Rewriting Singularity

The next day more of the same. Beer with Hec, stumble up the stairs. Each day I spent more time downstairs and less time upstairs trying to write.

By day five, I still referred to him as Mr. Grumbles in my mind, but with affection. I even read his novels late at night. Cheesy bits but there was a taste of talent inside each bite, and the ravaging left a red-hot fire in my mouth.

The pipes still clanged, but I didn't care. I found I could sleep through most of the noise. Food still appeared in my room by magic. When I asked Hector and Kate, they smirked. I think it's a family trait.

I tried writing. Then gave up. Instead I did everything but-- I watched old movies on TMC. I helped around the bed and breakfast. I loaded the dishwasher; I dusted with a Miller beer in my hand and Hec in my head. I came to the conclusion:

I think I have a drinking problem, and his name is Hector.

By day six I admitted to myself that I was completely obsessed because just when he left my head in spirit, he appeared beside me in body. I'd jump like a nervous cat every single time he came near.

It was odd how he'd appear-- I'd never know when, I'd never know where. He was like a genie. A djinn. Poof! He'd just appear like a puff of smoke and disappear with the same mysterious ease.

And then there was my sitcom--

Almost one week here, and I still had nothing.

I was in a serious funk.

I woke to Lodge-sibling magic next to my bed: toasted bagels with cream cheese and coffee. I devoured them as I lazed in the big old tub and listened to the plumbing play Mozart. I'd grown fond of the pipes after all; the sound was preferable to Kate's singing "Polly Wolly Doodle All the Day" as she polished silver.

I got out of the tub, wishing that my sitcom would write itself, but it wouldn't, so I decided I'd force myself to sit this afternoon and write and try, try, try to ignore that beautiful view out of my window and the even more beautiful view that appeared in my room.

I put on the flannel bathrobe that Kate picked out for me at Hudson's and admired my reflection in the full-length mirror-- the blue

did

bring out my eyes.

I still hadn't discerned if Hec preferred men to women-- maybe he liked both. I swore at times he was flirting with me. I decided today I might push it to the limit and find out if he swung my way.

I looked over at my desk, at my laptop. That was odd-- the light was on. I sat down, wiggled the mouse. And there, in front of me were two pages minimized at the bottom--

One, a fleshed-out story for my sitcom. The other, my five-question breakup test.

Someone's been snooping!

I decided now was the time to ask Hec a few pointed questions. I got dressed-- after all I couldn't live in my bathrobe. At least not the entire day.

But when I got downstairs, I couldn't find him. Kate was in the laundry room, a small room where the maid's quarters once were, just off the kitchen. She wore one of those paisley old-maid housedresses, but it didn't make her look like an old maid. She was stuffing towels and bed sheets into the washer, and she smiled at me as I came in.

She added the laundry soap, started the load, then bent over and opened the drier-- the flowery scent of fabric softener filled the room as she pulled out an armload of towels. She began folding, and I picked up a blue towel and helped her.

"Where's Heath?" I asked nonchalantly-- at least I hoped I sounded nonchalant.

"He's in town," she answered, smoothing the towels down that she'd folded. Damn she was quick.

"Oh."

She reached into the dryer and pulled another handful. "Can I ask you a question?" she asked. "It's kind of personal."

Here it comes...

"Sure, what?"

I expected,

Are you gay?

Not...

"Are you religious?"

I laughed. "Well, yes-- but not in the traditional sense. I majored in Eastern Religions-- I'm interested in all kinds of religions. I don't believe in one-- my beliefs are rather eclectic."

"A sitcom writer with a degree in religion."

"I

did

study literature and poetry."

"Where? What university?"

"Columbia."

"Are you gay?"

I blinked. Whoa! Wasn't ready for that-- she did the old bait 'n switch then blindsided me.

"Well," I hesitated, "let's just say that I did the

Three's Company

thing with roommates at Columbia, and I didn't have to pretend."

"Three's Company?"

"You know, '

Come on, knock on my door

,' Three's Company-- with John Ritter?" She shook her head at me. I couldn't believe she didn't know the show. "Late 70s sitcom with a blonde bombshell, a brunette hottie and a guy named Jack Tripper, who pretends he's gay so that Mr. Roper their landlord won't kick him out?"

"Never seen it." She picked up the stack of towels and put them in a large wicker laundry basket. "So you

are

gay-- I thought so. My sister Charlie has a mad crush on you. I warned her."

"Ah, thanks-- I guess--"

"Why? You like her?"

"No-- I mean, she's sweet, but not my type, if you know what I mean."

"And what is your type?"

I almost said,

your brother

, but instead I said, "Well-built... blond... brown eyes..."

"

Oh.

.." and she said

oh

like she just stepped in a pile of dog shit, or

I

was the dog shit that she stepped

in

. Either way, I was caught, and she wasn't pleased. Her eyes narrowed, then she ticked off the next words like a metronome in three-four time: "He never keeps a girlfriend long."

I didn't know if his short-lived romances were a good or a bad thing, but what I did know was that being here in the same room with her at that moment in time wasn't a good thing for me. I decided I'd overstayed my welcome. Time to scram. Hit the road. Goodbye, farewell, adios.

"Are you ok? I mean--" I stammered.

Leave the laundry room, already! Why was I hesitating?

"I should get to writing..."

"Here--" she said, shoving the laundry basket in my face, "take these towels to your room."

I took the basket from her, and as I turned around, her laser eyes burned into my back. I imagined them searing me even after the laundry room door closed behind me.

I felt bad. I couldn't help it-- I've always had that little internal voice in me that hated it when people didn't like me-- that tiny voice spoke to me, egging me on, making me do deeds, saying vile things, trying to change a person's mind about me.

Sometimes those deeds and words worked; sometimes they didn't-- and it was best to ignore that little voice. I decided today I'd ignore it.

It was hard to convince Kate that I was a nice guy with noble intentions toward her brother since

those

words would be a big, fat lie.

----------------------

I spent the rest of the morning alternating between pacing the floor and writing.

Writing.

What Hec wrote was good. Really good. At least I think it was Hector. It had to be him. Who else could it be? Who else would it be sneaking into my room? I was embittered and entranced at the same time-- embittered because I stalled with my great idea and entranced because he ran with it.

And how he ran.

Wow.

I paced again.

I've always been a "rug burner." That's what my mom used to call me. I paced back and forth-- I literally wore a path on the rug in my room from the ideas ready to burst out of my brain.

Ideas gushed out now and the carpet was scorched.

Until this point, I had no title, no name. Just an idea. I know names of TV series are subject to change at the whims of producers, but this was perfect.

The Singularity

. And this wasn't network stuff-- this was something beyond that. Like HBO.

Humor. Sex. Aliens. Kink.

Woo-hoo!

The beginning of this script was like an aphrodisiac to me. I had a perpetual hard-on from the moment I sat down to type. Words poured out of me like water down a fall.

Like profanity at a Cubs game.

Like piss after twelve Millers.

Like cum out of my--

I jerked around. There he was. Smirk. Shirt open. Three-- no, four buttons undone. Sleeves rolled up. Paper bag in those arms.

Those arms.

God, the shirt wasn't the only thing that had come undone

.

"Hi," I said, stupidly, tongue peeking out the side of my mouth.

"Hey," he said back.

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

"Surprise."

"Yeah, you're full of surprises. Don't you ever knock?"

"The door was ajar."

"Was it ajar last night when you wrote this?" I asked, pointing to my laptop.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Don't give me that-- you wrote this."

He hesitated. "And what if I did?"

"First I'd have to say, you have no business nosing around in my personal stuff..."

"And then?"

"I'd have to say this is really good-- so good it got me going. Look how much I've written," I scrolled up the document and up and up. "So--" I hesitated, "you're the one who's been leaving things in my room?"

"I didn't say that. I didn't say I wrote it, I just said, hypothetically-- what if I did write it."

"So this just appeared 'poof' on my laptop?"

"Poof." He winked at me.

Winked.

I've been

called

a poof before, but that was another time and place.

"Who are you? What are you?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "And why can't you ever give me a straight answer?"

"You're full of questions today," he said, setting the bag next to my laptop.

"Questions? You want questions?" I blurted out, standing up and sticking my nose inside the bag to root around.

Ear plugs. He bought me ear plugs.

I began my tirade while my brain clicked in what was inside his bag of surprises: "Does anybody really know what time it is? When a cow laughs, does milk come out its nose?"

Not much else in the bag. Snacks, mostly.

"Does your mother have any more at home like you? Why is it called chili? Do you really want to hurt me?" I pulled out the Oreo cookies. "Why is a boxing ring square? Who can turn the world on with a smile?" Dug around more in the bag. Found some Fruit Snacks. "Are you gay? What's another word for thesaurus?"

Wait, what's this at the bottom? Blue raspberry saltwater taffy!

"When you choke a smurf, what color does it turn? Who let the dogs out?"

I caught my breath and looked up at him slowly. His brows were pinched. I had the taffy bag clutched in my hand.

"Did you just ask if I was gay?" His eyes were dark, magnetic, and my heart felt like a chunk of iron.

"I don't think so... well, it may have been in there," I said. "Maybe."

"No, you said it, you asked, 'Are you gay?' right before the Mary Tyler Moore reference."

I opened the bag and got out a piece of taffy, trying my best to look casual. "Well?" I asked, unwrapping the candy.

"Well, what?"

"Well,

are you

?"

He sat down on the bed. I popped the taffy into my mouth and chewed.

"What if I told you, I don't know..."

"How could you not know-- you're what? Twenty-five?" I asked, with blue stuff sticking to my teeth. I cautiously sat down on the bed next to him. "Or is this another one of your ambiguous answers?"

"None of my answers are ambiguous."

"They sure the hell are! At least when it comes to bathroom pipes-- thanks for the earplugs by the way-- and random items appearing in my room, and now stories on my laptop!"

"Sometimes there just isn't an answer--" he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Who are you, the Dalai Lama?" I asked, unwrapping another piece of taffy. Damn, it was good, but hardly a sweet enough distraction from the warm body next to mine. "Just answer me straight out, did you write this?"

"Yes."

"Now we're getting somewhere--" I said between chews. "Next-- have you ever had sex with a man?"

"Well, yeah," he said, looking me straight in the eyes. "I have."

"With a woman?"

"Ah, yeah." And his eyes squinted, conveying to me,

Duh? Of course I have.

"A blow-up doll?"

"What?!" His eyes opened wide. Pupils wider.

"Just kidding," I blurted out.

"No you're not."

"You're right, I'm not." I looked at him squirming, but I was really the one squirming more. "Forget I asked that one--"

"This is making me really uncomfortable."

"You're uncomfortable? How do you think I feel? You sneak into my room-- night, day, whenever! Come in here like there's some revolving door. You snoop around. Sneak up on me. Watch me.

Christ.

You disappear like you never were even here. And now I find out you've read my personal files on my computer. Are you some kind of stalker?"

I was starting to feel bad for him; he was wringing his hands and blushing. My head was spinning from all that was going on. More than that, I was afraid that I was falling for a man who was cracked in the head.

"I didn't sneak into your room."

"You came in without my permission."

"It's my property. I have the right to enter."

"I have a right to privacy! I bet you don't get much repeat business. Do you do this with all your guests? No fucking wonder you don't have anybody staying here. You really should put a sign out front that says, 'We snoop on our customers.'

Shit

."

"Are you going to leave?" he whispered.

I looked at him.

I should leave

. This was crazy, but what he wrote was good-- inspiring. And his voice pulled at my heart. Man, was I in deep.

He looked so good sitting on my bed, waiting for my answer. Those eyes again, looking all puppy dog-like. I wanted to pat him on the head-- tell him to go fetch a bone.

My bone.

I didn't need this. He was attracted to men

and

women. I didn't need another Austin in my life who'd fall in love with a woman because it was easier. Or maybe it was just easier for me to believe that to accept Austin's betrayal. Damn, I've been with openly bisexual men before-- some predominantly hetero and some predominantly gay. Most weren't like Austin-- they were into the relationship more than the genitals. They just weren't into

me

. I seriously wondered if Austin was ever in a relationship with me considering what happened. He was either one confused son of a bitch or a son of a bitch.

So I had to ask the question. The big one. Go for the gold.

"Are you attracted to women more than men?"

"I'm attracted to people."

To me, that was the right answer. He fell heart first and his head followed-- head of his dick maybe, but at least that was a good sign. I might have a chance.

Might.

Now ask him if -- Go on, ask.

Ask, ask, ask.

"This taffy is great," I said, shoving another piece in my mouth. "Where'd you buy it?"