Scott Sherman: First You Fall

“Sugar!” Freddy shouted. He gave me a big, strong hug. “So, are we on ful slut alert tonight?” he asked, eyeing my shirt.

“Mothers, hide your sons,” I warned.

But I wasn’t feeling it anymore. Now that I was at the club, my bravado was gone. I wished I were home in bed. Alone.

“Honey, when you go out cruising for some strange, it usual y means you’ve had a shitty day,”

Freddy said. “Come buy my black ass a drink and tel me al about it, bubela.”

“So, Twinkie boy,” he said as we sat in a booth in the quietest corner of the noisy bar, “what’s gotten in your cream?” I told him about losing Al en and finding Tony.

“Oy vey,” Freddy said, after hearing my tale of woe. “Talk about drama. You write that up as a screenplay with you as a woman, and Angelina Jolie and Ashley Judd wil be scratching each other’s eyes out to play that shit.”

“Like Ashley could last a minute against Angelina,” I said, trying to join in the joke. But my heart wasn’t in it. I put my head down on the table and moaned. “What am I going to do?”

Freddy tousled my hair. “Fuck Tony.”

“He didn’t even like it the first time.”

“No, I mean fuck him for not believing you. Solve Al en’s murder yourself!”

“Good plan,” I answered with sarcastic enthusiasm. “Let me get the Hardy Boys out of the backroom and you cal Nancy Drew!”

“Like that bitch would be any help,” Freddy answered. “If it weren’t for that dyke friend she hangs out with, she never would have cracked The Case of the Missing Dildo. Although,” Freddy continued, “I wouldn’t mind doing the Hardy Boys. That Shaun Cassidy had some back for a white boy.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Wel, as much silence as you can find in a club where Britney was playing loud enough to burst your eardrums.

“Tel you what,” Freddy said, “how about I help you?”

“If I were planning an orgy, you’d be the first person I’d cal. But I think we should leave the criminal investigations to the professionals. Tony wil put it together.”

“Honey, please, he can’t even figure out if he likes dick,” Freddy answered. “If you want Al en’s murderer to come to justice, you better break out some serious Charlie’s Angels action. Come to think of it, they were always going undercover as whores, so you’d be perfect!”

“A. I hate you,” I said. “B. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Wel, let’s see, the man had a lot of money and two estranged sons who hated the fact that their father was a faggot,” Freddy observed. “Anyone else you know have reason to see him dead?”

I had to admit that Freddy had a point. Here we were five minutes into the case, and we already had two more suspects than the police.

“Not offhand,” I answered.

“What about crazies,” Freddy asked. “He know any?”

“Wel, judging from the crowd in the street tonight, about half his neighbors seemed certifiable,” I observed. “But this is New York.”

“OK, we’l start with the sons, then,” Freddy answered. “Homophobia and greed: two good motives right there.”

Just then, a six-foot-tal, cappuccino-colored Latino man interrupted us. He was handsome, but kind of seedy, too. “Hey, cutie,” he said to me, “I couldn’t help but notice your shirt. Think I could sample some of that creamy fil ing?”

“Gee,” I answered, “as subtle and attractive an offer as that is, I’l have to decline.”

“No problem,” he answered, smiling. “How about you, sexy?” he said to Freddy. “Wanna dance?”

Freddy looked up at the guy’s eyes, and then craned his head around to read the back of the menu. “How about I just take you home and plow you like the fields of Idaho, instead?”

“Sounds good to me,” said tal, dark, and easy.

“Honey, you don’t mind, do you?” Freddy said, getting up from the booth. “We’l get serious about crime solving tomorrow. Kisses!

I left too, and grabbed a cab home. Two A.M. The light was blinking on my answering machine. I checked the cal er ID: my mother. I’d get it tomorrow.

Tomorrow was a busy day. I had to be at my volunteer job by 11:00, which meant I should be at the gym by 9:00. For me, working out is not an indulgence. It’s a job requirement. I have to maintain the merchandise.

I stripped down to my boxer briefs and washed up. I felt like shit. A quick glance in the mirror showed I looked like it, too.

I got into bed and said a little prayer for Al en.

I was asleep before reaching amen.

The next morning, I had a protein shake and my attention-deficit medication and hit the gym.

I was between sets on the leg press machine, lying on my back with my knees drawn up to my face.

Leg presses are supposed to infuse you with testosterone, but this position always felt gynecological to me.

Why did Al en have to be the one to die, and Tony the one to resurface? Why couldn’t it have been the other way around?

OK, that was cold. And I didn’t mean it.

Wel, not real y.

If I real y meant it, that would indicate that I stil gave a shit about whether Tony lived or died, and I didn’t want that to be the case.

No, the only case I wanted to deal with was Al en’s.

I finished up my workout, showered, and headed off to my volunteer job. Time to make the donuts.

“OK, everyone,” I cal ed. “You guys at the front of line are going to open a bag and put a sandwich and a container of soup in it. You pass it down to the next person, who puts in a yogurt and an apple. The last person rol s the bag closed and affixes an address label. Questions? Comments? Concerns?”

I was talking to a group of local high school students, who were volunteering with me at The Stuff of Life, a charity that brings meals to homebound people with AIDS. I run the lunch shift a few times a week. The students were there for the day. We have different organizations that staff our lunch shifts: churches, businesses, schools, and even dating services have al brought in volunteers.

The fifteen students were lined up at tables in The Stuff of Life’s vast, stainless steel kitchen. They seemed like a nice group, a little bit restless, but polite and wel — behaved. Normal y, I would have enjoyed their company, but today I couldn’t help but feel preoccupied.

A skinny girl who stil thought Goth was hip, raised a hennaed hand. “Do these sandwiches have, like, ham in them? Because I can’t touch them if they do.

I, like, don’t eat meat.”

“Actual y,” a pretty blond girl next to her said, “she can’t touch them if they have any food in them, because she’s like, anorexic.”

“I am not anorexic,” Goth girl replied. “I’m just not like you. I don’t eat everything I see. Or everyone.”

The other kids issued a col ective “oooh.”

I was afraid things would turn into a catfight, when Blondie said “You know the only one I eat is you, honey” and kissed Goth Girl on the lips.

“God,” said another girl, “do you two have to be such total lesbians al the time?”

Goth Girl looked at her watch. “Umm, yes, we do” and gave her girlfriend another kiss.

This time, the crowd gave an “awwwww.”

“OK, everyone,” I said, “assuming no one else wants to start making out, let’s get started.”

An obviously fey boy raised his hand and jumped up and down. “Oooh, sir! Sir! I’d like to start making out!” Everyone laughed.

“Nice try, kid, but how about you make some lunches instead?”

“And, ladies,” I said to the happy lesbian couple,

“you’l be happy to know the sandwiches are tuna.”