then Tariq breaks out his second gift—an iPod with exactly thirty-two hours, twelve minutes, and ten seconds of music on it, each song chosen and sequenced with the same care a DJ would use. All of Harry’s and Craig’s favorite songs are on there, as well as hundreds of other songs “donated” by friends.
“Just tell me when to hit play,” Tariq says.
They are almost at the start.
In another town in the same state, Cooper realizes that a full tank of gas is only going to solve one of his problems, and a minor one at that.
He pulls into the parking lot of a Walmart. He takes out his phone and looks at the names in his contacts list. That’s what they feel like to him—contacts. People he has contact with. Contact in class. Contact in the hallways or at lunch. Not friends. Not really. Not if being someone’s friend means not being fake. He’s been fake with all of them. Are there some who’d let him come over if he asked? Sure. Are there even some who would listen to what happened, who would worry on his behalf? Probably. But when he tries to play out that scene with any of them, it falls flat. It doesn’t help. It only adds bystanders to what’s essentially his burden, and his alone.
So he closes his contacts. He opens an app. He decides to talk to some strangers instead.
There are ten messages on his phone, too. He ignores them.