"What color's his hair?"
"Don't know. His head's shaved."
"Fair enough. I've seen some hot bald guys. So what's your opinion? Do you wish he had hair, or is he fine without it?"
"Oh, absolutely fine without it. He's very tan and sexy. Possibly cover-model material for a biker magazine."
"Good, but I've got a question for you. How clean are his hands? I know how you are."
My heart sank. I had been fine talking about how nice Mr. Carr looked until Mel brought up his hands. "Well, they looked like they were covered in grease. He shook my hand and they didn't feel greasy, but I still had to wash my hands after he left. His hands were rough and huge, and stained black around his fingernails."
"That's typical. When I work on my car, I get oil and grease on my hands, and sometimes it takes days to come off. Imagine working on cars every day. I bet his hands were clean, but you couldn't tell."
"You're probably right, although my hand did have an odd scent on it after he shook it."
"Odd good or odd bad?"
I knew why he'd asked. Mel was one of the few people in my life who understood where my hand-washing fetish came from. I said, "The jury is still holding session over that one. The scent was new to me, and I paused before I bolted for the bathroom."
"Interesting. Usually you react right away."
"I know."
"Maybe it was because the smell came off a really hot guy?" Mel goaded.
"Stop. He's probably straight anyway, so speculating over things that would unnerve me is unnecessary-good and bad smells included. I think he was just being nice because I'm the new guy."
"Maybe. But you better promise to call me if he turns out to be gay. I want to know if this odd scent is particular to his hands or found on other parts of his body."
I chuckled. "You're so incorrigible." Mel was a great friend, but I needed to change the subject. "So, how about you? Are things progressing with you and that girl you saw working at the chicken place?"
"Boston Market," he corrected. "And nah, I'm still hesitant about saying hello, let alone anything else. What if she doesn't accept me? I think I'll wait."
"Really? You're not even going to take a chance? You could start with going there to eat every week and see if she notices."
"Maybe, but you know I want to wait to date until my scars heal and I figure out my next step in the process. I want to feel more secure about myself before I face my fear of rejection, especially from a girl as pretty as Cindy."
"Mel, you know I love you, but just like you pushed me toward independence, I need to push you a little toward dating."
"I know. Just … can you keep your fingers crossed for me? I'll try going in for lunch and see if she looks at me. Okay?"
I nodded, but then realized he couldn't see me. "Yes, of course. I'm here for you."
"Thanks. I'm here for you too. And if Mr. Carr, the auto mechanic, turns out to be gay, I'll be here for advice on how not to screw it up. The next guy you go out with will be the one, I'm sure of it!"
"I hope so. My internal clock is ticking."
"Grant, you're twenty-six, not fifty-six. You'll find the right guy to marry and settle down with. I promise."
I sighed.
We said our good-byes, and I set my phone on the end table. I hoped Mel was right. I was tired of being alone. There had to be a guy out there who would tolerate my need to iron my boxers and group my shirts according to color. Other people had to despise it when their food touched on their plate, right? Or when restrooms only had air-drying machines instead of paper towels? I was not a freak. I was a somewhat nice-looking gay man cursed with an unusual personality that repelled men. I was special. I would find someone eventually who appreciated my quirks.
I went to bed thinking about what my second week of work would be like. This weekend I would do laundry and clean my three-room house. On Monday I could worry about the cougar woman Jessica had warned me about, and the auto mechanic who'd winked at me for no apparent reason. Because even if he was gay, he'd never want to take me to bed, so I was better off playing it cool and being his friend.
Friends. My mother had told me I needed to make some.
Chapter 2: Making Friends, Moving On, And That Squishy Feeling In Your Belly When A Guy Says Your Name
HIS SWEATY body pressed me against the wall. I felt a sting as he sucked on my neck. He lifted me off my feet and helped me wrap my legs around his waist. His long, hard shaft ran under my balls and pulsed with need. I gasped and cried out … .
"Tristan!" I cried, bolting upright in bed. I looked around at my empty, dark room. "Oh, jeez." I flopped back down on my pillow and panted in my residual dream euphoria. That was the most vivid dream I'd ever had.
AT WORK on Monday, I decided it was time to get to know the people around me. Sure, I knew most of their names, but I didn't know them like I had known the people at the other branch. I had worked there for four years. It wasn't like making friends was difficult, but as I'd gotten older it seemed more tedious. I guess in high school, making friends was a given. When you saw the same people day after day, it made sense. In college, the group of people I hung with had gradually diminished. At the bank, those people in my daily life had shrunk to a smaller group that still fed my relational needs. And then my workplace sanctuary had closed.
When forced to relocate, it puts relationships to the test. Were they really my friends, or was it a nominal thing because we worked together every day? Well, so far it appeared to have been nominal, because the only person I talked to consistently was Mel. I rang Jenny and Mary, but they sounded busy making new friends and getting settled in their new positions.
I needed to move on like my friend Laura had the day she left. I hadn't heard from her in months. Again, our friendship must have only been nominal. When would I make friends with someone who wanted to brush our dentures together or play chess in the park after we retired? I didn't want that permanent fixture in my life to be my mother. How depressing.
Jessica handed a receipt to her customer, and when that woman left, I attempted a conversation over the little half wall that separated our cubicles, as I referred to them. "So, Jessica, how long have you worked at this branch?"
"Two years. I was at a different bank in Baltimore, and when this bank bought them out, they relocated me. I like Westminster, so it's been good. I had another friend, though, who got transferred to an area she hated and ended up quitting the bank. She works at Safeway now."
"I guess banks taking over other banks is typical."
"Yeah, it seems so."
"All my friends got relocated when a branch closed in Columbia," I explained. I noticed bits of masking tape stuck to the top of my cubicle and scraped at it with my nail.
"How did you end up here? Columbia is like an hour south. Did they give you a choice?" she asked.
I was happy Monday started out slow, because last week had been a challenge to keep up. During this lull I could chat briefly without interruptions. "There were twenty employees who needed to find jobs, and twelve positions at other branches. Some bigwig sat us down individually and gave us a choice. Mine was here or Bethesda."
"Oh, I like here better than Bethesda." Jessica had one of those lilting soprano voices I liked. I could picture her singing "Whistle While You Work" alongside Snow White while dancing around the bank in an effort to help me see how much fun working here could be.
"I've never been there, but my mother lives closer to Westminster, so it made the choice obvious."
"Did you have to move, or are you still living in Howard County?" Jessica glanced up when a person walked through the front doors and headed over to the side table to fill out a slip.
"I moved. I was renting a room from someone, and I really didn't like it anyway. When I told my mother I was considering moving to Westminster to be close to work, she found me a house for rent. She knows the woman who owns it. It's small, but I have it all to myself for less rent than I paid at my old place."
"That's cool. Are you close to your mother?" she asked innocently.
"Yeah," I said, not wanting to divulge the fact that I had lived with my mother until last year.
"What about your dad?"
"He died in a car accident six years ago." It was not a memory I enjoyed, but it was less painful to talk about as time went on.