12 Drummers Thumbing Read online

  That was so sad. AC had sometimes felt as if he was an annoyance, too. The trip to the Big Apple neurologist came to mind again. “C-cabbage.”

  “Broccoli.”

  “Spi-spinach.”

  And so it went, through several more vegetables, and eventually, several more colors. The only break in the game came when AC noticed Rob rolling something around in his hand. It looked like a rock, a colorful one.

  “W-what’s th-that?”

  “Oh. My stress reliever,” Rob said. “It’s actually just a rock I painted.”

  “M-may I s-see it?”

  Rob passed the rock over but kept his hand right there for AC to give it back. The painting was beautiful. It was a tiny little landscape in winter, a barn, pine trees, and a wooden fence with two cardinals facing one another. It reminded AC of home. There was probably more there he didn’t have a chance to see, since he passed the rock back to Rob quickly.

  “Y-y-you painted th-that?”

  “Yeah.” Rob looked all around him, maybe to bank items for the next color, or maybe because he had to register everything that was near. “It’s something else I do to pass the time.”

  “You’re v-v-very g-good.”

  “Nah.”

  “Y-yes. You c-c-could paint p-p-profess-professionally,” AC said.

  “Sadly, I can’t really do anything professionally. I’m not really good at sitting still. Just the thought of eight hours away from home makes me nervous.”

  “But y-y-you’re d-doing it. Days a-a-away.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “S-sorry. I work at h-home. M-m-maybe y-you c-could.” AC had an idea.

  “Sugar. Your turn.”

  They’d moved on to the color white. Rob obviously wanted to get back to the game. “Um…a w-wedding d-dress.”

  “Your stutter is frustrating.”

  “Oh.” AC bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m s-s-sorry.”

  “Not for me,” Rob said. “For you, it must be.”

  “S-sometimes.”

  “It’s okay. I frustrate people, too. Paper.”

  “Huh?”

  “Paper is white. Go.”

  “Um, r-r-rice.” Rob jumped when AC reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “Y-you’re not f-f-frustrating me.”

  Rob smiled. “Snow.”

  When the color category changed to blue, Rob’s first item was, “Your gorgeous eyes.” Then, later, when they got to red, he said, “Your cheeks when I told you your eyes were gorgeous.” Though Rob was anxious, he was also a flirt.

  “And y-your cheeks, n-now,” AC told him.

  “I’m not sure that’s a different answer.”

  “You s-s-said m-my cheeks. I-I-I’m s-saying yours.”

  Rob chuckled. “You’re funny. If the category was things that are sexy, I’d say your grin.”

  AC felt his cheeks getting red again.

  Chapter 10

  Ixaax: Three stars. Light blue. Maybe the name things is a T-shirt typo. Average build. Nice. Too many tattoos. Hardly any skin shows on his arms. With his jet-black businessman haircut and brown eyes, he could be one of my brothers. Glad he’s not. Great ass. Wonder if it’s inked. What about the cock. Three stars? Five stars? I can’t decide if the tats are hot or not. I could always keep my eyes closed and feel my way around.

  “Rob had a good time with you.” That was the first thing Ixaax said when he sat down.

  “G-good.” AC thought about the lame, shallow words he’d scrawled back at JJ’s. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “We haven’t had to play the color game the whole time back there. We have cards and phones.” Ixaax held his up. “Rob thought it would be rude to stick his face in his and ignore you. He wanted to engage.”

  “That’s n-nice,” AC said as he pulled out onto the road once again.

  “He’s a good guy. Kind of got attached to me at one of our shows, reading all my tats. I gave him my info. He emailed. We talked online and became tight. He’s a lot sometimes. I don’t mind. I dig his company.”

  “Y-you’re v-very k-kind.”

  “So are you, for helping us out here.”

  “N-not l-like you. T-e-tell me abou-about your n-name,” AC said.

  “Ah. My rapper name?” Ixaax smiled. “I have a twin, Macswell, M-a-c-s-w-e-l-l. He got my C and my S, and I got his X’s. Mom was gonna spell Maxxwell with two of ‘em. She was an original.” Ixaax slicked back his hair. “Lost her when Macs and I were eight.”

  “I’m s-s-sorry.”

  “Father did the best he could to keep her spirit alive. Her memory, I should say. He has none of her spirit. Guy’s all button-down and shiny shoes.”

  “D-do you rap?” AC asked, checking behind him before switching to a faster lane.

  “In the show,” Ixaax said. “I rap because of the name. I didn’t get the name because I rap. Macs was at our show in California. That’s where we live. California dreamin’ of being somewhere else, though.”

  “L-like w-where?”

  “Anywhere. Dad and Macs are all Silicon Valley and I want to be Venice Beach or San Jose. Yeah. I know it’s right next door.”

  AC didn’t know that.

  “Both are still in California. It’s a whole new lifestyle, though. Still, I should dream bigger. Alaska, maybe. Grow a big, bushy beard and move to Alaska. Rob says we both should. He lives in Wyoming. Maybe I’ll go there. How he does this, I don’t know. He thinks he’s weak. To drive around with us for a month when sometimes he can’t go out for the mail? That’s fucking tough.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “The love of music, could be.”

  “A-and he t-t-trusts you,” AC said.

  “Maybe.” Ixaax rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “You think I’d look good with a beard, AC?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “You would, too.” When Ixaax reached over to create an imaginary one with his fingertips, something caught his eye out AC’s window, something he craned his neck to see. “Christmas shopping.” They’d passed a strip mall. “I always wanna do mine at Walmart. Mom was Walmart. Dad’s Bloomingdale’s online, you know what I mean?” He sat back. “We don’t really have Christmas anymore. We send each other’s gifts bill to, ship to. The UPS guy hands me mine December 17, and Christmas Day, we all just sit in our separate homes and do whatever. I do this, instead. I love people.” Ixaax turned to face AC again. “I fall in love ten times a day. I want to meet every living soul on planet Earth and have sex with a lot of them, men and women. I wanna spend time with people who don’t speak a word of English and try to communicate in another way. I want to eat food I didn’t even know was food, and wear the same clothes for a week, and bathe in a stream. I finished college. I’m partway through a two-year business school and all that, but I don’t want to spend my whole life doing what Father and Macswell are doing, ya know?”

  “I do.”

  “How did you reveal the big secret to your parents?”

  AC thought back to his second year in high school. Skipping eighth grade because of his intelligence, doubling up on several courses freshman and sophomore years, he would end up back on track to graduate by age eighteen.

  * * * *

  “The bus will be here in two minutes, AC!”

  He rushed down the stairs for school on his sixteenth birthday, picked up the card his mother had left with his lunch money and turned to face the kitchen, where she and his father still sat at the table nursing their coffee. AC’s dad was in a shirt and tie, his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. His mom was dressed for a day of errands and lunch with the ladies.

  “M-m-om, d-d-dad, I’m g-gay.”

  “Okay, AC. We love you, no matter wh—”

  * * * *

  “Not that.” Ixaax interrupted the story.

  “Oh.”

  “My dad knows I’m gay. He doesn’t know about this.” Ixaax nodded toward the guys in the back behind them. “Or these.” He ran a hand down each arm. “Or my wish to be on Ink
Master. My brother does. He’s after me all the time to get laid more and just tell my dad what I want to be. ‘Open a shop and tell him after,’ he says. That’s what I meant. No dad wants their kid to be an artist. How did you tell yours you were going to do it anyway?”

  “W-with a lot of h-hemming, h-hawing, and s-s-stut-stuttering.”

  “There’s a golf tournament in a couple of weeks in Palm Springs for big corporate ballers,” Ixaax said. “It’s the one thing my father does outside of business. Though there is plenty of that accomplished on the links, I’m sure. Anyway, he’s never in a better mood than he is at that thing. Macs thinks I should tell him then.”

  “My f-father g-goes to one of t-those in J-J-January, too.”

  “Is your father a baller, AC?”

  “I s-s-su-suppose, yes. I ac-actually told him about w-wanting to be an ar-ar-artist there.”

  “No kidding. How did that go?” Ixaax asked, hanging on every word.

  “I told h-him at the b-b-banquet, so he c-couldn’t m-make a s-scene.”

  “Clever.”

  “He w-was upset at f-first, but he g-got over it. No one got on m-my c-case about it after a w-w-while.”

  “A long while or a short while?”

  AC didn’t want to discourage Ixaax from living his truth. “It’s d-d-different f-for everyone, p-probably, but y-you have your b-brother on y-your side, like I d-d-did.”

  “Maybe I can have you on my side, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you come?” Ixaax clasped his hands as if praying. “If your dad goes, maybe you can, too. It’s a lot to ask, but if you and your dad could walk mine through it…”

  “S-sure,” AC said. “I’ll help any-anyway I c-can.”

  “You’re an angel. If this all works out, I’m going to get a tattoo of you with wings. Maybe put it right here.” Ixaax lifted his shirt and slightly lowered the top of his running pants, showing off more than intended. “What do you think?” He fluffed his pubes.

  “N-n-ice.”

  “Maybe you can even draw it for me. Yeah. That’s a good idea! I’m gonna be seeing a lot more of you, AC. I like the thought of that.”

  Chapter 11

  Stone: Four stars. Orange. One of the three bears—Papa Bear. Definite dad bod. Doable, even if his name is kind of dumb. I like his glasses and his little belly. Green eyes, light brown hair, receding, which I find rather cute. He should give up the combover. It does him no favors.

  After chowing down on a burrito supreme combo with twelve hungry men under a gray Maryland sky, AC had snuck away and was searching the glovebox for the ratings notebook during their stop at Taco Bell. He’d also shared a Baconator from the Wendy’s across the street and an extra-crispy drumstick from the KFC right next to that with Spud. Everyone else shared their late lunch with Spud as well. “N-no spice f-f-for him,” AC had insisted. Still, he hoped there wasn’t tummy trouble ahead, or any other kind, for that matter.

  “W-where the hell is i-it?”

  All three eating establishments had a trashcan right outside he could toss the frigging notebook into and forget about it—if he could find it. Granted, there were a dozen years’ worth of old insurance cards and registrations in there, but the pad he regretted ever writing in should have been right on top.

  “Oh. My. God. It’s you.”

  AC nearly cracked his head on the passenger side doorframe when Stone snuck up and grabbed him by the elbow.

  “Sorry. I should at least let you get back in the van before I put my hands all over you.” He did it again anyway, several times, in several places on AC’s body as they stood outside it. “But I have to make sure you’re real.”

  AC forced a smile. He should have looked for the book before he ate.

  “Sure enough, you are. I had all I could do not to push to the head of the line after Emery told me about the cat you gave him,” Stone claimed. “I had no idea the AC Maughan was so hot, or that he was you…or you’re him. I came close to accosting you during one of our other stops, but you’ve been on the phone a lot lately.”

  “Yeah.” AC went around to his side of the van and climbed in.

  “Oh, my god. I love your stuff,” Stone said, plopping into his seat. “I have over a hundred pieces.”

  “W-w-wow.” AC was getting a little scared.

  “Gotta calm down. Gotta calm down.” The mantra didn’t work. Stone squealed. “You know what you should do? Go on QVC.”

  “C-can you c-close your d-door, s-so we can g-go?” Two birds with one stone, human Stone shut the door and also knew now why AC would never present his stuff on any home shopping network, no matter how popular it became.

  “Sure enough. Sorry.”

  With both doors closed, AC started the van and took off.

  “Come talk to my art class.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m a teacher,” Stone explained. “Middle school art. Fifth through eighth grade. They would love to have you there. I would. Any chance we can make that happen?”

  “I’m n-not good at p-public spe-spe-speaking.” AC imagined Yoshi doing the metronome thing. “See?”

  “Okay. You know what? I have six kids who stutter. Six. Man, it would be amazing to have you come in and show how successful someone can be, not despite it, but with it. Sure enough, it would, AC.”

  “I-d-don’t know. T-tell m-me about b-being a tea-teacher.”

  “I love kids. I love art. My mom sculpts, like you. That’s why she named me Stone, because Marble isn’t really a name and my older brother is Clay. I draw and paint. It’s hereditary, I think, to a certain extent. Is it with you?”

  “M-my mom is c-c-crafty, w-watercolors and, and f-flower a-r-ranging. She sh-should do m-more of it. That’s art.”

  “Sure enough.”

  AC was working on a project. Maybe this was a sign. He was doing a sculpture of a teacher and several rows of students. Two days ago, his answer would have been a resounding “No way!” He might have even said, “N-no f-fucking way!” but now, he was actually considering it.

  “I h-had the b-best art t-teacher in h-high school.” AC could picture him.

  * * * *

  Mr. Dove sat down across from AC in the crowded cafeteria the first day of senior year. “I had a great idea over summer. I want to commission you to do an art piece for graduation.”

  Mr. Dove was hot, with his reddish-brown shoulder-length hair and his mustache and beard. He wore the tightest shirts, button-down, but tight, with jeans belted almost at the hip. “It’s o-o-only S-September,” AC said to him.

  Mr. Dove smiled. “That gives you months to come up with an idea and get her done. See, the ones with the best grades make a speech. The choir sings. I want you represented, your shiniest talent, among many.”

  The plaster sculpture would be called “Picked First,” AC decided a few days later. It would be a depiction of a boy holding a paint brush, a saxophone, math, English, and science books, a pair of comedy and tragedy masks, and anything else AC could think of. The inscription on the plaque he would attach to the base would say, To any student picked last in gym class, remember this: You would all be picked first for something. Find that thing. Embrace it, and then find someone with whom you can share it.

  Finally happy with the completed wire skeleton, the floor of his bedroom covered in newspaper, AC got started with the cool, wet plaster sometime in November. He’d only done drawing and painting to that point and found the new medium quite sensual.

  Kneading it in his fingers, and then touching the bones to add muscle and flesh to form a young male body spurred on his teenage hormones. As the days went on, AC imagined making himself a boyfriend. Isolation was his biggest regret as his high school days started winding down. No clubs, no sports, no choir, AC came home at the end of the day, locked himself in his room with men on the internet, and imagined being with one forever. Suddenly, he had a three-dimensional fantasy in front of him, one he could feel and press against.

&n
bsp; The job was messy. AC started taking his shirt off whenever he worked, figuring it was easier to clean the plaster off himself than it would be to get it out of clothing. Eventually, once his statue had a chest, a body, and a head, AC started working on it completely nude.

  Stepping back to study his work one night over Christmas break, AC got a strong pang of loneliness. Every one of his brothers had been Casanovas in high school. In college, they’d all had steady girlfriends. Now, three were married. At age seventeen, AC had never even kissed a boy.

  He thought about giving his sculpture a name. He imagined it being real, a real boy, and then he kissed it. He kissed him—Christopher—on his half-formed lips where the plaster was nowhere near dry. Once, twice, a dozen times, at the end of it, AC’s face looked like he was ready for a shave.

  Seeing the mess he’d made of his work, instead of taking care not to make things any worse, AC threw his entire naked body into Christopher’s. He wrapped his arms around him, and pulled the wet, creamy sculpture close, smearing his own body, his real flesh and hairiness, in white gooey plaster as he writhed and ground against it.

  Coming all over Christopher, leaving more than his fingerprints in the work, made AC feel like a real artist. Imagining the marks left on his own body as those from Christopher’s sexual release was enough to make AC ejaculate a second time. For a couple days, Christopher even had a big, fat, hard dick. AC had to bust it off eventually, but it and a box of condoms sure made for some fun, naked kinky hours of play on cold, lonely winter nights.

  By March, Christopher had clothes. By April, his accessories were all in place, and by June, Christopher was finished, and the plaque was attached. He stood on the side of the stage on graduation day. AC was lauded for his work. He felt proud, but also embarrassed, as he wondered if anyone was imagining the sexual acts he and Christopher had engaged in. All of that fell away, however, as the choir came up to sing before the diplomas were handed out. AC remembered “Reindeer in My Kitchen” and “Silent Night” from the days when he’d just gotten started at school. After all this time, though he loved making art, he still wished he could also make a joyful noise.