Square Pegs

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I had painted myself into a corner. As easily as I could justify the sexual nature of Mission #1, several months later, it was difficult to fit this Lindsey bet into that same package. My brain is often compartmentalized to a fault, but this time I was pushing a square block into a round hole. I was unprepared for such a task.

I began to realize that Shelfie presented a deeper character than I originally surmised. His depth of understanding, hidden within a white-ribbed tank was a dangerous liason. He can manipulate while he hides, with a emotional intelligence worthy of any adversary. And as those around him let down their guard, he can easily gain the upper hand. Even with that breakthrough information now in hand, he still got the best of me. I admired and despised him for that.

Val and her kids were assembled around the pool. I decided to just wear my own shorts, because nothing Shelfie had would fit. I knew it by sight, as he held them up for me to see. Shelfie was obviously a 36 when Duran Duran was at the top of their career, because the shorts he pulled out were straight out of the 80s, wrinkled from two decades of non-use. Even holding them up to my waist, I felt unflattered.

Swimming at Shelfie’s house was like jumping off a rope swing into the river. He doesn’t just sit and wade, he’s an active participant. Jumping, kicking, splashing, every dip is greeted with the effervescence of a first-time splash. His aqua-silliness was contagious and narcotic. I’ve never felt more alive and at ease with a person I had just met. We were as different as could be, but we connected in an adverserial, yet friendly way that was only beginning to be unveiled. We were brothers, fighting for attention.

Val leisurely held court on the side of the pool while we played with Shelfies girls, 15 and 9. They were mini-Vals, complete with under-appreciated black razor cell phones and juicy couture sweats.

Shelfie was her antithesis, going balls-out like a 10-year-old boy with water cannons, dunking and bombing parties. He was as much not about his appearance as she was about hers. First of all, its hard to look good in the water. Val knew that, and I doubt her low-lights have ever made contact with the salt-filtered water.

But Shelfie knew the pool was more than a place for holding oiled-teak lounge chairs and the milfs that filled them. He was never aloof, always appreciative. And as I watched him swim, hair slicked back to receding, wrinkles collapsing his smile, he looked like a boy.

“Don’t you ever take that thing off?” I asked, referring to his tank top.

“Not since, the, uh, accident,” he whispered.

“Oh honey, it’s starting to grow in,” she said, referring to his shaved chest.

“But still, I feel more comfortable like this.”

“Hey, don’t be ashamed, like you’re a metro or something. I got waxed. It hurt, but it looked pretty good.”

“Really? Like that guy in the 40-year-old Virgin, I heard he did it for real.”

“Yea, haven’t seen it, but it hurts. That I can offer firsthand.”

“Maybe you should do your arms so they grow back together, and your neck,” Val said.

“I’ve got a girl, if you need one,” I offered.

“Enough. I’m not doing any more damage. The shirt will come off in due time.”

I swam to the side of the pool and pulled myself out. It was getting to dinner time and Val invited me to stay.

“We’re ordering from Pick-up Sticks in the Commons, what would you like Rob?” Val asked.

“Orange peel tofu is good there. That’s fine. And brown rice.”

“Orange peel tofu? Ha, are you serious?” Shelfie asked.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“What, a vegetarian in my house,” he said mockingly. “I never understood you guys.”

“Yea, its hard to understand people not eating meat,” I said sarcastically. And before you ask, I’d rather not answer. Let’s just say I live a low-impact lifestyle, ok?”

“Honey, leave Rob alone,” Val said.

“Oh, he knows I’m just teasing,” he said, mock punching me.

“Hey, do you have some pants or something I can wear?” I asked, dripping pool water.

“Yea, I think maybe some 36’s somewhere?”

“What, like parachute pants or something? How about sweats, do you have any sweatpants?”

“Hell, I’ve got a ton of tracksuits. You name it, I’ve got it. You like Fila?”

“I just need some regular gray sweats or something. Nothing red or fancy.”

“I can get some for you Rob.” Val said.

It was amazing. I hadn’t realized how much I missed my mom until I had experienced another. Val was no longer a sex object, she was a real person. I was beginning to enjoy my time with this family. I made a mental note to call my mom tomorrow.

I tried on Shelfie’s sweats. They were huge and ridiculous, and they were mine for the night. I sat down at the table and hid my lower half. Jamie, their 15-year old sat next to me.

“Hi, Rob.”

“Hi Jamie,” I said looking up from the paper.

“You’re cute.”

“It’s the sweatpants,” I said blankly, with eyes on paper, “Hammer time.”

“You’re funny too. But I don’t get that joke.”

“Well, there was this singer guy in the 80’s that wore these big pants. MC Hammer.”

“Ok, did you like him? I mean his music.”

“Not really.”

“I like Jem, Yellowcard, Maroon 5 and the Rolling Stones,” she said, counting each on a finger.

“The Stones, really?” I asked.

“Yea, I got that from my dad, he always used to sing Wild Horses to me.”

“Really?” I said surprised.

“He’s a great singer. Not just because he’s my dad. He’s really good.”

Wow, I thought. The world of Shelfie was beginning to unfold in front of me. More than a gear head, less than a rock star, Shelfie has truly found his happy place in this misplaced suburbia. And it was nice to share it with him.

“Maybe we need to bring out the Karaoke.”

“He won’t do it in public,” she answered, emphatically.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about it.”

“I love Maroon 5 too, Adam is so dreamy.”

“Is that the singer?” I asked.

“Yea, ‘I was so high, I had to recognize’” she started singing.

“I met his girlfriend in Dallas last year on a layover, before they were big.”

“Was she cute?”

“Oh yes, well he’s a rock star," I offered as rationale, "You know what, she kind of looked, yea, she did, she looked a lot like you.”

“You’re kidding,” she said with stammered enthusiasm.

“No, really, I thought you looked familiar. That’s very weird.”

She shrieked like she just saw the Beatles at Wembley.

But she did look a bit like her. That was not lip service fed to a 15-year old. It was true, less a hair-trigger of confidence-building embellishment.

“I like you Rob.”

“A lot of people do,” I said jokingly.

“Ooh, I would love to totally set you up with a friend.”

“Jamie, I’m 30. Your friends are half my age.”

“No, no, there’s this girl in dance that’s like 19 or 20. I know she’s out of school.”

“I’m not really sure how a 20-year-old would fit into my life now, but thanks for the offer.”

“Rob, don’t be a baby,” she said, reaching into her pocket and aiming a phone at me. She took my picture and turned it around. “Oh, that’s hot.”

“Please don’t. Seriously.”

“Listen, I’ll just send it to her, and if anything happens, it happens.”

“Just don’t tell her it was my idea. Just say 'this is a friend of my dad.' Play it cool, and really. I’m not interested.”

“Are you worried Tracy will be mad?” she asked out of the blue.

“What? Why? No, Tracy is a friend.”

“That’s not what my mom says.”

My God, is everyone in this house ganging up on me about this, I thought.

“Well, your mom is just joking, or messing with you. Or insane. Or not your real mom," I said, counting on my fingers as well, "But, she isn’t right. That's for sure.”

“Rob and Tracy sitting in a tree,” she began to sing-song.

“Shouldn’t you be IM’ing your friends or stealing music with your iPod. Shew,” I said, motioning for her to leave.

“K i s s i n g,” she continued.

“I’m going to throw you in the pool,” I said.

“First comes love,” she said, running away.

I ran after her, gray sweatpants flapping in the wind.

“Ok, I will let you send my picture to the girl if you answer a few questions,” I said finally cornering her by the spa.

“Go ahead Rob Lowe,” she said, happy and breathless.

“All right, but it has to be a secret.” I said.

“Ok. Promise," she said catching her breath and pausing, "Rob, if I were older would you go out with me. Like real old, like 25?”

“No, and stay on track. Ok, I want you to tell me about Lindsey.”

She looked at me and smiled.

“This is about the bet.”

“What?” I answered.

“The bet you and my dad were talking about. Outside. I was listening.”

“Hey, don’t your parents teach you about private conversations?”

“Yea, but it was fun. I think you can. My mom thinks you can too, but she thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“What the F-,” I said, stopping myself.

I took a breath.

“How does your mom know?”

“I heard my dad telling her about it. He said it was your idea.”

“That scoundrel. Hmm, your dad double-crossed me.” I said, amused by his play.

“You’re fucked, Rob.” She said, blankly.

“Hey, watch the mouth. You’re like 15. You kiss your Strawberry Shortcake with that mouth.”

“I kiss a lot of things with it.”

“Ok, this conversation is over. Your family has absolutely no degree of privacy,” I said, almost as an aside.

Jamie walked away, smiling, “No one drives that car but him. Not me, not mom, and not you Rob Lowe, my dad is making sure of that.”

“Jamie, I have an idea. But I need your help.”

“Will it get back at my dad?”

“I hope so,” I said.

"Count me in."

And we walked away to plot our triple cross. This was going to be some poker game.