Oh, crap. I wasn’t prepared for that! I tear my room apart searching for the film festival guide that Patrick gave me and look up the schedule for the free films they’re showing on the beach. North by Northwest doesn’t start until nine p.m. It will be dark by then. Should I meet a strange boy after dark? That doesn’t seem advisable. Then again, it’s a public place, and when I browse the film guide, there are photos from last year; all the concessions areas appear well lit. Surely the flag is somewhere around there.
Should I do this? The Artful Dodger definitely would not. But am I that person anymore?
@mink: Okay. I’ll meet you there.
That’s one boy problem taken care of. Now for the next. This one seems harder. I shoot off a quick text.
Me: Hey, you busy? I was hoping we could meet somewhere and talk. I’m willing to do the quid pro quo thing now. You win.
Porter: Actually, I’m sort of booked until after Sunday. How about after that?
Me: Okay, it’s a deal. Will text you then.
Actually, I’m relieved. North by Northwest is on Sunday, so that gives me time to meet Alex and mend things with him before I talk to Porter. Who knew two boys could be so much trouble?
? ? ?
In North by Northwest, Cary Grant plays an advertising executive who’s mistaken for a CIA agent named Kaplan. The thing is, Kaplan doesn’t really exist. So throughout the film, Cary Grant is constantly being forced to pretend he’s someone he’s not—a fake of a fake. Nothing is what it seems, which is what makes the story so fun to watch. Alex and I have discussed the film’s merits online, but it’s strange to think about those conversations now. I definitely wish I could be seeing it under happier circumstances.
By the time Sunday night rolls around, I’m strangely calm. Maybe it’s because this has been a long time coming, me meeting Alex. Or maybe it’s because I don’t feel the same way about him as I once did, now that Porter’s in my life. I think back to the beginning of the summer, when I was so worried and nervous about everything Alex could or could not be—tall or short, bald or hairy, shy or chatty—and none of those things matter anymore.
He is who is.
I am who I am.
Exactly who those people are couldn’t really be identified in an online profile or captured correctly in all our written communication, no matter how honest we tried to be. We were only showing one side of ourselves, a side that was carefully trimmed and curated. He didn’t see all my hang-ups and screwy problems, or how long it takes me to pluck my eyebrows every night. He doesn’t know I tried to pick up a gay whale-tour host because I thought it might be him. Or that I can’t tell the difference between a male and a female cat . . . Or about all the dirty GIFs I’ve laughed at with Grace, or the number of churros I can put away in one sitting before it starts to get embarrassing for the churro cart vendor, because he knows I’m really not buying them for “a friend.” (Five.) God only knows what I haven’t seen of him.
So, you know, whatever. If he’s nice, great. If not, no big deal. In my head, I’m holding my head high and wearing a Grace-inspired T-shirt that says I’M JUST HERE FOR THE CLOSURE in big, bedazzled letters.
I arrive at the beach a little more than half an hour before the film starts. They’re showing it, ironically enough, near one of the first places I remember when I came into town: the surfers’ crosswalk. Only, the whole area is transformed tonight, with one of those huge rotating double spotlights that’s pointed toward the sky, announcing to the world, Hey, movie over here! They’ve also lit up the palm trees along Gold Avenue and hung film festival banners in the parking lot across the street, which is jammed with cars. I manage to squeeze Baby into a space alongside another scooter before following a line of people who are swinging picnic baskets and coolers, heading toward the giant white screen set up in the sand.
Alex was right all those months ago when he first told me about this: It looks really fun. The sun’s setting over the water. Families and couples are chilling on blankets, and closer to the road, a row of tents and food trucks are selling burgers and fish tacos and film festival merchandise. I head for those, looking for flagpoles. All the palms are lit up, so I figure a flagpole must be spotlighted too, right? But when I’ve walked the entire row of vendors, I can’t find it. No flags near the movie screen either. It’s a pretty big screen, so I check around back, just to make sure. Nope. Nada.
This is weird. I mean, Alex lives here, so he knows the place. He wouldn’t just tell me to meet him somewhere so specific if it wasn’t there. I check my film messages to make sure there isn’t anything new from him, and when I don’t see anything I head back the way I came, all the way back down to the end of the concession row to the back of the seating area. That’s when I spot it.
The flagpole is all the way up a set of steps, on a wide natural stone platform—a lookout over the ocean, where the surfer’s crosswalk ends.
Right in front of the memorial statue of Pennywise Roth.
I sigh, and then snort at myself, because really, no matter what I do, I can’t escape him. And if Alex is the nice guy I’m hoping he is, we can both have a laugh about it later.
Weaving around blankets, I make my way to the lookout and climb the stone steps. I’m getting a little nervous now. Not much, but this is surreal. The lookout is fairly spacious. It’s banded in a wood railing with some built-in benches around the ocean side, where one older couple is gazing out at the sunset. Not him, for sure. I gaze up at the Pennywise statue. I’ve seen the photo of this online, of course, and driven past it, but it’s weird to see it up close in person. Someone’s put a Hawaiian lei around his neck; I wonder if it was Mrs. Roth.
Someone’s sitting on a bench behind the statue. I blow out a long breath, straighten my shoulders, and lumber around ol’ Pennywise. Time to face the music.
“Hello, Mink.”
My brain sees who’s in front of me, hears the words, but doesn’t believe. It recalculates and recalculates, over and over, but I’m still stuck. And then it all comes rolling back to me, out of order.
The video store.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Him caring about the Maltese falcon being stolen.
Roman Holiday.
White cat at the surf shop.
Churro cart.
Is it wrong to hate someone who used to be your best friend?
Cheating girlfriend.
The Big Lebowski.
Watching movies at work.
My coworker, the human blunt.
The Philadelphia Story.
Mr. Roth . . . Xander Roth.
Alexander.
Alex.
My knees buckle. I’m falling. Porter leaps up from the bench and grabs me around the waist before I hit the ground. I kick at the stone below my feet, like I’m swimming in place, trying to get traction. Trying to get control of my legs. I finally manage it. When I do, I go a little crazy. It’s that stupid coconut scent of his. I shove him away from me, beat him—hard—landing blows on his arms until he lets me go in order to shield his face. And then I just fall to pieces.
I sob.
And sob.
I curl up into a ball on the bench and sob some more.