Skye Blue Page 2

  I shrugged and grinned at him. “What can I say, I appreciate the classics.”

  “Oh, of course,” Garrett snapped. “It’s the blue-haired kid again! Didn’t I tell you last time that I’d be pressing charges if you came onto my property even once more? What, did you think I was bluffing?”

  “If you want to throw me in jail, go right ahead. But this guy here?” I tilted my head toward Trevor. “He didn’t have anything to do with this. He was an innocent bystander. Please let him go. If you do, I promise never to darken your dumpster again.”

  “Wait,” the sparkly blonde said, “is this kid being arrested for breaking into your dumpster, Jerry?”

  “Nah Chelle, he’s bein’ arrested for trespassing on my property!” he told her.

  To me, Chelle said, “What were you doing here, kid?”

  “I came to get a big, busted propeller out of the trash. I was going to recycle it into an art project for school.”

  She leaned way over, precarious on her five inch heels. I was pretty sure that was going to be the maneuver that finally tipped her, given the dangerous weight imbalance on her chest, but somehow she managed to remain upright. After she glanced around the side of the building, she straightened up, put her hands on her hips, and shot her date a look. “Why the fuck weren’t you recycling that thing, Jerry? You know how I feel about the environment! I told you I wouldn’t date a man unless he was green. Remember me tellin’ you that?”

  “Yeah, Chelle, I remember. But, you know, it’s a pain haulin’ that thing to the recycling center. It takes up my crew’s valuable time, and—”

  “I called and told your office manager I’d haul it away for free,” I interrupted. “All of it would have been used, nothing would have wound up in a landfill.”

  “What the fuck, Jerry!” Chelle exclaimed. “You let this boy and his friend go right now, and you give him that damn propeller!”

  “But, Chelle—” Jerry whined.

  “But nothing! Uncuff him!” she snapped, pointing a well-manicured finger at the two police officers, who actually looked a little uneasy.

  “What do you want us to do, Mr. Garrett? It’s up to you whether or not you choose to press charges,” one of the cops said.

  Garrett sighed dramatically, then threw his hands up in the air. “Fine. Do what she said.”

  When my cuffs were off, I said, “Thanks. So, we’ll just get the prop and be on our way.”

  Our top-heavy guardian angel wasn’t done coming to our aid. She pointed a lacquered fingernail at the security guards. “You two, make yourselves useful and go get that propeller out of the trash!” She turned to me and said, “Do you have a truck? If so, you might want to pull it around.”

  “On it,” I said, and Trevor and I took off at a jog.

  A few minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot through the now-open front gate and tried not to look smug as the rent-a-cops begrudgingly loaded the prop into the bed of my pickup (okay, I pretty much totally failed at the not looking smug thing). I told Chelle, “Thanks, you’re a peach.” From behind her, Jerry Garrett was giving me the evil eye. I smiled at him cheerfully as we pulled away.

  We found Christian hitchhiking about two miles down the road. He looked stunned when we pulled up beside him. As Trevor wrenched open the passenger door (it was an old truck) and slid over to make room for him, Christian said, “Okay, now how the hell did you pull that off?”

  “Let’s just put it this way,” I said. “A man will do just about anything to get laid.”

  “Granted. But that still doesn’t explain how you escaped from the security guards and got that huge hunk of metal out of there.”

  I told Christian the story of my eco-warrior savior in red sequins as we drove back to San Francisco. Eventually, we reached my apartment building and I parked illegally in the passenger loading zone. After I lowered the gate on the truck bed, I climbed up beside the giant, mangled propeller and tried to push it out, first with my hands, then with my feet. By bracing myself against the cab of the truck for leverage and with Trevor and Christian pulling from the other side, we finally managed to get the thing onto the pavement, where it landed with a boom.

  “What the hell did this come from, the Titanic?” Christian asked, hands on his narrow hips as he studied my prize.

  “Aw, how sad would that be?” I said. “Little bits of Rose and Leo could still be clinging to the blades.”

  “Ew!” Trevor exclaimed.

  “There’s so much wrong with that statement. First of all, they’re fictional characters in a movie, so no. Secondly, they didn’t get ground up in the propeller,” Christian said. “Though maybe they’ll use that in the gritty Titanic reboot that someone will inevitably come out with in a few years. Third, the character wasn’t called Leo. I could go on, but this conversation is making me twitchy.”

  “Hold that Titanic rant,” I said. “I’m going to see if Hans and Franz are home. We need some help with this thing.”

  “You need some help, period,” Christian called as I ran to my building and buzzed my downstairs neighbors.

  “Who is making the buzzing?” A heavily-accented voice called through the speaker.

  “Hi Hans, it’s Skye from upstairs. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No no, we were just watching the Netflix. Now we’ve put it on the pause.”

  “Do you think you and Franz could come out front and help me bring something up to my apartment? It’s really heavy and I need your big muscles.”

  “We’ll be right there!” He sounded so excited. Bodybuilders loved any excuse to show off their brawn.

  Their names weren’t really Hans and Franz by the way, but my two European, bodybuilding neighbors had been delighted with the nicknames when I first tried them out, so they’d stuck. When they joined us at the curb, they were both dressed in skimpy spandex shorts and skimpier tank tops, same as every other time I’d seen them. I was pretty sure neither of them actually owned pants.

  “This is quite the big spinner,” Franz said, assessing the propeller. “You sure you are wanting to take it upstairs? Will your brother not be threatening with the homicide?”

  I grinned at that. “River will definitely want to kill me when he sees this, but you and Hans can protect me.”

  My neighbors hoisted up the prop fairly easily, and my friends and I held doors and cleared stuff out of their path, which was about the only way we could be of any help. When we reached the fourth floor I led the way to my apartment, keys at the ready. But before I reached the door, River poked his head out and spotted our little procession. “Wow,” I said, “were your Spidey senses tingling? How did you know we were here?”

  “My Skye senses were tingling, and by that I mean my right eye started to twitch. I just knew you were in the process of doin’ something flat-out crazy.” River got his first look at the propeller just then, and barred the door with his body, making an X with his arms and legs. “And I was right! No fuckin’ way are you bringin’ that giant-ass thing in here, Skye! I mean it!”

  “We have to bring it in! What else am I going to do with it?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  “Be reasonable, River!”

  “Me! What about you? Do you think it’s reasonable to turn our apartment into a junkyard?”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad! I stubbed my toe five times on the way to the bathroom last night! We can’t even sit in the living room anymore. You’re officially a hoarder, Skye! That TV show is going to show up with a camera crew any second.”

  “I’m not a hoarder, because I actually use all this stuff. I don’t just hoard for hoarding’s sake. Now would you please get out of the way before Hans and Franz’s arms rip out of their sockets?”

  River knit his brows at that and ground his teeth. Finally he said, “I might consider getting out of the way, only because I don’t want our neighbors to suffer. But I’m givin’ you an ultimatum. This is the last piece
of junk you bring home. If you bring even one more hunk of metal into this apartment, I’m moving out. I swear to God I’ll do it.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “I’m at the end of my rope, Skye. I’ve been beggin’ you for months to stop, and you just won’t listen.”

  I thought about it for a moment, then said, “What about little things? If they’re smaller than, let’s say, a German Shepard, then can I bring them home?”

  “No.”

  “Oh come on!”

  “Guys,” Christian interrupted, “I’m aging rapidly over here, and Hans and Franz are acting tough but they’ve both broken a sweat. Can we move this along, please?”

  “Say it, Skye. Swear this is the last thing you’re ever bringing into this apartment,” River prompted.

  I sighed dramatically and said, “Fine, I swear.”

  “Now tell me you understand the ramifications. Say ‘I know that if I bring home even one more piece of crap, River’s movin’ out.’ Go on.”

  I put on my brother’s Louisiana accent and rolled my eyes. “Ah know that if ah braaanng home even one mo’ piece a cra-yap, Rivah’s movin’ ahhht.”

  “Funny.”

  “Can I come in now?”

  “Yes. But just remember, you swore.” River stepped aside, and my neighbors manhandled the big, bent prop into our apartment. They only made it about two feet inside the door though, because there was so much stuff in the living room (okay, so maybe River kind of had a point). They set it down right inside the door and squeezed back out, and I thanked them profusely before they returned to ‘the Netflix.’

  I turned to my friends and said, “You guys want to come in? We can watch Dirty Dancing on my laptop if you want.”

  “Vincent’s expecting me, I’d better get home,” Trevor said. He was recently engaged to a big, hot Italian-American with shoulders like Atlas, so I wasn’t surprised he was shooting me down.

  I turned to Christian with a hopeful expression. “What about you, Z?” He used the name Zane for his artwork, signing his graffiti murals with a big, ornate Z, hence the nickname.

  “I have to go too, I’m finishing up one of my public installations tonight. Not that the thought of watching you watch that movie for the thousandth time isn’t tempting. It’s hilarious when you lip-sync the dialog and pantomime the dance routines.” Christian turned to Trevor and said, “My Jeep’s parked around the corner. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I called after them as they took off down the hall.

  River was obviously mad at me. He’d gone straight to his bedroom and I frowned at his shut door. I locked up behind me, then assessed the situation. My new acquisition was blocking what had previously been the one in-road into the crowded living room, so I had to scale the back of the couch to get in. There was only one place to put my foot, since a collection of rusty kitchen implements lined the sofa cushions. It kind of turned into a game of Twister as I stretched my left leg out to reach the open space.

  Eventually I made it to my bedroom. It was a nice early September night, the weather still more summer than fall, so I decided to enjoy the verandah. I scooped up my laptop, forced the window open and climbed onto the fire escape, where I settled in comfortably. After logging on to my neighbor’s Wi-Fi (here’s a tip: don’t make your password ‘password.’ Duh!), I checked my Luv2SF account, just for the hell of it. That was a Bay Area-based dating site that my friend Zandra and I had joined at her insistence. When I saw she was online, I shot her a quick message with the built-in chat feature.

  She replied a few seconds later with: Hey! How did Operation Propeller Purloin go?

  I wrote: Mission accomplished. River’s ready to kill me, though.

  Figures. Were the police involved?

  Yes.

  Were they cute at least?

  Oh HELL no. I grinned at my computer screen. Zandra thought of everything in terms of dating potential. Then I typed: Wait, aren’t you supposed to be on a date right now?

  Uh, yeah, been there, done that, got the t-shirt. This t-shirt says: ‘I went out with a douchebag and all I got was watching him hit on cuter, skinnier girls all night.’

  Oh honey, that blows, I wrote. Want to come over and watch Dirty Dancing? It’ll make you feel better, promise.

  No thanks. I feel like being completely melodramatic and channeling my pain into bad poetry. Plus, I already took my bra off, which is the international symbol for staying in.

  Alright. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.

  Hang on, she wrote. Did you check your messages on here? Anyone cute?

  I glanced at the message icon in the top corner of my screen and told her: I have twenty-six new messages, but every gay guy on here just wants to screw. I told Christian I was going to sleep with the next guy that asked, but I didn’t really mean it. I think I can hold out for more than some random internet horndog.

  You should. But I’d be so fucking happy if I had twenty-six new messages. I heard from three men today whose combined age was a hundred and sixty-three. If I suddenly develop a daddy complex, I’m set!

  That’s funny, gross and sad, all at the same time.

  Sums up my love life. Alright, I’m out, go check your messages! TTYS!

  When Zandra logged off, I begrudgingly clicked on my in-box and scanned the photos. Shirtless guy with killer abs, shirtless guy with killer abs, shirtless guy with killer abs – why did so many men do that? As if I was shallow enough to select a potential boyfriend based on the insane number of crunches he did. Also, let’s face it, a guy like that wouldn’t even have time for me. I’d be like, ‘Hey honey, want to go to the movies?’ And he’d be all, ‘Sorry babe, can’t. I have thirty-four thousand more crunches to do. I think I’m about to become the first person in history to develop a twenty-four pack.’ It’d always be abs first, me second.

  Also, a guy like that would totally call me babe.

  And yes, I did understand that a twenty-four pack was an anatomical impossibility. But I didn’t think these guys did.

  One photo about halfway down the list caught my attention, mostly because of the lack of a gratuitous ab shot. This person had gone with a close-up of a big-eyed black-and-white dog, tilting its head at the camera. I didn’t know the name of the breed, but it sure was cute. Okay, bonus points for the photo. I clicked on the message. All it said was: Hi. Want to talk? Additional bonus points for not inviting me to suck his dick in the first two seconds (the bar wasn’t very high in the world of online dating). The guy’s screen name was BoxerBoy. Minus one point for naming himself after underwear.

  My screen name, incidentally, was HomerSexual, which I’d thought was hilarious when I first set up my account, but I’d regretted it ever since. Yes, there’d been drinking involved. And yeah, it was no wonder all I ever got were offers for quickies. So basically, I was in no position to judge anyone’s screen name. Oh, and it didn’t help matters that I’d put up a totally random photo of a spatter of bird poop in the shape of a bird pooping. Having a sense of humor was a plus, right?

  Okay, so the guy with the picture of his dog was way ahead of me.

  I clicked on BoxerBoy’s profile. It said even less than mine did. This was its sum total: gay male, 20s, looking for chat only. No meets, no exceptions. Well, that was succinct.

  My chat icon started flashing, so I assumed Zandra had given up on the bad poetry and returned to the land of the cheerful. I clicked on the icon and typed: Thank God you’re here. I’m about to give up on dating entirely and dedicate myself instead to a new course of action. I have it narrowed down to either taking a vow of celibacy, which will involve shaving my head into that weird bald pattern sported by monks to ensure I never get laid, or copious, monkey-like masturbation. Monk or monkey, that is the question.

  Only after I hit send did I bother looking at the recipient’s name. Oh holy hell.

  BoxerBoy typed back: The latter sounds like much more fun.

  If my blush had been
any more ferocious, I probably would have burst into flames. Oh God, I typed quickly, I thought you were someone else. If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to go die of embarrassment now. I started to log off, but another message popped up almost immediately.

  Please don’t go. This is the single most interesting conversation I’ve ever had on here, even if it was intended for someone else.

  I replied with: You’re just being nice. I know you’re thinking I’m a total spaz.

  Yup. But what’s wrong with being a spaz? I smiled at that, then glanced up at his initial message. All it said was hi. He added: Can I keep you company until the guy that message was meant for shows up?

  It was meant for a girl, a friend of mine that made me join this site. I may never forgive her.

  Going that well, huh?

  Yeah, it’s awesome. Or, you know, it would be if my entire goal in life was random hookups with total strangers.

  He wrote: You’re not looking to hook up?

  Not really.

  So what are you looking for?

  As I thought about that for a moment, something caught my eye. A little yellowish cat was watching me from the roof of the building two stories above me, hanging over the edge and staring with huge green eyes. I turned my attention back to the screen and wrote: I guess I’m not really looking for anything from this site. Like I said, a friend made me join. She really wants to find a boyfriend, and I’m just along for moral support.

  You said you were ready to give up on dating. Why is that?

  I guess because I don’t even know what I’m looking for, so how could I possibly find it?

  He took a moment to reply to that one and I glanced up at the cat. It was on the top level of the fire escape now, still staring at me. Finally he wrote: Maybe you’ll know it when you see it.

  Maybe. I looked up again, then wrote: This is random, but I’m being stalked by a cat. Every time I look up it’s a little bit closer, yet I never see it moving.

  Where are you that you’d be looking UP at a cat?

  On the fire escape of my building, outside my bedroom window.