Joey is two weeks into his Ideal Protein program and he’s taken up jogging to increase his weight loss chances. Now, he and Jacque go to Girard Park every evening around six to run-walk a couple laps around the mile-and-a-half track. Today, I’m tagging along. After stretching, we take off in separate directions, me against traffic and Joey and Jacque with it. I run anywhere from three to seven miles a day through the Saint Streets, but I haven’t run in Girard Park since I was a freshman in college. It’s familiar territory, but the track is made of loose dirt and I’m used to running on pavement. At a quarter-mile, I can already tell my ankles will be next to useless in the morning. But three laps sound manageable.
I keep right, but still have to weave around skinny, determined sorority girls and large, oblivious women in nursing scrubs. In my earbuds, Madonna’s “Turn Up The Radio,” roars followed by Diplo’s “Butter’s Theme” and TV On The Radio’s “The Wrong Way.” I pass a basketball court and catch glances of nearly 30 black guys jeering and hustling and sweating. Each one is ripped within an inch of his body, and upon seeing them, I’m suddenly aware of my bitch tits and back fat.
I’ve made my way to “Shoelaces” by The Submarines when I look to my left and stare at the sun-bleached plaster building on the hill. This is Fletcher Hall, home of UL Lafayette’s College of Arts. The music fades to a low hiss and I hear the florescent lights above me steadily hum in unison. I wind around the crotch-level stools and the intrusive, cement columns that bear Fletcher’s ceiling. Somewhere, someone is using a jigsaw to cut wood and someone else is spraying workable fixative on a piece of newsprint, though I can’t see anyone around. It’s dark outside and I’m alone in Fletcher in 2009. In my four years of undergrad, I never took a single class in this building, nor was I even a student of this college. Mine was Burke-Hawthorne Hall, the Liberal Arts building on the other side of campus. Even so, I spent a lot of time in Fletcher over the course of my third and final years. I round the corner and see a man who appears to be tinkering with a glass structure at one of the sprawling worktables. He is sitting with his back to me and he is wearing a baby blue t-shirt, yellow gym shorts, and a navy blue baseball hat. Walking closer, I notice the structure isn’t glass, but the clear plastic covering of one the overhead florescent lights. The man is bending the strips of textured plastic into what looks like a corset. He’s still facing away from me and even though he’s sitting, he’s still taller than me by about two inches. His arms and legs are beefy and the nape of his neck is covered by shiny, platinum blond hair. I don’t have to see his face to confirm that he is my boyfriend. “Hey, stud,” I hear myself say. He doesn’t turn around, but in a deep, baritone voice, he says, “Hey, sunshine.” Neither of us know it yet, but in one year, we will break-up. In three years, I will start a blog and I will call him by a nickname. And in between this moment and the present, I will have five other boyfriends, but my grandmother with still ask me how he’s doing. Behind me, someone yells, “Right!” and I snap my neck over my left shoulder to see a tall, Middle Eastern guy sprinting up behind me. “I Love It” by Icona Pop picks up and my stride falls back into the beat.
I finish my third lap, and out of breath, walk over to the south end of the park to meet my friends. Jacque carries a stale loaf of bread, and he and Joey stand at the edge of the pond tossing whole slices at the frenzied ducks.
"I'm whipped. And now I have to dump out," I say.
"What are you doing this weekend?" asks Joey. "We might be coming here for Holi Fest."
"My friends from Los Angeles are gonna be in Nola and I'm gonna meet them in the Warehouse District Saturday night," I say.
No one says anything.
"That might be the coolest sentence I've ever said," I say.
I grab a slice of bread and piece it apart with my fingers.
"No Gourbon?" asks Jacque.
"Nah," I say. "If I don't ever go back to Gay Bourbon, it'll be too soon. There's nothing for me."
"There's something for everyone on Gourbon," says Jacque.
"You can get a house in Vegas," says Joey.
"I think I'm good. I'm always one step ahead of butt crickets, anyway," I say, lobbing a pinch of bread at a duck the size of a Rottweiler.
There's a cypress tree behind Jacque and at its base sits a man with dirty blond hair and the build of a baseball player. He's wearing a pullover v-neck windbreaker and khaki shorts. He's holding his knees against his chest and he's staring into the water. And when I take all of him in, I lose my breathe. I can tell he's aware of us. I mean, how couldn't he be? Three screechy homos in short-shorts? We couldn't be more present than if we were twerking on his face.
He looks at me and smiles. I pretend I don't see him and flex my calf muscles when I toss a piece of bread in the air. Holy shit, he's hot. He turns back to the water and I snap my fingers at Jacque. Jacque looks at me and I mouth the words, "Give him a piece of bread." Jacque looks confused, but then taps him on the shoulder and says, "You wanna feed the ducks with us?" He smiles, nods, takes the slice, and portions it before throwing the pieces into the air.
I should go talk to him.
But what if he's not gay?
So? He looks friendly.
I'm all sweaty and I didn't wear underwear and I smell European.
Wouldn't it be nice to meet a guy in a park?
No one meets anyone in parks anymore.
Unless they're "meeting up" in a park. But no one does that anymore either, right?
We three run out of bread and the boys start walking away. I'm left alone, ten feet from the man of my dreams. I look at him and notice the white waistband of Ralph Lauren boxer-briefs stretching across his lower back, poking out the top of his shorts. That's my favorite type of underwear. Joey calls to me and I start walking back up the incline towards the car. I look over my shoulder to see if he's looking back at me. He isn't. C'mon, turn around. He doesn't. You think I'm sexy and you want to see if I have a nice ass. He's still staring ahead. I reach the sidewalk and Joey blows the horn. I turn around and he's looking at me. I smile with one side of my mouth, nod my head, and whisper to myself in a voice only I can hear, "Hey, stud."
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