Rough Draft
By Chris Owen and Jodi Payne
Section One
Chapter One
Sent in a plain envelope and written on lined
paper. Black ink and quickly written block letters at the beginning,
segueing into a relaxed cursive.
Dated October 16
Dear Paul,
Hey, how's it going? Now stop panicking -- I know it's not
a phone call or e-mail, but nothing is wrong. Really. Sometimes
I just want to write, you know? Feel the paper and take the
time to spell stuff wrong if that's how it comes out. Usually
my mom gets these... but that's more because she demands
letters and hates to check her e-mail.
Lucky you, this time you get to be the recipient of my latest
brain dump. Hope you'll forgive me.
Now that I think about it, I don't think I know anyone else
who would put up with it. Got you trained up to deal with the
Wandering Mind of Gray, and frankly it's too much work to start
working on someone else.
Not that there are a lot of choice around here. Oh, the joys
of small town life. The college is cool, and the history department
(aside from a few old skeletons clinging to their tenure) is
great, but, man... small towns suck for making friends that
are anything more than surface.
Did you know that there are only three kinds of bars here?
There's the Straight Dance Music Meat Market, the Café/Bar
Straight Meat Market, and the Roadhouse Style Meat Market. Also
Straight, of course. Thank Christ for the GLBT group on campus
-- I seriously hate to think that gay kids would live out their
four years here without it. So I wander down to the café/bar
meat market once in a while and endure the noise, and I wind
up getting eyed up by some young thing. And once in a while
I get to thinking, 'Hell, I'm only thirty, the age difference
isn't that much...' But the two times I got even close to
returning the interest by sharing a drink it turned out that
the kid was in my intro course and was looking for an in about
next week's class.
Damn intro courses are huge, how the hell am I supposed to
remember all the freaking kids I see?
Get me, Mr. Pitiful. Oh, shut up.
Mind, it's a lot easier to pick out the diggers when they
land in my office looking for help and bearing gifts like books
and trinkets. I had some girl show up last week who was sending
out all the signals... I swear you could track her through
the halls just by pheromones. She seemed honestly baffled when
I didn't throw her across my desk and tear her clothes off.
Poor thing.
And then there was the lovely boy doing the same thing, but
he took my disinterest better -- think he's used to it, and
isn't that just freaking sad?
Anyway, point is, I've been here for -- what, five years?
And it's pretty much known which way I go and that's fine --
never been one for the closet, have I? But it sure as hell makes
it hard to get anywhere. The only people I know are either students
or teachers, and the chances of going out to meet anyone and
not winding up lying next to someone I rather wouldn't are getting
kind of slim.
There's a guy who teaches in the philosophy department. Nice
guy, little older than us. He says that it's a wasteland for
the sexually repressed here. The small town kids are all kinky
and the city kids looking for that level of fun are all too
vanilla but don't know it. Me, I have no clue what he's on about,
but he seems to think that as the straightest man on campus
it's his duty to bend a bit.
Yeah, makes no sense to me either. Philosophy students and
teachers just worry me.
Going to go see the drama club's production of 'The Tempest'
tomorrow. Made me think of you.
I miss you, Paul. I feel old.
And tomorrow is another day, full of jocks trying to get their
humanities credit and history majors trying to suck up. There
are a few bright lights in the upper level classes, thank god;
makes it fun for part of the week. But by Friday we just want
to get out of here.
Maybe I should start going to the movies instead of the bars.
Take care, and don't mind the angst -- I think I'm going through
my second teenagehood, now with added rent payments.
Gray
Written on paper that appears to have been
torn out of a spiral notebook with the fringed edge removed.
Scratchy hand-writing in blue ballpoint ink. The letter was
folded creatively and stuffed into an envelope that's narrower
than the paper is.
Dated October 25
Hey, Professor!
Sorry about the paper, I borrowed it from one of the students
in the after-school play I'm directing. This time it's 'Arsenic
and Old Lace'. I'm going to have to do one hell of a make-up
job to make my 16 year old female leads look like they're 70,
huh? Anyway, they're doing costume fittings tonight and I'm
just hanging around answering questions so I figured it was
a good time to write back.
Me? Panic? I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about,
I never panic. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. I was
surprised by your letter, though. In this age of email, nobody
picks up a real pen anymore. I think letter writing is a dying
art. Of course in my case you might prefer an email; I know
my handwriting leaves a lot to be desired. Can you even read
this?
All the same it's good to hear from the "Wandering Mind
of Gray". I wish the circumstances were a little better.
The semester has barely begun and already you're lamenting the
loss of your social life? It's going to be a very, very long
year, huh? Jokes aside though, are you ok, Gray? It doesn't
seem like you not to dig until you find a silver lining to the
daily grind. [something is scratched out here] You seem sort
of depressed to me. Or lonely, I guess. I'm surprised, I would
have expected that a town surrounding the hallowed halls of
academia would be far more diverse. So is what they say about
college towns all talk? Must be.
And please don't tell me how old you feel, I am so not ready
to go shopping for my mid-life crisis convertible (although
I'm thinking a Porsche, how about you?). At least you're working
with kids that can drink legally. I've got acne-laden, hormonally-confused
teenagers on my hands. Today's crisis was that Cindy, the girl
playing Martha, went nuts when I suggested that her character
was overweight and we would have to pad her a bit. She freaked
out about looking "fat" and ran out of the room crying.
I had to coax her out of the ladies' room with dramatic and
important-sounding talk about personifying and embodying a character
and a story about Ian McKellen's method acting.
I told you that story right? About how he was... oh, I
know I told you and now I'm repeating myself, it's my favorite
fucking story after all.
Uh-oh, you think she's going to go home and tell her parents
that story? That's all I need, I can hear the phone call now.
"Mr. Foster, I understand you told my daughter it was all
right to be drunk." (It's bad enough I'm a fag, right?)
SIGH.
Anyway, it worked. She's now being measured and fitted for
her padding, and she's going to look great. One down, 12 more
disagreeable teenagers to go. Don't talk to me about feeling
old.
Things are ok with me otherwise. I'm getting the bills paid,
and all. I'm building a million dollar home at the moment. Ever
noticed how a $300K house is a "house", but a million
dollar house is a "home"? What's up with that? Anyway,
this woman, the wife, has really bad taste. Tacky as hell. With
any luck we'll have this "home" finished before the
winter rain hits us. I'd like to be done before Christmas, I'm
thinking maybe I need a vacation this year.
Oddly enough, I can drive to downtown San Francisco where
there are plenty of gay meat markets to choose from, and yet
so far, I don't think I'm any better off than you are. I mean
sure, I've had the one-nighters here and there, pick-ups and
such, but apart from one or two exceptions, I haven't wanted
to look twice. And even the exceptions haven't lasted more than
a couple of weeks, or a month tops.
Don't let the hype fool you, San Francisco is a lonely town.
Seriously. You're all set if you want to get laid, but if you
actually want to have a conversation, you'd be better off hitting
the Mission or Noe Valley and looking up the lesbians.
Heh. Mentioning the lesbians made me think of that time we
went to the opera with Lisa and Allison as our "dates"?
Remember? And you kept calling Allison "honey" and
"schnookums"... I laugh every time I think of that.
Those were good times, huh?
Well, I better go check on my little method-actress. Besides,
as you can see, I'm out of paper.
[written up the margin] Hang in there, and try to find something
to occupy your mind, you're thinking too much again!
Paul
Written on lined loose-leaf in blue ink. The
pen appears to be running out of ink.
Dated November 5
Hey Paul,
Glad you could fit me into your schedule -- I mean that, I'm
not trying to be a prick. How on earth do you find time to live
between working and doing plays? I mean, really, Paul. Don't
stress yourself too much. And that is the lecture out of the
way.
Seriously, I'm fine. I probably shouldn't have mailed that
first letter, or at least waited a day or two and added more
to it. Call it mid-term stress -- god, was I like that when
I was in school? Shit, how morose. You know what? Mid-terms
suck just as much from this side. I can hardly wait for finals.
Anyway. Better now, sorry for the brain dump and for worrying
you. And hey, I can always stand to hear about Ian McKellen's
method acting again. And again. And once more just for fun.
You think you'll survive the play? Oh, little hint -- like you
need one from me: When putting on a production of 'The Tempest'
take more than three weeks to get it together. No, really. At
least a month. It won't be quite so painful for the world that
way. Yeah, that was a good night. I live in fear.
It takes $300,000 to build a house? Shit, man, I'm going to
be homeless forever. As it is I'm barely past the sheer need
for a roommate to make the rent. Looooong way from a 'home'.
(This is me skipping the part where I talk about your muscles
and how hot you look working on said home. See? Skipping the
whole thing. Right now.)
In the post mid-term hush around here I've been thinking about
stats. Statistically, a bunch of the varsity jocks are gay,
right? Off limits, what with the whole professor/student thing.
But, also statistically speaking, a bunch more profs than just
me gotta be queer, yeah? (Okay, with my luck they're all lesbians.
Whatever.) Also? If I'm staying away from students, can't find
a prof to bang, then.... I'm thinking I need to expand my horizons.
Look to the public sector, so to speak. Find out who's building
all these houses.
Did I just say that?
Ahem. Anyway, what's going on with you? Anyone making your
nights more fun than your days? Stay away from that midlife
crisis Porches, babe -- you're more a Prowler kind of guy. Oh
wait, that's me. In any case, it's on hold until after finals.
How are the little actresses coming along? Any of them crushing
on you yet?
Take care, baby. Don't let them get you down.
Love,
Gray
Green ballpoint pen on notebook paper, the
handwriting is still pretty scratchy, but it's neater than last
time.
Dated November 22
Hi Gray,
Your first letter got me all concerned, and this one had me
laughing my ass off. Either you're bi-polar, or I overreacted.
Since we all know I never overreact (haha), you must be insane.
Funny you should ask about my little method actresses. I told
you about Cindy and the fat thing, right? So now, she has to
wear her padding to every rehearsal. One of the boys teased
her about it the other day and she stuck her nose in the air
and replied quite coolly, "You don't know the first about
acting". I've created a monster! Although, maybe one day
I'll be credited with discovering her, she's a natural. I can
hear her now: "Thank you for my Oscar, I just want to say
that I owe it all to my high school director, Mr. Foster."
Everyone in the nursing home with me will be pea-green with
envy.
As for crushes, I don't think there are any. I haven't actually
come out to the kids, but I think they might know. Kids these
days are so much more clued-in than we used to be. It's very
hard to hide anything from them. Of course, Jessica's father
inviting me out on a date in front of his daughter might have
given them a clue, too. Oh, I said no, don't worry. No with
a capital "N". Nicely, but yikes. So not going there.
He is hot though, and I've got squat in the way of alternatives
at the moment. What a shame.
Three weeks to do 'The Tempest'?!? Oh, I'd die of heart-failure.
I would, really. I mean, all the running around and entrances
and exits... the logistics of that play alone are daunting.
And a shipwreck! Oh lord. I hope Antonio was at least moderately
hot. That character is SO gay.
Speaking of stress, as for your mid-term depression, no, you
weren't like that in college. At least not after you met me.
(Note the leering grin on my lips!) Dare I say I was good for
your stress level? I do. And I was. I laughed at how, in your
letter, you pointedly 'skipped' talking about how I look building
houses. It put me in mind of they way you used to get your nose
into your textbooks and I'd come home from rehearsal late and
there you'd be with one little desk lamp on, devouring details
about ancient civilizations in nothing but your boxers. You
were a pretty hot geek as I recall. You should send me a current
picture, so I can see what I'm missing out on.
You don't have a roommate anymore? Lucky. I have two. Well,
housemates actually. Straight boys with girlfriends, both of
them. They're cool about me and all, and actually their girlfriends
are pretty nice, too. I've even brought guys home on occasion,
no problem. I'm doing OK, but I don't think I'll ever have $300K
for a house either. I'll probably be paying rent forever. Oh
well. It's nice to dream though, and some of these houses are
nice, man. Big kitchens and shady backyards -- a guy can dream,
right?
Not much new going on with me. We're about done with the mansion,
sooner than expected, and then I'll get a break which is good.
We have two weeks until opening night of 'Arsenic...', and
it has seven performances spread out until right before Christmas.
Two weeks! Holy crap!
Whew! Lost it there for a moment, but I'm fine now.
You're definitely the Prowler. I'm more the look available
and see who bites type. I met a guy about a week ago, we had
dinner, talked for a bit, fucked like three nights in a row
and that was it as far as I can tell. The last time wasn't even
that great and he went home after. I don't know, Gray, I think
I'm just not cut out for the relationship thing. I'm far better
off with the one-nighters (or the three-nighters). Nobody seems
to really push my buttons, you know? So for now I'm a free spirit.
I better relearn that hanky code.
Well, sorry it took me so long to write back, but as you seem
to have noticed, I'm a little short on free time.
Love,
Paul.
P.S. I'm so glad you signed your letter "love, Gray".
I wanted to sign my first reply to you "love, Paul"
but you hadn't signed your letter to me "love" so
I wasn't sure I ought to and I way over-thought the whole thing
to such a stupid degree, you have no idea, and ended up just
doing what you did and wrote just "Paul". I know,
I'm a dork.
~P.
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