Legal Note: Please don't read this if you are under the age of 18 years or the particular age of permission where ever you live. The story below is in all parts fictional. All portrayal of the Backstreet Boys and other persons mentioned is in no way based on fact. All other characters are completely fictional. All names, songs, events, company names and other licensed material remains so. Thank you.
First and foremost: No offense to anyone who lives in or loves Albany. I don't really have anything in particular against the town. Rhys is just surly for understandable reasons and is misdirecting his rage towards perfectly innocent locale. So no hate letters from the Chamber of Tourism in Albany, okay?
Second, thanks to the customary editor extrodinaire stylings of DLS. Without him, the story would have a lot more hyphens. And thanks to Jeff (RCJ) for his encouragement even as he does his best to imitate a left-coaster.
And of course, thanks to the readers, those who wrote for the support the gave me-to Terabithia, Kris, NGCFan and John. And for everyone who did read but didn't drop a line, thanks for your time and attention.
And a hello to all the boyband chatroom regulars. The chat is a really nice place to be...everyone should spend five minutes and check it out.
Enjoy the second installment. As always, let me know what you think by sending me a message at bsbwriter@altavista.net. All criticism, comments and suggestions are welcomed.
c'iao
Edan
Chaperone, installment 2
The bus ride was mind-numbingly long, but fortunately, both of the girls had those colored see-through game-boys and discmen. They giggled to themselves and ignored me completely, which suited me just fine.
But then again, I had the time to think. Thinking, I learned, can be a dangerous thing.
In one arena was Randall: a lover boy and a gorgeous intellectual... if not slightly but ridiculously unawares in social situations. Evidence: the orange juice disaster....which, by the way, I felt horrible about. If I had just played it cool. Then, maybe, our relationship would not be such a freaking mess.
But there was something more. Why was I making such a big deal of this? And why did Randall showing up in my apartment bother me so much? The Bledsdoes knew I was gay. I'm sure they even sat Tiff and Steffi down for a heart to heart about how the fact I was different didn't make me bad, even if God didn't love me the same as them. But I'm also sure that they didn't come out and tell the girls about my sexuality....which explains the blatant curiosity. And then Randall had to drop by.
Okay, look...I knew why. Being gay is not an old thing for me. It didn't feel quite exactly like my skin yet. It didn't feel like my life either. I knew, at the root of this, I liked guys. Girls were nice, but as friends, not lovers. But the actuality hadn't hit so hard until now. Until Randall.
Dating had never been easy when I told myself I liked girls. At make-out parties in high school, I always ended up talking. Yeah, I was a normal teenage boy, in theory, excited easily...but then, there was nothing to excite me. "Different" had always been my label. Some girls took my brooding in the corner to be mysterious and sexy, but I promise, it was just confusion.
College was turning out to be the same, until I had an openly gay roommate my sophomore year. "Look," Sam, my roommate, had said, "I know some straight guys would be uncomfortable in this situation, so if you are, we can march right down to the housing office and switch rooms."
I remember shaking my head. "I'm fine," I had smiled nervously. Over the next year, I had watched Sam's lifestyle and the ease which he brought to it. With it, I compared my bumbling and bewildered life. I started to notice my differences, look at them head-on, and even, dare I say, accentuate them.
The gay lifestyle, (to be sure, mostly the same as a traditional lifestyle, but without the girls), put me at ease with myself for the first time. Things made sense and fell into place. I found self-confidence and a stronger identity.
Still, with all of these good things which occurred, I was still a new member in the club. I met Randall almost a year later and decided to test the waters. My relationship with him sort of sealed the clubhouse doors behind me. It wasn't that I was unsure of myself, of my sexuality... just that it was a decision which had to be made, and one I couldn't go back on. This was reality. This was life. This was the acceptance to being subjugated to stereotypes and insults without any option for recourse.
Randall reminded me of this, and at times made me claustrophobic. He was a risk I took. For the most part, life with him was good. Companionship was comfortable, the conversation witty and the sex life amazing. Given that I was a virgin before him, I admit there wasn't much to compare to, but even so....It was just the times between the good times that made me wistful for an easier path. It was looks we got from strangers when we held hands in the park. It was the in-your-face homogenization of gay life on sitcom television. It all still bothered me. In that sense, I was still insecure.
It didn't help that Randall had been really clingy and obnoxious lately.
And in the other arena, I sat in a bus which brought me slowly careening to what was sure to be another disaster. Nick. Nick who ate sandwiches in my backyard and...why the fuck was I fixating on this so much? "Rhys," I told myself, "you arrogant asshole, he won't remember you. He's a star now, baby."
Even through sporadic letters, in the high school years, Nick had been my closest friend. Somehow, we shared some emotional chord which bound us throughout. I wondered if he felt it too, or if he had just discarded me as a past-tense memory. Being out of touch, I felt we still knew each other. If we came upon each other, I knew we could pick up in the friendship where we left off.
And then, in the corner of my mind I reminded myself I was probably psychotic. There seems to be a general malaise which falls upon fans of celebrities. They think they know Jodi Foster, Madonna or...Nick Carter. The fans have seen their images and voices so repeatedly that they become familiar. It stops them from thinking that these stars are perhaps, in their tangential lives, completely different.
A pulling on my sleeve saved me from myself.
"We're here..." Stephanie told me, getting up and stretching.
I shook myself back to reality. "Uh, sorry," was the most articulate phrase I could muster. The two girls rolled their eyes for, like, the gazillionith time that day as we waited for our turn to exit the bus. We finally exited, got the luggage and made our way into the Albany bus station.
This was no Port Authority. The station took on a pallored, yellow light and cast everything in it the same color. We moved quickly and went to the taxi pick-up area. Four or five cabs waited by the curb. I ducked my head in the first. "Hi, can you take us to the downtown Marriott?"
The cabbie was a dirty middle-aged man with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth and thick gloves on his hands. It was, after all, winter, and dirty snow loitered in the surrounding streets. "Sure, hop in," he said in a chain smoking grunt. "You guys here to see that band?"
"The Backstreet Boys!" Tiff and Stephanie yelled in unison. To me, ice queens, to strangers, members of the glee club. Figures.
"Yeah, my buddy downtown says they were outside of their hotel eating pizza."
"Ohmigod!" Stephanie squeals. "They're here!"
Breathlessly, Tiffany contributed: "I think I can die happy now!"
It was my turn to roll my eyes. The girls bounced up and down as we rode through Albany to our hotel downtown. Albany, as it turns out, is much like its bus station: yellow and gray all over. Although it is the capital of New York, it might as well just give the title over to the Big Apple and be done with it. Then maybe it can be put out of its misery.
We rode through some bad parts of town, and past the state courthouse. Outside, all of the Amadou Diallo trial-news seeking network trucks were parked in a line down one curb. "Are those all for the Backstreet Boys??" Stephanie asked excitedly. Not wanting to go into the details of the case, I let it pass. The cabbie seemed to do the same. Soon enough, we got to the hotel.
The cab pulled into the circular driveway and we got out. A bellhop took our luggage while I paid the cabbie. "Buddy, I wouldn't take your job for a million bucks," he said, taking a puff of his cigarette. I shrugged as he drove off.
Damn, it was cold in Albany. The wind had gotten colder since we had arrived. I wrapped my jacket tighter around my shoulders. I turned to ask the girls what they wanted to do, but they had already disappeared with the bellhop into the hotel lobby. I followed them in, to the warmth of the indoors.
Inside, it was chaos. At least thirty young girls and fifteen middle-aged mothers milled about the lobby. They were carrying signs and Backstreet Boys memorabilia. I realized this was the hotel the Boys were staying at.
"Did you guys know the Backstreet Boys were staying here?" I asked the girls.
"Like, duh," Stephanie said and tossed her hair.
Tiffany did likewise. "We found out where they were staying on a fansite online and got Mom to get us reservations here."
"Kids today," I mumbled as I corralled them towards the elevator. Finally, after much negotiating with the hordes of girls, we got to our rooms: 404 and 405. I got 404 and the girls would share 405. There was a door in-between us that I could use if I needed to tell them to quiet down in the middle of the night or whatever. We unpacked a little and I asked them what they'd like to do. The concert wasn't until the next night and we had almost a day and a half to kill before the big event.
"The mall," they said in unison. I swore they practiced while I wasn't looking.
I shrugged and ushered them back outside while we hailed another cab. That's another thing about Albany: not much public transportation. In NYC, we've got the subway, buses, and taxis. But in Albany, there's this little shuttle bus line which is pretty limited, and taxis. So consequently, everyone takes taxis.
The mall is outside of town, so it took about fifteen minutes to get there. Weirdest layout I've ever seen. The mall had no center...just halls with infinite branches. Like a fractal on acid. The girls, of course, wanted to go out on their own. I decided that was okay, as long as they met me back in the food court in an hour. They soon disappeared into racks of clothes and makeup counters. I, however, got a soda.
I strolled nonchalantly down the mall corridors. There was an inordinate number of punk kids in this suburban-type town, all strolling in the mall like me. Other than that, the people seemed ordinary. Not hot guys though, and subsequently, very vanilla people-watching.
In under half and hour, I was hopelessly bored. I browsed through the GAP sales rack and the Sharper Image selection. I got another soda. I went to the restroom. I strolled a little more. Life in Albany...riveting.
Finally, the hour was up and Stephanie and Tiffany giggled their way to the food court. It was pretty clear they were excited and that they were in much better spirits than before. "We got clothes!" Tiffany squealed.
"Clothes?" I asked, attempting to be a good baby-sitter...interested in what the charges were talking about.
"For the concert, silly!"
"Oh," I responded. "Didn't you already have something picked out?"
"Well, yeah, but this stuff is, like, ten times better!" Stephanie answered enthusiastically.
"Well, okay," I nodded, clueless as to what else to say. "So you girls almost done here?"
"Well, we still need makeup!" Stephanie said, sounding seriously concerned at their lack of makeup.
"Your mom doesn't let you wear makeup, does she?" I asked Tiffany.
"Well, not usually...." Tiffany trailed off.
"But I definitely think this counts for a special occasion, Rhys, please?" Stephanie pleaded and called me by my name for the first time.
"Yeah, please Rhys, please?" Tiffany added.
I, not a parent nor normally even a baby-sitter, could only take SO much whining. So, I am sorry to say, I caved. "O-kay," I sighed and allowed myself to be led to the Body Shop.
Although it took twenty minutes alone to convince Tiffany that baby pink was a much better way to go than hooker-esque red in lip stick and to convince Stephanie that blue eye-shadow was o-u-t out by the salesgirl, we finally escaped. That is, escaped only in the physical sense. For in the financial form, we did not leave without a large bag of makeup products, products with which to apply the makeup, products in which to carry the makeup and products with which to take off the makeup.
As the salesgirl rang up the purchases, she said, "You girls sure do have a nice big brother to take you shopping and buy you things."
Both girls smiled 100-watt smiles and said "We know!"
They sure could be angels when they got their way.
At long last, we left the mall and headed via taxi back to the hotel. The girls decided they would like to order Chinese food and play with their new makeup in the room, which was fine with me. That meant that on the other side of the wall I could spend a peaceful evening without too much effort.
We found a Chinese restaurant to deliver the food and as soon as they were nestled in with their cartons and chopsticks, watching primetime sitcoms, I closed the door and flopped down on my bed. I pulled out my book from my backpack- "In Cold Blood," by Truman Capote. I'd read it before, but this time I was reading it for a Lit and Human Relationship class I was taking. But I couldn't concentrate.
I flipped on the news, flipped it off, got up to splash water on my face, looked out the window, turned up the heat, turned down the heat, tried to read again, and finally made myself go to sleep at midnight. At two, I awoke to chipmunk-esque voices singing Larger than Life.
"Girls?" I said, knocking at the door between our rooms. Almost instantly, the room went quiet. The stereo was turned off and I heard the creaking of the beds signifying that both girls had gotten under the covers. "Sweet Dreams. It'll be tomorrow soon," I whispered.
"Night!" I heard both girls say.
After this, it was quiet, and I fell back asleep. --------------------------------
I woke up to sharp rays of sun reflecting off of the snow and into my window...and really loud knocking on the door.
"Rhys? Rhys! Wake up!" one of the girls whined.
"Ughhhh," I replied.
"Come on!!!!" the other said.
"Okay, okay," I said, pulling on the shirt I had worn the day before. I opened the door to see them already dressed.
"Come on, sleepy head!" Tiffany pulled me out the door.
"Wait a sec, let me shower first. Just watch some MTV or something. I promise, I'll only be a few minutes."
"Fine!" Tiffany answered and the girls half-moped, half-bounded back to their room.
I took a super quick, super hot shower, shaved and pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a charcoal crew-neck sweater with a dark red t-shirt underneath. I put some pomade in my hair to spike it a bit and checked myself out in the mirror. Not bad. Not Melrose-worthy either, but what do you expect that early in the morning?
I was about to knock on the girls' door when the phone rang. I grabbed for the receiver. Who could be calling? "Hello?" I said, puzzled.
A second before I heard the response, I knew who it was.
Randall.
"Hey hon, what's up?" he said. I was right.
"Nothing. I just got up."
"Yeah, you sleep too late."
"Look, I'm really sorry about yesterday. I was just stressed--"
Rhys interrupted me. "No need to worry. You can make it up to me."
"Okay..." I said, unsure. "When?"
"Now. We can talk over breakfast."
"What do you mean talk over breakfast?" I asked, strained. I really hoped this didn't mean what I thought it meant.
"Well you get your cute little behind down to the lobby and we can have breakfast."
Try....to...breathe. "Fuck, Randall, you're not here, are you?"
"So what if I am, you should be happy to see me!"
"Randall, what the fuck have you done?"
"Well," he said, "I didn't want to leave it the way you left it yesterday. I had to do something to save the relationship!"
"So you hopped the bus to Albany and got a room in the hotel where I'm staying?"
"Yeah, do have a problem with that?" he asked, but I remained silent. "Do you?"
I sighed. "Well, yeah. I do have a problem. You can't be so...so...damn high-maintenance all the time!" I was getting really upset.
"Well here's the deal: I'm going to wait in this lobby until you come down. And then we will talk. Okay?"
"Whatever," I said and hung up the phone. This was not something I wanted to deal with.