The Last Time We Met

1

I stood before the pay phone with a handful of dimes, trying to work up the courage the dial the number smeared on the back of my hand.

I'd managed to avoid washing my hands all day, since I'd woken up with a massive hangover. But I could still taste him on my tongue, the sharp tang of a Long Island Iced Tea. "I'm Brent," he shouted in my ear as he held my hand steady to mark me with his number.

I couldn't remember if I had told him my name. All I could remember was a feeling, a pull stronger than I'd ever felt. Lisa thought it was just the alcohol. "You've never kissed anyone," she said. "That's how everyone is with their first kiss."

"I've kissed people before," I'd said, but I knew what she meant: I'd never kissed a guy before. We'd locked ourselves in a bathroom stall that had remnants of coke on the toilet paper dispenser, and we'd done a lot more than kiss.

Now, however, I stood at the payphone wondering if he really wanted me to call him. Everything felt different in the harsh light of day. Hell, I didn't even want to use the phone in our apartment. Didn't want Lisa to be there listening if Brent had given me a fake number.

Lots of white kids in my high school had treated me like shit for being Hispanic. In the club, Brent might not have noticed the color of my skin. He had looked a little dark, too, maybe Italian. That didn't mean anything. Italians were basically white. Maybe he had gotten what he wanted out of me last night and didn't really want me to call, just didn't want to share a cab with me back home.

Sighing, I jingled the change in my hand and finally dropped a dime in. The other problem was that I wasn't sure if that number at the end was a five or a six. My heart hammered as I dialed it in with a five.

"Marshall House of Pizza," said a boy's voice.

I hung up. Took a deep breath. Dropped in another dime and this time tried the number with a six at the end.

The phone rang and rang and rang. Most people had answering machines, didn't they? I waited for four rings, then eight, and I was about to hang up when a creaky old voice said, "Hello?"

Maybe Brent lived with his grandparents. "Hello, is Brent there?"

"Hello?" the voice said again.

I repeated myself, louder.

"What? Speak up, son!"

"Is Brent there?" I shouted into the phone. A few passersby on the street looked at me and gave me a wide berth.

"Brent? You got the wrong number, son!"

I hung up. I stared at the phone waiting for the heat in my face to fade. My eyes landed on the phone book attached to the base of the phone by a chain.

It was stupid. I should just forget Brent. He'd given me a fake number, and that was that.

But I pulled out the phone book and turned to the yellow pages, to the heading that said PIZZA. Ran my finger down the list of pizza places in LA. There were two whole pages, front and back.

No Marshall House of Pizza.

It could still be a real pizza place, I told myself as I dropped in my second to last dime and dialed the number with a five at the end again. It looked like a local number, but there were tons of suburbs out here.

On the second ring, the phone picked up. "Brent's House of Sin," said the voice on the other end.

My heart jumped, and for a second I couldn't speak. My throat made this noise that sounded like I was choking.

"What's your pleasure?" Brent continued, and when I couldn't get my mouth to work again, he said, "Hello?"

"Hi," I coughed out. "Um, hi, Brent?"

Stupid, I cursed myself. He just said he was Brent.

"That's me," he said, and waited.

"Hi, uh, this is Chris."

"Chris?" There was a pause. "Chris who?"

Fuck, had I not given him my name? "I met you last night. At the club?"

"Which club?"

My mouth opened and closed a few times without me being able to answer that question. It wasn't that I didn't know what club I was at. It was more that I'd thought we'd had a special moment and apparently I was just one stop of many on the Brent Sex Train.

"I'm kidding," Brent said softly. "Please don't hang up."

I exhaled. "What?"

"I mean, yeah, I didn't quite get your name last night, but I only gave out my number to one person. I, uh, didn't think you'd call back so soon. Most guys don't."

The waves of doubt just kept crashing over me. Now I was weird because I didn't wait two days to call him like Lisa told me I should?

"Most guys don't call, I mean," he clarified. Clearing his throat, he said, "Sorry, I sound like a jackass. I'm really happy you called."

And now I was gripping the shelf of the phone booth, trying to keep myself upright. The warmth in his voice radiated through the telephone lines.

"Are you still there?" he asked, all the confidence of Brent's House of Sin gone.

"Yes," I choked out. "I'm here. I'm..." Awkward? A loser? Wondering if this was a huge mistake? Pull it together, Chris, I told myself. I took a deep breath. "I'm just calling to see if you'd like to go on a date. You know, to a place where we can hear each other."

"Hmmm," Brent said.

The meager amount of courage I had summoned whooshed out of me.

"You want to go out to a restaurant, or maybe... maybe a nice picnic by the beach? My friend has a nice place in Malibu, private beach and all. I could see if he'd mind?"

Despite all the questions this brought up – was this friend an ex? Would this friend mind a poor Mexican kid invading his private beach? Was the private beach a code for Brent wanting to have sex, or was it because some restaurants got all weird if two men went out together? – I first nodded, then said, "Yes, that sounds amazing."

When I finally hung up a few minutes later, after writing Brent's address on my hand under the smeared phone number, I turned to find myself face to face with a heavily tattooed guy wearing a leather vest over a bare chest and a bandana tied around his head.

"Bout time," he growled.

I got the hell out of there, and only let the excitement sink in once I was several blocks away.