Sunset on SATs

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 have lived in my own scattered universe for the past two weeks. My friends are angry. Heather is bummed. I am horny. It feels like college all over again. I'm a study-a-holic.

It is Friday. Many of you are probably at dinner, dropping by Blockbuster or getting ready to screw someone or something. But I will be studying, as I have been doing for the past month, taking practice tests, hanging at Starbucks. It is a sad state of affairs for the Lowe. He is no fun.

My ego is big enough to make me want to kick ass on the SAT test, my humility is strong enough to know how little I know. I deliberately wrote that without thinking. I am approaching burnout and poor writing really helps. So does Maxim magazine.

I have a few more weeks to go before the December 3 test. Tonight is a major cram session before tomorrow's practice test in Torrance. I even took a sick day from work today so I can study. I'm averaging about 3-4 hours of study time a day. No wonder everyone hates me. I would hate me too, given that opportunity.

Fuck me.

Alex has been taking it in stride, that bastard. Things come easy to him, but not to me. I used to sit home studying in high school. He would study on the car ride in, in between pipe hits. But the SAT was the one time when I busted my ass and kicked his. I know he has revenge on his mind, but you wouldn't know it by his study habits. I just realized I hit a dorky low by discussing study habits. Wow.

Regardless.

Oh, I haven't showered for a few days. Not even powdered. That region is on a hiatus, even from my own grasp.

So while everyone is getting drunk, enjoying a roll with a spinning coed or doing lines of coke off a chippendale's cock, think of me, alone with my tea, preparing for the most and least important test of my life.

High school sucks.

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Lowe Light

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 awoke this morning to the sudden realization that I am writing about things that happened a month ago. A fucking month. Is there a bigger slacker among us that pulls 30-day-old diary entries from his ass? What about the SATs Rob? Did you forget about those? Anyway, I thought I would pause before the Pennsylvania reception to catch up everyone on some present day happenings. Let's start from the bottom and work our up.

Studying has brought the dreams again. Insidious dreams. Dreams of missing the test and ruining my life. Even though in the back of my subconscious mind, I know the outcome of the SAT will have no bearing on my life these days, I find that my mission set cannot be separated from my graduated reality. When I close my eyes, I am a Jr. in high school, boner in hand, stuck inside a poster-puttied, anxiety-fueled nightmare. In my dreams, I retreat to my parent’s bourgeois Ivy League parenting. I am stalemate once again.

When I'm awake, I study. The SAT test is December 3. I have been focusing mostly on the math and logic, just like I did in high school. I went to Kaplan to check it out, and the cost of their program is almost $3500. That’s the cost of two hookers in Vegas (in the off season), so I didn’t really want to blow it on some lame SAT class with pimple-faced punks wearing Ecko. Instead, I spent $70 on an online course and am taking a free practice test in Torrance on November 19. I’m going to kill it.

Alex thought I was crazy for doing this SAT thing. But that’s because I destroyed him in our original SATs. In a strange turn of events, he decided to take the test with me this time around. It's his chance for subtle vengeance. We’ve been study buddies for the past week-and-a-half, exchanging notes, doing practice questions together. But come test day, there will be no friendship. The competition will be stiff and severe. Because we have more than bragging rights on stake. The person with the highest test score will get an entire evening with my two “Professional Vegas friends,” courtesy of the loser’s bank account. The stakes have definitely been raised.

Living with Alex has brought me back even further to my adolescence, to the good part of it. It is pretty fun to have your best friend living with you. There is no pretense or pissing contests beyond that of normal testosterone-filled egomaniacs. We are both happy and content and kindly overlook each other’s peculiarities. It is one giant summer sleepover.

But one can barely overlook the poor-quality TV that Alex gravitates towards. The show Numbers with Rob Morrow makes me sad. That guy looks old and Judd Hirsch reminds me of some other show that I can’t remember without checking IMDB. But as dumb as the show seems to me, it did show me the light in a visually persuasive manner. As I was watching, the brother looked vaguely familiar. But the vague was brought into my personal arena with Alex’s chiding.

“That dude is you,” he said, hoisting his PBR hand.

I looked up from the test book, but there was nothing on the screen but a building.

“Hold on,” he said, hitting the 8-second rewind on TiVo and pausing on the short ugly brother with the bad lid.

“Him,” he said enthusiastically.

“That dude’s ugly,” I said.

“No, not the face, well maybe the nose,” he said smiling.

I returned to my study guide.

“Ok, I’m just kidding about the nose, but check out the guy’s hair. If your hair keeps growing, yours'll look like that.”

That fucker. He was right. I could imagine my hair longer, looking just like his. Maybe that’s why I never grew it out. I hate my hair, especially on him. I hate me.

“Why’d you have to say that?” I asked.

“I’m just trying to save you from that, strange..wet...curl...stuff,” he said pointing, “you don’t want to look like that guy.”

I didn’t. I don't

“All right, let’s cut it.” I said.

“Where, here? I’m not a fucking barber, Lowe.”

“I don’t give a shit. I go to fucking Supercuts, so I’m not really expecting Jose Eber. C’mon, my shit’s easy. I’ll do the front and you do the back.”

“I’m sensing some homoerotic undertones here, but what the hell,” he said.

I began to rethink things. Like a good friend, he didn’t let me squirm long.

“Let’s get someone else to do it,” he said, “We don’t know what the fuck we’re doing.”

“Good Idea,” I said, just happy not to have him cut it.

“How about that Shelf dude, didn’t you say he cuts hair?”

“Fuck no Alex, he shaved his wife’s bush in the fucking hot tub. You need to pay attention to my drinking stories.”

He laughed.

“No, I knew that part. I just thought he cut hair too. I don’t know,” he continued, giggling.

“How about a gay guy? Daniel?”

“Oh, he might do it. I’ll call him,”

I dialed the phone.

“You dare to interrupt me during my program?” Daniel said in a Darth Vadar-like voice.

“You need to get TiVo, dude.”

“It sounds too complicated. Anyway, can you get to your point? I don’t mean to be rude, but your boy is on my screen. And you know how I love to watch him.”

“All right, can you cut my hair?”

"What the fuck, do you think I’m Vidal? Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I cut hair. Ah, the generalizations.”

“Alex just thought,” I said, deflecting the blame.

“Oh, Alex. Well, then, that’s a different story,” he said, flaunting his man-crush.

Mission accomplished.

“Seriously, do you cut hair? If you do, I'd like ya to cut mine.”

“If you trust me, I can do anything. Bring some beer. And Alex. And, well, that's it. For starters, anyway. Don't forget Alex.”

“Wait, have you been drinking? I’m not gonna do this if you’ve been drinking.”

“Rob, I had one glass of wine. Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll take care of your darling locks.”

“All right, we’ll be over in fifteen.”

“My shows, darling. Make it a half hour. And stop at the store. None of that cheap beer you straight guys drink.”

“Ok, we’ll be there,” I said, wondering why I always made simple things complicated.

I put down the phone and closed my book.

“Well,” Alex said, looking at me.

“We’re on.”

All of a sudden the phone rang.

“Maybe not,” I said, responding to the sound.

“Hello,” I answered, without looking at the caller ID.

“Rob, it’s me. Tara and I are super-bored. Do you have anything to eat?”

“Some old Chinese.”

“Let’s go to Jerry’s or something.”

“I’m actually out the door, but we can meet for drinks later if you want. I’m getting my hair cut.”

“Rob, it’s 9 at night. Who gets their hair cut at 9 at night?”

“Yea, it was a spontaneous thing. I saw this guy on TV. Well, I’ll explain it all later. Daniel is cutting it.”

“Rob you are so weird. Ok, we can meet later at the circle or something. We’re driving down.”

“I’ll be in West Hollywood, why don’t we meet at Daniels and we can go out around there.”

“Ok cool, does Daniel even know how to cut hair?”

“Of course,” I said with feigned confidence.

“If he fucks it up, we’re over, you know that?”

“Yea, I like to live dangerously,” I said, laughing.

“Later Lowe,” she said.

“Later, Heather.”

I hung up the phone and sighed.

“Tara?” Alex asked.

“Yea, she’s coming. They’re meeting us later.”

“Sweet,” he said, happy as I’ve seen in a while.

“Let’s go to the barbershop.”

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Truce

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.

Last night, a wet and sticky daydream danced sugar-sweet in a crowded Pennsylvania bar. Shenanigans was a blur in black for many of us. We were driven by mixed needs, all being met with varying degrees of success. Mine was the need to reconnect. But the morning offered an unfamiliar reality from the insidious nighttime elixir. The harsh first light awoke the need for recollection.

I sat in the shower and rinsed off the marrow-deep chills, the spilled beers and neck salt from body shots. I mentally paced the shower. Nothing had changed, not even the Dove. My thoughts raced to Alex's story, of being alone in his New York shower, praying for a ritualistic canine pink crayon. I would never be strong enough to go through such a loss. It became quite clear in New York that I needed to keep things casual with my relationships.

I had forgotten my dress shoes in California. Or I lost them. Like a good older brother I grabbed Derek’s before he awoke. Hopefully he wouldn’t miss them. But I really didn’t give a shit. It was too early for conscience. I grabbed a jug of water and walked outside on the porch. I missed the fall silence of my youth.

The Porsche was in the driveway. In its reflection I saw the last 8 years of my life. I saw Wilshire Blvd. and the most romantic kiss I had ever experienced. I saw beautiful and bad things, hidden within one of the most over-priced and under-developed sports cars known to man. I jumped in and took it for a ride. The crisp fall morning would do my body good. Plus, Derek wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon based on last night’s performance.

I drove the orange and red road as leaves swirled like snowflakes. I tried to remember last night, but it mostly remained a mystery. I woke up by myself, so that was a good sign. But I was unsure about Alex and my sister. I drove to his house to pick him up, but he was nowhere to be found. I finished the jug and went to the church alone.

My pores bled Heinekin as I stood haphazardly aware in the house of God. The second wave of my hangover had arrived, but it was the only thing that moved me forward. If I wasn’t so sick, I would have stayed in bed. I now realize how ridiculous that sounds, but in the blue-cast morning, the irrational was the only thing that I could comprehend.

I saw my parents and Derek a few pews ahead, he surreptitiously flipped me off with sincere anger in his eyes. I looked away bloodshot. My mom motioned for me to come, but there was about a 40 percent chance I would soon heave. And if I did, it would be much better if I were away from my parents. I needed an aisle seat more than anything in my life at that moment. Even a blowjob would have come in second place to a quick escape.

The church began filling up, and I looked ahead as a soloist filled the walls with voiced spirituality. The sounds were warm and soothing, and I let my eyes close to accept her even more. I wished the song could last a lifetime with me affixed to the hard pew. I wished I never had to move ahead with my life. That I could live it happily safe and emotionally absent, using her enchanted vocal walls to protect me from the fear of failed relationships. I wished I would never have to grow old or change or lose. That I could just sit dormant, listening to the beautiful sound, suspended for all time. I was happily alone in that moment.

I opened my eyes to daydream dissolve. In walked the bride, ravishing on her day. There would never be another moment for her like this. I watched her new life push away the old, escaping the chrysalis in white-veiled candor. I followed her train, dragging. Her future led my eyes to a past. In the next row over sat the one that got away, wiping the runny nose of her wedding-dressed child. Our eyes met a knowing glance, both familiar and absent. She introduced me to her life with eyes that tried to remain earnest, but drifted hopelessly lucid into the past. No matter what she said, her gaze told me the story I wanted to hear. The story she needed to tell. It was as fleeting as it was meaningful.

I scanned her family. Her husband was tall, at least 6’4”. He was taller than me. I didn’t like that about him. But there was no sense comparing. Our lives had led us in completely different directions. Hers was that of suburban parties and PTA. Of bake sales and hiding her elicit path of youth from her husband and children. I knew her in her chrysalis. Now, she was a perfect stranger with an SUV and razored blonde bangs. Feelings never die for me. I just try and escape them. She looked more beautiful than she did in high school and that scared me.

I tried to conjure up my will to focus on the ceremony, but the word of God was passive to me. I heard nothing but my own inner dialogue. I was seesawing back and forth between the romanticized past and near-present. I was a bandaged spirit, sweating alcohol. I needed to leave. I needed to escape.

I walked out of the church, feeling the trail of eyes on my back. I didn’t care. Not anymore. I began to doubt my motives for coming. I turned on Derek’s iPod, dropped the top and let Carly Simon clear it all away as I patterned the Pennsylvania landscape. God, my brother has an eclectic taste in music.

Alex’s house was along the way, so I made a final pit stop to see if he was home. Whether it was the hangover, the voiced spirituality or the ex-girlfriend, I needed a friend. I needed Alex to tell me what to do.

I knocked on the door and waited. I heard laughter inside. Alex looked through the window and opened the door.

“What the fuck happened to you?” I asked.

He led me through the foyer, shirtless with cereal bowl. He pointed with his elbow to a large leather couch. It was my sister, cozied up with the paper.

“Hi Rob, why aren’t you at the wedding?” she asked, completely nonchalant.

This was definitely not what I was expecting. But I did a good job of hiding it. My family was a breeding ground for ill-speak and repression.

“I lost interest, what about you?”

“Duh?”

“Oh, yea, I guess that was a stupid question. I’m thinking of going to the reception though. I have Derek’s car if you need a ride somewhere.”

“Yea, I need to change and do all that shit.”

“I can take you home,” Alex said.

“No, you need to get ready too or we’ll never make it,” she said.

“Here, take the car,” I said throwing her the keys, "I’ll go with Alex and we can meet you there."

“The Porsche? Derek would kill me. I don't know why you didn't give it to me. I thought I was your favorite.”

“Just take the car Shan.”

“Derek’s got some Dolly Parton on his Ipod in case you’re interested.”

Shannon grabbed her purse and kissed us both.

The slammed door was our cue to speak. And breathe.

“Dude, did you?” I asked

“I did.”

It took a minute to comprehend.

“Are you cool with it?"

“I mean, it’s weird, but I don’t give a fuck. I mean, it’s weird, that’s all.”

“It was a one time thing. It’s just something we both needed to do. Now we can move on. We both discussed it. Had the come to Jesus talk and all that shit. It was good.”

Damn, I thought. I hated him for being so emotionally centered. I’ve always been jealous of that.

“What do you mean, ‘move on?’ “ I asked.

“Move on, “he said, with a baited smile. “Move in. I thought I would interrupt your life for a few months in California.”

I smiled twelve years of joy.

“If I knew fucking my sister would get you to the West coast, I would have pimped her out sooner. I just thought she was too skinny for your taste.”

“We didn’t just fuck, Rob,” he said, smiling broadly.

"Don't push your luck Big Al, remember I screwed two moms this year. Yours could be next."

"Truce," he said.

"Truce it is."

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