The Art of Breathing

  “Ty? When was the last time you had an attack? Like full-blown attack you had when we first got to Seafare?”

  “Only like… huh. I don’t really know.” How weird is that? There have been times it was close, but has it been weeks? Has it really?

  “That should tell you something right there.”

  “Like what?”

  She shakes her head. “For your sake, I hope you figure it out.”

  “This sucks,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “That I’m sad in skinny jeans. It’s the worst.”

  She laughs and pulls me to a stop. She hugs me tightly, and she smells so good and feels so familiar that I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. “This won’t be good-bye,” she says in my ear. “This will never be good-bye. You’re stuck with me for life, Ty. Whether you realize it or not, there’s something about you that pulls people in and makes them never want to leave. Trust me when I say this is as hard on me as it is you.”

  “Maybe I can just stay with you,” I say. “Sandy wouldn’t mind me living there, too, right? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t fail at that, at least.”

  Kori pulls away, but only just, and kisses me lightly on the lips. She tastes like berries. “Can I give you a bit of advice? All joking aside.”

  “All joking aside.”

  “And don’t get mad.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Ty, I’m serious.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stop thinking.”

  “What?”

  “You’re too much up here,” she says, tapping my forehead. “And not enough here.” She taps my chest, where my heart thuds. “Stop thinking about how you think you’re broken or how you think you’re a failure.”

  “But I am a fail—”

  “Tyson. Stop.”

  Wonder of all wonders, I do.

  “You are the strongest, bravest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing,” she says, touching my cheek. “You’ve made me a better person just by being in my life. And I promise you with all that I have that great things are waiting for you if you stop thinking and listen to your heart. If you do, you’ll see exactly what you’re supposed to.”

  “Why does this sound like good-bye?” I ask her, sniffling.

  She laughs. “Silly boy. I told you. You’re stuck with me for life. And I plan on living for a very long time. Who knows what kind of trouble I’ll make now that I’m home?”

  That doesn’t seem long enough, but I’ll take what I can get. She takes my hand again and pulls me toward the bar where the others wait.

  SAGES THE Second and Third:

  It’s surprisingly easy getting into the bar, even though it’s technically illegal for me. Sandy had come early to prepare for Helena’s show, but has left word with the bouncer that I’m to be admitted. It’s exciting, because I’ve never been on a VIP list before.

  “No alcohol,” the bouncer warns me in gruff tones. “You stay up in the Queen’s Lair until the show’s over, and if I catch you with one drop of alcohol in your little twinkie body, I’ll break you in half on my cock and then throw you out.”

  Now it’s not exciting anymore.

  “I won’t,” I promise weakly. “I’m a recovering addict, so I won’t drink.”

  He stares at me.

  “Not alcohol,” I say quickly. “Mood stabilizers. I’m so over it, though.”

  “Tyson, it’d probably be best if you didn’t speak anymore,” Paul says, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside.

  We step inside the bar, and I’m immediately assaulted by loud music, writhing bodies, and flashing lights. But before I can even worry about getting pulled through the crowd, Paul opens a hidden door on the wall and we climb up a flight of dimly lit, creaky wooden stairs. We reach the top before he lets me go.

  The lights are soft up here, and there’s a large vanity, complete with exposed bulbs outlining the mirror. Scattered across the vanity are eyeliner, lipstick, and falsies, both eyelashes and boobs. Wigs sit on mannequin shelves around the room, and there’s a dressing screen with imprints of Dolly Parton’s face and bust.

  The Queen’s Lair, indeed.

  “Is this all Helena’s?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “Sure is,” Paul says. “And trust me when I say you should feel privileged. Most people never get to come up here.”

  “Where do all the other queens get ready?”

  Paul points toward a balcony that overlooks the dance floor and the DJ. “There’s a separate changing room for them. But Sandy’s the best, so she gets the best.”

  “Wait until you see her perform,” Kori says, coming up behind me. “It’s a sight to behold.”

  “I’m going to take Dom and buy him a beer,” Vince says from the stairwell. “I want to know if he’s ever been shot at. I’ll bring you your vodka cranberry, Paul.”

  “You’ve been shot at?” Darren says, eyebrows rising. “Dude, I want to hear. And I want beer.”

  “I want something fruity,” Kori says. “And I want to hear too.”

  “You want anything?” Dom asks me.

  I shake my head, and as they leave, I hear Vince ask Dom if he’s ever gotten into a gunfight with drug lords at a crack den, to which Dom replies, “Well, there was this one time….”

  “Men,” Paul mutters. “And Kori. Come, twinkie.”

  I don’t even protest it anymore.

  There’s an older man, at least in his seventies, sitting on a stool on the balcony, positioning a video camera and spotlight down toward the floor below. He’s a big man, built like a tree trunk. He may be old, but he looks like he can still kick ass.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Paul says, sitting next to him on another stool.

  Huh. I didn’t know Paul’s dad worked here. That’s weird. And he calls him Daddy? Creepy.

  “Boy, what was all the ruckus?” the old man asks. “You know Sandy doesn’t like people up here.”

  “Sandy’s opening up the Queen’s Lair membership for the weekend,” Paul says. “This is Tyson.”

  The old man turns to look at me, squinting his eyes. “Jesus, boy. Where’d you get this one? Elementary school? I didn’t think Sandy was a chicken hawk.”

  Paul snorted. “This is Tyson. Kori’s friend. From Oregon. He’s staying the weekend. He’s the one Sandy told you about.”

  “The genius?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Come over here, boy!” he barks at me. “Let me see you good and proper. Double step, before I change my mind and put you over my knee.”

  That’s not threatening at all. But I’m standing in front of him before I even know I’m moving.

  “Well, if you’re not just a little thing,” he says, his kind smile belying the gruff exterior. “And smarter than all of us combined, or so I hear.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “But it’s nice to meet you. Paul didn’t tell me his dad worked here.”

  They both laugh long and loud, and I have no idea what I’ve said to get such a reaction.

  “He’s not my dad,” Paul says, wiping his eyes. “He’s an old leather queen. I call him Daddy because he likes it. His name is Charlie.”

  “Old leather queen,” Charlie says with a scowl. “It’s still not too difficult for me to take a strap to your bare bottom. I believe your feller wouldn’t mind that one bit.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Paul says. “Let’s not scare Tyson.”

  “It’s just him and Kori?” Charlie asks.

  Paul shakes his head. “No. Tyson’s boyfriend is here too. You should see him, Charlie. He’s bigger than Darren. I think he was injected with some kind of radioactive material when he was a kid and now he’s all Hulked out. His veins have veins. I work out for six months and the only thing I have to show for it is rash on my butt crack from where I sweat too much.”

  “Which one is he?” Charlie asks, leaning over the railing. “I see Vince… and Darren… and Kori… and a brick wall with legs….” He waves and smiles. I
follow his line of sight and see everyone from our group waving back up at us.

  “Brick wall with legs,” Paul says.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say. “Oh, and put talcum powder in your butt crack before you work out. You won’t get the rash.”

  “Not your boyfriend?” Paul asks, sounding shocked. “You guys just fucking or something?”

  My face burns. “No, we’re not fucking.”

  “Wow, that’s a shame.”

  “He’s not gay.” You sure about that?

  Paul laughs. “Sure, Ty.”

  “He’s not.” Well. Maybe.

  He stops laughing. “Whoa. Wait. You’re serious?”

  “Uh, yes? Yes. He’s my best friend.” Right? Still? “Well, we used to be best friends. There was… stuff… that happened.” Oh, way to sound sane. Good job! “I’d know if he liked…. We… oh, never mind!”

  “Oh you poor, blind twinkie,” Paul says sadly as he shakes his head. “Unrequited love is the hardest kind.”

  “It’s not unrequited!”

  “Oh, he loves you back? Then what’s the issue?”

  “I’m not… we’re…,” I sputter. “There’s no basis for… what….”

  “Funny,” Charlie says. “I’m getting a weird little flash of déjà vu here. I’ve only seen your—how did you put it?—used-to-be best friend for a minute, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off you. Not even when Vince there is talking to him.”

  I look down. In the bright flashes of light, in the pounding of the bass, my gaze locks onto Dom’s. He says something to Vince, but he never breaks our gaze. I’m the one who looks away.

  “That doesn’t mean anything!” I say.

  “Nice try, Tyson,” Paul says. “But I already went that route up here. That shit don’t fly no more.”

  “Good boy,” Charlie says with a smile. “That shit definitely don’t fly.”

  “He’s not gay?” Paul asks me.

  “No,” I say firmly, even if I don’t quite believe my own words.

  “Oh, so you’ve asked him?”

  “Well… no.”

  “Huh. So you just assumed, huh?”

  “He was married! He has a son!”

  “Oh, right,” Paul says, rolling his eyes. “Because he had some vaginal meanderings and spawned the fruit of his loins, he can’t possibly want to plow you like a field. There’s this happening new craze. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s called bisexuality.”

  “Or latent homosexuality,” Charlie says. “I didn’t come out until I was in my forties. Married, kids, the whole nine yards. They… they didn’t take it well. Haven’t heard from ’em in years.” He looks down at the dance floor below. Paul reaches over and takes his hand and squeezes it. Suddenly, all my problems seem minute in comparison.

  “I’ve got issues,” I say because it’s really the last line of defense I’ve got. God, I sound so fucking ridiculous.

  “Oh, what kind?” Paul asks. “I’m pretty sure that, among all of us, we’ve probably got you covered.”

  “Parental issues. My mom kind of… sucked.”

  “Oh, please,” Paul scoffs. “Vince’s mom just died last year. His dad, the bastard mayor of Tucson, is also Darren’s dad, who hates gays. Our illustrious mayor cheated on Vince’s mom with Darren’s mom. Sandy’s parents died when we were sixteen. Kori was raised in foster care. It’s not that hard to have shitty parents.”

  And Dom’s mother was murdered in front of him by his father. “What about your parents?” I ask Paul.

  “Me? I’ve got the worst ones of all.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice hushed, sure that Paul was probably some kind of crack baby (which would really explain a lot) and was sold into a Afghani slave ring and only recently found his freedom and love in the arms of a supermodel.

  “Oh hush,” Charlie says. “Paul’s parents are just about the most wonderful people to exist.”

  “They’re too accepting!” Paul exclaims. “They still think Vince is my Master and I’m his sex pony! And they love it.”

  I laugh. It feels good.

  “Okay, what else you got, kid?” Charlie asks me.

  “I’m a certified genius diagnosed with panic disorder who got addicted to the meds that were supposed to help me and practically flunked out of Dartmouth while there on a full scholarship.”

  Paul waves his hand at me. “That’s nothing. Once I thought I was confused about my sexuality, and I got drunk and went down on a girl from my English class and was able to tell what she’d had for dinner the day before.”

  “Oh dear Lord in heaven,” I manage to say.

  “That was gross,” Charlie says. “Even for you.”

  Paul shrugs. “My point is that people’s problems are all relative once you put them in perspective. This addiction thing. You done with that?”

  “Well, they say once an addict, always an addict.”

  “Bullshit,” he says. “Are you done with it?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “And you’re super smart.”

  “So they tell me.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me.

  I sigh. “Yes. I am.”

  “And this flunking thing, can it be fixed?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe. I just need to find direction.”

  “I work in insurance in a cubicle that kills me a little more each day,” Paul says. “Trust me when I say you’ve got time. Figure it out.”

  “Okay.”

  “And that leaves the panic-disorder thing.”

  “You freak out?” Charlie asks.

  “Sometimes. Not for a while.”

  “Like, panic attacks?”

  “Yeah. Feels like earthquakes. Had them since I was a kid. My brother….”

  “Your brother?” Paul asks.

  “My brother. He… raised me. He protected me from them. We didn’t know it was panic disorder until later. He helped me. To learn to breathe.” Amongst other things.

  “And breathing helps?” Charlie asks.

  “Breathing is the hardest thing. When it hits.”

  “But you’re a genius,” Paul says.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then why can’t you figure out a way to breathe? Seems to me the body does it on its own. You just have to trust it knows what to do. It’s not physical. It’s all in your head.”

  “That’s the part I can’t get over.”

  “Why not?”

  “My brain is wired… differently.”

  Paul laughs. “Not so differently that you can’t kick its ass. Look, I’m not talking about the power of positive thinking, and I’m not saying the cure for you is some kind of magical dick, because that won’t work. You need to fix yourself. It’s that easy. And if you’re as smart as everyone touts you to be, then it should be simple. You got to find what the blockage is, then blow it the fuck up.”

  “It’s not that….” It’s not that easy? Since when? And why the fuck shouldn’t it be? “Holy sweat balls,” I say. I might be the smartest twenty-year-old full-blown ecoterrorist on the planet, but apparently I’m pretty goddamn slow on the uptake.

  “Aha!” Paul says. “Now he gets it. Paul saves the day yet again.”

  “I don’t think I get it,” Charlie says.

  “I don’t either,” Paul admits. “But the twink does. You can see it in his eyes. Tyson, if I could tell you one thing—and remember, I’m fat, I blab too much, I think too hard, and I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time—it would be that no matter what, you thank your lucky stars every single goddamn day that you’re alive and that someone loves you as much as they do. I didn’t know that for the longest time.” He looks down at Vince, and the love that fills his eyes knocks the breath from my chest, but in a good way. “I may be a new convert, and it’s cheesy as all fucking hell, and I swear to God, if you tell anyone I said this, I’m going to bury you in the desert, but love conquers all. It’s cliché. It’s sappy. It sounds awful. But love
fucking conquers all. And until you let it conquer you, you don’t know shit. Stop being a fucking dumbass and open your fucking eyes.”

  “I’m so proud of you, boy,” Charlie says. “Who knew you had it in you?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Paul says, throwing his hands over his head. “Can we please stop being big soppy vaginas and go back to being snarky assholes?”

  But I can’t answer him. Because Dom is all I see.

  And he doesn’t look away.

  SAGE THE Fourth:

  Kori pulls me down to the floor right before the show comes on, telling me it’s imperative that I be in the front row to witness the glory that is Helena Handbasket. I find myself sandwiched between her and Dom. Vince stands on Dom’s other side. They seem to have hit it off, which makes me weirdly happy and not even remotely the least bit jealous at all. (The glances I try and sneak might suggest otherwise—apparently I’m not very subtle, because Kori is snickering at me and elbowing me in the side. Jerk.) It really doesn’t help that people are crowding in around us, and I’m practically plastered up against Dom, and every now and then, I feel his large hand at the base of my spine, just a touch, but the electricity that shoots through my skin is like I’ve been struck by lightning, and I don’t dare try and move toward it. Or away. I’m paradoxical. And a chickenshit.

  And then she enters the world.

  There’s a flash of light. The crowd sighs. A nasty beat kicks up from the speakers all around us, and the spotlight zeroes in on the stage. The beat intensifies and thrums through me. A hand appears from behind the curtain, the nails long and sharp and bright red. People scream around me. The hand curls up and one finger extends and curls, telling us all, Come here. Come here and let’s get dirty.

  The song explodes and the curtains part and Helena Handbasket writhes onto the stage, hair huge, costume glittery and tight and almost nonexistent (and from a purely scientific standpoint, I wonder just how it’s possible to create the illusion that you don’t have a dick, because that costume shows absolutely everything and reveals absolutely nothing). The lyrics start, a woman with a rough voice singing about fucking and touching and doing all those things you could only dream about. It’s obscene. It’s so wrong. And it’s absolutely magnificent.