Lawsuits and Loathing
Chapter 2: Art of Avoidance
I look down at my sad, red solo cup of beer. Stan had switched me over after I'd had quite a few shots – his heart's in the right place, but I was really hoping to get fucked up tonight. I mean, it's my last night here, not that anyone knows that. Not that I'm going to tell anyone.
"Dude!" Kenny's voice snaps me out of my reverie as he plops down next to me on Stan's couch. I glance up at the party happening all around me. All of the furniture has been pushed to the walls or moved to the dining room, leaving a mostly bare living room, save for the couch, collapsible table in the center, and a little drink station near the kitchen, which basically is just a smattering of beers, liters of soda, and half-empty bottles of rum. Stan and Wendy are playing beer pong against Token and Bebe, Stan's arm draped seemingly casually, actually territorially, over his girlfriend's shoulders.
"You look like you're not even enjoying yourself," Kenny leans in close, his blue eyes glinting at me from under his shaggy bangs. The condensation from his beer drips a few cold droplets onto my jeans. This might be the last time I see him.
I shrug noncommittally and get up without saying anything, bee-lining for the back door.
What am I doing, I think blankly.
My mind is all over the place yet nowhere. My head feels like everything is swimming, my fingers are numb.
I'm leaving South Park to go to a good college in California, my conscious supplies helpfully.
The cold air from outside hits me like a brick wall of fucking ice, sobering me somewhat. The warm, stale air from inside the house dissipates around me as I close the door behind me. Only the faint light spilling onto the snow from the door's window pierces the darkness of the night. Everything looks sallow, sad, unmoving. I exhale from deep within my chest, my breath coming out in thick rolling puffs.
I breathe again, bending at my waist and putting my hands on my knees. I know I probably look I'm about to yak to any passerby or nosy party guests, but I just need a second. I just need to relax.
Stan's face, contorted with anger and sadness flashes like a light bulb in my mind's eye. Why even bother keeping my departure a secret? Because I'm scared I'll hurt him – or because I'm too scared to actually say goodbye? Or maybe because my burning desire to leave would somehow offend them? Stan, Kenny, Wendy – everyone is just planning on making a life here, going to community college maybe, getting a job and settling down. How do you tell people you love that you would rather die than live their dream?
Simple: I can't, so I won't.
"Too much wine, Jew?"
Cartman's taunting voice cuts through the silence, his feet crunching on the snow as his shoes slowly approach me. Black combat boots, seriously scuffed, left laces untied. Will this be all I remember of the fatass?
"Nah, I'm good," I say without looking up.
"You look like you're about to fucking puke."
"Then get out of the splash zone, fatass," I snap.
He laughs this dry, humorless laugh – and then I make the mistake of looking at him. He looks almost exactly the same as when we were kids – mousey brown hair peeking out from under a beanie, carrying quite a few extra pounds on his large frame (all hidden under an oversized letterman's jacket, of course), intense dark eyes that follow my every movement. God, it's like he's trapped in time. The resident fatass, bane of my existence and mortal enemy.
Normally, all I tend to feel is a mixture of contempt and disgust for him – but now, something new is stirring. Something terrifyingly soft, warm, something too dangerously close to affection.
"I'm going to miss you," stupid, drunk me blurts out. I add, softer, looking down at the snow again, "All of you guys."
"Kahl, what the fuck –,"
The look I give Cartman cuts him short, his eyes wide with shock. I'm probably on the verge of tears, I'm not sure.
All I remember is turning on my heel and running off into the night, running away to California for eight years and never once looking back.
I slam the door to my office hard enough that I'm surprised the frosted glass doesn't shatter. Normally, my office is the epitome of neat and organized – my one safe, reserved place in the chaos of my life and job – but now, it's ruined.
Eric Cartman leans against the edge of my antique, solid oak desk, his fingers tapping annoyingly against it. Probably scratching it, fucking asshole. And looking at me with those same dark eyes, only now set in a cut, almost chiseled face that only vaguely reminds me of my worst enemy.
Who the fuck is this guy?
"Well well well, kike," Cartman gloats, arching an eyebrow at me, "long time no see."
I had all but dragged Cartman down the hall, away from my boss and the men who I assume are his bosses, and practically thrown him into my office. I'm not sure what the hell I was thinking – if I kill him here, it would be a little hard to explain. But with the way he keeps tapping my fucking desk, I'm considering it.
I turn my back to him and move to close the shades, vehemently, grounding out each word between clenched teeth.
"You'd better –," Shink! "Not." Shink! "Tell." Shink! "Anyone."
I close the last shades particularly hard, leaving it to rattle helplessly against the window.
At this, Cartman crosses his arms – his well-defined arms, which his suit does little to hide – and gives me another dark look. He swallows and I watch his Adam's apple bob beneath his faintly stubbled chin and disappear under than tanned skin of his neck. Without the baby fat that used to constantly cling to his face, his jaw actually looks distinct, almost strong.
"What the hell are you talking about, Jew?" he deadpans, dropping the teasing edge to his voice.
I begin to pace in front of him, the area of my office being too small to properly pace, so really I probably look like a caged animal, taking three steps in one direction only to turn and take three steps the opposite way. But Cartman remains blessedly silent for a moment while I gather myself again. Composure, I mentally chant, calm, cool, collected.
"I need you to not tell anyone you saw me here," I say slowly, darting a few sidelong glances at him. Cartman seems unfazed. "Not Kenny, not Stan, not my parents. No one."
He seems to mull this over and I can practically hear those damn, evil cogs in his head turning. Finally, he smiles, like a cat who ate the canary. And I'm feeling like my feathers are about to be ruffled.
"So you really did try to disappear, you sneaky Jew," he says softly, looking up at the ceiling. Then he looks at me again and I find myself stopped, anchored to one spot on my rug. He smiles that fucking smile again, saying, "Look Kahl, I'm as excited as you are for this little reunion. But I'm not sure if I'll be able to contain my excitement… if I can keep it to myself."
A pit settles in my stomach. I could see this coming miles away. Cartman loves leverage, the fucking asshat.
"What do you want?" I snarl back, meeting his stare evenly.
Cartman pretends to think about it, tapping his chin in mock wonder. His other hand reaches behind him with surprising agility and grace, plucking one of my business cards from my desk and tucking it away in his suit jacket. If the pit in my stomach could drop any lower, it would fall out of my ass.
Without warning, he stands up, easily taller than me, and walks toward me. His eyes glint with that usual evil mischief that I was so accustomed to so long ago. He's in my face, almost nose to nose with me, still fucking smiling that stupid, shit-eating grin.
"I'll be in touch, Jew."
With that, he slips out of my office – the door closes behind him without making a sound.
I take my lunch early, and Mr. Gabel is too caught up in scrambling the jets against our newest enemies to notice. I collapse in my office chair and stare at my ham and cheese sandwich despondently. Cartman's appearance could very well jeopardize everything. Everything I've worked so hard to achieve for myself, all of the gaps and memories I tried to leave behind, forgotten in my abandoned past. Present-day Kyle Broflovski doesn't have old friends from high school, dropping in on him to see how he is. I'm sure Gabel is flabbergasted.
After biting into my sandwich, I chew thoughtfully and fish out my cell phone from my briefcase. I don't even have to look to dial the number – I know it by heart – but I refuse to save it in my phone as a contact.
It rings a couple times until finally, the line clicks – he picks up.
"Kyle, just in time for your tri-yearly phone call!" Kenny's bright voice calms my nerves.
"Ha-ha," I laugh sarcastically, and take another angry bite.
"So what do I owe this pleasure to?" Kenny chuckles back, a warm genuine sound. "Have you finally cracked and are gonna tell me where you are?"
After I first left South Park, I didn't keep in contact with anyone, not for a long time anyway. It wasn't until one night, five years after I had left, that Kenny called me – drunk off his ass – to tell me that his dad finally died. Drunk driving accident, go figure. Ever since, for the past three years, I had made it a point to call him, to check in occasionally. Kenny only knows some things about me, mostly partial truths – like, he knows I'm a lawyer. He knows I'm gay and kind of an asshole to all my partners. He knows about my parents not knowing where I am. He knows about my hot boss and my boring coworkers. As for the rest, I can only guess what he thinks he knows.
"Not this time, bud," I loose a gentle real laugh this time. "But you would never guess who I ran into today, at my job no less."
The line is silent, so I continue, "It's Cartman. I don't know how I happen to have the worst luck ever, but somehow I do."
"Maybe it's not luck," he replies cryptically, but then brightens again without warning. "But hey – guess who's getting married! Stan and Wendy, duh. And dude, you need to come to the wedding. No sending an anonymous congratulatory bouquet. Stan threw up when he saw you actually signed the one you sent to their engagement party."
I groan, running a hand through my hair, "Ken you know I can't go to that. First of all, Stan would beat the shit out of me, and second, I can't run the risk of running into my family. My mom would also beat the shit out of me."
Kenny sighs, and I know he's disappointed in me, but unlike the rest of my hometown, he actually understands the why behind how I left. I know he won't push the issue even though I'm sure he's dying to. It's like he always treads lightly with me during these phone calls, like he's scared I'll vanish again if he says something too forceful, or if he gets too close to the truth about me.
"How's the boyfriend? What was his name again – Chet?" Kenny steers the conversation away before it can get awkward.
I relax back into my office chair and release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.
"Yeah, that ended a bit ago," I say, twirling a pen between my fingers.
"Already? Wow, and he seemed so into you," Kenny says. "But let me guess – you're already onto the next one, right?"
My silence says it all. Kenny laughs throatily over the phone and I hear it echo in the background. I wonder briefly where he is, what he's doing, what he looks like, if he still has those damn bangs.
"Okay, so tell me about this one," he continues.
"Well – don't judge – his name is Justin, and he works at this hipster boutique."
Ken's laugh fills the phone again and I smile in spite of myself, my earlier anger and frustrations of the morning melting away.
I take a big gulp of white wine and flop down on my plush couch, resting my glass against my scrunched up stomach. Finally home, back in my clean perfect apartment where I can just take my shoes off, loosen my tie, and drink box wine until I collapse in a drunken stupor.
Rinse and repeat.
Finally, I'm living the dream – the gay dream probably. Blessedly though, my 'boyfriend' is out with his other young hipster friends, getting drunk at a fancy little bar somewhere in West Hollywood, drinking apple-tinis and regurgitating the last thing he read on Yahoo! Celebrity News. Kenny's voice rings in my heads – "manwhore". That's his affectionate nickname for me these days, and I mean, it's not like he's wrong. I sleep around, and I have a constantly revolving glass door of men in my life.
What can I say? None of them seem to have any staying power
I lean forward, set my once very full glass of wine on my chestnut coffee table, and opt instead to sift through my emails, hunching over my MacBook.
It's just the usual shit – advertisements that slip through the cracks of my spam blocker, those typical forwarded 'punny' emails I get from my coworker's neighbor's wife's mother, actually important work related stuff – but one email catches my eye.
[No Subject]
From: nazijewhunter69
I blink a few times. And then reread the sender's email again and again. I'm not even sure I want to open this fucking email since I'm 99.99% certain I know who sent me the damn thing. I groan internally and take another swig of my chilled, shitty wine, praying vehemently to Abraham that I'm wrong, that it's just a coincidence.
I scroll down to read the rest.
~hey joo boy
That's it. No long hate speech, no prattling off insane demands in return for his silence. Just a hello. And a racial slur.
My fingers hover over the keys. Should I response? Do I even dare to open that door? I could just delete the email, block the sender and act like I never saw it. And then I just avoid Cartman for the rest of his sordid stay in Los Angeles. Which might be a little difficult since he's working the defensive side of one of the biggest cases in my career.
Shit.
I type out my response quickly, read it back to myself again, and then inhale another drink of wine. His reply is almost instantaneous.
~What do you want, fatass?
~fuk u kahl.
~cant i just ask about my friend
~?
I snort and practically smash my keys typing back. A minute passes, and then my computer dings as an alert to Cartman's reply again.
~No, you can't. Leave me alone.
~dam joo boy u have a bigger stick up ur ass then ur dumb boss
Begrudgingly, I chuckle slightly.
~Your grammar sucks. I'm amazed you made it through law school.
~And you don't know what I do on weekends.
~lolol im just that kewl
~& ur rite
~but i can guess fag(;
I don't know why I sent that line about my weekends; it literally is none and never will be any of Cartman's business.
But I still find myself suppressing an annoyed smile.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story and a special thanks to my wonderful reviewers - your words of encouragement rock and really help motivate me for the next chapter.