Craig told himself that he was not disturbed by his recent encounters with Stan and Kyle, and sure enough he made certain not to think about it or talk about it to anyone. Talking about it was easily avoided, since he'd have to go out of his way to find someone to give this information, unless he wanted to discuss it with his mother, which he didn't. To avoid thinking about it he threw himself into his work, driving to Albuquerque to meet with a woman who dealt Acoma pottery. Craig did not like this stuff, but his client claimed 1/16 Acoma heritage and wished to install some high-quality vessels in his office. Craig neither enjoyed driving nor enjoyed going on long trips out of town for his clients, but for the first time in a while Craig felt he needed to get out of not just South Park, but Colorado in general.
On the drive back, fittingly near Pueblo, a freak hail storm developed and he was forced out of the car and into a hotel room for the night. These roadside hotels were decent enough, though the whole place felt cheap, as if the sheets were made of plastic. He found himself ordering a pizza and wishing he were not merely somewhere else, but someone else entirely. The hail cracked against the windows and Craig pulled the curtains open so that he could watch it fall on his car down below. In the dark it was difficult to see any landscape, but with nothing to read and no one to talk to it was stare at the window or entertain his own thoughts. He wondered what sort of pompous piece of shit asshole clung to the idea of native heritage while jerking off alone in an office in his Buell Mansion chateau? As a conscious enabler Craig tried not to feel too bad about it, but it was get angry or think about his real problems. Eventually he turned on the television and fell asleep to a depressing HBO documentary about military contractors in Afghanistan. He must have woken up and turned it off sometime in the night, for the TV was no longer blaring when he roused at 8, his bill slipped under the door. Without changing his clothes — the bags were still in the car — he got up and left.
When Craig got home he was determined to get back to work. He took a shower, changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and sat down at his dining room table with a double-shot of espresso. He opened the photo album the Albuquerque dealer had given him and began to study picture after picture of nearly identical Acoma pots. Each was busy and nonsensical to Craig, their handsome neutral tones defeated by the multitude of options. It was his job to find 10 of these for his client, who intended to select seven for the office. The finder's fee was generous but this work was really grating. He preferred to tell rich idiots about the virtues of hardwood versus carpet. (Always hardwood, Craig believed.)
He was shocked when his phone rang, for several reasons, not the least of which was that it was Saturday and he did not allow his clients to contact him over the weekend, despite the fact that he was working. Though he missed the call when he dug it out of the pocket of his dirty pair of jeans, it turned out to have been from his mother.
When he called her back, she'd been crying. "It's grandma," she said.
"What about her?"
"She's dead!" Then his mother erupted into tears again.
"Okay." Craig sighed, deeply. "I'm coming over."
So this was grief, and Craig was in mourning. Being Catholic, the family shifted into a week-long state of delay, Craig's embalmed grandmother painted like a streetwalker in an open casket at the funeral home on Main Street, her corpulent body settled into the box in such a tight and comprehensive way that it was obvious she was not coming out of there, ever. Craig didn't cry, but he did call up his Daves and put off their lunch meeting in Denver on Thursday. He might have gone, but he didn't feel like eating. Instead, he sat at his parents' kitchen table, listening to his mother complain about how "that bitch Linda Stotch" hadn't even bothered to send over a carrot cake or something: "When she lost her mother I sent her a tuna noodle casserole!" Craig's father was upset in a more normative way, his bloated old face tear-stained as he recounted for the kids about how Grandma had worked in a beef-packing plant before she was married.
"Yeah," Craig agreed. "She was okay."
It wasn't until a week after the funeral that Craig thought of the piano. "So when do you think I can bring it over to my place?" he asked his mother.
"What? Oh. The piano." She was sipping a pino grigio and flipping through the condolence cards to which Craig would ostensibly help her reply. "I think she left it to the children."
"The who?"
"Your sister's children."
"Excuse me," said Craig. "You must be mistaken, because that is my piano."
"Mmm, I don't think so," said his mother. "But we'll look at the will—"
Craig was already fuming — justifiably, he felt. And as the week went on he became increasingly anxious, pacing around the house, in the spot where his piano was meant to settle. Here was a huge goddamn hole in this décor, and he was supposed to be an interior designer, and there was no fucking piano, just a big empty space with nothing in it. He got on the phone with his sister. "I want that piano," he told her, to the point. "Grandma told me I could have it."
"Well," she said, like it was up for debate. "Maybe she did, but that's not what it says in the will."
"Fuck the will. That's my piano."
"Not according to her will. My kids are taking lessons! I got them a teacher."
"Excuse me? They're 3. Buy your kids a damn piano. She was my grandmother, too, and I want her piano."
"Craig, you don't even play piano."
"Where am I supposed to put my damn canapés? "
"What?"
"They're little snacks. Little appetizers. I have been planning to serve some, but I've been waiting to put them on my piano."
"It's not your piano," she said, "and what's this about serving food off of it? Jesus, Craig, it's an instrument, not a buffet."
"Don't police my piano usage!"
"Fine, because I don't have to, because Grandma left it to me and the kids. Period. Final."
"Fuck you," he said.
"Fuck you back. This conversation is over." She hung up the phone, and that was it. Here it was, real grief. His grandmother was dead and she'd left her piano for a pair of snot-nosed brats to bang on. As if Craig didn't even matter; as if he didn't even count. He wanted to be angry, or even surprised, but mostly he just felt empty.
Craig ate a light, early dinner of quinoa and kimchi over arugula, accompanied by an entire bottle of wine. He sat in front of the binder of Acoma pots, splayed open on the dining room table, mocking him like the gaping mouth of a victorious and spoiled little sister who, once again, had gotten just what she'd wanted while leaving Craig with nothing. His mood, and his feelings on this point, improved somewhat in the morning, but the loss of the piano stung intermittently in the coming weeks, until Craig realized that he might buy something else to put into the space. Maybe an installation of some kind; definitely not a piano.
Things were going quite without incident leading up to Craig's birthday. He came home that afternoon from a grating and unenjoyable lunch with his mother to find a card taped to his door. It was no surprise who had left it there; the handwriting in which his name was scrawled bore a distinct similarity to inscriptions in many of his high school yearbooks:
Dear Craig, Kyle had written, Happy birthday! Stan and I are very pleased to be your neighbors. We love our new sectional couch and would love to make you a birthday dinner or at least buy you a birthday drink. We know the mixologist at The Collier—
Craig folded the card and slid it back into the envelope. "Forget it," he said aloud, hoping Stan and/or Kyle would not be around to hear him. Now he was 31, single, living in his hometown and next door to the most obnoxious gay losers he knew in high school, and without any pianos and with a gaping empty space in his apartment. Things couldn't get any worse.
That evening, Clyde called.
"To what do I owe this..." Craig could not conceive of labelling it a 'pleasure.' "…phone call?"
"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday."
"Well, that's very sweet of you."
"Yeah," Clyde agreed. "How are things?"
"Not the best."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. My grandmother died and she gave her piano to some spoiled brats."
"Like — orphans?"
"No, Clyde, I didn't say street urchins." Craig sighed, the phone between his chin and shoulder as he reached for a wine glass. "Anyway, forget it. It's behind me. Thanks for the call." He was about to hang up, but was unable to do so immediately, owing to the bottle of wine in his hands and the precarious position of the phone wedged against his neck.
Clyde cleared his throat. "I came out to my dad."
"Good for you," said Craig.
"So I was thinking maybe I could take you out to dinner."
"Um."
"Like maybe tonight."
"Clyde, jesus." Craig set the bottle of wine down, and got his hand on his cell again, switching ears. "What if I'm busy tonight?"
"You're not."
"I'm not?"
"Well, not unless dinner with me counts."
"How dare you presume I'm not doing anything on the night of my birthday?"
"Presume nothing," said Clyde, "you don't do anything, man, you don't have any friends."
It was difficult for Craig to argue. "First you assume I have no plans on my birthday, then you tell me I have no friends. And this on top of the worst pick-up line ever? You're lucky I'm horny."
"Um." Clyde sounded caught off-guard, as if he hadn't been expecting this to work. "You are?"
"Totally. You should come over, if you remember where I live."
"Of course I remember where you live."
"Then come over! I need to get fucked, Clyde, jesus, do I have to spell everything out?" Craig hung up the phone and, feeling desperate, tossed it across the room, where it landed on a soft chair. He then went to fetch it, picked it up, and held it in his sweaty hand for a moment until it began to ring again.
"Um." It was Clyde. "Remind me where you live?"
With more patience than Craig knew he had, he slowly and calmly gave Clyde directions to his condo, including the code one needed to get inside and work the elevator. "And for the love of god," he added, "make sure you knock on the right door."
"Why?"
"Why? Well, besides the obvious — namely, that you should knock on the right door because that's where you're trying to go — I happen to live next to Stan and Kyle."
"Well, I like them."
"Just don't fuck up and knock on their door." Again, Craig hung up and found himself standing in the middle of the apartment with the phone in his hand. He had literally never been in this situation before, waiting for a man to show up for sex. What even? Craig considered going upstairs to change — into what? He was wearing jeans and a shirt, same as usual. He had no cologne, no makeup ... the idea of doing nothing made him feel strongly unprepared, and yet he was only waiting for Clyde. It wasn't like Craig had much heavy-lifting to do here in the pursuit of seduction. Better to sit on the couch and wait.
It was Craig's intention to get naked immediately, but Clyde showed up with a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses and a box of chocolate. Fucking Godiva. Craig shook the box, sighing. "You, um, didn't need to do this."
"Happy birthday," said Clyde.
"Just, why?"
Clyde was still holding the roses, but they fell to his side and he sloughed himself toward the couch. "May I sit down?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Nice place!"
"Oh my god." Now Craig closed the door and left the candy on the counter. "Are you insane? Where did you even get this stuff?"
"The mall. On the way home from work. They sell Godiva at Macy's."
"That's great, yeah. This shit doesn't make me want to have sex with you, you know?"
"No?"
"No."
"Well, why not?"
"I don't know," said Craig. "It's weird. I dislike being wooed."
"I'm wooing you?"
"Yeah, I mean." Craig picked up the box of chocolates and shook them.
"But, it's your birthday."
"Well, that is not what I want. I don't even eat sugar!"
"What do you want?" Clyde asked.
Craig's heart nearly broke at how dismayed Clyde seemed to not know, exactly, what use he could be. "Come here." Craig grabbed Clyde's fat face in both hands and kissed him, just for a moment. "You're gonna fuck me," he said. "That's what I want."
"I've never done that before."
"That's okay." Craig let go. "I've only done it once. Bottoming, I mean. It's okay, we'll figure out." He was a little surprised at how calm he sounded, considering.
Before running upstairs Craig cracked open a bottle of red wine. Clyde sipped it nervously, and Craig eyed him to ensure he didn't spill any. When Clyde set the bottle down on the dresser Craig nearly bolted back downstairs for a coaster, but halted. He sat on the bed and pulled Clyde down, too. They kissed voraciously for a few minutes, the acid taste of cabernet passing between them.
Reaching down for Clyde's dick, Craig found it still half-soft, sluggish and heavy.
"I'm kind of nervous." Clyde buried his face against Craig's.
"Don't be."
"Well, that's easier said than done."
His mouth around Clyde's dick, Craig found topping from the bottom to be easier than topping from the top.
It wasn't a glorious first time, but Craig took comfort in the fact that it seemed this would be one of many future encounters. For one thing, Clyde was preternaturally calm, for a virgin or maybe just for Clyde. He lost his erection halfway through, apologized wetly, then slowly grew hard again while Craig kissed his flushed cheeks, clenching his ass around Clyde's dry cock so it wouldn't slip out. This was actually a great boon for Craig, because it made things last longer. He was sitting on Clyde's lap facing away, bouncing against Clyde's fat stomach at the small of his back. Clyde could jerk him off that way, greasy hands tugging while he breathed heavily, forehead to Craig's neck. For another thing, for all the unappealing sloppiness of this encounter, Craig realized he was barely drunk, had done almost nothing to end up in this position, and was a little sad when Clyde came and his spent seed threatened to trickle down Craig's thigh and onto the bedspread.
"Here. Um. Hold on." Clyde actually got up, went into the bathroom, and came back with a wad of toilet paper. He dabbed kindly at Craig's ass, a kind of motherly look on his face.
"It's okay, I got it." Skipping into the bathroom, Craig faced himself in the mirror. "That was okay," he said, like pronouncing it made it so. But actually, it just was, sort of fundamental.
So maybe Craig was a little hurt when he emerged from the bathroom and found Clyde putting on his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"Well, the dogs," said Clyde, like it wasn't a big deal.
"What about them?"
"I can't leave them alone all night. I have to walk them. I have to feed them."
"You're leaving me for your dogs?"
"My babies," Clyde said, like it was a correction of some kind. "They can't just be alone. I can't just leave them! They need me."
"Did it occur to you that maybe I might need you?"
"Um." Clyde stopped fastening his jeans. "Do you?"
"Well — not really."
"You could like, come over."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm standing naked in my own apartment. I'm not going to get dressed, go to your house, let some white-ass dogs sniff my come-smeared ass, sit around while you feed them, and then — what?"
"Watch TV?"
"I hate TV."
"You love TV," said Clyde. "You always loved TV. Why don't you have TV? What's this weird austerity thing where you don't even have a TV, which you love?"
"Ugh, okay, fine. If you're going, please just go."
"Okay." Without bothering to tuck in his billowy buttoned shirt, Clyde lumbered back down the stairs, taking the bottle of wine with him.
Naked, Craig crept down after Clyde, making sure he'd left it on the counter, with a coaster.
Clyde turned around at the front door and said, "I liked that."
"I did, too."
"I just — the dogs."
"I know, the dogs, I get it. Just, get out of here." Shocking himself, Craig pressed a kiss to Clyde's dry lips.
"Can we get dinner? Again?"
"I guess," said Craig, "in lieu of breakfast."
"That sounds nice."
Craig watched Clyde leave, a big thing getting smaller and smaller as he walked down the hallway, then waited for the elevator. Craig would have screamed, "Take the stairs!" but there were rules about noise after 8 p.m. in the building. Still naked, he almost hoped someone else walked by to see him peering half-hard out of the doorway. Anyone but Stan and Kyle.
No one did, which was a little disappointing.
Christmas, the bane of Craig's existence. Especially this year, the lingering hurt of the piano fallout an unpleasant reminder that his family was terrible. He'd moved some plants back into the vacancy left by his grandest unrealized plans, but it felt hollow. Craig did not fully comprehend that the season was approaching until Clyde showed up to whisk him off to dinner with a full, candy-red poinsettia.
"Since I figured you wouldn't appreciate flowers," he said.
Craig held it away from his body in both hands, the crinkle of metallic florist's wrapping sheathing the ugly plastic plot. "Are you shitting me?"
"No?"
Sighing, Craig invited Clyde in and treated him to a pre-dinner blow job. They were going to a chain Italian place in town, so what did it matter if the taste of overly sweet red sauce was marred by the sense memory of Clyde's jizz? Craig felt content when the mussels he ordered before the meal came soaking in a bath of creamy white sauce with hunks of bacon and the barest shreds of chive. Half-melted, translucent skins of parmesan came stuck to the shells.
Clyde recoiled from this dish in horror. "What the hell is this?"
"Well, it's supposed to be mussels."
"How do I eat them?"
"You don't know? Watch me." Craig fished one out with the stainless steel ladle, then used a tiny fork to pry the mollusk from its shell. "Then the shells go in here," he said, tossing it into the bowl provided for just such a purpose, "then you eat the mussel." The black-rimmed curves of its feminine form caught the light as he speared it. The thing was overly salty, a little chewy — but not bad, merely without any subtlety or grace. Craig buried his head in his hands under the dim lights of the dining room, annoyed at how the waiter had spooned cheese into their olive oil. It was minutes ago and it still bothered him.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Craig sighed and finished his glass of white wine, bothered that he was going to drink tomorrow's caloric intake just to cope with this hour-long dinner. "Um." What to say? "How's your dad?"
"Uh, he's fine?"
"How'd he take it?"
"Take what?" A sopping crust of broth-soaked bread was disintegrating in Clyde's fingers.
Craig raised one doubtful eyebrow.
"Ohhh." Shoving the piece of bread into his mouth, Clyde said, "Well, he told me he was okay with it, but I guess I'll find out." Clyde swallowed. "I'll see him over Christmas."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to Phoenix."
"I've never been."
"It's fine." Clyde seemed entirely disinterested in the mussels and was focused on eating broth with bread. He spread a crust center-side-down in the dish, mopping up bits of bacon. "We could go some time."
"Well, that's okay, I'll pass." To Clyde's inquisitive look, Craig said, "I'm not going to visit your dad with you."
"He's always asking me about what happened to my little friends."
"Oh? Well, what are you going to tell him about me?"
Now Clyde became slightly sullen and cleared his throat. "I guess that depends on what you'd let me say."
"What is there to say?" asked Craig. It was early December and the heat was on in the restaurant, and it added to his sense of overall unease. "Don't say anything, right? What else is there to report? 'Remember that kid, Craig? He let me fuck him.' 'That's nice, Clyde. Pass the—' What does your family eat for Christmas?"
"We go to this buffet at a huge hotel. There's nothing to pass."
"I wish my family would go out for Christmas. My mother can't cook."
"Why don't you cook?"
"What would I cook? I usually bring a pie. From Stan Marsh's fucking bakery, oh my god, how awful is that?"
"How is that awful? He makes a nice pie?"
"Just, shut up, Clyde. Ugh. When is that, three weeks? Ugh, I have no time to find a new place to get a pie."
"You could make a pie."
"I'm not baking a pie. I'm not buying lard. On principle."
"There are pre-made crusts."
"That shit is disgusting, it's all bleached with crap and processed and full of chemicals and shit, that's not what I'm having for Christmas."
Clyde reached for another piece of bread and said, "Stop being so contrary! Stan's nice, he'll make you a pie."
"There's no level on which you really get my issues with this whole thing." Craig reached for the wine bottle, which was empty, to his disappointment. "If you see the waiter, can you flag him down? We're out of wine."
"You flag him down," said Clyde. "You know what, I don't think there is any level on which your issues with 'this whole thing' even makes sense. Actually, what whole thing? Me?"
"No," said Craig, "or, yes, but—"
"Living next door to Stan and Kyle? They're nice people! I mean, kind of assholes, but—"
"—it's the whole South Park thing, like, what the fuck am I doing back here? How have I been here for years already? Jesus, I want to move back to Denver."
"Then move back to Denver!"
"With what fucking money, Clyde? It was only doable because I had some old man supporting my ass, ugh. Do you ever wonder how you destroyed your own life?"
"I don't believe I've destroyed my own life," said Clyde. "And I'm sad to hear you think you've ruined yours, maybe sad and a little hurt, especially since I appear to be the catalyst for your misery? Anyway, I see the waiter, but I don't think I should get him."
"Why not?"
"Because you're kind of drunk."
"I'm not drunk, and what do you care if I get drunk?" He wasn't, but he did sort of get why Clyde might be annoyed by this. "If I do it'll be easier to shove your dick in me."
"Is that how that works?"
"Are you familiar with poppers?"
"Passingly." Clyde sighed, waving over their server.
Making out in Clyde's car after dinner, Craig dwelled on the existential angst he felt at his uncertainty over where to go. Clyde had huge dogs that would make Craig uncomfortable, but if they went to Craig's place Clyde would have to leave to feed the dogs. "Those dogs are bad for your sex life," Craig said stupidly, his hand half submerged in the slit in Clyde's boxers. This came out so drunkenly and so garbled that Craig was shocked, literally covering his mouth with his sweaty hand. It smelled faintly of Clyde's balls.
"What?"
"Just, you can't leave them alone but I want you to come back to my place."
"I can go back to your place," said Clyde, "but then I have to go home to feed them."
"No, that sucks."
"Well, just come back with me."
"No, that sucks too. They're weird, Clyde, I don't want them outside the door while we fuck."
"I can put them outside, but not all night. If you walk them with me—"
"I'm not walking two huge dogs, forget it."
"They're sweet."
"They're monsters." Sadly, that just reminded Craig of Clyde's dick, and he crumbled and reached for it and squeezed it like it was a stress ball, putting all of his effort against its half-hardness. "Okay, fine, just take me back to your place. I need to get fucked."
Twisting the ignition, Clyde said, "Sure."
It was hardly the best sex but Craig felt it was better than last time, Clyde fucking him slowly face-first into the bed. Lying in his afterglow, Craig was happy and warm and content. Sadly, this lasted only until Clyde flung Craig's underwear at him and said, "Okay, time to walk the dogs."
"I'm not walking the dogs."
"You promised."
"I am sure I didn't promise."
"Of course you did."
"Did I?"
Clyde was standing there naked on the bottom, his undershirt pulled back over his body, so long it just brushed the base of his fat, spent dick, which hung slackly from underneath the hem. Wanting to bury his face in it again, Craig got up and said "fine" and kissed Clyde's wet face and pulled on the underwear.
Downstairs, one of the dogs, let back into the house, promptly jumped on Craig, white hairs coating his nice black jeans.
"See, this is why I didn't want to do this." Bending over to pick single hairs off his pants, the other dog began to lick his face.
"That's Snowy." Clyde hunched down, pulling the dog off of Craig to clip on a collar. "And this is Whitey."
"You named a dog 'Whitey'?"
"He's white," said Clyde. "Come here, boy." As he was collared Whitey drooled on the carpet.
"You cannot name a dog that. It doesn't matter what color he is."
"It's like if you had a dog and you called it 'Red,' which would be cute."
"Oh yeah? My sister's a redhead and when people call her 'Red' she's not such a fan."
"Well, she's a person! These are dogs."
"It's just awful," said Craig, and that was his last word on it.
Each dog panted through the snow; Clyde seemed to be dragging them along, and Craig followed. He did not know where they were going; he hoped it was not far. They crossed the street and passed the community center and the school. It was past bedtime, apparently, for the streets even in the center of town were largely empty, a few errant teens playing basketball here, a passing car there. Street lamps lit the way but the town felt deserted in a way it hadn't when Craig was teenager, as if the place were as old as he was, and as empty. This chilling thought forced him to stick more closely to Clyde.
"Where are we headed?" Craig asked.
"Stark's Pond," said Clyde. "I mean, the woods around it."
"Why?"
"So you don't have to pick up dog poop."
"I have no plans to pick up dog poop."
"Right, so, the woods," said Clyde. "I hate bending over to pick it up anyway. They can just go here and, you know."
"That's sick."
"Is it?"
"Well, yes!"
"It's just the woods."
"Clyde, kids play in these woods."
"No they don't."
"We played in these woods!"
With a mere shrug, Clyde shook it off.
"Jeez." Craig wanted to sit on the bench near the water and ignore this, but that would have meant sitting alone. "I mean, don't buy large dogs if you don't want to pick up after them. Let alone two!"
"I love them, though."
At this Craig merely rolled his eyes. "Whatever, okay."
"Well, that's why you live in a place like South Park!"
"So you don't have to pick up after your humongous dogs?"
"Well, yeah. Right?"
"I'm so fundamentally upset by this entire enterprise," said Craig. "Now I have to take these pants to the dry cleaners. Dog hair never comes out."
Back at Clyde's, though, Craig was glad he had gone, because he slid into bed tired and cold but Clyde's body was warm; the sheets were soft and Clyde turned the thermostat up. It was so sickeningly typical and comfortable that Craig felt an initial sense of trepidation, but it dissipated against Clyde's skin. He woke up naturally to darkness in the master bedroom, sunlight sharp around the cracks between the wall and the curtains, sun painting the cheap carpet. For a moment Craig was disoriented, but then he saw he was with Clyde, still sleeping; then the dogs came in to wake them both, bounding up onto the bed. They licked Clyde face and showered him with affection, which he returned by cooing, "Hey, boys," and kissing their snouts.
"I need a shower," said Craig, "at home."
"You don't want to stick around for breakfast?"
"I need my pants dry cleaned." He almost kissed Clyde to say goodbye, but the thought of sticky, dry dog spit was too off-putting. "Call me later," he said, on his way out.
"I'll lock the door after you," said Clyde. "Thanks for last night."
"You paid, I should thank you. So, yeah. Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"It was fun." Leaving the house Craig thought on why he'd said this, only to realize that, actually, it sort of had been, the insipid food and the insipid sex and the insipid dogs and all.
Craig was rewarded for his good attitude by running into his mother leaving the house.
"Well," she said, eyeing his pants.
"Don't even say it."
"Well, I'm thinking it," she said.
"That's fine, just don't say it."
"Okay." She crossed her arms. "Craig, do you want a ride?"
"No, I think I'd prefer to walk home in the gutter on my own smelling like fucking giant dog."
"Okay," she said. "Well, it's my pleasure. I'm on the way to Sooper Foods."
So he climbed in with his mother, annoyed at the sloppy way she applied lip balm, as if just because it was clear she didn't have to follow the shape of her own mouth. She sat there rubbing it on with her pinky finger, the car running the whole time she stared into the vanity mirror.
"No judgment," she said.
He knew she meant it, which somehow served only to piss him off. "What's it like? You know, living next to Clyde."
"I don't know, he's a good neighbor. He leaves us alone, mostly. Tries to make small talk. He's a lot like Roger. Less outgoing, though."
"What about his mom?"
"Let's not talk about Betsy," said Laura Tucker.
"Well, Mom, why not? Just because she died we shouldn't talk about her?"
"He seems kind of stupid, like Betsy. There, you happy?"
"He's not stupid," Craig said. "He's just not very intellectual. He doesn't think."
"See, that's the sort of thing I do judge."
"Oh? And who in this town would you prefer me dating?"
"Who said you should date anyone in South Park?" she asked. "I didn't tell you to move back here."
"Who said I was dating Clyde Donovan?"
"I think you just did."
"We're just sleeping together. Anyway, it's none of your business."
When they were parked outside of Craig's building, she pointedly said, "Everything in South Park is everyone's business. If you didn't learn that growing up then I guess I should reconsider my belief that I was a pretty decent mother."
He unbuckled his seatbelt. "I want my fucking piano."
"If only I had one to give you!"
Craig hesitated before getting out of the car, sitting next to his mother with his hand on the lock. "You know what's nice about Clyde? Sure, maybe he's a fat scared baby who can't get anything right and doesn't know jack shit about anything. But he makes me feel good about myself, or like — special, because he wants me. Ugh, what gay bullshit! Reduced to this."
"Oh, Craig," she said, like he was silly. "Why do you think you're not special? You were always wanted. More than anything."
"I don't think that's me you're referring to," he said. "Well, all right, I'm heading out." He opened the door before remembering to say, "Thanks for the lift."
"Bring that pie we like to Christmas."
"Yeah, yeah." He slammed the door shut and went inside for a shower.
All afternoon he worked idly, making some sketches for a new bride's redesigned townhouse. She was short on cash and kept pulling back on costs, and while Craig sympathized he resented the stilted way in which she handled this; if you didn't have the money what sense did it make to hire a designer to redo your condo? At the same time Craig would argue on-the-record that his wholesale connections made it worth her while. Still, she was very beige in most respects, not only in the way she wanted her apartment but the way she looked and dressed and the car she drove as well. Her husband was a banker. Wasn't everyone's? Craig didn't know any bankers but one some level he felt that, yes, metaphorically, in spirit, they were all bankers. He got up and unwittingly dragged himself out into the hallway to knock next door.
Kyle answered, in an open knit cardigan that fell to his hips, brushing against his boxer shorts, shirtless. He was swirling a glass of white wine.
"You answer your door like this?"
"I heard you coming," he said. "That's the nice thing about sharing a wall, I guess. I heard you stomp all the way to the door and then I heard your door open and then you knocked, so. You know what, once you've been naked with someone, what does it matter?" He took a sip of his wine. "I used to be more uptight, but, honestly."
"In high school there was some gossip that you threw a tantrum when some kid pissed in the pool at a waterpark."
"Not only did I not throw a tantrum, Craig, it was a critical level of pee. And that was elementary school! Anyway, what's it got to do with me answering the door like this?" He posed in the doorway, as if on a cheesy commercial.
"Shouldn't you be too uptight?"
"No one's uptight about everything. Anyway, don't you think I'm getting better? I've been working on that." He finished his wine. "I need a refill. Are you coming in?"
"No," said Craig. "I just came here for a pie."
"A what?"
Craig crossed his arms, trying to act in control of the situation. "I need a pie, for my family, for Christmas. I'm prepared to exchange some paint swatches for a pie."
"They give out paint swatches at Home Depot for free, Craig."
"I mean for your apartment. Like, a whole color scheme."
"I see. Well, I am out of wine, so linger in the hallway if you must but I'll be going for a refill." And Kyle swept the cardigan behind him and strode back into his condo.
It turned out the wine was a sweet Riesling, and while Craig wasn't partial to it he was also feeling solicitous so he forced himself to drink it. "Stan's at work," Kyle said, leaning over his counter as he drank. "I'm excited. Things are really coming together."
Craig didn't know if he meant with their apartment or the restaurant they were opening, but he mumbled a detached, "That's nice," and worked on the Riesling. Kyle drank it with a pompous smile on his face, like maybe he'd planned this whole thing. Craig asked, "Do you think Clyde is stupid?"
"Uh—" And here was the thing about Kyle Broflovski: he really thought about it, hunching his shoulders and pursing his lips and drinking wine languidly as he hemmed and hawed and then finally said, "I don't know! What do you think?" And it wasn't his typical, sarcasm-laced, "I don't know, what do you think?" He was like, turning the question back around on Craig.
"It never occurred to me that he was, but now that it's on my mind I have realized that maybe he could be."
"Well, I don't know him that well," said Kyle, "or no more than I know any old South Park randoms. I'm just saying, shouldn't you have a better idea?"
"Well, it's not like I can measure people's IQs through their dick." He'd never really had to; many issues came with fucking the Whoever Whatever Professor of Bullshit but worrying over his intelligence or lack thereof wasn't one of them. Maybe it was bad form to shack up with an advisee but then again, apparently not.
"Don't be — ugh. Of course you can't measure someone's IQ through their dick, but if you're sucking someone's dick you're probably spending a lot of time with him, so what do you think? And like, even beyond that — there are several kinds of intelligence, you know? Or maybe what I mean is, people display brains in different ways, like, I think about things in one way and Stan thinks about things in another way, and it's not that he's stupider than I am, he just figures things out differently—"
"Okay, how does this pertain to Clyde, exactly?"
"How do you not see how it does?"
"Just, do you think he's dumb?"
"Well, yeah, but — what are you asking me for?"
"Who else would I ask?"
Kyle shrugged and reached for the bottle of wine again.
"You can really put that stuff away," said Craig.
"Oh, and you can't?" Shaking the bottle to get out the last drops, Kyle said, "So what's this about swatches of paint?"
"Well, I was hoping we could trade, essentially. I need a pie for Christmas, and you need to do something about this builder's palate. It doesn't go with anything you bought, for one thing."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes," said Craig, "and heaven forbid someone judge you based on what your house looks like, but listen, it matters."
"If I didn't think it mattered I wouldn't have asked you to help us in the first place."
"You asked me to help you because you wanted me to fuck you."
"I guess," said Kyle. "Okay, fair point."
Finishing his glass of wine, Craig set it on the counter, preparing to leave. "So it's a deal?"
"I'll have to ask Stan. What? I can't just agree he'll bake a pie for you."
"My understanding was that you could."
"Well, I'm trying to work on that, too. It's my new year's resolution."
"I don't believe in that. There's no point in resolving to do anything. Just do it or don't do it."
"I usually resolve to lose a couple pounds, but." Kyle finished the last half glass of wine in a single gulp. "Are you staying for dinner?"
"No," said Craig, "I'm leaving."
"Wait just a moment." Kyle sauntered across the kitchen to fetch something from a drawer. Two things — three things, a piece of paper and an envelope and a pen. With Kyle bent over the drawer Craig admired Kyle's ample behind, wishing he could muster the will to fuck it. Craig saw the paper was on cardstock as Kyle slid it into the envelope. He slammed the door and walked back across the room.
"What is that?"
Licking the envelope, Kyle shook his head. "You'll just have to open it to find out!" He scribbled on the front: Mr. Craig Tucker and Guest. The cap slid back onto the pen with a click.
"What, what are you doing?"
"Wait." Kyle uncapped the pen again, and crossed out the "and Guest."
"No," said Craig. "Stop that."
Mr. Craig Tucker and Mr. Clyde Donovan.
"Why did you do that?"
"Hope you can make it!"
"Are you really serious right now?"
"Well, I'll be in touch after I talk to Stan about the pie," Kyle said. "Unfortunately I'll have to ask you to get going now. I've got a date with my vibrator."
"Was it necessary to tell me that?" Craig asked, at the condo threshold.
"Yeah, go home and think about it." Kyle blew Craig a kiss before shutting the door.
