Will Grayson, Will Grayson
Page 20

We get five or six houses past Jane’s, near to where my car is parked, and then she turns toward a house with a FOR SALE sign and walks up the stairs to a porch swing. She sits down and pats a place next to her.
“Nobody lives here?” I ask.
“No. It’s been for sale for, like, a year.”
“You’ve probably made out with the Douche on this swing.”
“I probably have,” she answers. “Schrödinger was doing a thought experiment. Okay, so, this paper had just come out arguing that if, like, an electron might be in any one of four different places, it is sort of in all four places at the same time until the moment someone determines which of the four places it’s in. Does that make sense?”
“No,” I say. She’s wearing little white socks, and I can see her ankle when she kicks up her feet to keep the swing swinging.
“Right, it totally doesn’t make sense. It’s mind-bendingly weird. So Schrödinger tries to point this out. He says: put a cat inside a sealed box with a little bit of radioactive stuff that might or might not—depending on the location of its subatomic particles—cause a radiation detector to trip a hammer that releases poison into the box and kills the cat. Got it?”
“I think so,” I say.
“So, according to the theory that electrons are in all-possible-positions until they are measured, the cat is both alive and dead until we open the box and find out if it is alive or dead. He was not endorsing cat-killing or anything. He was just saying that it seemed a little improbable that a cat could be simultaneously alive and dead.”
But it doesn’t seem that improbable to me. It seems to me that all the things we keep in sealed boxes are both alive and dead until we open the box, that the unobserved is both there and not. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about the other Will Grayson’s huge eyes in Frenchy’s: because he had just rendered the dead-and-alive cat dead. I realize that’s why I never put myself in a situation where I really need Tiny, and why I followed the rules instead of kissing her when she was available: I chose the closed box. “Okay,” I say. I don’t look at her. “I think I get it.”
“Well, that’s not all, actually. It turns out to be somewhat more complicated.”
“I don’t think I’m smart enough to handle more complicated,” I say.
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she says.
The porch swing creaks as I try to think everything through. I look over at her.
“Eventually, they figured out that keeping the box closed doesn’t actually keep the cat alive-and-dead. Even if you don’t observe the cat in whatever state it’s in, the air in the box does. So keeping the box closed just keeps you in the dark, not the universe.”
“Got it,” I say. “But failing to open the box doesn’t kill the cat.” We aren’t talking about physics anymore.
“No,” she says. “The cat was already dead—or alive, as the case may be.”
“Well, the cat has a boyfriend,” I say.
“Maybe the physicist likes that the cat has a boyfriend.”
“Possible,” I say.
“Friends,” she says.
“Friends,” I say. We shake on it.
Chapter fourteen
mom insists that before i go anywhere with tiny, he has to come over for dinner. i’m sure she checks all the sex predator websites beforehand. she doesn’t trust that i met him over the internet. and, given the circumstances, i can’t really blame her. she’s a little surprised when i go along with the plan, even if i do tell her
me: just don’t ask about his forty-three ex-boyfriends, okay? or ask him about why he’s carrying around an axe.
mom: . . .
me: i’m kidding about the axe part.
but really, nothing i can say can calm the woman down. it’s insane. she puts on those yellow rubber gloves and starts scrubbing with the intensity you usually reserve for when someone’s thrown up all over the furniture. i tell her she really doesn’t have to do that, because it’s not like tiny’s going to be eating off the floor. but she just waves me away and tells me to clean up my room.
I mean to clean up my room. really, i do. but all i manage to do is wipe the history from my web browser, and then i’m totally exhausted. it’s not like i don’t wipe the snot flakes from my bed in the morning. i’m a pretty clean guy. all the dirty clothes are shoved in the bottom of my closet. he’s not going to see them.
finally, it’s time for him to get here. at school, gideon asks me if i’m nervous about tiny coming over, and i tell him i’m totally not. but, yeah, that’s a lie. mostly i’m nervous about my mom and how she’s going to act.
I’m waiting for him in the kitchen, and mom’s running around like a madwoman.
mom: i should fix the salad.
me: why should you fix the salad?
mom: doesn’t tiny like salad?
me: i told you, i think tiny would eat baby seals if we gave them to him. but i mean, why do you have to fix the salad? who broke it? i didn’t touch it. did you break the salad, mom? if you did, YOU’D BETTER FIX IT!
I’m joking, but she’s not really finding it funny. and i’m thinking, aren’t i supposed to be the one who’s freaking out here? tiny is going to be the first b-b-b- (i can’t do it) boy-f-f-f (c’mon, will) boyf-boyf (here we go) boyfriend of mine that she’s ever met. although if she keeps talking about salad, i might have to lock her in her bedroom before he comes over.
mom: you’re sure he doesn’t have any allergies?
me: calm. down.
like i suddenly have supercanine sound skills, i hear a car pulling into the driveway. before mom can tell me to comb my hair and put on some shoes, i’m out the front door and watching tiny turn off the ignition.
me: run! run!
but the radio’s so loud that tiny can’t hear me. he just grins. as he opens the door, i get a look at his car.
me: what the—?!?
It’s this silver mercedes, the kind of car you’d expect to be driven by a plastic surgeon - and not the kind of plastic surgeon who fixes the fucked-up faces of starving african babies, but the kind of plastic surgeon who convinces women that their lives will be over if they look older than twelve.
tiny: greetings, earthling! i come in peace. take me to your leader!
It should be weird to have him right in front of me for only the second time in our boyfriendship, and it should be really exciting that i’m about to be caught up in those big arms of his, but really i’m still stuck on the car.
me: please tell me you stole that.
he looks a little confused, and holds up the shopping bag he’s carrying.
tiny: this?
me: no. the car.
tiny: oh. well, i did steal it.
me: you did?
tiny: yeah, from my mother. my car was almost out of gas.
It’s so bizarre. all the times we’ve been talking or texting or IMing or whatever, i’ve always imagined that tiny was in a house like mine, or a school like mine, or a car like the one i might get someday - a car almost as old as me, probably bought off an old woman who isn’t allowed to drive anymore. now i’m realizing it’s not like that at all.
me: you live in a big house, don’t you?
tiny: big enough to fit me!
me: that’s not what i mean.
I have no idea what i’m doing. because i’ve totally slowed us down, and even though he’s right in front of me now, it’s not like it should be.
tiny: come here, you.
and with that, he puts his bag down and opens his arms to me, and his smile is so wide that i’d be an asshole to do anything but walk right inside his welcome. once i’m there, he leans down to kiss me lightly.
tiny: hello.
I kiss him back.
me: hello.
okay, so this is the reality: he is here. he is real. we are real. i shouldn’t care about his car.
mom’s got her apron off by the time we get inside the house. even though i warned her that he’s the shape of utah, there’s still a slight moment of astonishment when she first sees tiny in the flesh. he must be used to this, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because he glides right over to her and starts saying all the right things, about how excited he is to meet her, and how amazing it is that she cooked dinner, and how wonderful the house looks.
mom gestures him over to the couch and asks him if he wants anything to drink.
mom: we have coke, diet coke, lemonade, orange juice -
tiny: ooh, i love lemonade.
me: it’s not real lemonade. it’s just lemon-flavored crystal light.
both mom and tiny look at me like i’m the fucking grinch.
me: i didn’t want you to get all excited for real lemonade!
I can’t help it - i’m seeing our apartment through his eyes - our whole lives through his eyes - and it all looks so . . . shabby. the water stains on the ceiling and the dull-colored rug and the decades-old tv. the whole house smells like debt.
mom: why don’t you go sit next to tiny, and i’ll get you a coke?
I took my pills this morning, i swear. but it’s like they ended up in my leg instead of my brain, because i just can’t get happy. i sit down on the couch, and as soon as mom is out of the room, tiny’s hand is on my hand, fingers rubbing over my fingers.
tiny: it’s okay, will. i love being here.
I know he’s been having a bad week. i know things haven’t been going his way, and that he’s worried his show is going to bomb. he’s rewriting it daily. (‘who knew it would be so complicated to fit love into fourteen songs?’) i know he’s been looking forward to this - and i know that i’ve been looking forward to this. but now i have to stop looking forward and start looking at where i am. it’s hard.
I lean into tiny’s meaty shoulder.
I can’t believe i’m turned on by anything i’d call ‘meaty.’
me: this is the rough part, okay? so just stay tuned for the good part. i promise it’ll come soon.
when mom comes back in, i’m still leaning there. she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem to mind. she puts our drinks down, then runs to the kitchen again. i hear the oven open and close, then the scrape of a spatula against a cookie sheet. a minute later, she’s back with a plate of mini hot dogs and mini egg rolls. there are even two little bowls, one with ketchup and one with mustard.
tiny: yum!
we dig in, and tiny starts telling mom about the week he’s had, and so many details about hold me closer that i can see she’s thoroughly confused. as he’s talking, she remains hovering above us, until finally i tell her she should join us, sit down. so she pulls over a chair and listens, even having an egg roll or two herself.
It starts to feel more normal. tiny being here. mom seeing the two of us. me sitting so that at least one part of my body is always touching his. it’s almost like i’m back in millennium park with him, that we’re continuing that first time-bending conversation, and this is where the story is supposed to go. as always, the only question is whether i’ll fuck it all up.
when there are no finger foods left to finger, mom clears the dishes and says dinner will be ready in a few minutes. as soon as she’s out of the room, tiny turns to me.
tiny: i love her.
yes, i think, he’s the type of person who can love someone that easily.
me: she’s not bad.
when she comes in to tell us dinner’s ready, tiny flies up from the couch.
tiny: ooh! i almost forgot.
he reaches for the shopping bag he brought and hands it to my mother.
tiny: a host gift!
mom looks really surprised. she takes a box out of the bag - it has a ribbon on it and everything. tiny sits back down so she won’t feel awkward sitting down to open it. very carefully, she undoes the ribbon. then she gently lifts open the top of the box. there’s a black foam cushion, then something surrounded by bubble wrap. With even more care, she undoes the wrapping, and takes out this plain glass bowl.
at first, i don’t get it. i mean, it’s a glass bowl. but my mother’s breath catches. she’s blinking back tears. because it’s not just a plain glass bowl. it’s perfect. i mean, it’s so smooth and perfect, we all sit there and stare at it for a moment, as my mother turns it slowly in her hand. even in our shabby living room, it catches the light.
nobody’s given her anything like this in ages. maybe ever. nobody ever gives her anything this beautiful.
tiny: i picked it out myself!
he has no idea. he has no clue what he’s just done.
mom: oh, tiny . . .
she’s lost the words. but i can tell. it’s the way she holds that bowl in her hand. it’s the way she’s looking at it.
I know what her mind is telling her to do - to say it’s too much, that she couldn’t possibly have such a thing. even if she wants it so badly. even if she loves it that much.
so it’s me who says
me: it’s beautiful. thank you so much, tiny.
I hug him, really send him my thank you that way, too. then mom is putting the bowl on the coffee table she cleaned to a shine. she’s standing up, and she’s opening her arms, and then he’s hugging her, too.
this is what i never allow myself to need.
and of course i’ve been needing it all along.
to tell the truth, tiny eats most of the chicken parm at dinner, and takes up most of the conversation as well. mostly, we talk about stupid things - why mini hot dogs taste better than regular-size hot dogs, why dogs are better than cats, why cats was so successful in the eighties when sondheim was writing rings around lloyd webber (neither mom or i really contribute much to that one). at one point, tiny sees the da vinci postcard mom has on the refrigerator, and he asks her if she’s ever been to italy. so she tells him about the trip she took with three college friends their junior year, and it’s an interesting story for once. he tells her he likes naples even more than rome, because the people in naples are so intensely from the place they’re from. he says he wrote a song about traveling for his musical, but ultimately it didn’t make the cut. he sings us a few lines: