Once Around The Block

I get writer's block more often than a writer should. But normally, it's nothing a walk around the block can't fix.

Yesterday afternoon, I drafted an entire blog post about the uncomfortable small talk that happens before sex with someone you barely know. I was going to call it something like So, Where Are You From? Watch Your Teeth! — focusing on pre-fucking banter feeling a lot like the social equivalent of microwaving popcorn. I thought it was kind of funny, but the tone was all over the place and I couldn't really get a grasp on the message. So before publishing it, I decided to sleep on it. And I did. Now, I'm editing the post to meet a fantasy deadline, and I still don't really care about the story. So fuck it. I'm going for a walk.

I slip on my wayfarers and say "I'll be right back" to no one in particular. I exit the side door of my office building and head west down Congress with my back to the park. Before I make a left onto Jefferson, I decide I'm hungry for breakfast food, so I round the corner and walk a block to the nearby Subway. Across the street, a guy and girl are waiting for traffic to stop before coming over to my side. The guy is wearing a t-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes and a navy blazer, and looks approximately 20 years old. The girl, a few years younger and six inches shorter, has red and gold highlights and has chosen a lovely cropped baby t-shirt that is showcasing both her midriff and her basketball-size tits. Together, they cross Jefferson and head for the Subway, just as I'm reaching for the door handle. The guy slides between me and the door and pulls it open for his lady friend to enter. She does, and then he turns to me and says, "I like your haircut."

This haircut.

Last Saturday, I asked my hairdresser, Katie, to shave two lines into either side of my scalp, inches above my sideburns. Coupled with long curls on top and tightly clipped sides, the lines complete what I consider an edgy haircut — especially for a professional. Since leaving the salon, no less than 80 people have commented on it, which is highly unusual for someone who has spent a major percentage of his life deflecting insults about his coarse, puffy, ginger afro. So standing here in front of Navy Blazer Guy, I still find it difficult to accept compliments. But I say "thank you," and walk past him, towards the counter. 

Basketball Tits immediately sits down at a table and Navy Blazer files in behind me. The three of us are the only customers in Subway at 9:30AM on a Thursday. I'm greeted by the Sandwich Artist, but before I can order, Navy Blazer pokes me in the shoulder and says, "I was going to say that your haircut was pretty, but I didn't want to offend you." I'm mildly started, but I half-smile and say, "It's fine. Pretty's fine." I turn back to the Sandwich Artist and order a subwaysunrisescramblesurprise on flatbread. Then, Navy Blazer clears his throat and asks, "Hey, are you gay?" I stare at him for what feels like five seconds, then I do that thing Jennifer Aniston does when her character is charmingly confused by her male opposite; where she mouths the first syllable of the word she's searching for while making glottal sounds and blinking. I do that, and then I manage to say, "I am." I can feel my face getting warmer and I'm pretty sure the goddamn Sandwich Artist overheard us. Navy Blazer shakes his head, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and then he says, "Man. That is so cool."

I nod to myself and ask Sandwich Artist #2 to add spinach, tomatoes, black olives, salt, pepper, and honey mustard. I ask for a Vitamin Water, too. At the register, I hear Navy Blazer ask Sandwich Artist #1 if they're just serving breakfast or can he just get whatever. Sandwich Artist #1 tells him the whole menu is available. Navy Blazer responds, "Oh, we're from Denver. Didn't know if it was the same rules." Then he turns to Basketball Tits and asks what she wants. "Let's just split a sandwich," she says. "Like what kind of sandwich?" he asks. "I don't know," she says. "Chicken?" "Chicken and what, motherfucker?" he says, exasperated. I look at the cashier, he looks at me, and I can tell we're thinking the same thing: These two are either retarded or assholes or both.

On the walk back to the office, I decide the weirdest part of the experience is this: The guy in the navy blazer is the first person to ask me to my face if I am gay since my freshman year of college, which wigs me out a little bit. Because today I'm wearing a v-neck shirt with tiny pockets on the sleeves; skinny, red chinos; brown combat boots; a leather cuff; a leather Coach bracelet; and this wonderfully attention-seeking haircut. I look gay, don't I? There really shouldn't be any question, right? I live my life in a way that no one should question my sexuality. From the way I stand to the way I scream when I see a lizard in the house, I'm gay-on-sight and I know it. Hold the phone. Do people still walk around asking one another if they're gay? Was that ever a thing? Nothing makes sense. I'm starving.

I toss my wayfarers onto my desk and unwrap my subwaysunrisescramblesurprise on flatbread. It's delicious. And in this moment I'm grateful for three things:

1. This heavenly breakfast sandwich.
2. The idea that someone out there (asshole or not) genuinely thinks it's "so cool" to be gay.
3. A remedy for my writer's block.