Love Drugged

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Love Drugged © 2010 by James Klise.

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  First e-book edition © 2010

  E-book ISBN: 9780738727271

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Mike

  I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been, have made me what I am.

  —Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

  one

  Judging by the angry mail we get, a lot of people consider me to be the villain of this story. The Chicago newspapers treat me like a public menace. They use the most biased headlines:

  STRAIGHT CHARADE LEAVES READERS IRATE

  NO MORE DATES FOR JAMIE BATES

  WOULD YOU WANT HIM FOR YOUR DAUGHTER?

  No, people, you would not want me for your daughter. That should be obvious.

  It’s true, I told a lot of lies. I lied to everyone, including myself. I took things that didn’t belong to me. Valuable things. In the end, I resorted to violence, which I totally regret, and I set what I thought was a very responsible, very contained, tiny fire, which led to—well, massive destruction of private property.

  But a villain?

  My defense goes like this: Technically, in order to be considered a true villain, you’ve got to have a sinister plan. I suspect that a class called “Creating Your Sinister Plan” is taught during freshman year of Villain School.

  Take, for example, the Disney movie 101 Dalmatians. Cruella De Vil creates a plan: I am going to steal these adorable puppies and kill them to make coats. The crazy old people in Rosemary’s Baby hatch a downright devilish plan: Let’s take this innocent young woman and use her body to give birth to Satan’s immortal offspring. In the Friday the 13th movies, the drowned teenager Jason Voorhees comes up with a truly ambitious, no-good, blood-splattered plan: Maybe, if I avenge my young death by killing every teenager who comes to Camp Crystal Lake, over time I will find some measure of peace.

  Sure, these characters are all lunatics—certified, grade-A wack jobs—but they are bad guys nonetheless. They created evil plans; therefore, they are villains.

  Let the record show, I never had a sinister plan. I never said to myself: Let me trick a beautiful, intelligent female classmate into thinking I am heterosexual. In our case, a relationship simply grew of its own accord. Opportunities presented themselves. It was the classic romantic scenario involving two young hearts, first kisses, exotic locales, and a stolen supply of untested pharmaceutical drugs designed to alter the sexual chemistry inside the brain.

  I don’t mean to excuse my crimes. These days I carry regrets with me like my grimy gray backpack, evident for the whole world to see.

  People are complicated. Desire can be confusing. Not for you? Consider yourself lucky.

  Reporters hold their compact digital recorders up to my mouth. “Please, Jamie, talk about the drug,” they say. “Tell us about specific changes to your mind and your body.” They always ask me to describe the taste of the pills, and they always use the word “miracle.”

  Often they ask for a photograph, something for them to use instead of my freshman yearbook picture, which everybody’s seen. Infamous me, sitting up too straight, with my shiny brown bowl cut. Toothy and too happy-looking—alarming glee, like someone just pinched my ass. Now when someone pulls out a camera, I slouch a little and push my bangs to the side. I cross my arms. I’ve learned how to stare at cameras with confidence, without needing to smile at all.

  Chicago reporters like to include my background story. Here’s my version: I’m an only child. For the past five years, my family has lived with my mother’s parents in Rogers Park, north of Peterson Avenue. Before that—back when my dad had his quick-printing business—we lived on the city’s west side. My grandparents’ place is a brick two-flat, one apartment on top of the other, with a chain-link fence along the front sidewalk. It may not impress, but it doesn’t embarrass, either. It fits in.

  When we first moved in, I picked a bedroom downstairs, in my grandparents’ apartment. I wanted to be in the middle of everything. In retrospect, my parents must have appreciated the chance to have the upstairs to themselves, where they had plenty of space for starting their endless chain of doomed businesses—discount magazine sales, website design, recipe subscription clubs. One half-baked venture after the next.

  At first, my parents expected our stay would be short. “One year, tops,” my father said. Of course he thought so. My dad wears his wavy brown hair exactly as he did the year he led his high school baseball team to historic wins. (Another headline: SLUGGER BATES TAKES LAKERS TO STATE.) I’ll catch him paging through the old yearbooks we keep on the TV, next to the Bible, and even I’m struck by how much I resemble him at that age. Despite subsequent setbacks in my dad’s life, he has always clung to the notion that the universe happens to favor certain people, like him, and that the universe is not fickle.

  “Now remember, kiddo,” he told me back then, as we carried my suitcases into the “temporary” bedroom, “we’re guests in this home.”

  I looked around the room. The narrow window offered an unobstructed view of my grandparents’ garage, squat and brick. On the bed lay an old toy, a small wooden carving of two painted ducks on a log. I reached for it. The ducks were at opposite ends of the log, but when I pulled a string at the bottom, the ducks moved to the center, flapping their speckled wings.

  My father hung my clothes in the closet and continued to give instructions in a low voice. “You’re almost eleven, Jamie. Make yourself useful, and otherwise try to be invisible.”

  My mother came in, carting two rubber bins. She has always been freakishly strong. Unlike my dad and me, my mom is little, and she has straight ash-blond hair like her parents. “We’re one floor up,” she told me, pointing toward the ceiling with a sly smile, “like in a regular house. It won’t be any different than before. Just bigger!”

  It didn’t take me long to realize
that choosing the downstairs bedroom was a big mistake—the first in my noteworthy streak. Now and then, the phrase “suddenly an orphan” crossed my thoughts. My parents ate suppers on the first floor with us, but I got used to their early good-nights, quick kisses, and their departure through the front door. I would follow the sound of them climbing the stairs, then moving around the apartment above as they attended to business. Sometimes it sounded like ghosts.

  I dreaded the quiet after they left. In the living room, an antique clock tolled ominously each hour. Every night after eating, I would rise from the table and say, “Thank you for the very nice supper,” as I’d been trained to say.

  “You’re quite welcome,” my grandmother answered. “Now go on, we’ll get these dishes.”

  “Pleasure knowing you,” my grandfather sometimes added, or “Nice doing business with you.” It took some time before I understood he meant this to be funny. Then he’d reach for the TV remote.

  For as long as I can remember, the rubber bins in my bedroom have stored all the things that brought light and sparkle to my life—toys and plastic superheroes when I was ten; books when I got older (I preferred books about explorers, astronomers, martyrs, events that changed the world, and people who took risky chances to improve their lives); and most recently, music and movies. In junior high, we took field trips downtown to see big musicals. We’d have lunch on State Street or Michigan Avenue, then race to get in line for the show. My favorites were Wicked and Les Miz, but I wasn’t picky. Now I have a dozen recordings on CD. For eighth-grade graduation, my parents gave me a cheap TV/DVD combo for my bedroom, and I began buying used DVDs—classic titles that my dad recommended. I got them from the Korean video store for a couple of bucks each: Rosemary’s Baby, Strangers on a Train, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I Know You’re in the House Alone, Halloween. I’d watch them by myself, with my bedroom door closed. Things are scarier when you’re alone.

  To be clear, I never felt unwelcome in my grandparents’ apartment. They treated me with generous respect. “Jamie, we respect your privacy,” they said, in order to explain why they never entered my bedroom. They smiled at me and patted my shoulder, but they had forgotten how to interact with a young person. Over time, their lack of communication intersected with my escalating need for privacy, and—slam! It was like the signing of the Magna Carta. We found an arrangement that worked for everyone.

  “What I don’t understand,” reporters always say, “is why you didn’t come out sooner.”

  Sooner. Simple as walking through a wide-open door into a perfect, sun-dappled day.

  Give me a break, I was fifteen—a high school freshman.

  “Gay” is the word my best friend Wesley used to describe the three-page essay on school spirit that we were assigned for English. “Damn, man, this project is gay.”

  “That’s gay,” the girls remark, when a friend dares to tie a sweater around her shoulders as if posing for a magazine.

  “You look totally gay.”

  “No homo,” boys say quickly in class, if they’ve expressed something bordering on sensitive and don’t want to misrepresent themselves.

  “Queer” is what they call the way-too-friendly guy who sells French fries in the cafeteria.

  “Hands off, queer bait!”

  “Faggots!” This was the furious outcry directed toward the immature clowns who misbehaved in homeroom, making us lose our pizza party.

  “Take a picture, faggot, it lasts longer.”

  “Faggot,” too, was the overweight, effeminate boy who showed up at school at the start of seventh grade and then silently endured a constant attack of projectiles aimed at his head—crumpled papers, rubber bands, even pencils. By November, he was gone. I imagined his life had become a series of sad switches, a long lonely search for a place to fit in. But I wouldn’t be his friend, either. After all, I was getting by.

  Recently, even a gay journalist asked me, “Jamie, why? Why put yourself through all this?” As if he had forgotten those harrowing years between ages ten and eighteen, when the meanest, most dreaded, completely acceptable, worst insult for any boy was to be called, simply, “fag.”

  two

  The trouble started in January. I was sitting in the school cafeteria with Wesley. He had spent several lunch periods giving me grief about my decision not to try out for the baseball team. Conditioning had started over the winter break.

  Wes gestured at me, as if his hands held magical powers of persuasion. “Dude, you played in sixth grade, you played in seventh grade, you were good last year—why not this year?”

  “This is high school, Wes,” I said. “Bigger pond, out of my league.”

  I’d gotten the same heat from my dad about not playing ball. But I knew that high school sports involved crowded locker rooms, with showers. In my mind, it meant a catastrophic boner disaster waiting to happen.

  “It’s worth a try,” Wes said. “You can hit. Besides, the chickies love baseball players.”

  Chickies? Where had he learned to talk like that—West Side Story? Wes had grown about a foot taller since summer, and with the height, he’d developed a new appreciation for “the chickies.” Obsessed, he let his eyes roam the cafeteria like a scanning device. His running commentary was remarkably comprehensive, almost scientific in scope, but his standards were pretty loose. One good feature on a girl was worthy of recognition, even if the rest of her was average. I prayed that his enthusiasm might rub off on me.

  At the time, my strategy was to wait it out, get through high school. I once read an advice column in the local free weekly that said the best time to come out was when you had some independence, some resources of your own. The column said you needed a safety net. This made sense. Like my grandparents’ brick building, I didn’t stand out. I wasn’t like the seventh-grade “sissy” who came and went. I thought if I kept my head low, I could fly under the radar all four years and make it out alive.

  “Hey, now there you go, Mr. Picky,” Wes said, facing me almost in challenge. “There’s one worth your time. Over at the cash registers.”

  More like a waste of my time, I thought, but I turned to look.

  There was no arguing this one. The girl was spectacular. Her shiny dark hair framed a face that was a wonder of genetic good fortune—small features, large brown eyes. She was tall and thin-waisted, with plenty of curves. When she saw us looking at her, she smiled and waved. Then she started coming our way.

  Wes sputtered. “What the … ?”

  Funny thing was, I already knew this girl. She came straight to where we were sitting and perched her cafeteria tray on the edge of our table. “Hey, Jamie,” she said. “Don’t forget, Mr. Covici asked you to bring the treats next week.”

  I nodded. “He can count on me.”

  She grinned. “Hmmm, if you’re bringing the treats, maybe I’ll skip breakfast.”

  “Not recommended. I’ll probably just stop at the gas station on the way to school.”

  “Well, I know you won’t disappoint us.” She patted my shoulder, turned on her heel, and walked away. The faint trace of her perfume lingered, exotic and expensive.

  When she was out of earshot, Wes hissed, “Who the hell is that?”

  “Celia Gamez,” I said, pleased to impress him. “I’m in a club with her.”

  He seemed skeptical. “Which club?”

  “The First Knights.” This was a service club my parents had made me join—a small group, and not because it was selective. But even I knew that things like that would look good on college applications someday.

  “Celia Gamez,” Wes said. “I know that name. Yeah, my cousin Mimi went to junior high with her. That girl lives in, like, the biggest house on the North Side.”

  “Is that right?” I said, only half interested.

  “She digs you.”

  “Sure she does, Wes. And those chicken fingers are made from the plump hands of real chickens!”

  “But she does,” he insisted. “Didn’t you see her
flirting? ‘I know you won’t disappoint us.’ Damn, maybe I should join one of these gay clubs.” He turned and faced the wall, where a bulletin board advertised the Art Club, Book Club, Chess Club, Debate—a complete alphabet of school activities.

  Celia moved across the cafeteria, and I tried to see her through Wesley’s eyes. It was easy to appreciate how pretty she was. But below the belt, I felt nothing. Hopeless.

  Wes reached up with one of his long skinny arms and tore down the Art Club flier. He scribbled something on it with a Sharpie. He smiled wickedly and asked, “Hey, Jamie, wanna join my new club?” He held up the flier, which now read: FART CLUB. Every Monday. Come show off your special talent!

  Wes and I had been friends since the fifth grade. We were both transfer students that year, “the new kids,” and the teacher parked our desks side by side in the back of the room like a package deal. On the first day, during class, Wes leaned across the aisle and reached for my new box of twelve Faber-Castell pastels. “Can I see those?” he whispered. I nodded and handed them over, unopened. The teacher was explaining fractions, how you broke numbers apart and piled them on top of each other to make a different kind of number. I followed along in my textbook, but after a minute I looked back to see what my new buddy was drawing. He wasn’t drawing. All my pastels were broken into halves, and he’d spread them across the desk in mismatched pairs. Fleetingly I thought: Are those … fractions? Wes smiled at me, lifting his shoulders as if to say, I have no idea how that happened. I was too stunned to report him to the teacher. Later that day he broke a science lab window “by mistake” with a football.

  What fascinated me about Wesley was his fearless energy. He was so confrontational, always on offense, unafraid of collisions. In the sixth grade, I tried to be like him. I stopped tucking in my shirt, ignored my comb, left shoelaces untied. If Wes playfully shoved me, I shoved back. I tried to imitate the effortless noise he made by being himself, the chaos he caused just crossing the room to sharpen a pencil.