Adam Levin - Hot Pink

After the grilled cheese sandwiches on the fifty-third day, I got home before my dad. My ma said to wash my face and change my filthy clothes because she could always smell it on me when I hung out with Franco and it was horrible. “You smell like that garage, Cliff,” is what she said. So I washed up really fast with paper towels — just my pits and my face — and then I changed out of my black T-shirt and into this polo my dad brought back from Laos that was colored baby blue. I changed in the bathroom in front of the mirror, which I forget sometimes how bad it is to do that, because I get stuck there, counting my rolls to see how much bigger I’m getting, and it’s always bigger because I got no discipline. And by the time I was done my dad was home, and he didn’t give me a hug, and guess why. It was because he was worried I was a fag. He’s always worrying about something. Plus I think I looked like a fag in that shirt. Baby blue with a collar.

“What do you and Franco do all afternoon at that filthy garage?” my dad asked me.

“We talk about stuff,” I said. “Life and stuff.”

“What about girls?” He got right to the point. “Do you talk about girls ever?”

“Not really.” I told him not really because first of all it was true. I was always scared that if I talked about girls, Franco would want to go get some girls, and that would mean he’d ditch me, and where would I be for the afternoon? Either fighting Helio or stuck at Theo’s with Gino is where. And also the whole Jenny Wansie thing was embarrassing to talk to anyone but my ma about, especially my dad and Franco.

“Do you like girls, Clifford?” he said. When he said it, my ma brought out the steaks, and I hoped maybe he’d forget what he asked. So I cut into the steak and I told my ma that it was some delicious steak. “Hey!” my dad said. “I asked you a question.”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Cliff. About girls. You like ’em?”

“Sometimes.”

“Name me one you like.”

“I don’t really—”

“He likes Jenny Wansie,” my ma said. “You’re crazy to worry, Carlo. Your son’s the biggest heterosexual on the block.”

I know she didn’t mean that I was the biggest in size, but it made me sad for a second, because it was true in that way, too. There was this gay guy, Vito, that lived down the street and pretended he wasn’t gay, and he was bigger than me, but if you take into consideration age and proportionate size, I was the biggest heterosexual on the block. I wanted to not eat the steak because of all the calories I had before, but my ma got upset when I didn’t eat her food and it pissed off my dad. So I ate. I probably ate 4,500 calories that day, which is sick.

“Jenny Wansie. Eh? Eh,” my dad said. My dad always says “Eh” when he’s embarrassing someone. “Look at him blushing. Alright. Sorry. I didn’t think you were gay, Clifford, but I was worried because Lee Anders’s son I didn’t think was gay either, and Lee Anders walked in on him just the other day. Commiserating with a little Asian kid.”

Lee Anders was one of the copilots my dad flew around the world with.

“An Asian kid?” my ma said.

“Gloria, we’re Democrats. It doesn’t matter the kid was Asian.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“For detail. To add texture to the story.”

“He wasn’t really Asian?”

“No. He was Asian alright. Till Lee Anders got through with him, and then the kid was just ugly.”

“Lee hurt the boy?”

“Boy! He was sixteen years old, for chrissakes. Now, Clifford, I want you to know this: it’s okay for people to be gay because we’re all Democrats here, but just not for you. It’s like saying nigger and being Italian. It’s just not right for you.”

“How do I know I’m a Democrat?”

“Here’s the test: do you think our new mayor Richard M. Daley is a funny guy who makes a lot of clever plays on words when he talks, or do you think he’s more like an illiterate, nonsense-speaking midget with a really red face?”

“What do you think?” I said.

“I’m asking you, Clifford.”

“Your dad’s asking you.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“There! You’re a Democrat. You got an open mind on you. You don’t know, so you withhold judgment.” He stood up, leaving his fork in his steak, and walked to the other side of the table to hug me and kiss me wet on the cheeks. Then he went back to his steak and said, “Hello, son! How’s your summer been?”

I like my dad. He’s crazy. “It’s been alright.”

“Just alright? Have you been seeing a lot of this hot little Wansie I’m hearing so much about?”

My ma was laughing because she likes my dad for being crazy, too. “Clifford doesn’t like to talk about little Jenny.”

Again with the size. I was the biggest heterosexual and the girl I loved was little. They didn’t know. They couldn’t. I knew they couldn’t, so I didn’t let it get to me.

“If he doesn’t like to talk about her, it must be serious. Have you gotten to first yet, Cliff?”

“Carlo.”

“What? I’m just asking about first. First is just French kissing. Have you been French kissing in the U.S.A., Cliff? Eh? Eh. Eh? Ah, you’re too young to remember that song. Pass the mashed, Gloria,” he said.

She pushed the bowl of potatoes over to him and everyone was quiet for a minute. I was about to ask my dad to pass me the potatoes when he was through with them, but he started talking, which was good, because one thing I didn’t need to do to myself was those potatoes.

“Am I square or what? This day and age,” my dad said, shaking his head. “First doesn’t mean French kissing anymore, does it? That’s just being in the batter’s circle, isn’t it? What used to be third is now first base. The times they are a-changing. It’s fine, though. That’s what Democrats stand for.”

“Don’t be sad, Carlo. You’re no square. First is still Frenching, right?” my ma said to me.

Like I knew. You could tell they were so sure I kissed all the girls I wanted to.

“No,” I told them. “First ain’t Frenching.”

“Really, Cliff? What is it, then?” my ma said.

My dad lifted up his eyebrows and did the thing with the finger in the fist. My ma smacked him and then they kissed. My dad was a football player in high school and my ma was a dancer. My dad was cool, though. He had an old hotrod. I’ve seen pictures. It was a black ’67 Chevelle with a blower. He was a badass, my dad. My ma was really pretty, too. She was his Jenny Wansie except that she actually liked him, which made it much better, and then I was born and they were happy about it.

“So?” my dad said. “What’s first then?”

“Two guys and a girl,” I said.

“Get out,” my ma said.

“Are you serious, Cliff? That’s kinda disturbing to your father,” my dad said. “Frankly, I’m shocked. And with so many Republicans in our Congress…”

“He’s making it up,” my mother said.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“Well, so what’s home plate?” my dad said.

I don’t know how to explain this, but he had this thing in his voice like I was ruining his life, which I didn’t want to do.

I said, “Home plate is when you fall in love with the girl of your dreams and she loves you too and everything’s alright.”

My dad slapped the table. He lightened right up. My mother grabbed hold of my cheeks because she thinks I like it, which is my fault because I never told her any different. She said, “You’re gonna get to home plate one day, Cliff. If not with that little Wansie girl, then with someone smarter and prettier.”

“You’re a nice boy, Clifford,” my father said. “You’re gonna be a kind and decent man.”