The Bottom Club

12 | rubatosis

WYATT CHANGED INTO the clothes, stuffing his old ones into the Ziploc which he set right beneath his the window sill. He could’ve changed inside but hadn’t wanted to risk any sudden movements which would alert his dad, and after a hesitant moment he began to trek to the rendezvous point he’d agreed to meet Canyon at.

It stood a block away from his neighborhood.

Running his hands across his arms in an attempt to warm up, he longingly thought of the blue denim jacket he’d decided to forgo which would’ve done a better job of insulating against the chill. Cars drove past and each time he hoped that one of them would have the person he was waiting for behind their wheels, but none stopped and slowly, the realization that Canyon had most likely gotten tired of waiting and driven off without him began to sink in. His eyes prickled, and as he started to consider the walk back home a jeep pulled up beside him.

Canyon wore a white polo shirt, and had an arm resting out of the side of his car window. His black hair was mussed from driving with the windows down, dark tresses moving in tandem with the wind, and as soon as their eyes met a smile broke out on his face.

He motioned towards the passenger seat beside him, and after a moment Wyatt got in.

“Look, I’m so sorry I―”

“Yeah, about that,” Wyatt began, hoping the irritation did not creep into his voice. “What took you so long? And please pull up the windows so I can turn up the heat.”

Canyon arched a brow, amused, but complied with his request.

“Martha made me do all my homework and the dishes before she let me out; and she wouldn’t have let me to begin with, but I told her I was your ride and you’d probably be waiting.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised to hear that.”

The car fell silent and an atmosphere of anticipation grew between the two of them that was only punctuated by the small talk they made.

Shortly after, Wyatt turned the dial on the stereo, cranking the radio up. The silence was replaced with static, and then:

“So you’re telling me that it’s OK for men to sleep around and get praised for it. But when a woman does the same thing she’s a slut?”

It was a woman’s voice, most likely the host of the station he’d stumbled into.

Wyatt settled back into his chair and closed his eyes, interest piqued as the other co-host cut in.

“I’m not saying that, Lisa. I’m saying it’s the way society is, that’s all.”

A pause. “Well I call bullshit.”

“Bullshit on what, life?”

“Yes,” Lisa said without missing a beat. “And the patriarchy.”

Canyon tapped Wyatt and he cracked open his eyes, turning to look at him.

“You look good tonight.” The words came pouring out of him in a rush. “Really good.”

Wyatt let a languid smile creep up his face, noticing how the other boy refused to meet his eyes. Then again he was driving, so it was all for the best.

“Serving looks is what I do, honey,” he teased, before closing his eyes again to focus on the debate, which had started to escalate.

“And why does everything have to be about gender with you? Alright, you’re a feminist, and I’m a men’s rights activist.”

Wyatt could picture the male speaker: straight, white and handsome in a very forgettable way.

“News flash Bob: Being an MRA is not the flex you think it is.” Lisa sounded exasperated, as if she’d tried explaining quantum physics to a two-year-old. “And the fact that you can casually ask me why everything has to be about gender is part to the problem. It speaks not only of your privilege, but of your refusal to acknowledge it.”