REPRESSIVE
DREADFUL - EVENT #8
I. A-Side
The evening began with a game of pool.
Freddie Mercules had never played before, but after a quick explanation of the rules, he could sum up the game to one objective.
“So, I should get any ball into a pocket except for that black one in the middle?” he asked, gesturing to the racked set of balls on the other end.
“As simple as that,” Davey said. Frankly, it was more complicated than that, although there was no need to dwell on the details.
Davey was dressed in ripped jeans that hugged his ass as if anything else would cause jail time. Naturally, the crop top he wore showed off his stomach. While not aggressively skinny, no one would argue that Davey needed to lose any excess. He wore sunglasses inside the room, even though night was creeping in. He gave no commentary on why he wore them, and Freddie decided not to broach the topic. Davey’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with a handful of strands on the side falling free. Several days’ worth of stubble covered his face and, given more time, the result would likely be an impressive beard. Freddie tried his best not to stare, as his mother often reminded how impolite the gesture was. But Freddie always saw her coveting other people when they went grocery shopping or were sat in a movie theater before the showing started. She was enamored with others. No, not enamored.
Disgusted.
She sickened at the thought of anyone not adhering to the strict guidelines of what constitutes a man and a woman. Her viewpoints weren’t conjured from the Bible, if that’s what you’re thinking. Freddie’s mom was born a prideful prude who let everyone in on her thoughts.
She didn’t believe in tattoos or piercings or vibrant hair colors. She groaned and groveled at others who lacked modesty. She gasped at the idea of facelifts, Botox, sculpting, or any other optional procedure that drove individuals to be vain.
Momma was always right and always got in the final word.
After living under that roof for twenty years, a few of her quirks and beliefs seeped into Freddie. He fought hard against the rising tide of hatred and snide remarks, but he fell into the same nasty habits.
And as a punishment, Freddie has to deal with The Turmoil.
The Turmoil is what boils inside him each time he sees an attractive man. The Turmoil is what he tries to suppress until his nights become sleepless and his days become destructive. For too long, Freddie has fought against The Turmoil. He has downloaded (and deleted) the major dating apps a thousand times. He has entered chat rooms intending to shed The Turmoil only to flake and never respond to any conversation. He has stopped engaging in the deplorable act of observing men in erotic poses and doing unholy things to one another, only to restart the habit in low, vulnerable moments.
How did he get here then?
It’s a simple story, really. Freddie was sunbathing at the complex’s pool two weeks ago when someone stepped into his light. His eyes felt the shift and his skin felt the relief as the shadow draped over him.
“Are you using this other seat?” the voice asked.
Freddie peeked open one eye and then the other. “No. I am not.”
“Would you be okay if I moved your towel then?”
“It’s not my towel,” Freddie said, pointing back at his that was being used as a headrest.
“Oh, wonderful news.” The man pushed off the towel and claimed the seat for himself. After two minutes, he introduced himself as David, although he much preferred Davey. Their conversation was sparse, stuck in the awkwardness of first meeting someone while also having an endless amount of topics to cover.
For no reason at all, they exchanged numbers. They complained equally about not knowing anyone in the complex, so Davey suggested they meet up sometime. It’s hard to know if he saw The Turmoil within Freddie. Some people have a sense for that sort of thing, and Davey was what Freddie would classify as flam-boy-ant. His mother was fond of the word, weaponizing it to her satisfaction. At first, Freddie was repulsed by the way Davey spoke and the mannerisms that followed along—over-exaggerated hand gestures, prolonged enunciations of each word, a sing-songy voice that sat an octave too high, and the ability to make everything sound melodramatic. Freddie wanted to sneak away during that first conversation, regress back into the self-loathing bubble he thrived in. It would have been easier to ditch him then, but it didn’t happen. Freddie listened and engaged. Freddie pushed aside any unsavory thoughts or prejudices and allowed himself to be friendly with Davey.
And because of that choice, they were engaged in a somewhat thrilling game of pool on that dreadful night.
“Your turn,” Davey said. He brought the pool stick down to his side like a soldier would their spear. He was stripes, and he only had three balls left on the table compared to Freddie’s five.
Freddie blamed his poor shots on being distracted. He did not think that Davey would exhibit any athletic ability, even in a mild game such as pool. Call it what you want, but whenever Freddie saw an effeminate man such as Davey, he just assumed that they were only into makeup and drag and being catty. Women were mild-mannered and domesticated; men were fierce and untamable. Those were the laws of nature. Those were the standards set long before Freddie existed. To have anyone challenge those norms threw Freddie into a frenzy. He shook his head and allowed the thoughts to break loose.
Freddie leaned down toward the table and eyed his shot. The 4 ball was halfway across the table, perched next to Davey’s 11 ball. With the right angle and a bit of finesse, Freddie could tap the 4 ball and sink it in the left corner pocket. He brought the cue stick back three times and envisioned the trajectory of the shot. Finally, he let the stick free. The cue ball glided forward and struck the 4 ball at center mass, propelling it into the corner pocket.
“Nice one!” Davey said.
Freddie grunted an acknowledgement. He was locked into his next shot. The cue ball had scattered to a distant corner and any chance of sinking another ball hinged on Freddie banking the shot off multiple walls. He took a breath, held it, and convinced himself that losing would be an embarrassment to all men everywhere. Anything less than a trouncing was a step back for the male population. He owed them that much.
The shot bounced off the side and zipped right past the 7 ball. A major whiff.
“Oof, tough break,” Davey said. He moved into position, and with no hesitation, sank his next shot.
“How’d you get so good at this?” Freddie asked. He tried to swallow the frustration that was swelling.
Davey laughed. “I’m not any good at this, but I played with my dad a bit while growing up. There was a poolhall he liked going to near our house.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“It is for some.” Davey went wide right on his next shot. “Ah, fuck.”
They continued on in competition until Davey sank the 8 ball into a middle pocket. An easy shot by all means. Freddie still had four balls left on the table.
“You did well,” Davey said, grabbing all the balls from the pockets and piling them onto one side.
“No. I was awful.”
“It was your first time playing. We could go best two-out-of-three? If you want to lose again,” Davey said with an instigative smile.
Freddie looked at him briefly before turning away. That thing is the embodiment of sin, his mother’s voice echoed. “Maybe we can come back to it. What about a game of shuffleboard? Have you played that before?”
Davey nodded. “They had one at the local bar when I was in college. People went there just to play that. They had shuffleboard leagues and everything. I’m not the best, but I can certainly hold my own.”
Considering its lack of use most days, the entertainment room at The Amorphophallus was far more expansive than it needed to be. Besides the shuffleboard and pool table, the room also had a foosball table, a television with an L-shaped couch, three bar-height tables to loiter at, and half a wall lined with movies, TV shows, books, and albums. The selection on the shelves was so scattered and nonsensical that you could drive someone to insanity upon insisting a pattern existed within the options. If you asked the leasing office how often the room was booked, they wouldn’t even have a credible answer. It’s a room so underutilized that there were rumblings of knocking down the wall and expanding the gym or, better yet, adding in another apartment.
Freddie and Davey were halfway through their game of shuffleboard when a shift occurred. It’s as if they were taking off on a cross-country flight. Just as Freddie slid a disk down the board, the pressure in the room heightened. His ears popped. He instinctively placed a hand on his head and worked his jaw. The disk kept moving with too much speed and fell off the end of the board.
“Did you feel that?” Freddie asked.
“Yeah,” Davey said, mimicking the same motions as Freddie. “It’s like I am deep-sea diving.”
Freddie stepped away from the shuffleboard. With deliberate movements, he walked around the perimeter of the room, testing whether the pressure had changed.
It did not.
“Weird,” he said.
“Weird,” Davey echoed.
They debated whether they should leave. Maybe there was something wrong with the air conditioning, or maybe a noxious gas was leaking into the room. They tossed around crackpot theories and hypotheses until concluding that nothing seemed out of place.
“I’ve experienced stranger things,” Davey said.
“Like what?” Freddie tossed another puck down the board. A miss.
“I mean, nothing out of the norm. I’ve had people follow me back to my apartment from the bars, or I thought something was standing in my room in the middle of the night. Those are pretty common, right? Just the mind playing tricks.”
Freddie laughed. A nervous chuckle. Was he allowed to do such a thing? Was he allowed to have any fun at all? This was only two friends hanging out.
Friends?
No, acquaintances at best. His mother would rip his ass to his ribs if she knew he was hanging with a degenerate like Davey.
This would be the only time we’ll see each other, Freddie convinced himself. He didn’t need the temptation. Anyway, if he wanted a woman, he could find one.
Freddie scolded himself for being nasty. He was enjoying himself. There. Was that so awful to think?
“Wait, you think someone stalking you is only a mind trick?” Freddie asked.
“I . . . It comes with the territory.”
“What territory is that?”
“You know, we live four blocks away from the gay bars. I walk to them all the time. And, I guess, people like me. They gravitate to me. I’m a bit of everything. I morph into what I need to be. Masculine for some. Feminine for others. I exist in a hybrid state because that’s the way I maximize any attraction people have for me. Sometimes, people don’t like to be told no. That’s all. It’s only happened twice. That I know of.”
Freddie took a moment to digest the information. “Who are you, really? Who do you want to be?”
With precision, Davey tossed a puck down the board. The puck landed in the farthest section. Three more points. Game over.
“That answer,” Davey said, “would need to be discussed over a drink. I don’t share secrets with strangers.”
Freddie felt The Turmoil rising within him. An urge. A dilemma. A crossroads. He shuttered it. He buried the feeling as far down as he could manage. “Just answer one question for me . . .”
“Okay,” Davey said.
“Do I have any chance of beating you at foosball? Because I’m tired of getting my ass kicked.”
Davey stepped closer and put a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. The touch sent a vibrant shock through his system. His body considered recoiling, but Freddie held firm. The touch was brief and non-sexual in nature. Davey had the classic look of a slut, but his behavior so far offered nothing of the sort. His mother’s voice shouted out the word until all other thoughts ceased.
SLUT.
SLUT!
SLUT!SLUT!SLUT!!SLUT!SLUT!
The word was so effortless. It carried no weight for someone like Momma. She slung it around like a backpack filled with nothing but air. She didn’t understand that people absorbed the hatred. People suppressed the disappointment of being a target. They became infinitesimal and powerless.
Freddie had to be better than that.
He worked his jaw and focused his attention back to popping his ears, not contemplating biases and phobias.
“Honestly,” Davey said, “you will get your ass kicked in foosball, too. I played that in high school all the time. Muscle memory is bound to creep back in.” Davey stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. I could try losing if you want?”
“That’s not necessary,” Freddie said. “I’m willing to try another game of pool. I think I might beat you this time.”
“Yeah, sure.” Davey was already moving toward the table and re-racking the balls.
The game began with a clash, ball against ball. The solids and stripes intermingled before bursting apart, repelled by their disgust for one another. The break was fierce enough by Freddie that a solid found its home in the corner pocket.
“Hey! Off to a good start,” Davey said.
The hot streak continued for Freddie as he landed the next three shots. The first two were easy tap-ins, remnants of the fantastic break. The third shot took some strategizing. He walked around the table and examined the angles. Nothing was clear-cut. He’d have to bank it off a wall and sidestep at least one of Davey’s stripes at any angle. This tense time of contemplation took so long that Davey stepped away from the table and occupied himself with the shelving full of media. Davey cocked his head and perused the offerings. His fingers glided across each spine, touching the ones that he recognized. Eventually, in perfect sync with Freddie making his shot, Davey plucked a DVD free.
“You missed it,” Freddie cried out. “I’m running the table over here!”
“You’re also taking forever.” Davey walked back over and examined the state of the game. “Nothing for you to play now.”
Freddie agreed. He lined up his next shot and banked the cue ball off three walls before it rolled to a stop right in front of a grouping of stripes.
“Thank you very much,” Davey said, smirking.
“What did you find over there? Anything good?” Freddie asked. He pointed to the DVD still in Davey’s hands. Freddie felt a lightness wash over him. He enjoyed being on top. Winning was a drug and anyone who says otherwise was just too familiar with loss.
Davey flashed the cover, quick enough to see the writing but not absorb any of the words. “One of my favorites, actually. And right in time for Halloween. Have you ever seen it?”
“I can’t even see the title from here, but probably not. I’m not big into Halloween. It was never a thing in my house growing up. The witchcraft and devil imagery didn’t sit well with my parents.”
“That’s a shame. It’s one of my favorite holidays. I don’t dress up anymore, though. These days I enjoy the macabre aspect of it. The more adult themes you can experiment with.”
“Macabre?”
“Death,” Davey said. “Or anything relating to the gruesome aspect of Halloween. Torture, mutilation, spells, summoning, and so on.”
“Oh.” Freddie didn’t know what else to say. He looked away from Davey. His ears were still clogged. The pressure was still heightened within the room, but Freddie had adapted. It was amazing how quickly one’s mind forgot about slight inconveniences. Some dwell on them; others, like Freddie, were only preoccupied by such monolithic ideas like The Turmoil. Everything else lacked importance.
“Sorry, was that too much? I didn’t mean to unsettle you. I promise that I’m not into anything super weird,” Davey said, stepping closer to Freddie.
Freddie took a half step back. “Uh, it’s fine. Really. Want to get back to playing the game?”
Davey ignored the question and held up the DVD. “It’s The Twilight Zone. The movie, not the show. Ever seen it?”
“No, I am not familiar.”
“Wow, you’re really missing out. It’s a classic.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yeah,” Davey said. “Others would disagree, but my favorite segment is the opening. It’s simplistic yet effective. This guy is driving and picks up a hitchhiker. They start talking and the conversation drifts to The Twilight Zone.”
“Sounds meta,” Freddie cut in. He tried to seem interested. If anything, The Turmoil was roiling up again. Thoughts of Davey naked. Thoughts of himself on top. Thoughts of them entangled. It’s wrong. He’s wrong, Freddie told himself. The same cycle persisted and formed. Loathing, regrets, hatred, regression, fear, disgust. One night, one encounter could not break what’s been molded and crafted for so long.
“It is. They talk about their favorite episodes and get into a slight disagreement about whether the episode in question is from The Twilight Zone or Outer Limits. Anyway, that’s all set up. You know, the pointless conversation we all have, especially between two strangers. Without skipping a beat, the hitchhiker asks if the driver wants to see something scary. The driver is all for it. ‘Yes,’ he says, repeating it multiple times. The hitchhiker seems almost surprised at his willingness. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I’ll show you, but you need to pull over.’ The driver scoffs at this. ‘C’mon, just show me while we are driving,’ he says. ‘No, no,’ the hitchhiker says. ‘You gotta pull over. It’ll be quick. Two seconds. That’s all.’ The driver relents. We watch as he brings the car to a stop on the shoulder. Of course, it’s dark out and they are on a deserted highway. The perfect setting. You can feel the tension building. Maybe it’s all bullshit, but you know what movie you’re watching. Something is bound to happen.”
“So what happens?” Freddie asked. His thoughts had pivoted. The Turmoil became muted enough for him to focus on Davey’s story.
“I was just about to tell you. After they pull over, the hitchhiker turns away from the driver. He sort of cowers in the corner and hides his face. They cut back to the driver, who appears more anxious and worried. Then, the hitchhiker finally turns back and is now a monster. He has sharp teeth and gray, leathery skin. He lunges at the driver and probably rips him apart.”
“That doesn’t sound too scary,” Freddie confessed. He was expecting more. A larger reveal than the classic monster transformation.
“Why don’t you watch it for yourself?” Davey suggested. He waved the DVD in his direction.
“Maybe you should have shown me instead of telling me . . .”
Davey laughed. “I wish I had thought of that. But let’s try it anyway.” The smile slid away. “What do you say, Freddie?” Davey stepped closer. His eyes shined while the rest of his face became placid. “You wanna see something really scary?”
“Su—”
It was then, with impeccable timing, that the lights went out. The room drenched itself in darkness. Light trickled in from the hallway, but not enough to distinguish shadows from sanity. Freddie reached out a hand until he felt the edge of the pool table. He braced himself.
“Davey?” he said. “C’mon now.”
The pressure rose. Freddie’s ears throbbed as the world muted itself. He opened his jaw and rubbed beneath his ears. He called out again, but the words sounded miles away as if he had the television on the lowest volume. Freddie looked around the room, undecided about whether he should flee or stand firm.
Then he saw it. The glowing from the ceiling. Something was perched in the corner. Freddie stared and watched the glowing cease each time the thing blinked. He convinced himself that it was a monster. Something with sharp fangs and worn, wrinkly skin. No illusions existed in this darkness. Freddie remained frozen in fear. He gripped the pool table tighter, forcing all the blood out of his fingertips. He watched as the creature unfurled itself. Freddie pictured the wings spreading or the limbs stretching out. The sound was faint, but Freddie heard the creature land on the tile and click its claws against the floor. Not click. Drag. Each nail grated against the floor, bringing itself closer to Freddie.
Freddie stood and waited for his end. The Turmoil would be gone. Momma would be nothing. His unending bullshit would be resolved by something extraordinary.
Freddie closed his eyes, submerging himself into a deeper, more profound darkness. His body eased. His fingers loosened their hold on the pool table. His mind cleared.
And then he was ripped away.
II. B-Side
The evening began with a game of shuffleboard.
Davey Bowlen explained the rules to Freddie. He even threw in a few tips and strategies on how to slide the puck, although Freddie had absolutely no chance. None. Davey would never brag about being a shuffleboard champion or anything, but he played enough games to sweep the floor with an amateur like Freddie.
“So, I need to slide a puck past that middle line and into one of those other sections?” Freddie asked, regurgitating what Davey had just established.
“As straightforward as that,” Davey said. Of course, the game was more nuanced than that, but if he held Freddie’s hand the whole way, would he learn anything? Anyway, Freddie didn’t seem like the type who enjoyed handholding of any variety.
Freddie was dressed in a plaid button-down. It was boring and unimaginative in every way. Nobody has worn a shirt like that unironically since 2008. To make matters worse, Freddie had each button done up, all the way to his neck. He had to keep his neck craned upward to avoid a constant scraping against the collar. Freddie’s jeans hung loose, and he kept dropping a hand to the waistband to hoist them back up. Davey knew there was a better-looking person hiding underneath the modest, frumpy clothing that Freddie wore. A slight wardrobe upgrade (along with a decent barber) would do wonders for Freddie. Daydreams and well wishes aside, Davey could look past the fashion faux pas. What bothered him more was how standoffish Freddie had been. Each time Davey took a step toward him, Freddie moved back. Each time Davey tried to display some quick wit or inject even the faintest humor, Freddie stifled any reaction.
Davey had seen this a thousand times before.
While he hadn’t asked outright, it seemed like a foregone conclusion that Freddie was buried in the closet. It would explain his lack of aesthetics. It would explain his hesitation. It would explain every single fault about him.
It would also explain why he agreed to meet up tonight. For years, Davey had been a beacon for other people’s curiosity.
Davey couldn’t stand individuals who were in a state of unknowing. He knew about his sexuality from a young age. Certainty and acceptance flowed into him. He walked that path alone and came out the other side. It helped shape his future and determine his self-worth.
And as a punishment for his success, Davey has to deal with The Lack.
The Lack is what boils inside him each time he approaches an attractive man who is closeted. The Lack bubbles over and destroys any patience he has, any tolerance he should extend. For too long, Davey has battled with The Lack. He’s tried to gain new perspectives, read accounts from others, and take the time to be empathetic. He has crossed paths with people like Freddie a hundred times over, and the result always burns down to disappointment. The Lack doesn’t allow for positive outcomes. The Lack plants itself firmly in place, and yet it still whispers to Davey that he can be the one who changes them. Davey will be their savior. He will show them and their families what freedom and acceptance look like. He will guide them to light and understanding and salvation. Their meaningless wandering will finally end.
That’s why he continues to venture down the same worn path.
Davey can change Freddie. He just needs more time. And a bucket full of patience that he never carries around with him.
All things considered, why did Davey pay Freddie any mind? How did they meet?
It’s a simple story, really. Davey was splashing around in the complex’s pool, looking for attention. The beautiful thing about living three blocks away from Cedar Springs was that the complex was packed with gays. All sorts. Bears, twinks, twunks, otters, daddies. Any bland delineation you wanted. Best of all, for the ones who were a question mark, you could shove them neatly under that cute little plus sign that was added to the end. Best thing the community ever thought of.
Without fail, his movements evoked stares. On that day, a particular guy in baggy shorts and an oversized tank top kept peeking over the edge of his phone. Davey was adept that noticing gawkers. He felt the heat rise against his neck and slowly drift down his chest. Sometimes he would look in their direction; other times, he would pretend to never notice. On that day, he paid no attention to the onlookers. Davey enjoyed his time in the pool, swimming laps and kicking water toward his audience. As the afternoon waned and the crowd thinned, the stares persisted. And with his options now limited to the fashionably challenged or spending an evening eviscerated by unsavory thoughts, Davey opted to lower his standards. Meeting new people was on his vision board and being less judgmental sat even closer to the top.
“Are you using this other seat?” Davey asked after hopping out of the pool. Most of the seats were empty at this point. If the guy didn’t take the hint with the question, he was beyond salvation.
“My towel is there,” the man said, opening his eyes and looking past Davey.
“Does it need to be there?”
“I suppose not.” The man grabbed the towel and tossed it to the end of his chair.
“Thank you.” Davey settled into the seat. He waited for the man to ask a question, to kick-start something. He didn’t. Seeing that his main attraction moved to his periphery, the man gawked at the sun instead. Davey broke one of his only rules and continued the conversation. He hated to look desperate, especially around strangers. It should only be the other way around. After two minutes, the man introduced himself as Frederick, although his family much preferred Freddie—with an ie, not a y. Common mistake. Their conversation was sporadic, stuck in the gray matter of first meeting someone while also having countless topics to cover.
Davey didn’t want to give Freddie his number, but he could see the pain both buried within and riding high on the surface. Remember your vision board, he told himself. Davey listened as Freddie complained about not meeting anyone in the complex. Davey nodded and said he could relate, even though he had a close-knit group of friends and was always juggling five or six text conversations at any given time.
Davey was fine with admitting that Freddie was cute. He had soft features that all blended pleasantly into one another. Honestly, Davey wasn’t good at being analytical like that. He preferred making snap judgments, not standing before an art piece to evaluate its meaning and depth. He was renowned for how quickly he could reject someone on a dating app. Less than five seconds. In and out. No time wasted on lost causes.
Could Freddie sense The Lack that washed against Davey’s shores? Did Freddie know he was a game?
Of course not. Davey hid his flaws behind a thick wall of calculated movements. He had learned to lean into his exaggerated gestures and prolonged enunciations of most words. They were marvelous distractions, while also enticing strangers to stay. Davey was what some outsiders liked to call flam-boy-ant.
Davey opted to see it as him just being himself. That seemed to be enough of a hook for Freddie.
And because of that, they were engaged in a lopsided game of shuffleboard on the dreadful night.
“Your turn,” Davey said. He had just slid a puck that skidded through the sand and off the edge. A rare miss for him. He watched as Freddie hunched over and tested out several angles. Most of his pucks were careening to the left before they could make it halfway across the board. Davey was surprised at Freddie’s athletic inefficiencies. He looked like the sort who grew up on meat and potatoes and playing stickball or some backwoods shit like that. If Davey had to guess, Freddie competed for attention when he was growing up, and once he discovered that his words never reached other people’s ears, he just stopped talking altogether. That cascaded to him flooding his mind about his shortcomings. Maybe he wasn’t naturally gifted at sports, but he didn’t even allow himself the opportunity to get better.
Pure speculation on Davey’s part, but after meeting a few closeted country bumpkins, you’ve seen them all.
Freddie settled on a trajectory and unleashed the puck. It slid down the board, lost momentum in a hurry, and stopped short of the 1-point section. Freddie stood up, straightened his back, and then shrugged. Better than anything else he had tossed until then.
“Nice one!” Davey said. It sounded patronizing, although he meant the opposite. Perhaps if Davey coaxed Freddie with encouragement, they’d have a worthwhile conversation. So far, he got nothing more than rudimentary thoughts on skyrocketing gas prices and the seven-day weather forecast.
Freddie grabbed the next puck and slung it down the board without as much contemplation. It whizzed past each section and crashed into the far gutter.
“Oof, tough break,” Davey said. That was patronizing. No way to cover up that crime.
Freddie gestured to Davey’s four pucks scattered across the different sections. “How’d you get so good at this?”
Davey laughed. “I’m not any good at this, but my dad insisted on buying a shuffleboard. He put it in the garage, and we played almost every night for a long while. Became a way for us to bond.”
“Oh, that must have been nice,” Freddie said.
“It was.” You could have convinced Davey now how that part of his life was a mirage. There’s something foreign that invades your mind when your parent dies. It robs you of memories. It starts with the most special ones and then cherry-picks the things you only think about once a year, like their laugh or corny jokes or how unbelievably accepting they were as someone raised in an unforgiving environment.
The game ended the next round in unceremonious fashion.
“You did well,” Davey said, rounding up all the pucks and placing them on the side.
“No. I was awful.”
“It was your first time playing. We could go best two-out-of-three? If you want to lose again,” Davey said with a smile.
Freddie glanced at him before turning away. Davey tried not to take it personally. He knew he looked appealing tonight, so he chalked up Freddie’s darting eyes to his own issues. “Maybe we can come back to it. What about a game of pool? Have you played that before?”
Davey nodded. “There was a poolhall near my college campus. My friends stumbled upon it one night, and we discovered that I have quite the affinity for pool. It also helped that most of the people there were drunk on the cheap beer. That always worked to my advantage. Still though, you’ll have a shot at beating me.”
Freddie grunted his indifference and trudged over to the pool table. “Take it easy on me, please.”
Davey followed behind, momentarily distracted by all the shiny things in the room. It had no business being as robust as it was. A television, two couches, two bar-height tables, two foosball tables, and a full wall lined with movies, TV shows, books, and albums. None of it made sense. Especially the albums.
That was the other area where he and his dad bonded. On those evenings when they were lost in intense competition playing shuffleboard, his dad’s record player was always running. He switched between jazz and classic rock. No other genres were allowed, the reason being an unknown to Davey. Besides enjoying the music, they had contentious debates as to which side of a vinyl was better. Better was such a subjective term, but they stuck with it. Davey was adamant that the A-side was miles better. His dad would always let out a long sigh, one signaling Davey’s naivete. Of course the A-side was better, he would say. That’s where they put all the hits. That’s where the moneymakers go. Experimentation happened on the B-side, he’d argue. That’s where bands flexed their talents. That’s where singers found a new octave or drummers actually got a solo. Those were the hidden gems. Davey saw his point but never had the patience to listen to the filler. That’s how he viewed it. Bands needed a second half to a vinyl, so they cobbled some shit together and called it a day. Neither father nor son could be dissuaded from their stance, so they sauntered to somewhere in the middle:
Without both sides, the full story wouldn’t be understood; the full vision wouldn’t be thrust upon waiting ears.
For Davey and his dad, that gentlemen’s agreement was sufficient.
“Still want to play?” Freddie asked, guiding Davey back to the present.
Davey shook off the memory. He pulled back the hand that was gliding along the vinyl on the shelf. “Sorry, I was elsewhere. Yes, let’s play.”
Halfway into their game of pool, the shift occurred. It was as if they went deep-sea diving. Davey’s shot ricocheted off two walls before the cue ball fell into a pocket for a scratch. His ears became clogged and irritated. He stuck a finger in his ear and tried to work free anything within. He watched as Freddie rotated his jaw at odd angles.
“Did you feel that?” Davey asked.
“Yeah,” Freddie said. “It’s like I just took off for a cross-country flight.”
Davey stepped away from the pool table. With deliberate movements, he walked around the perimeter of the room, testing whether the pressure had changed.
It did not.
“Odd,” he said.
“Odd,” Davey echoed.
They debated whether they should call it a night. Perhaps there was a malfunction with the air conditioning or perhaps a toxic fume was consuming the room. They theorized, hypothesized, and then subsequently concluded that nothing harmful would happen to them.
“I’ve experienced stranger things,” Freddie said.
“Like what?” Davey let the question hang in the air as Freddie lined up his next shot. The result wasn’t worth recapping.
“I mean, nothing out of the norm. I grew up in a pretty isolated area. It was my parents, myself, and my adopted sister. I would go out at night and swear that something was standing just beyond the light. A figure. An outline. Or my sister would complain of an older woman waiting at the edge of her bed each night. Things like that. Just the mind playing tricks.” Freddie laughed. It was the first time he had done so. Davey had been keeping track.
Davey was expecting to hear some sad tale about abusive parents or sexual violence. Isn’t that how all the repressed gay men worked? Childhood trauma propelled them forward while also keeping them firmly locked in place. Freddie’s ghosts, ghouls, and haunts weren’t otherworldly creatures; they were the humans under the same roof. The true horror. C’mon, dude, just get to it already. Davey wanted Freddie to bare his soul. Give him a reason to care, because he was fading fast.
No, that’s The Lack talking. That’s Davey’s insensitivities manifesting. Stop it. Be better.
Davey choked down any sarcastic remark. “Wait, do you think stuff like that is just a mind trick?”
“Yeah.” Freddie looked away. “That’s kid stuff. I can’t be concerned about such nonsensical things. I have other stuff on my mind, you know?”
“Do tell,” Davey said. He sent out a lobbed pitch, teeing Freddie up to show an ounce of himself. Would Freddie swing and miss or smash it over the metaphorical wall?
Freddie thought for a moment. “Tell you what?”
“What else is on your mind.” Davey circled the table and examined his next shot. He could easily put the game away. He would, depending on Freddie’s next answer.
“Ahh, gotcha. You know, the usual shit. Bills, work, what I want to be when I grow up.”
“Oh, okay.” With little thought, Davey sank the next two shots, absorbing the sound of the 8 ball dropping into a corner pocket. He was too accustomed to winning. “I know what you mean,” he continued. The platitude felt necessary.
“Do I have any chance of beating you at foosball?” Freddie asked, pointing to the tables. “Because I’m tired of getting my ass kicked.”
Davey stepped closer and put a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. Before any words could dribble out, Freddie recoiled the slightest bit. His brain probably didn’t even comprehend how his body betrayed him. Davey didn’t have nefarious intentions by the touch, but seeing the reaction sent The Lack into the deep end.
P A T H E T I C
P A T H E T I C
P A T H E T I C
The word was so effortless. It carried no weight for someone like Davey. He slung it around internally with ease. He looked at Freddie and saw the word plastered across every inch of his body. He had been patient and kind to Freddie. He had given him opportunities to express himself and unburden those dark thoughts. Davey had given him a lifeline that he ignored.
Davey wanted to be better, but The Lack clouded all things.
He wiggled his finger against his ear and refocused on relieving the pressure, not digging deeper trenches of intolerance.
Davey forced a smile. “Honestly, you will get your ass kicked in foosball too. Another game that I played when I was younger.” The lie was easy enough to tell. He was tired of games. “Sorry. I could try losing if you want?”
“That’s okay,” Freddie said. He seemed unamused by the suggestion. “No one likes to lose, but I’m willing to try my hand at shuffleboard again. I think I might beat you this time.”
“Yeah, sure,” Davey said through gritted teeth. Freddie didn’t even score a point during the first game, so it would take an act of God and a partisan Congress to get a victory.
Davey was never good at saying no. Attention was attention was attention. Regardless of who he got it from, Davey craved it all. He could put up his bitchy front and refuse someone’s advances, but at the end of things, aren’t we all deprived of warmth and touch? That’s all he wanted from Freddie. He wanted a conversation that led to physical contact. And then he wanted to take him back to his apartment and be the first man to fuck him. Because that’s how he kept power over all these wannabe fags, all these closeted nobodies. Another notch in his XXXXL belt. He had been gluttonous for a long time, thriving off desire and low self-esteem.
The Lack had consumed his thoughts.
Davey didn’t watch Freddie throw his round of pucks. He didn’t watch as they scattered in every direction except the correct one.
He was too busy inspecting the shelf.
After his dad died three years ago, Davey picked up reading. There wasn’t an illuminating reason, outside of how it kept his brain busy and not destroying itself over what happened. The books gave him perspective and understanding. Most importantly, they were a multi-hour escape. He loved the protagonists who were emotionally fucked and physically broken—they made Davey feel better about his own life. The hobby became so encompassing that Davey scoured forums and threads to seek new authors and strange worlds to fall into. Looking back now, that time blends together into a messy concoction. The hundred or so books he devoured each year vanished into wispy smoke.
Except for the select few that still sit fresh in his mind. And one of those books happened to be on a shelf in the entertainment room.
A coincidence?
An omen?
No, it just was. It was a culmination of a dull evening. It was a way to shift the conversation toward something else.
“Your turn,” Freddie said.
Davey didn’t see the point in continuing the game. Sure, he enjoyed winning, but to annihilate someone multiple times just seemed cruel—almost sadist. He plucked the book from the shelf and held it out to Freddie. “Do you read?” he asked.
“The occasional book, but it’s not something high on my list of things to do. Why? Is that a recommendation you got there?”
“This?” Davey said, examining the book as if he was seeing it for the first time. “No, I wouldn’t recommend it. Quite stale, actually. Boring prose. Boring characters. A senseless plot.”
“Prose?” Freddie asked.
“Yeah, uh, it’s the way a book is written. Some writers repeat the same sentence structure and reuse the same three-syllable words to sound intelligent. Other writers are much more varied in their vernacular.”
“Oh,” Freddie chuckled. “Neat.”
“There’s something I remember from this book, though. A visual that etched itself into my brain. Are you scared easily, Freddie? Do you experience fright?”
Freddie considered the question. “Sometimes I cover my eyes when I’m watching a scary movie if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s exactly what I mean. Very good,” Davey said, stepping closer. “How about Halloween? Do you celebrate the holiday?”
“Well, I used to. Not anymore. Maybe again someday when I have a family of my own.”
“That’s a shame. It’s one of my favorite holidays. I don’t dress up anymore either. These days I enjoy the macabre aspect of it. The more adult themes you can experiment with.”
“Macabre?”
“Death,” Davey said. “Once you witness it, it’s hard to forget. Have you ever seen someone’s last breath? Have you ever watched someone’s soul leave their body and flutter away?”
“Can’t say I have . . . Are we still talking about the book? I’m confused.”
“Of course I am, Freddie. Everything is about this book. Nothing is about this book. It’s just a book, after all. Don’t you see?”
“Clear as mud,” Freddie said.
Davey closed the gap between him and Freddie. He decided to have fun with this, to lean into the theatrics of it all. “There’s one line from this book that I remember. The main character has finished with his night shift and is taking the city bus back home. It’s been an uneventful night. Work was work, and he did his best to stay awake. As sleep sought him out, a man approached him. He hovered above him for an uncomfortable amount of time before bending down and whispering a question into our hero’s ear.”
“Oh yeah? Sounds rude. People don’t usually like to be bothered in public. Especially if they are wearing headphones.”
“Precisely. Very astute.”
Freddie looked down at the pucks and then back at Davey. Perhaps he wanted to continue with the game.
Not a chance.
“What . . . what did the stranger say?” Freddie asked, sensing it was the only question that would move them forward.
“The question isn’t important. It’s what happens after that matters.”
“I beg to differ. Your entire story is centered on this question. You can’t just not tell me the question. I need to know.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Is that the question? Pretty lame, if you ask me.”
Davey broke character. “No, it’s not the question. I . . . Are you sure you want to know?” he asked, regaining composure as quickly as possible.
“Yes!”
Davey laughed. “Okay.” The smile slid away. He stepped even closer to Freddie. His eyes shined while the rest of his face became placid. Davey hadn’t thought any further than the question, one he’d heard in an old movie. Anything after that would be improvised. “Freddie, do you wanna see something really scary?”
“I—”
It was then, with immaculate timing, that the lights blinked out. The room drenched itself in darkness. Light trickled in from the hallway, but not enough to distinguish shadows from sanity. Davey felt movement. A breeze whipped by him, dashing toward the corner of the room.
“Freddie? You still here?”
The pressure heightened. Davey’s ears ached as the world quieted itself. He stuck a finger in his ear and returned to his patented yet ineffective wiggling move. The pressure shifted briefly before returning in full force. He called out again, but the words sounded miles away as if he was hearing distant echoes from a megaphone. Davey scanned the darkness, undecided about whether he should flee or stand firm.
Then, it emerged from the floor. The glowing expanded in a tight-knit group of small circles. Something was uncoiling in the corner. Davey stared and watched the glowing disappear each time the thing blinked. He convinced himself that it was a monster. Or maybe it was his father rising from his casket. He couldn’t think of anything scarier than that. Either way, no illusions existed in this darkness. Whatever it was, Davey knew it meant harm. He remained frozen in fear. He reached out his hands and felt nothing but air. He watched as the creature untangled itself. Davey pictured the limbs stretching to unimaginable lengths. The sound was faint, but Davey heard the creature reach up and drag a claw against the ceiling. Each nail dug into the tiles, helping the creature find its path forward.
Davey determined that waiting meant his end. Sure, The Lack would be gone, but so would he, and he would be fucking pissed if he died in the entertainment room at The Amorphophallus. Davey backpedaled until his leg brushed against the edge of the pool table. Wasn’t he standing beside it before the lights went out? Whatever was lurking in the room was twisting the rules.
Using the pool table as a guide, Davey turned around and quickened his pace. It only took three more steps until his outstretched hand brushed up against someone else’s.
It was either the creature or Freddie.
God, he hoped it was Freddie. It had to be.
Davey hedged all his bets and ripped away the body standing at the table, dashing toward the light that dribbled in from the hallway.
III. SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE
They run.
Davey’s hand is gripping Freddie’s arm as if they are mother and child fleeing a flood. The pressure remains. The air is thick with the growls and stench of a creature looking to feast.
The room is spacious enough that Davey avoids all the furniture. He doesn’t know it, but he was six inches from crashing into a table. The collision would have sent them both into an unrecoverable downward spiral. An underwhelming end.
Instead, Davey grips even tighter and reaches out a free hand for the door. It doesn’t budge. The unequal pressure between the two rooms creates an obstacle, or so he thinks. He isn’t a pilot or a NASA scientist.
“THE BUTTON,” Freddie says. He yells the words, but they reach Davey’s ears as the softest sound he’s ever heard.
“WHAT?”
“THE. FUCKING. BUTTON!” Freddie screams. He put his back into the words, mimicking the worst meltdown he had ever seen from his mother.
Because The Amorphophallus existed as a complex built around minor annoyances, residents needed to press a red button in order to leave the entertainment room. Davey is pulling with all the might his stringy arms can muster. Freddie is screaming about the button just off to the left, as the creature is tossing aside a foosball table, clearing a path right toward them.
Freddie finally takes control of something in his life. He pries Davey’s hand off him and shoves Davey aside. Freddie slams a hand down on the button and reaches for the door handle.
It opens with ease.
Freddie yanks Davey’s arm and ushers him out the door. The pressure recedes. Their ears pop. Clarity and sound flood into them.
Now, they sprint.
Without looking back, they blitz through the hallway. Freddie knows of a destination. Possibly not the best destination, but it’s better than running aimlessly. He turns a corner and stuffs his free hand into his pocket. He pulls out his apartment keys. They fumble in his hand, almost dropping to the ground.
“Where are we going?” Davey asks.
“Home,” Freddie says. He turns one last corner and comes to a stop in front of a door. He jams the keys into the lock and leans a shoulder into the door as it opens. Freddie and Davey stumble into the apartment, regain their footing, and then turn back to the door. They twist all three locks and grab a nearby chair to wedge under the handle.
“Did you see it? What was it?” Freddie asks, stepping back into the living room.
“I saw nothing once we left the room. I kept looking back, but—”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“What the fuck, man? What the actual fuck?” Freddie says.
“You saw it though, right? Th-th-that thing came up from the floor.”
“The floor? No, it was on the ceiling.”
Davey stops to think. “I’m pretty sure it came out of the floor.”
“I know what I saw,” Freddie says.
“It doesn’t matter. We are here now. Do you think it can get in here?”
“How could I possibly know that? I don’t specialize in creature studies.”
“I . . . I . . . well, do you think we should go outside and look?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Freddie laughs. “That is the worst idea I could think of suggesting.”
“Okay, okay. But do you mind if I stay here? I mean, unless you want me to be brutally devoured by whatever the fuck that was.”
“Maybe it was friendly?”
“And maybe you can go outside and ask it if it is.”
Freddie kicks off his shoes and collapses onto the couch. “I’ll pass on that. And yes, you can stay here.” It’s the first time he’s ever had a guy over to his apartment. Actually, it’s the first time anyone outside his family has been in the apartment. He tries not to dwell on how sad that sounds in his head.
Davey unties his shoes and then points to the door. “Should we stack more things up against it?”
“You’re the Halloween expert. What do you think?”
Davey shakes his head. “Expert? What are you talking about?”
“You told me that whole story about the movie. You wagged the DVD in front of my face as if it was a cash prize.”
Davey shakes his head again. “What DVD? Do you mean the book? The one I showed you from the shelf?”
Freddie stands up from the couch and paces around the room. “I am probably just misremembering things. Tell me: What was the first game we played when we met up tonight?”
“Shuffleboard. You didn’t score a point. Quite the sad affair, if I’m being honest. Actually, fuck it. Here’s me being honest: It was a terrible effort on your part.”
Freddie laughs. His laugh bursts out in such a high, unflattering squeal, but he doesn’t care. The Turmoil is buried beneath five layers of fear right now. His mother’s voice is suffocating even deeper than that. For once, he is free. It only took an encounter with something (someone?) to force its recession. “We started with a game of pool. And I must say, I was a formidable opponent. I made a few shots and kept you on your toes. I saw the sweat on your forehead.”
Davey scoffs and brings a hand to his forehead. He examines his findings. He prefers to not sweat in front of strangers. Once it starts, it flows with no regard for Davey’s well-being. “I’m telling you, we started with a game of shuffleboard.”
“Let’s agree to disagree. Perhaps the traumatic event that just occurred has jumbled our memories.”
Davey considers if such a thing is possible. “A gentlemen’s agreement then.”
They continue to lob back questions about what happened during their evening together. Davey concedes on some points. Freddie stands firm on others. They both agree that the pressure in the room scrambled their brains. They joke about going back another night and trying the whole thing over again. Freddie insists he will win at something. Davey assures him he won’t.
“Can I get you a drink?” Freddie suggests at one point. “I have water or beer or sugar-free oat milk.”
“How environmentally friendly of you,” Davey says with a cheeky smile.
Amid their conversation, they decided to keep stacking furniture against the door. They know it will serve no purpose if there is actually a creature out there. An entity as such is sure to bypass a simple blockage, but it gives them peace of mind. And with each object shoved into the pile, Davey figures it buys him more time in the apartment.
When they finally sit next to one another on the couch, they each cradle a beer. The buzz that will amount from consuming the six-pack will help stave off the worst images of the shadowy rogue they saw.
“Wait, so have you seen The Twilight Zone movie?” Freddie asks in between sips. “You seemed very fond of the film.”
“I told you about that?” Davey says. “I haven’t thought about that movie since my dad died.” His voice softens at the end. Davey rarely says the words aloud.
“Oh, I am so sorry.”
“Me too. It doesn’t get easier, regardless of what people say. Still, there are days where I make it into the evening before thinking about him. What happens that first time I go a full day or an entire week? What does that say about me?”
“It says that you’re a person who struggles with grief. It doesn’t mean you love your dad any less.”
“Who knows,” Davey says.
“Who knows anything,” Freddie says. “We all think too much.”
It happens blindly. Freddie reaches out a hand. It hovers out in the free space between them. The movement is slow and methodical. One might even think it transpired in slow motion. Eventually, Freddie brings his hand down on top of Davey’s hand. He squeezes hard and allows the electric feeling to ripple out into his body. He doesn’t feel shame. He doesn’t look at Davey and see a monster. Maybe those thoughts will come later. But not now.
Davey accepts the gesture. He smiles and sees Freddie for what he is: conflicted and looking for someone to listen. He can do that. Whenever Freddie is ready. He can be the person his father would be proud of.
Don’t be mistaken: The Lack and The Turmoil have not miraculously disappeared. No, they are beasts of burden who linger and swarm and torment.
But for this one night, they have lessened. They are a whisper within a crowded room. They have subsided, in partial thanks to what may have (or may not have) been present in the entertainment room.
Freddie beams out his largest grin yet. Davey returns with one of his own.
Tonight, they find themselves drifting toward the middle. It’s the best, easiest, and most sustainable way to live, even if they don’t quite understand that yet.
This is the only night Davey and Freddie spend together.