Officer Officer

Saying goodbye to my roommate was the second hardest thing I had to do today. Seeing the flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror was the first. I kept driving, paying little attention to the lights. I started freaking out when the sounds came on. I wondered how could I be in trouble? What have I done? Have the six red light runs finally caught up to me?

I watched as he got out of his cruiser, picked up his pants and spit. He fixed his sunglasses and at this point I’m sweating bullets. Calm, cool and collected. Calm, cool and collected; I kept repeating to myself though I didn’t feel calm, cool and collected. I felt nervous, scared and a little pee dripping down my legs.

He tapped on my window with his right middle finger knuckle. I rolled my window down; and it seemed as if it took forever. “You know you were doing eighty-eight in a seventy?" Officer officer asked.

I could play dumb, “Oh, I was. Well jolly, I guess I was. Oh darn silly of me.”

Or I could play smart, “I know I was officer. It was a terrible mistake and I’ll never do it again. Actually, for everyone’s sake just arrest me now.”

But I played cocky writer, “I know. I guess I’m just one of kids who thinks the law is below me. I’m going to visit my mom she lives about thirty minutes away.”

“Well this is a federal offense so I’ll have to see your license. Is the car registered under your name?”

“No, my mothers,” I said, handing him my license with the out-dated picture of me on it.

“All right we’ll you sit tight. I’ll be right back,” officer officer said as he slinked back to his cruiser.

I watched him in the rearview mirror. Watched as he typed into his computer. Watched as he brings up my file and sees the pervious run ins I had with the law. I wondered if I would get jail time. I wondered how much the ticket would be. I started playing with my school badge; my third arm in other cases. I never the left apartment without it and today was no different. Officer officer came back to my car.

“Well, Joseph I’m going to give you a warning. Just remember that over twenty-five can land you in prison.”

“I will Officer. Thank you, officer. I’ll never speed again.”

“Are you a Full Sail student?”

Wait. How did he know that? I didn’t know how to answer him until he pointed to my chest.

“Yes. I am.”

“My son wants to go there for Computer Animation. Its just so expansive.”

Officer officer telling me as if I didn’t know. “I know that’s why I’m moving back home.”

“What are you there for?”

“Creative Writing.”

“For like the movies and stuff? Yeah were gonna see Guardians of the Galaxy tonight.”

Did my forehead now read Officer Officers diary?

“Are you?! I heard its great.”

“Alright well I’ll let you get home. Promise me you won’t speed. I’ll follow you about two miles then you’re off by yourself.”

Officer officer started to walk about to his car. I took a deep breath and rolled my window up.

“Tell me how the movie is!”

I’m sure he didn’t hear me.

The Faux Going Away Party

The countdown to my move back home has reached the single digits. I have two days to enjoy the full beauty Orlando has to offer me; and I have to spend those days taking A to the airport, fixing and finishing homework assignments, help the new roommate move into my place and write a fiction piece on a school shooting.

This wouldn’t be a problem, you see, if everyone didn’t insist on seeing me before I go. Everyone is pushing for a going away party, and I’m pushing for a “I’m only going three hours away so I’ll be back every now and then” party. Maybe an “I’ll be seeing everyone the day I leave party so who else do I have to say bye to” party. No one is taking my party suggestions so the roommate made tacos and invited everyone over for a faux going away party.

A, mystery, Tennessee and smoke (who happens to be the new roommate.) Other classmates, some I haven’t seen since I started and some I thought dropped out. As I looked around, I wondered, if I could be sentimental for just a moment, how it would’ve been if I never met these people. Would I still be in school? Would I have The Homo Whisperer (the roommate told me to make one and I took her advice.)? Would I have met numerous writers and teachers who read my work, liked it, and gave me pointers on how to fix it? Would I be published on the site my teacher told us about?

I wondered all these things, ate tacos and chatted with my past classmates. One of them went to Puerto Rico for summer break and fell in love. She told me all about him, I wasn’t really paying attention I was focusing on my taco, when the roommate came up to me. She tells me that her old friend from high school was supposed to come up, see me off and then take the roommate to a concert at the House of Blues. But the old friend never answered the roommate back. Never told her what concert, how much the tickets were or when she should be ready.

It was when the roommate checked her Facebook when she learned the truth. Her old friend went to the concert with her new “boy-toy” and brushed off the roommate like a new sweater from Goodwill. The roommate didn’t look devastated but I knew what she was feeling like. Why is it when someone gets in a relationship his or her character completely changes?

I couldn’t help but wonder, Relationships: Friend or Foe? We’ve all had friends who finally get boyfriends or girlfriends and leave their friends “out in the rain.” They forget about us until the inevitable happens. Should we forget about them like they did us? They are still our friends, even if they don’t act like it. They were there for us so why can’t we be there for them?

In all honesty, I wondered about this until the roommate brought out cake and then all of my attention was placed on the cake. 

The Gay Gandhi

The roommate and I have this saying, “Call in the time of need. Text for anything else.” And we told this to our classmates who don’t really understand the saying. They call when they needs ride to the store, they text when they have a problem with homework. Three days ago, the roommate and I were sitting in the living room, she was starting Hemlock Grove, I was finishing United States of Tara when her cell phone rang. Mind you its like eight and our bedtime is strictly at eleven.

“Hey, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” the roommate says.

“I can’t understand you, do you want to come over? I could make you some food?” the roommate says as she looks over at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“That was A…something wrong. She was crying.”

As we waited for A to come over and tell us what happened, I thought about the things that could’ve happened. Her ex-boyfriend, who she lives with, maybe hit her? Maybe he’s seeing someone else. Maybe A hit him? I forgot to mention that A’s ex-boyfriend is Mystery.

It was only when the knock at the door came that my mind stop wondering what happened. As soon as A walked in, her eyes red and puffy, her hair undone and bits of crumbs stuck to her clothes, she grabbed onto the roommate and brought her in for a hug.

“Sweetie? What’s wrong?” the roommate asked, leading A over to the couch.

“My house…in New Jersey…it caught…on fire,” A started but was interrupted by tears.

“And my mom…my mom…”

I looked at the roommate already knowing the answer.

“She was trapped and…didn’t make it,” A’s tears overtook her. She reached out for me and held onto me, crying into my shoulder. I patted her back. I wanted to whisper, “its okay” but I wondered if it would be.

“Go ahead and cry it out sweetie. Everyone cries, its okay,” I told her. I looked at the roommate, unsure of what to do. Or say.

A’s tears started getting heavier and the roommate stepped into the kitchen.

“Did you eat anything? Want me to make something for you?”

A looked up and I brushed her tears away, asking first if it was okay if I did that because even in this circumstance, it would be creepy. 

“I had some pie. And some cake,” A answered back.

“Good. Nice and healthy.”

A laughed and I knew she was going to be okay…with time.

That night, after the dinner the roommate made, I walked A home.

“Joe, I know I can always come to you, you’re like a giant teddy bear. What am I going to do when you leave?” she asked, as we hugged and she stepped inside her apartment. On the way back I wondered why people always come to me. This isn’t the first time I had a friend come to me in when they were in trouble. I asked this question to the roommate as soon as I walked in.

“I’m not sure. Maybe its like we're the patron saints of creative writing or something.”

“So you can be Mother Teresa and I can be Gandhi?” I asked.

“Yeah. But instead you’ll be the gay Gandhi and I’ll be the non Catholic Mother Teresa” she answered. 

That night, we went to bed at exactly, one-twenty five. 

The Visual Burn Book

It took two days for me to move my stuff into my apartment. It took two weeks, two roommates and countless sips of Mountain Dew to move my stuff out of the apartment. I’m unsure why it took so long, I mean, I’m leaving everything I brought…here. That includes, a red twelve-dollar couch I bought at goodwill, a TV and its stand, the dining room table and its three folding chairs, a bookcase with a “My student is honored to be part of the honor roll” sticker and a whole dresser that once held my underwear.

Well, what else are you taking with you? That’s a great question, thanks for asking. I have three boxes, stacked with books, a box full of my posters and my DVDs. Oh and my desk.

Well, why did that take you two weeks? I guess you know you’re a writer when you can’t let go of your books. They are, in a way, a part of you. Even if you hated, didn’t finish or even start the book there has to be something you like within the pages the author created. I came here with nine boxes of books and I’m leaving with three, im saying that’s a pretty good turnout.

And because I found my old video camera which I since dubbed The Visual Burn Book. Remember that stage when we all wanted to be the next YouTube, well I guess now it would be the next Vine, star? If you didn’t have one I have one question to ask you, “How?”  I remember when my friends and I would make videos that have no point, or videos of us, singing or dancing? Yeah. It was upon viewing them as an adult that I knew why I “lost” my video camera.

THEY WERE HORRIBLE. I couldn’t help but ask myself, “What the hell were we doing?” Some videos were pretty mean, where we throw the words “fag” and “fat” around like they were bees. But all the videos were funny, almost SNL ready.

I had to call the only person who would appreciate them as much as I did.

“You’ll never freaking believe what I just freaking found?”

“A boyfriend?” my best friend asked.

“Ha, really funny. No, my old video camera!”

“Please tell me the videos from the camping trip are there?”

The videos from the camping trip were, indeed, on there.  The videos, all short, were of the best friend and I, pretending to be lost in the woods. The funny thing was, in the background, you could see GBF. And newly single. And ex-boyfriend number two. All before we become friends. All before we started dating each other.  

I wondered about camping trips and how it would be if we went on one today? I wondered if people even still go on camping trips. I wondered...

A Real Teacher

Do you remember that class that you took in high school that you VOWED you would never take again? The class that had the most homework, the degrading teacher that hated everything you did and the people that always had the better answer.

Guess where I spent the last four hours? Sitting in the class I vowed I would never take again and hating myself even more. Literature Thinking and Criticism and trust me, it isn’t as fun as it looks. The teacher, one of the most stereotypical professors I have seen on campus, comes in five-minutes late. He slams his black briefcase down, takes off his tweed (ew) jacket and tells us to get out a notebook and a writing utensil. Does this guy know he works at a college that uses computers for everything?

He starts his lecture at a breath-taking speed complete with big words none of us know how to spell. He takes a breath, sips on his water and continues his lecture from hell. We were to read the first half of Uncle Toms Cabin complete with reader’s notes. “Do not use sparknotes. Trust me I will know and I will deduct points from your grade.”

Wow, a real teacher.

If anyone has read or tried to read UTC, they know that the book is long. About six hundred pages too long. I’m not saying that the book is hard to read or understand (Shakespeare, Jane Austen) its just, How am I supposed to read half a book in three days?

“I was a trained English Literature major. I can read fifty words a second. I could be finished with this book by the time we leave here.”

And that’s good for you but what about the rest of us who AREN'T trained in English Literature.

Before long, we got onto the topic of marriage. I’m not sure who started it, why it was started or why were even talking about it, I just know that it started and somehow got related to gay marriage.

“How do you feel about gays getting married?”

“Marriage, in my views, is between a man and a woman. That’s it,” the professor tells us.

There I was, sitting in the first row, praying he doesn’t ask for my opinion. I could feel my other classmates’ eyes on me. And for the first time, in a long time,  I felt like I was being attacked. I was sweating bullets, like I was re-retaking my driving test. 

“I’m indifferent to it. If they want to get married, let them,” smoke answered. The truth was, I felt the same way as Smoke.

“I wonder how the reception would be?”

As my classmates talked about partying and the teacher stepped outside for a Diet Coke, I knew I would be safe from being asked awkward questions from my Republican professor. Until the topic of children.

And I finished the first half of UTC. With the help of sparknotes.

Whiskey Dick

The best thing about being the only gay kid in a class full of straight men is over hearing the stories of their first sexual experience over hamburgers from Wendy’s. Straight men, upon further investigation, are very open creatures. They describe who they had sex with, what “it” looked like, and who did what to who. It’ll make more sense soon.

“When I was in high school I could care less about my grades or friends,” Smoke said, as he lit another cigarette. “I spent most of my senior year inside girls and not textbooks.”

“I meet this honey at a party and we hit it off. Seconds later were in the back of my car, making out. She’s touching me. I’m touching her. It’s pretty fucking hot.”

“But you did it in the back of a car. Isn’t that like the most stereotypical place to have sex?” Tennessee asked.

“I’m not finished yet. So were in the back of my car and her sister, another hottie, walks outside, starts to fucking bang on the windows,” Smoke, finishing his cigarette, pounds his fits into the air. A story and free show.

“The girl I’m banging waves the other one away. I mean, I couldn’t stop I was actually like…you know. The sister, no shit, stands there, hands over her boobs, fucking waiting.”

"Talk about a free show,"I chime in. 

"No shit. She liked it cause three or so weeks later I banged her." 

“Hold on, I need a refill,” mystery gets up. The table gets quiet.

“God, I was so sexual back then, like ten girls a week. It got worse after I joined the marines.”

Mystery comes back but Smokes story suddenly stopped. He got that longing look in his eyes, remembering something.

“That’s when shit really hit the fan. I started doing pills, quit school so I could pay for more pills.”

This was a side we have never seen before. Shocked we wanted to know more.

“Started fooling around with strippers, no condoms-"

“No condoms? Aren’t you afraid one of them is pregnant?”

“Or was?” I ask. I couldn't help but wonder how the world would look with little Smokes running around. 

Smoke shakes his head. “I would leave my phone number in case something like that ever happens.”

“A number that’s been discounted for seven years,” he goes on to tell us, laughing. As we walked back to class, hearing mystery’s first time, I found out that straight men are just like bottom gays. Their first time was filled with pain, shame or with a person they hardly knew but admired from afar.

But gays are classy and never have to experience what the straight men call “whiskey dick.”

At least, I hope they don’t.

Financial Aid: A Love Story

             Getting financial aid is almost like finding the perfect man but instead of breaking your heart when he leaves, he just asks you for money. Going to the financial aid office, to see just how poor you’re going to be for the rest of your life, is like going on a first date. You’re unsure of who or how much you’ll get, butterflies in your stomach and a nervous sweat from waiting.

There I was, in the lime green painted office of the financial aid people. A people very different from the rest of us. The TV played a movie fitting for such occasion, The Grudge. As the waiting room emptied and I was left alone with the vomit inducing paint color, I wondered why I was so nervous. I’ve been in school for ten months, all my papers checked out and literally all I was doing was handing them a piece of paper with my moving info.

To keep my mind busy and to make it look like I was actually doing something instead of listening to the workers conversations, I texted the roommate. She was in class, has been for seven hours and was just about ready to give up.

On break now, ready to just leave. How can some1 teach math for 8 hours!- the roommate.

8 hours?! That’s insane. I was never in class that long- me.

Its okay though cause im looking at this cute guy who sits in front of me.

I’m sitting in financial aid.

Isn’t the lime green disgusting.

I was about to answer her back when my advisor called me. We’ve chatted through email before but this was the first time I laid my eyes on him. Again, like a first date. I handed him the papers, a simple worksheet he’s been looking for since 2013, and he told me that everything checked out.

He just had one question for me. “Why are you switching back to online?”

“Family troubles, financial troubles the usual.”

“I feel ya. I’m still paying off a loan. I graduated in 1998,” he told me.

“Well, everything looks pretty good. I wish you the best in your travels,” he says as he stands up and offers me his hand. We shake and I leave. First date success.

The way back home I wondered about financial aid. That beast in the college process, the dragon we all have to slay. It’s really not as bad as you would think it would be. Unless you fuck up, somewhere on the paperwork, have to start all over again, rip out a few strands of hair and wait to see just how much aid you’ll get.

This is to all my babies just starting college. It really is the best four years of your life. Don’t fuck it up.

4th of July with SJP

There it was, draped over a beach chair, swaying in the light July breeze. The words and the City caught my attention. The bright pink color led me to believe this was the towel of my dreams. The man who used it to dry his face led me to believe he was the man of my dreams. Except he was married and eighty-years old.

“I couldn’t help but wonder…where did you get that towel?” I asked.

“Oh, this old thing? It was Sarah Jessica’s at first and she left it in the car,” he goes on to tell me.

Hold on. Sarah Jessica? As in Sarah Jessica Parker? As in my hero for the last five months?

“Sarah Jessica Parker?”

He nods. “Yep, I used to drive her to the set. She was always thirty minutes late. She came down the steps, putting on her high heels. She was great, so funny.”

Excuse me as I throw up.

“She used to call me super Dave.”

“Well super Dave, were going to be best friends,” I tell him.

He goes on to tell me stories about “Sarah Jessica” and how she always treated the cast and crew to dinner or shopping sprees. How she thanked him when she won her second Emmy. How she told him to call her Sarah J and it was at this point, the smile on my face hurting my cheeks, that super Dave’s wife came up and shit all over our conversation.

“Honey don’t fill his head with those lies. Everyone in Hollywood, including Miss Parker, is nasty and vicious,” she said and walked away. I looked at her, like how could Miss Parker be nasty after the stories Dave told me?

“Don’t listen to her. She always hated Sarah J. Women,” super Dave told me, rolling his eyes. I loved him. He said his job title was theatrical teamster and I was sure that after driving Miss Parker he was involved with the mafia. But I didn’t dare ask him.

At the end of night, Dave gave me some of the best advice I have ever heard in my life.

“Don’t you ever give up. Don’t ever. You have a passion go after it. This business was tough, and I was only a driver! There are so many jobs, so many freaking jobs. Start at the bottom, like everyone else. Don’t be an asshole.”

“One of these days, someone will be on stage thanking you. And you’ll be on stage thanking them. It’s a whole circle. A tough and scary circle. Hollywood is a great place. You can see thugs, drug addicts and an Oscar winner all on one street corner.”

“If you ever need a driver, you know who to call.”

I can now say that that was one of the best 4^th of July’s I have ever had. Minus the food that made me gain at least ten pounds.

The Patron Saint of Sex

Living in a beach town means there is only one thing to do: visit the beach. You can visit the beach with friends or by yourself. Me, being the type of person that hates going to places by himself, called every single person in my contact list. Well, the ones that still liked me or considered me as a friend.

As I waited at the beach, for someone, anyone, to text me back, I looked at my surroundings. Which wasn’t much, except for twelve-year-old girls wearing bikinis, looking better than the older girls wearing bikinis. You know the world has changed when younger kids look better than college sophomores or adults.

Finally, my saving graces came. Three friends from high school, who I haven’t seen since New Years Eve, came and set up their little towels. As they slapped sunscreen on, a lesson I never truly learned, we caught up on everything from college debt to boys to how many sexual partners we’ve had.

“I’ve had seven. Not counting the last one because he couldn’t even get it up.”

I was shocked. Where was the girl from high school? The one who was late to class and cried to the teacher? I since dubbed her the Patron Saint of Dicks.

“I have a problem, its like once I started, I couldn’t stop,” Patron said.

“Yes, but you use protection though? Right?” I asked.

“Of course. I don’t need a kid.”

"Ladies. Get the pill. Or get that stupid T thing that just stays up there for five years." She really wanted me to put that in here. She really is the patron saint of sexual activity. 

As we took a swim, the water a nice, cool blue, I couldn’t get her dramatic change out of my mind. I wondered about change, I wondered if it was college or was it just something that snapped in her mind. Because she wasn’t like this in high school, she was barely allowed to have a boyfriend!

I wondered about the twelve year old girls that look better than us. I thought to my move back home and I asked out loud, “Why is everything changing?”

“Joe? Are you okay?”

“Just tell me why everything’s changing!?!?!?”

“But nothings changing. We’re still the same people. We’re still friends.”

As we hugged goodbye, with promises to meet up again, I couldn’t get that word out of head. I drove home with no music, that’s how much I thought about change. I wondered if change is an inevitable part of life. It comes in all shapes and sizes, colors and shades but the most drastic change, if I could be a little dramatic for two minutes, is the one you have with yourself.

That even if your friendships, relationships, family, classmates or home life changes, you’ll still be the person you were before. But the worst change is the one you have with the one who broke your heart. As you see him, be the him you know, with someone else.

Supergay: The Guy behind me in line at Starbucks.

Gabriel Iglesias says there are five levels of fatness: big, healthy, husky, fluffy and dammnnn. I say there are two levels of gayness: gay and supergay. I was standing in line at Starbucks, a disaster on itself, when a woman stepped up behind me. I caught her in the corner of my eye, but something was off.

As I turned around for a better look I noticed that the woman was actually a man. I knew because I saw no boobs or bra and because his shoulders were as wide as mine. I knew this person was transgendered. Or at least in the process of.

As people whispered, walked away and laughed, I couldn’t help but clap inside my own head for his (her) own bravery. But I also wondered, what if he wasn’t transgendered? What if he just liked wearing women’s clothing?

In societies and communities that demand acceptance, why are so we quick to judge each other?

We’ve all met that type of gay, the supergay in other words. The ones who wear high heels, make-up and even, in some cases, hair extensions. The ones that like to do make-up and dress up. The one who only knows three words in their whole vocabulary: YASSSSS, SLAY and LANA DEL REY.

I wondered about the difference between gay and supergay. Is there a checklist? A website? Or is it like a switch, one where you can turn it on and off at the same time. I asked my collection of fags, ex-boyfriend one and two and GBF, wanting to know what they think.

“I would wear make-up. I already wear mascara and a little blush,” ex-boyfriend one said.

“I’m not sure if I would wear make-up. I would wear maybe gloves and hats! Like Audrey,” ex-boyfriend two said and to be completely honest I wasn’t shocked.

“Can supergays wear mink?” GBF said.

Their answers lead me to believe that supergays just like fancy clothing. Very expansive fancy clothing. I couldn’t help but wonder about Ms. J, one of America’s Next Top Model judges. He is supergay, but some of his outfit choices make him super, super gay. And that’s a gay NO ONE wants to see.