This story’s “surprise” ending is predictable at best, so I’ll just it out of the way now. 

When I finally heard from Pippin, about two hours after the initial voicemail, it turns out that he was just calling to say hi. He had found my number in his phone and was touching base. He either does this with all his onetime overnight guests, or actually listened to my instructions to “stay in touch.” Either way, it speaks well of his character. This just made me feel worse about sighing with relief when I heard the true purpose of the phone call. 

“I’m so glad you’re just calling to say hi. Out of the blue phone calls make me expect bad news.” 

“No, no bad news here. Why? Do you have… bad news?” 

I could hear the second of doubt in his voice, and was glad I could nip it before it endured the hours of amplification that I had assigned it. I was able to remove the foam pill from the glass of water before it could turn into a crusted, weeping dinosaur sponge. 

“Nope, no bad news here. Sorry for being paranoid.” 

I reminded him again that he always had  a place to stay in DC and meant it. Then we hung up. 

***

That was the ending. The beginning is me walking into my house holding groceries in one hand and using the other to fumble for my keys. I’m also desperately asking god for an extra three minuts, oh my god just an extra three minutes, so I don’t wet my pants in my own  hallway. Through all this mayhem I figure that whoever was on the other end my ringing cell phone could wait an extra couple minutes until I could call them back, and appreciate not being invited into my madness. 

So I put out all the fires and checked the message left by an unknown number. It’s very short. It just says “Hey Zack. It’s Pippin. From New York. Just call me back when you get this. Bye.” 

What is behind the simple message? Is there a tone of urgency? Or just friendliness? 

It’s a mere 16 words, and there isn’t anything in there to explicitly suggest that I should worry. But when has that ever stopped me before? I guess my faith in human kindness is officially gone at this point, because it never occurred to me that this guy was just calling to say what’s up. And I figured that if he was in town he would have emailed, not called. 

So obviously, in my mind, this guy has found something scorching, mottling, be-warting or otherwise nibbling at the parts of him that touched the parts of me that I’m now frantically examining in every available mirror and non-natural light source in my apartment.

I’ve done this before. In highschool I kissed a girl who later turned out to have mono and I made my mom drive me to the doctor, only to be giggled at and sent home. I’m surprised I didn’t get my hair ruffled. Ever since, if I so much as sneeze after kissing a guy I brace myself for the worst. Any unexpected sensations while peeing, any inauspicious itches or faint red marks that were probably just from the stitching in my underwear, all led me into a cold panic that resulted in a trip to the doctor that met with such consistent anticlimactic results that I could write the world’s least interesting novel about them. It could be called “Ignore This Book” and it would reach number zero on the New York Time’s inconsquential book list. 

And I take every precaution to avoid the biggie. That doesn’t worry me. It’s the small things, the downstairs equivalent of a sore throat or runny nose, that worry me. Who knows when they will pop up, or in what innocuous manner you were exposed? 

I’ve called guys the next day to ask about a birthmark that I didn’t see until the orange morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy blinds of my old row house, and made every part of my bedroom look like heaven except for that one small blemish on an otherwise perfect thigh. I’ve experienced the concept of reverse relief, where every bullet dodged just seems like time borrowed until the next firing of the gun. I remember getting so many unecessary safe sex lectures from my hetero friends that possibility turned into eventuality, and I’ve started to think it might be easier to just get the bad news once so it’s over with. 

“Might” being the key word here. Not every gay man is doomed to the gloomy ending created by so many made for TV movies or well-intended parental lectures. My family has always been accepting. I’ve never been bashed or experienced discrimination in a workplace. So maybe this is my way of bracing myself for that internatlized divine retribution that we’ve all been told is coming? 

To go back to the beginning, a week before the phone call, is to remember when a beautiful boy in a black tank top stared at me from across a dark  East Village bar. I waved him over to say hi. The next morning I left smiling. It takes a little while for the worry to begin. And I still maintain that it’s worth it.