Pocket Communications - the local only cell phone provider preferred by drug dealers and the poverty stricken - knows something I didn't know. For one reason or another, Mount Gay's calls never showed up on my phone. I programmed his number, and his name appeared on my caller ID when he texted or called, but somehow his calls never registered in my call history. I should perhaps have registered this as a sign - a cosmic alert by way of Sprint PCS.
The LSAT went well last Saturday. It was five hours long, and involved two number two pencils, 127 multiple choice questions, and a two page essay writing sample. I finished the test before 2 in the afternoon, and I eagerly anticipated seeing my boyfriend - Mount Gay - who, having given his son $2,000 and sent him packing, was gay, gay, gay again - porn, a dildo, a rainbow ashtray, and a crack pipe came tumbling out of the closet in which they were hidden while Gay took a stab at being Dad.
And so too did Gay's ex-boyfriend. the Frenemy drove me out to Gay's place, somewhat grudgingly as I think the trip interfered with a gang-bang he had scheduled that afternoon. I made my way up the stairs to the condo, and found the door unlocked and encountered the usual sense of being at home - back in this familiar place where I willingly and less than willingly stayed for days on end, a place uniquely belonging to and created by my guy ... and a wall of smoke - the almost visible layer of atmosphere created by smoking indoors and a pack a day habit.
I doffed my jacket and was rounding the corner into his bedroom when I heard the cell phone jangling, saw my boyfriend reaching for his phone, and also that he was in bed ... with his ex. They were fully clothed, both in sweats and bundled up beneath the covers, and Gay's only response to the shocked look on my face was to pull back the covers, tell the ex to move over and pat the spot in bed beside him.
I crawled into bed for lack of any idea what better to do, and then chided myself for not doing something else - anything else. Gay was sick - very sick - feverish, whining and farting. I did not see an LSAT celebration or sex or romance in my future. A pizza. Gay's 60 year old fag hag. Robitussin. But neither sex nor romance.
The night went about as well as one might expect - given the whining, farting, and pizza - but I did get to see "Sweeney Todd." We went to bed, and Sunday morning started with pancakes in bed. I was bored, still fighting through the cloudy fog of the Xanax I popped in order to sleep through the night, and the day went by in a blur of laundry and old movies. I was in bed by 10, but up all night.
Monday, Gay went to work and left me alone in the smoke-filled room that is his fabulous '80s condo. the Frenemy - who is sometimes very helpful - suggested that I take a bus down to his apartment and pick up his spare car. Two hours later, I was mobile.
It was a faux pas, a slip of the tongue on his part, that got me wondering where his $700 tax refund went, why he was so sick, and just what went on the night before my LSAT. Friday night, Gay bought drugs ... lots of drugs ... and did them - alone, he says, though I had my doubts. The reason we couldn't go to dinner or otherwise celebrate the five hours long test I survived, and the metaphoric gateway to my future as a lawyer (and bon vivant) was because my man ODed.
And lied to me about it. He pulled back the covers again, and patted the spot beside him on the bed. I lay down there - again, wishing I had done something else - anything else. And so, that time, I did. I got up, got dressed, and got into the car I was very glad I borrowed. I drove back to my father's house at midnight.
The next morning, having had time, and the need, to process the weekend, I sent Mount Gay a text. I told him I was disappointed that he'd lied to me, and was not angry but hurt. He texted back that he was done - that he was a 43 year old man who didn't need to be nagged or questioned, and that we were done.
It took a moment to set in - that my relationship in name only, my first effort at being a couple ended with ignominy and a fucking, damned-ass text message. And then it was indeed done. I saw him yesterday - Mount Gay - for the sake of closure and pragmatism. He paid back the money he borrowed, and returned to me a box full of VHS porn and soul/blues music CDs.
Etta James' "At Last" does not seem quite appropriate here, but somehow damned right ...