Sunday the 26th. I had nothing but another year tacked on to my life.
The year before, for my birthday, Bebe and I drove out to an aquarium where we could reach into cold water and stroke 50-year old sturgeons from Lake Superior. To this day I can still feel the slimy ridges of their backs on my fingertips. I remember how purple Bebe's hand was when she finally drew it from the water. I held that hand for the rest of the day.
She texted warm wishes, I gave a warm reply. Then there was nothing more.
Birthdays have always been strange to me. Being forced to digest yourself when you don't know who you have filled me with small, overlapping screams of dread. When I think of how much of my life has passed, violin strings break in my ears. I grind my teeth.
Not that I'm afraid of dying. I've seen someone die before, and I've come close myself.
I believe when we die, all that happens is we go back to the place we were before being born. No lake of fire and no pearly gates. I take comfort in that.
I'm just saying. You know how I feel about time.
I wanted to get through my birthday with minimal social interaction, but what is planned and what takes place never coexist.
May is a great time in Colorado to plant peppers and squash. Cartman likes to fry zucchini pancakes, so come July when the squash is ready, he gets really excited. And I love spicy foods, so the peppers are a centerpiece for me. So, I slathered on sunscreen (more freckles already developed on my nose) and worked until 11 am.
With everything planted and watered, I wiped my forehead with my arm, went back inside, walked upstairs to find Kenny and Cartman lounging in their pajamas, balls deep in the wake and bake process in the kitchen. A singular, chocolate cupcake with coconut shavings on it, a small box, and a card were waiting for me in the breakfast nook. When I saw the thick frosting of the cupcake, my first thought was: Oh, Craig would be all over that.
They made me a birthday card filled with crude doodles (I know too many ways of how to fuck a cake now), and this tee-shirt with cats photoshopped into burritos, flying through space, shooting laser beams from their eyes. Kenny picked it out.
…
I remembered I promised to bring flowers for South Perk's outside seating area, a begrudgingly accepted that my day wasn't over yet. I could have put it off for another afternoon, but it would be a quick job and I wanted to get it over with.
I gathered up extra marigold and columbine, packed them into long planters, grabbed zip-tyes, put them in a red wagon, and set off. I would have asked to be driven, but after 40 hours a week of sitting down, I was feeling soft around the core and knew I needed to walk. Kenny and Cartman were too stoned off their asses anyway.
That day was gorgeous. Blue skies with scattered cumulus clouds, a big swelling sun. Dandelions sprouted everywhere, kids played in lawn sprinklers, stopping now and then to open their arms and embrace the mountainous breeze from the Rockies. For the first time in a long time, I felt I belonged there. I was the clouds, the sun, the bright dandelions, a child. Maybe I would be alright.
An old man in khaki shorts and a sun hat called out to me, "hey, flower boy!" (better than what Cartman calls me, which is Farmer Gay). I stopped. He hobbled over to me, held on to the top of his wire fence with both sun-spotted hands and kept me cocooned in an hour-long story beginning with a local flea market, and ending with how his wife used to plant sunflowers in their backyard this time of year. I glanced over their fence and saw no sunflowers. "Used to."
He ended the conversation by giving me sunflowers. I refused at first, but he insisted. It's difficult for me to take anything from anyone because I feel like no matter what it is, I don't deserve it. Another reason to dislike my birthday.
I doubted the seeds were any good. Lord knows how long he had been saving them. Still, I thanked him and moved on.
When I finally reached South Perk, the place was in an early afternoon lull. I parked the wagon on the patio, went inside, and made myself an iced coffee and helped Tweek with a payroll issue before he went home for the day.
A couple of other baristas took his spot. We exchanged stiff small talk before I went back outside.
"It won't take me long, and then I'll be out of your hair," I told them. I try to be a "cool" manager but it comes off as more awkward than anything.
As I zip-tied flowers to the railing outside, my thoughts drifted.
I wondered if my parents remembered it was my birthday. I wondered where they were living now, if they have a seaside manor or a rickety colonial with a bad paint job. Do they have photos of me hanging in their living room? Doubt it. If they did, how do they explain the unseen child, the fragmented teenager, to guests? Ike has to be 19 now, right? When his friends come over and see a family photo, does Ike point me out and say "that was my brother, but he screwed up." When my parents meet new people and get asked about their children, am I mentioned? What's the narrative that gets tossed around? Do I have any honor in the Broflovski family lore? All of these what if, what if, what if questions with no answers.
My hand slipped and the zip-tye fell loose. The planter dropped sideways, hanging by one end on the railing. Clumps of soil fell to the concrete. I sighed, tying again, then got down to my knees to scoop up soil back into the planter.
If I had had the help I so desperately needed before everything went to hell, would I be a totally different person now?
I shook it off. No use pondering on what could have been when things just rigidly are.
I didn't hear his voice at first, being so zoned out and all. He had to repeat himself:
"Kyle?"
I looked up to see Craig and a short girl, maybe 21-22 years old, peaking over the railing at me.
"Oh, holy shit. Hi." I stood, wiping my hands on my pants. "What are you doing here?"
It was strange to see him out of professional clothes for the first time. He had holes in his jeans, black and white checkered Vans, and a NASA tee-shirt, but instead of NASA in the logo, it said ROGUE. Made sense for a politics-obsessed scientist. I was a little embarrassed, now wearing the burrito cat shirt Kenny had bought for me. Later in the summer, Craig would admit to me he liked the shirt - better yet, taking it off of me.
"We were out on a walk and I recognized your hair," he said.
"From all the way over there?" I pointed to the sidewalk several feet away.
"Yes…"
"Your hair is super red," the girl said. "Anyone would see it."
"Trish…" his voice dropped to a low I'd never heard before. She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Kyle. This is my sister, Tricia. Tricia, this is my friend, Kyle. We work in the lab together."
"Hi," I said.
I outstretched my hand, but instead of shaking it, she turned to her brother, wide-eyed, and asked, "Wait, is this THE Kyle?"
Do strange introductions just run like diarrhea in this family?
"Tricia." The voice dropped even lower.
"Sorry," she said to me. "Craig has told me a lot about you."
"Hopefully good things."
"Oh, definitely all good things," she said this with a smirk that made me want to ask more, but Craig was turning red, looking every which way but my direction, so I held back.
It was then, I knew for sure, through the unholy power of siblings exposing each other, that Craig had a thing for me. I tried to not let myself get too flustered about it and focus instead on Tricia.
The first thing I noticed about her was her hair. It was also a bit red. Nowhere near my dark copper hues, though, hers was strawberry-blonde. Her eyes were dark green. Craig's nose was round, hers was pointed delicately. They didn't look alike whatsoever, yet I could feel their brother-sister bond. I wanted to see what their parents looked like.
"Oh!" Craig suddenly broke his shyness and grabbed my arm. His hands were soft. "Happy birthday, dude!"
"Thank you…" I felt like I could have fainted, his thumbs pressed into my skin like that.
"You're working on your birthday?" Tricia asked.
"I'm not. I'm just dropping off these flowers and going home."
She bent down to smell the columbine. "Craig has a present for you, you know."
His hands dropped my arm. "Why do you need to blurt out everything?"
She shrugged at him, as if to say "sorry I'm just trying to grease the wheels, brother."
He flipped her off. She double-flipped him off.
I waved my hand down between them like a draw bridge. "You didn't have to get me anything, Craig."
"I know. But I wanted to."
I smiled. "That's really nice of you."
"I try."
"Jesus Christ," said Tricia.
Craig had never been inside South Perk, so I told them they could come inside for drinks if they stopped flipping each other off.
They didn't stay long, meandering in the dimly lit lobby, surveying the art deco paintings that needed dusting. The other baristas were polite but posted themselves in other places, casually observing as I made Tricia some fruity iced tea thing and a chocolate shake for Craig.
I wanted to corner him, but couldn't decide if, once I did corner him, would I kiss him or grill him? I wanted answers. But I kept myself cool, forced naivety, ignoring all the popping in my brain.
His phone started buzzing - whoever it was on the other end of the line was yelling, Craig barely getting in a word except for "Yes" and "I know."
I looked at Tricia.
She frowned. "Asshole roommates, you know?"
"I guess."
"We have to go," Craig whispered, holding the bottom of the phone slightly angled away from his mouth. "He's throwing a fit. The neighbors are going to call the cops if he doesn't quiet down."
"Fine."
Craig turned to me. The man in the phone was still yelling. "I'll see you tomorrow, Kyle. Happy birthday."
Tricia raised her drink to me as she backed into the door and they went outside together.
That was the first time Craig stepped into my territory. Soon, he would mark everything.
…
We forgot the next day was Memorial Day, so campus was closed. His "see you tomorrow" was voided. I was looking forward to seeing him and got upset with myself for forgetting the holiday and not mentally preparing myself for the absence.
On top of that, I was slower than usual from getting extra baked with everyone the night before (maybe it was a good thing I didn't have to work) and unable to grasp the world around me. According to Cartman, I cried the night before. Hard. I cried while holding Kelso in my shaking arms, Wendy patting my back. No one knew what I was crying about, no one could understand what I was saying. I don't remember any of it.
I sobered up when I saw a text from Bebe:
"We forgot something…"
"Huh?" I hated when she did this. It felt like being coaxed into a box with a stick and a string.
"We're supposed to go to Scott's wedding in July…"
Oh fuck, that's right. Scott Malkinson is Bebe's manager. He's a young dude but already a talent management genius. Even with his prominent lisp, it doesn't stop him from being charismatic. There was a time he almost passed out on Bebe's couch from low blood sugar and I was the one to pump him with orange juice. He strains himself sometimes with all the multi-tasking, but he's helped Bebe get so many sponsorships and collaborations. All around, he's just a really great guy and I'm glad to see him take such a big, happy step in his life.
"Maybe you should just go," I typed. "I like Scott but he doesn't know me that well, anyway."
"I already RSVP'd for two."
"You can't change it? I'm sure there's still time."
"It would be embarrassing."
"Take someone else, then. It won't be hard for you to find a date."
"It won't bother you if I go with another guy?"
"No? You can do whatever you want. I don't care."
Then: "Indifference is worse than hate, Kyle."
I chewed on this for a minute. Of course, I cared. Of course, it would be painful to think about her holding hands, laughing, dancing, kissing, fucking somebody else.
Of course, it made me hypocritical too. Loving her wasn't something I had quite let go of (and never will, in a way, though the type of love has changed), at the same time, I wanted her to move on, talk shit about me to a new boyfriend, whatever. This way, I could have permission to move on too.
She sent another text: "I'd really rather go with you. Even if it's just as friends."
"I suppose…"
"Let me know soon. I have to buy plane tickets."
"...why?"
"The wedding is in Florida."
"Are you fucking kidding me? I can't afford to fly there right now."
"I'll pay for it."
"Absolutely not. You work really hard for your money."
"So do you. I'm the one who spends most of the day on Reddit."
"I'm still uncomfortable with this. But I'll let you know by tomorrow."
"Okay."
I spent the whole morning outside with Kenny and Cartman, stretched out under the sun. I was actually starting to like the smell of sunscreen. Cartman barbequed in the afternoon and invited over some girl from Tinder with chunky blonde highlights and a raspy laugh. They disappeared upstairs for along time, and Kenny left to do whatever he does within the legal limit, leaving me to myself.
What a strange family this is. What a strange life I have.
I sat on the grass, legs outstretched, staring at the violet sky. I wished I had company.
…
Tuesday, Craig and I were alone all day together.
Susan sent a group text saying she was calling in because her daughter was sick and needed someone at home to take care of her. She added in "Happy birthday, Kyle :)" at the end. I realized, when I received that text at 6:30 am, that I now had Craig's number. In retrospect, we should have all had each other's numbers in case something happened, but we just didn't get to exchanging digits right away.
"Looks like it's just you and me today," Craig announced, the dust motes and sunshine through the window forming a halo around him.
"Looks like it," I said, watching him unlock the door. I wondered what kind of risque things Wendy would say if she had been there.
Almost as soon as I sat at the counter, he laid a book and a king-sized Kit-Kat bar in front of me. Oh, lord, I thought, we have an inside joke. How keen.
"I know you like 'em big." He walked away, hung up his backpack, then walked back over.
"Haha. Thank you." I did really appreciate the sentiment, though. I held up the book. Light in August. Faulkner. "...you didn't."
"You said you liked Sound and the Fury so I thought maybe you'd like this one too."
"I actually haven't read this one yet," I flipped it open to the inside cover.
He'd written inside with black ink, semi-cursive:
To my favorite feisty friend-
Happy Birthday
3 Craig
5-26-19
The little heart…
"I'm feisty, huh?" I ran my fingertips over the edges of pages.
"I'd say so."
"This is really cool, thank you."
Without realizing the gravity of what I was about to do, I reached out and hugged him. His hand gently scratched my back.
"You're welcome," he whispered. "You smell good."
I pulled away. Like I've said before, I am not suave. I could have said something sexy, but instead, I uttered, "Thanks, I showered today."
I thought he would say nothing, shake his head, and walk away. He laughed. "Same."
…
We sat at the table outside again, quietly eating lunch when I said, "I might be going on vacation soon."
"Really? Where?"
"Florida."
"In the middle of summer?" he touched the top of my hand, finger pressing between two knuckles. "You'll burn."
"I've got a lot of sunscreen. Need to protect all this ink."
"Just don't forget the back of your neck again."
"Don't worry, I won't. But yeah, I know it's weird timing. I'm supposed to go to a wedding."
"That's nice. Who's getting married?"
"A friend of mine. Kind of."
He rubbed his eye. A cloud shifted and a sting of sun found his face. "A kind of friend?"
"Well. Bebe's manager."
"Ah."
"Yeah."
"Doesn't sound like much of a vacation to me."
"I guess not. But she really wants me to go."
"Do you always just do what she wants?"
"There's more to it than that, Craig."
"I know, I know." He crushed a wrapper and slid it back into his lunchbox. "But it's difficult for me to wrap my head around. The more you tell me about her, the more I don't like her."
"You don't even know her."
"Don't need to. I trust your judgment, but it sounds like you give her more of you than she deserves."
I had to smile at that. He had a tendency to go on these mini-emotional tirades if something wound him up enough. It tickled, seeing him get on a soapbox for me.
"Maybe. I think I'll let her have this one last thing and then we're done."
"If you say so."
"It's for Scott anyway. No big deal."
"I just don't think you should do anything that you have bad feelings about."
"I don't. More like I'm slightly annoyed. I'll get over it."
"Do what you gotta do." His eyes were glassy. The subject was tired.
"So… your sister seems nice."
"Oh, god. I'm sorry about that. So awkward."
"It wasn't that awkward. She was just very… um, forward."
I waited for him to stop chewing a cracker, then asked: "What did you tell her about me?"
He sucked in his breath. "Oh, nothing."
"You sure about that?"
"I just told her you're cool. Smart. Sensible. Way more sensible than other students I've worked with. A lot of them are so entitled, you know? They complain about their parents putting them in school. Most of their parents pay for it too. Selfish. There are so many people who want to go to school but can't because of money, their family or job. These kids should be grateful."
Damn, he knew how to talk his way from a subject fast. I had a feeling he and Cartman would get along.
"Totally."
"It was really cool to see your other work. Trish thought so, too."
"You guys don't really look alike," I said, then regretted it. It sounded much ruder spoken out loud than it did in my head.
He didn't seem offended at all. "Yeah, we get that a lot."
"I can still tell you're siblings, though."
"Oh, I'm sure. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
I bit my lip. "I have a little brother. My family adopted him when he was a baby."
I was afraid he'd ask about my change in tone, but he was stuck on the adoption aspect.
"Where was he adopted from?"
"Canada."
"Oh." He sipped from his Cola can, then watched my face intently. "So you would understand then."
"Understand what?"
"I don't know."
"You can tell me, Craig. I won't judge."
He exhaled from his nose. A bird swooped down, started pecking into the grass near us.
"I was adopted from Arizona. That's why Tricia and I don't look alike."
I said nothing. The comment I made about him and his sister seemed even ruder now, and made me feel like an ignorant piece of shit.
Our lunch hour was almost up.
"Come on," he said, and started cleaning up both of our things.
In the elevator, he continued: "My adoptive parents kept trying to have a baby for years. They decided to give up and adopt me instead, and of course, soon enough ol' Laura got pregnant with Tricia. You know how it goes."
We stepped off the elevator, walked down the hallway - a voice in my head, much braver than me, told me to hold his hand. I killed it away.
"I don't know what I am," he said as he clocked in.
"Meaning?"
"I've never met my birth parents. I'm mixed, but I don't know with what. My mom says she thinks my birth mother is part Native American, but isn't sure. They gave almost no information about themselves when they gave me up."
I clocked in next. "I'm sorry…"
He spoke again before I could flesh out a bumbling apology about how rude I was, how I should know better.
"What are you?" he asked.
"Like, my ethnicity?"
"Yeah."
"You can't just ask people why they're white, Craig."
He laughed.
"I'm Hebrew, though. Since you asked so nicely."
"No shit? I kind of had a feeling. I love Jewish people. They always tell you what they're thinking, no bullshit."
I thought of my mom. I hadn't heard from her in seven years.
Craig stared at me. "Is that racist?"
I shook my head. "If you think that's racist, you should hear the jokes Cartman makes about me."
"I have no idea how to feel about the people in your life anymore," he said, frowning.
"Funny. You're in my life."
…
I texted Bebe that I would go to the wedding, but we were going to establish boundaries, and that I would pay my own way. She said okay.
I spent four evenings sitting by my garden and reading Light in August. There are two separate characters named Joe, and one isn't actually a Joe to begin with, so I would get confused sometimes, but overall I was really enjoying it. Any book with misfit characters smudging the lines of the norm always gets to me.
Thinking about what it would be like to be Craig, I suddenly felt lucky to know my history. He had nothing to go off of. He told me he'd thought about doing a DNA test, but it wouldn't help him find or feel closer to his parents. I told him he should do it anyway, no harm in knowing where you come from, but he didn't have a response. I didn't press.
One night, he sent me a chemistry meme as I was eating dinner, and it initiated a lengthy chain of messages going all the way through September.
17
