Since talking things out, Kenny's realised something: he hasn't been in control. This whole damn time—years, at this point—he's let his anxieties fester, his worries blister, his fear of rejection canker and ulcerate. Scars paved over his suppressed emotions, a new layer forming each time Kenny saw Kyle and withheld his true feelings, a cyst choking his heart. When it burst, bouncy love songs oozing from inside, Kenny assumed the worst, because he didn't understand. He thought his emotions were out to get him, determined to ruin the two greatest loves of his life. But he was wrong, Britney's told him all along, because feelings are supposed to be felt, be expressed, be shared. Kenny's stronger than yesterday, and things are gonna go his way.
Well, they ought to go his way, once he figures out a plan; just winging it is not a valid strategy.
He honestly didn't expect much from Butters, but he was desperate, vulnerable, a bona fide mess. He thought his mysterious contact might be Priest Maxi, because Kenny's such a big fan of confession, or perhaps Mr Mackey, because Kenny's all about signing up for therapy. Instead, he led with a bombshell: Kenny isn't alone in his condition. Turns out, one other case exists, someone whose head blasted Hootie & the Blowfish whenever his emotions flared. Butters was spotty with particulars, details few and far between, but assured Kenny that meeting this guy would help. On his way out, Kenny thanked him, really meant it too. All Butters did was smile, wave goodbye, and chime his support, "Best-a-luck with Kyle!"
Kenny needs all the luck he can get.
Cannabidiol vapours linger in the air, hemp mist tinging alpine winds. Kenny largely avoids the gentrified district, the bourgeois surroundings shaming him staining their chic boulevards with his blue-collar existence. The guys purposely omit Crunchy's Microbrewery during their bar crawls, because they only serve 'artisanal beers' sourced from 'local brewers,' meaning every drink tastes like straight-up piss. Plus, the place caters to social justice warriors, their black-and-white morality policing everyone's behaviour, constructive dialogue suffocated by the ruthless discourse. Because they all prefer not waking up saran-wrapped to an aspen with crudely drawn penises scrawled on their faces, Stan and Kyle and Cartman stay far away. And Kenny does too, except for today. He stares at the frosted glass door, takes a deep breath. Why does the only other person with this sort of problem have to be PC?
As Kenny walks in, he inhales the stench Drakkar Noir body spray and Ralph Lauren aftershave, an aggressively masculine smell. The homogenous patrons may pledge themselves to protecting the oppressed, but they're still cisgender heterosexual white men with college educations. Yet they don't see anything contradictory about their tolerant rhetoric and their witch-hunt tactics, surmising that they can be good feminists if they recognise that women are people and listen to "Work B**ch" and "3" during their cardio routines. With every step, new sets of eyes fall on him, the unauthorised outsider wandering into their verified safe space, Kenny unwittingly made the centre of attention. Their gazes are knives pressed to his back, sharpened with judgement, checking his privilege. Maybe it's a good thing he skipped out on the whole college experience.
He ignores them, focuses instead about his mismatched kindred spirit. He repeats the description—blue polo, shield sunglasses, jacked muscles, gopher mouth—scans the bar. He filters through the partial matches, amazed by the amount of incomplete combinations, until he finally sees one who fits the bill. He talks to another PC-Frat-Bro about some gross type of -ism, bronze hair shining beneath the overhang lamps, every strand secured by thick gel. Total douchebag, Kenny thinks, but knows better than to utter it aloud.
The bartender's eyes narrow as he approaches, warning him not to cause any trouble, even though anyone with a man-bun is clearly in trouble. Kenny flashes him an awkward smile, but can't make any promises. Trouble follows him everywhere he goes, that's his prerogative. He slides onto the nearest barstool, reads over the blackboard menu, snubbing the brews and cocktails, searching for the soft drinks. They don't serve Coke—of course, they don't—and, although Britney sang of its joys, Kenny will not order a Pepsi.
"Can I get a Dr Pep-er?" He asks, debating whether he should've tacked a please on the end. The rules of this realm are strange, Kenny unsure whether good manners might be misconstrued as disenfranchisement. Reluctantly, the bartender nods, once, then walks away towards the cooler. Meanwhile the conversation beside him ends, uniting fists concluding a riveting discussion on race and/or ethnicity. The unknown bro heads elsewhere, and Kenny looks to the man beside him, "Hey, uh… PC Principal?"
Immediately, he whirls in his seat, faces Kenny. His fuzzy chin tuft and ghost of a moustache nearly distract from his bleached bright teeth. Kenny can't read his expression, blue-tinted glass hiding his eyes. He talks like he has his lips against a microphone, "Yeah, bruh, that's me, PC Principal. 'Sup?"
"'Sup…" Kenny blames his shaky nerves on the atmosphere, on the garage band alternative and the squads of woke jocks, "I, erm, sorta got this…" If he offends anyone in the slightest, he's boned, "Issue…" But he needs a game plan, needs guidance, "And I kinda think you're the one guy who can…" The shoujo manga makes this look so damn easy, "Help me…?"
PC Principal holds his stare—maybe he blinks, maybe, Kenny can't tell—processing the barely coherent request. Kenny proofs over what he said, afraid he accidentally violated someone's human rights, punishment quick to follow. But, instead, PC Principal folds his arms, nods his head, "Sure, bruh, always happy be of assistance. Now, are you encountering any hostility within this community? Or are you noticing toxicity infringing on your everyday life?"
"Nah, dude…" He's never explained his situation with words, doesn't know where to start, what'll guarantee he knows Kenny's position, "This is a more… personal thing."
"So, you're working through some internalised behaviours you'd like to stop?" If his Britney thing counts as an internalised behaviour, then PC Principal isn't totally off. But Kenny's fairly sure he's thinking down the lines of misogyny and transphobia. God, why is this so hard to say?
Oh, duh.
"Hold on," Kenny reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Why waste his breath when he can show off an example? He taps in a passcode, finds the photo application. He scrolls through his library, passing over dumb memes and cute cats, until he finds his most recent real picture, taken only a few days before this mess began. The four of them met at Cartman's house for their monthly Mario Party session, a twenty-turn ritual ultimately testing their friendship. After the final minigame, Kyle's Yoshi secured a few coins advantage over Stan's Mario, seemingly poised to narrowly take the game; until the bonus stars all went to Princess Peach, handing Kenny the star lead and the win. To be an asshole, Kenny snapped a victory selfie with the congratulatory screen, but Kyle purposely bombed the shot by poking behind his shoulder with a death glare, green glinting with homicidal intent. Kyle's self-esteem issues might tell him otherwise, but Kenny's always placed Kyle at the top of his List.
[I know I may come off quiet, I may come off shy! But I feel like talking, feel like dancing when I see this guy!]
While Kenny looks at the picture, everyone else looks at him, gawking as if Burmese python sits around his shoulders. The sight they behold isn't nearly as iconic as the VMA performance of "I'm a Slave 4 U," but most of these guys live in a bubble, miss most of what makes the town's batshit crazy. Hesitant steps signal the bartender's return, confusion and alarm plastered on his face. He gingerly places the soda can in front of Kenny, then hurries to the far end of the bar. PC Principal peers over, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Sympathetic cobalt flits between Kenny and the picture.
[What's practical is logical! What the hell! Who cares? All I know is I'm so happy when you're dancing there!]
"Bruh," Shock steeps his tone, stunned by similarity. Yet, in that word, Kenny also hears genuine understanding, knowledge from experience. PC Principal peers around, makes stern eye contact with each curious onlooker, rebukes their prying gazes. Slowly, the patrons resume their usual activities, and PC Principal turns back to Kenny. He points to Kyle, "He's not a co-worker, right? You two aren't in an unequal power dynamic?"
[I'm a—slaaaave for yooooou!]
"Nope, nothin' like that," Kenny raises his voice, talks over the problematic lyrics. As he cracks open the can, he wishes for a song with a little less controversial word choice. Her volume lowers, or he thinks it does, "Me 'n Kyle 're best friends. Been that way since, like, forever."
PC Principal bobs his head, watches Kenny take a sip, "And is he aware that you have feelings for him?"
Carbonated bubbles pop-pop-pop on his tongue, but the high-fructose corn syrup isn't sweet as it should be. Kenny swallows, then sighs, "Kyle's real smart. Smartest person I know, T-B-H. I kinda just assumed he figured it out without me, y'know, needin' to tell 'im. And 'cause he never said anything about it, I didn't either…"
"You've never fully disclosed the nature of your feelings, and you've never asked for verbal confirmation regarding his awareness," In the most politically correct manner, he calls Kenny a little bitch, "Is that correct?"
"Yeah…" He considers the insult fair, "Guess I put off talkin' about it for too long, 'cause I've been a walking Vegas residency for a lil' over a week now and I know it's 'cause of me keepin' my mouth shut."
"One of the biggest problems in society today is that individuals socialised as men are discouraged from openly discussing their emotions," God, being PC must be exhausting, "Are you comfortable telling me why you haven't been able to convey your emotions?"
The phone screen dims from inactivity, darkening their faces. Kenny's touch enlivens the image, restores him and Kyle to full brightness. All the lonely hours echo, his heart aching, missing his voice, his laugh, his smile, "I made up plenty of reasons why I couldn't. Didn't wanna make a whole thing outta me liking him. Didn't wanna make 'im feel like he was obligated to like me how I like him. Didn't wanna make shit weird between us if he didn't wanna suck my cock or whatever."
[Sometimes I run! Sometimes I hide! Sometimes I'm scared of you!]
"It woulda fuckin' killed me if he felt pressured or put off 'cause of me. I mean, we've shared classes since preschool 'n had sleepovers at each other's houses."
[But all I really want is to hold you tight! Treat you right!]
"He snuck me into camp with him once so I wouldn't feel all alone. I taught 'im how to play Magic 'n helped build his first deck. We've been through a lotta hell but s'always been together."
[Be with you daaaaaay and niiiiight!]
"I didn't want us to not be together, y'know? Then this crap started 'n freaked me out 'n it took up 'til yesterday to realise I've been boning myself since day one and I just…"
[Baby, all I need is time!]
"Hope I'm not gonna hurt him…" Kenny trails off, thinks of the damage he's already done, ditching him, avoiding him, lying to him. After Nintendo slapped him with its typical fuckery, Kyle was pretty pissed, but he got over it, because it wasn't a big deal. What about after Kenny quits ghosting him and shows up on his door, tells him all about the super gay feelings he's had since forever? He takes another sip, but all twenty-three flavours taste flat.
"Seems to me like you've put a lot of thought into a scenario in which Kyle responds negatively to your emotions," Pretentious vocabulary aside, he speaks thoughtfully, a refreshing change from the usual outrage his ilk thrive on, "Have you considered him reciprocating?"
"When I wanna get off," Kenny blurts out, mind flooding with fantasies past, all his indulgences of Kyle returning his love with a triple-X rating. He looks around, scouring for a mob of retribution, but nobody cares. At least these guys aren't so hypocritical they'd count masturbating a punishable offense, "'Side from that, though… not a lot."
"Why?" He asks a simple question, hands him a loaded gun.
"Because I'm fifth generation white trash," Why doesn't he think it'd work? "My big money comes from odd jobs 'n competitive CoD," Because why would Kyle bother with him? "My two talents are mashing buttons on a controller 'n earning a rep of people wantin' to if you seek Amy," Why would he lower his standards? "Yeah, Kyle can prob'ly be with anyone," Why would he go for a charity case like him? "The fuck do I have that'd make me so special he likes me like I like him?"
"I don't have an answer for that," He leans back, raises his brows, "But I'm sure he does."
Wow, Kenny can't believe what he's witnessing, someone PC making actual sense. A part of him feels dirty admitting him, ashamed even. Kenny's never posed the question, so Kyle's never answered; if Kenny asks, he will, and he'll be honest. Kyle hates when people bullshit him, so he doesn't do it to others, especially doesn't do it to friends. He values sincerity and, although his candour can inflict blunt force trauma, he speaks his mind, clearly and genuinely. Kenny hasn't trusted him, trusted how he'd reply, too busy dwelling on nightmare outcomes, dismissing positives as pipe dreams. He didn't think Kyle could handle his truth, but he never asked to prove otherwise.
He guzzles down more soda, wonders why his brain treats this as new information. This is all basic, the kind of crap taught in kindergarten, yet Kenny forgot the fundamentals, played dumb and made an ass out of himself. Classic McCormick if he's ever heard it, though self-deprecation won't do any good. He slams the aluminium on the counter, and breathes out.
"So, what about…" Kenny taps on his temple, "Like, if this goes off when I'm tellin' 'im, do I go 'Oops, I did it again!' 'n talk through it or…?"
"When I was experiencing an issue similar to yours, taking ownership of my feelings and their impact on others enabled me to communicate," Can't he talk like a normal person? "If you want things to work out, you need to acknowledge who it concerns, address it together, and accept any resulting consequence."
"So, I just gotta talk to him, and the problem'll solve itself?" The simplicity mocks him.
"The music vocalises what you refuse to verbalise," He pounds a fist to his chest, "If you take responsibility and express yourself, you won't have an issue."
Well, Britney won't be. There's still Kyle. Doubt creeps into his voice, Kenny lowering his gaze, "'Cept for how he reacts…"
PC Principal leans closer, limited by his perception of personal space. He remains at a respectful distance, boundaries intact, and levels with him:
"The overall circumstances of your situation are significantly different from mine," His words strain, "You have a real opportunity to be together," He coughs, keeps himself from choking up "And I'm really hoping the two of you will discuss your feelings towards each other thoroughly and can, potentially, establish a consensual romantic and/or sexual relationship."
The bar's mood shifts, aggression diffusing, discourse softening. Kenny glances around, hordes of bros staring at him again, their eyes warm, some welling with tears. Stiff judgement melts into overwhelming support, everyone touched by Kenny and his stunning bravery. The collective accepts him, partial to his struggles, extending him non-gender-exclusive comradery. Somehow, this fuzzy vibe is even more discomforting.
He looks to PC Principal, catches his reflection in the shields. Confidence exudes from his navy tinged face, energies renewed, hope reinvigorated. His own certainty surprises him, though it might just be the sugar rushing to his head. An appreciative smile curves on Kenny's lips, "Thanks, dude."
PC Principal holds up a hand, waves his hand dismissively. Education is a duty, one that needs no recognition, or something like that. Kenny digs in his other pocket, fishes out his slim wallet. He worries, checking the blackboard for the price as he opens the cash sleeve, forgetting whether he has two tens or two fives. Before he can slide the bills out, the bartender rushes over.
"On the house," He nudges the can towards Kenny, a humble offering to the weary hero, before he embarks further on his arduous journey. Little does the bartender realise he is the true hero, saving Kenny a whole twelve dollars plus tax. Seriously, they charge more for a can than J-Mart does for a case. Where do the income inequality discussions stand on that capitalist robbery?
Kenny nods, shuts and stows his wallet. Phone in one hand, Dr Pep-er in the other, Kenny hops from his seat, walks to the exit. A few jocks bob their heads as he passes while a couple others sniffle quietly. He walks a little faster, pushing through the door. The waning afternoon sun guides him down the sidewalk to the safety of downtown. Inhaling his soda, Kenny silently vows to never set foot in Crunchy's Microbrewery for the rest of his life. He can't call it a day, though, not yet. There's one more thing to take care of.
He revives his phone, unlocks to the picture. Rather than linger on their faces, idly reminisce about the glory days of last week, he squints at the clock. Five-thirty-five, Kyle's shift should be over by now, unless his boss shoved him with extra hours. Kyle rarely slacks off on the job, but he bends his work ethic for unpaid overtime. He's only a model employee when it helps pay for graduate school applications. Kenny swipes out of the gallery, opens his messages, and finds Kyle's log.
A grey bubble holds the most recent text, sent the day after he bailed. It scared him when he first received it: when youre ready we should talk.
Kenny doesn't fully know what Kyle expected when he wrote that, whether he knew Kenny wouldn't respond, whether he hoped Kenny would. The timestamp attest to Kyle's restraint, listening to Karen and giving Kenny space. Only Kyle's brain never shuts off, every minute between that text and now an extended hell of anxiety and worry. Kenny can't give those moments back, but he can stop more from happening.
Kenny
hey im done being a cuckhead u still wanna talk?
He waits for about a minute, eyes glued to the phone. Finally, he sees the ellipses pulsating, then morph into words.
Kyle
yeah. you doing better?
Cured is what he means.
Kenny
better enough to talk abt this
The cure is just telling, right?
Kyle
in person?
This started because he didn't tell him!
Kenny
yeah this is a lil big for a call
And it's gotten worse because he hasn't seen him or talked to him or anything with him.
Kyle
i can drop by yours at 7ish?
The music won't bother him if he says what he feels.
Kenny
perf
That's it! Then this is all over!
Kyle
see you then
Because Kyle will know everything!
Kenny stares at the final message, reads, rereads, re-rereads it. The reality sinks in gradually, its gravity and its magnitude. His fears stir in the back of his mind, calling him an idiot, claiming he's setting himself up for failure. And he might be, marching to his doom, arranging his own funeral. Or he might not. He might embarrass himself for a few minutes, look like a grade-a dork, then laugh about it later. He might make Kyle laugh, too, or smile, or sigh and roll his eyes. They've been through plenty of doomsdays and disasters with their friendship unscathed, is nothing compared to what they've already shouldered!
Besides, there are two types of people in the world, and Kenny is not among the ones that observe. He's a ringleader, a firecracker, a put-on-a-show kinda guy! He'll be in the centre of the ring, spotlight on him, and, hopefully, he won't break.