Page 3

THREE

E ddie’s head thumps against the window as the Greyhound bus rolls over another pothole, jolting him from whatever this current state of non-wakefulness is. It’s certainly not real sleep, not like you get in a bed or a hammock or an interminable algebra class. This is more like a vague semiconsciousness, a hazy, one-eye-open situation that’s interrupted every few minutes when your head tips off to the side and onto the shoulder of the wispy-bearded man next to you, causing him to snarl like a badger and fill the air between you with an acrid cloud of toxic breath.

He yawns at the green cornfields sweeping past and wonders exactly where they are. After descending the Rockies, they passed through Denver, then crossed Kansas, Missouri, and Illinois, where a violent June thunderstorm forced them to pull off the road for an hour. They must be in Indiana by now. Or maybe Ohio. He would check his phone, but he’s got no signal out here.

This journey is really starting to drag. His legs are cramped, his neck is sore, and he could really use a shower. He would read, but his copy of Howl’s Moving Castle is up on the overhead rack, stuffed into his duffel bag with a bunch of haphazardly grabbed sweatshirts and socks and toothpaste and stuff. To get it he’d have to ask the snarling badger to move out of the way. Not worth it. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and pretends he’s somewhere else. He pretends he’s in New York.

Look! Here he is in the doorway of Cookie’s building, a giant beaux arts behemoth in a fancy tree-lined neighborhood. She’s beckoning him into the gleaming elevator, where she tells the epauletted operator to take them to the very top floor. She helps Eddie into an antique paisley smoking jacket and guides him into the salon, where they recline on plush brocade easy chairs and gaze out across the New York skyline while nibbling on tiny little pancakes piled with caviar. (Not that he’s ever had caviar before, but it’s what he pictures.)

The bus bumps again and the vision clicks into another, like a television changing channels: Eddie’s in an artists’ loft now, as big as an ice rink, wearing a paint-splattered work shirt and talking to an impossibly handsome artist about the sprawling abstract expressionist mural that covers the entire wall. Eddie tells him he loves it. The man smiles, then reaches for Eddie, as if to kiss him.

Another bump, another click. Now he’s on top of a downtown town house, sitting in a rooftop garden with a circle of witty gay boys in patterned party shirts, chatting among a bounty of cutting flowers—roses, zinnias, cosmos, peonies. They tell racy jokes and sing old-time showtunes Eddie’s never heard before but somehow knows all the words to.

Click. He’s walking up and down the New York City avenues, through sidewalks thronged with harried, hurried people, jumping away from puddles as city buses roll by, splashing his shoes. Click. He’s standing at the edge of Central Park, buying a paper cone filled with fragrant roasting chestnuts from a man with a cart, who points at the penthouses soaring above them and shares gossip about the movie stars and socialites who live up there. Click. He’s walking along the river, jostled by roller skaters singing along to disco-blasting boomboxes. Click. A happy young couple asks him to take their picture in front of the Stonewall Inn. Click. He’s riding the ferry to Staten Island and back. Click. He’s crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot. Click, click, click. The visions keep coming—detailed, specific, romantic, full of color. He’s very good at this.

His head bumps against the glass again, and Eddie’s mind returns, unwillingly, to the bus. He digs into his pocket for his phone to see if he’s got a signal now. Look at that, two bars. By habit, he taps into Instagram.

Oh, Eddie. Why? You know better than this. These posts are nonsense. All these photos of your supposed “friends”—that’s what the algorithm wants to call them—pretending to have fun. Look at them, hiking, biking, shopping, swimming, arriving at airports, posing on beaches, dancing like fools to silly sped-up songs. All the things that they believe they deserve to be admired for, to be “liked” for. None of it is any more real than his fantasies about eating caviar in penthouses or kissing abstract expressionists in Soho lofts, except that they have pictures. Proof.

He’s about to tap out when he spies a photo of them . The betraying best friend and her dickhead new boyfriend. He’s wearing his basketball tank; she’s riding on his shoulders like a toddler. They’re both grinning broadly with perfect teeth, like this is some kind of wedding announcement. The caption says “Hard launch” and it makes Eddie want to retch. He thinks back to his fight with her.

But he called me a fag, he said.

It’s just a word, she said. It’s just how bros talk. Don’t be so sensitive all the time. No one cares that you’re gay. Seriously, it’s the twenty twenties. You got gay marriage. Rainbow flags everywhere. Drag queens all over television. What else do you want?

But they’re banning books—

It doesn’t mean anything.

But they’re passing laws against—

Whatever, those laws are stupid. They don’t mean anything.

But the violence is increasing—

Oh my god please stop. This is literally the most boring subject. No one’s beat you up, have they? You say what you want. You came out and we celebrated! Being gay is irrelevant now. Okay? Literally no one cares.

Do you care?

No, Eddie. I don’t. Just drop it.

Irrelevant, she’d said. As if that’s a good thing.

That was the last time he saw her. So much for a best friend.

Eddie is tempted to leave a snarky comment, but instead he unfollows her. It feels good. He unfollows her closest girlfriend, who he’s sure would take her side. Energy flowing, he keeps going, systematically unfollowing “friend” after “friend,” one by one, feeling a rush of dopamine each time he taps the button. Goodbye, ex-friends. Goodbye, ex-classmates. Have a nice life. Or have a shit one! Eddie doesn’t care. He’s dropping it. With every mile, Mesa Springs fades farther and farther away, and New York City grows closer and closer. Soon he’s down to zero follows. For a grand finale, he deletes the app.

He turns off his phone and smiles silently under his hoodie, feeling strong. Let’s go, bus. Let’s get to New York Fucking City. Let’s do this.