Undone by Leslie McAdam
Jason
When we return home, Murph heads to his room, probably to unpack some more, and I head to the kitchen with our farmers market haul. I like to do meal prep for a few days at a time, but it’s always felt like a waste because I had no one to share it with. I like being able to share with Murph.
Once I have a roast in the oven, chili on the stove, and veggies cut and portioned out for lunches, I settle on the sofa with a beer and turn on my favorite show.
I hear a gasp. “No way!”
Turning around, I see Murph hovering behind me, his hand over his mouth. He’s wearing another kimono, this one with a peacock-feather design, with pajamas underneath.
He looks elegant. The blue background makes his eyes pop.
I furrow my brows. “What? You have a problem with Forged in Fire?”
A grin takes over his face. “Quite the opposite. All those burly guys with tattoos, banging on metal? Sign me up.” He scoots around the couch and settles at the other end, eyes rapt on the weapon-making competition show.
I cough to hide my laugh. “I never thought of it that way. I only thought it was cool to learn about all the different kinds of weapons.”
“Oh, that, too, Jay Jay. The eye candy’s extra credit.”
“I never really noticed the contestants, to be honest. Although the judges have fun personalities.”
As the same time, we quote Doug—the Forged in Fire judge who violently tests swords against tactical dummies with a very kind smile—saying, “It will keel,” in his distinctive accent. Then we both laugh.
We watch until a commercial, when he asks, “What else do you watch?”
My mind’s gone blank. I’m not very good at being put on the spot. After a moment, I come up with, “Um, How It’s Made?”
He wiggles in his seat, rearranging his legs so they’re under him. “Oh my goddess, you are such a classic nerd. Don’t tell me you play D&D?”
“Okay, I won’t.” I look away, trying not to smile.
“You do?”
“Maybe.” I grin. “Nothing wrong with being a nerd.”
He sits up straight. “Seriously? Because for five years I was the dungeon master of an online group.”
“No kidding?” A surprised noise bursts out of me.
“You think queers don’t like to go fight trolls?”
I sputter. “I never thought about it, actually. I mean, usually I play a paladin or whatever, not a queer.”
He holds his flat belly as he laughs, and he reaches over and touches my thigh. “I’m giving you a hard time. But see? We’re a match made in heaven.”
The news that my roommate and I won’t be fighting over the remote puts me in a great mood. Like something’s lifted inside me. And I was already happy from spending the day with him. “What else do you watch?”
“Rick and Morty. That’s what my blog’s about, actually.”
I turn fully to him. “Seriously?”
“Not to brag, but I’m considered a world expert on Rick Sanchez, the semi-improvised, burping cartoon scientist grandpa.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.” He pulls out his phone to show me. “I’ve been interviewed on BuzzFeed, HuffPost, The Onion …” He holds up a finger as he recites each name.
When I process what he said, I raise an eyebrow. “You’re kidding about The Onion.”
“You caught me.” He bites his lip as he scrolls on his phone, then hands it to me.
A complete Rick and Morty fan site is displayed, with GIFs and giveaways and places for people to interact with each other. It’s really easy to navigate and chock-full of information about the TV show. “This is amazing. All these analyses. Each episode. You write all this? Wow.” Then a text pops up, and I blink.
“What?”
I stroke my chin and try not to laugh. “Uh, I think your, um, guy wants you to come over.”
“Shit.” He reaches out his hand, and I give him back his phone.
Murph clicks on the thumbnail photo and expands it so we can both see that it’s of some dude’s hard dick. The text came from “London.” His hand flies to his mouth. “Oh, goddess, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I haven’t seen a dick before.”
“To be honest, it’s a nice dick.” He tilts his head to the side. “I’d give him a six on the lighting, four on the angle, eight on the manscaping, and seven point five on the size.”
I burst out laughing. “No comment.” I sip my beer and gesture at the phone. “You can go see him, you know, if you want. You don’t have to hang out with me.”
“Nah. He’s trying too hard.” He puts his phone down and gazes at the television expectantly. Like it’s going to give him the answers to everything.
“So, it’s funny. I guess I wouldn’t think a guy like you was into Rick and Morty,” I say, to change the subject. “I had to stop watching it. I thought it was one of the worst for being sexist, racist, homophobic—”
Murph raises his hand like he’s in class. “Am I only supposed to like Judy Garland?”
My cheeks heat up. “No, of course not.”
“I’m just giving you crap. Although who doesn’t love Judy? But you’re absolutely right, Rick and Morty is an extremely crass show and a lot of people take offense to it, with good reason. I use my blog to talk about that very topic. I call myself a critical fanboy. When the show goes too far, I point out why and analyze it.”
“Interesting.”
“Like here.” Murph taps at his phone and shows me an article about how the show expects people to find gay sex disgusting and uses “gay” as a pejorative. He continues, “As you may have already guessed, I do not find gay sex disgusting, nor do I think ‘gay’ is a put-down. I happen to think both are fabulous.” That mischievous Murph smile is in full force, and his voice turns to a purr. “And so do a lot of other people.”
“I caught a few episodes and felt embarrassed about watching it. Like OMG this is so bad, and I shouldn’t laugh. I’m amazed you can look past the offensive shit.”
Murph gives me a cheeky grin and shrugs, putting his phone down. “I’m complicated.”
“You’re using it as a platform, then.”
“In part. I can be critical of something and still find redeeming qualities in it. The things I really love about it are all the Easter eggs and references and that it’s existential.”
“Existential?”
“I told you, puddin’. I do read, you know. A lot.”
“But you’re into existentialism?” The philosophy major in me perks up.
Murph quiets for a moment, and I think I lost him. But then he opens his mouth. “Aren’t we all into figuring out why we’re here?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I think most of us are seeking the reason for our lives.”
“I’ve always thought that the reason to be alive is to bealive. Like, it is its own reason. So maybe we just need to feel alive, and we’re good.”
“Now, who’s the philosopher?” I grin at him. “Joseph Campbell said something like that.”
“Huh. But isn’t that what you want, too, Mr. Insurance Salesman? To feel alive?”
I lose my smile, and his expression immediately morphs.
He reaches out and touches my hand. “Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tease you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter. “We don’t always love what we do. Or love it every day. Even if we’re good at it.”
“True.”
“I’m fully aware that I’m in charge of my own life, and I can do whatever I want. Still, it’s hard to get out of old patterns. What people expect of you. You know?” I look up, and Murph’s eyes are soft and friendly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get maudlin on you.”
“I’d love it if you got anything on me,” Murph says.
I laugh and don’t take it to heart. Murph disappears into the kitchen to make a pitcher of sangria, which he apparently has a secret recipe for.
And we spend the evening drinking and watching Forged in Fire together. I go to bed very happy.
* * *
I stretch out on my bed and yawn.
Monday morning. Another day to spend telling people they’re gonna die, so they should spend money on insurance.
Great. I’ve been awake for approximately three milliseconds, and I’ve already depressed myself.
But I’d better get up.
I sleep in boxers, and I don’t know if I should put more clothes on to go across the hall to the bathroom for a shower. I don’t need to, right?
I scratch my belly, and I hear the water running. Murph must be in the shower.
Getting out of bed, I decide fuck it, I’m not putting anything else on, and go into the kitchen to make coffee. Murph can get used to me in whatever I wear around the house.
Right?
Murph didn’t add anything to his coffee when we went out Saturday morning, and I didn’t see what he had yesterday, but I can’t believe that’s the way he likes it. Or am I being prejudiced? Like, just because he wears pink doesn’t mean he can’t drink his coffee black.
Why am I so concerned about how he takes his coffee? He’s a roommate. He can figure out his own damn coffee.
I put down a few pieces of toast and get out Greek yogurt and berries, figuring I’ll make breakfast while I’m waiting for him to be done in the bathroom. I’m surprised when I hear the door open just a minute or two later.
He said he’s high-maintenance, but he really isn’t.
Murph exits, hair wet, a dark purple towel tied round his waist.
“Hey,” I call. “Want some coffee?”
He startles and looks over at me. I can see his eyes trace my torso. But I’ve got nothing to hide. He shakes himself and then walks toward me, a drop of water sliding down his forehead.
“Oh my goddess, yes,” he says. “I have to get going early today to help with inventory.”
He steps into the kitchen. He’s got a more defined body than I thought. His biceps, while small, are certainly rounded. Lean muscles run all the way down his torso.
I clear my throat. “Here,” I say gruffly, handing him a cup. “You seriously don’t want sugar or cream?”
“Not in my coffee, no. But thank you.” He wiggles one hip. “Sorry I’m overdressed.” Then he flips a hand in the air as he saunters away.
I stare after him.
And blink.
Shaking myself, I pop up my toast, which has burned, and swear under my breath. I sigh and start over again with new bread.
* * *
When I’m dressed in a suit and ready to go, I head to the door. Before I leave, I stop and call out, “See you, Murph.” I straighten my tie in the mirror.
“Bye, toots,” he says from his room, the door still closed.
I have a lighter feeling in my chest than I did when I woke up.
But the good mood evaporates by the time I’ve hung up the phone for the tenth time this morning. It’s the tenth rejection. I sigh, regroup, and pick up the handset to call again.
“Jason. Got a minute?” My dad barges into the room.
Forrest Falkner’s tall and imposing, with strong opinions. If you didn’t know him, you’d be scared of him. Mostly I try to tune him out. “What can I do for you?”
“When I retire, I want to make sure we transition our best clients to you. I’m going to start scheduling lunches and meet-and-greets with them for you. I want them to know I’ve personally blessed the transfer.” He says this in his booming voice, like he’s bestowing something on me. I didn’t know he was retiring anytime soon, but part of this business is planning for the future.
Oookay. “Thanks, Dad.”
“My clients will be thrilled to know that you’re keeping the family tradition going—you’re no longer just my son but their trusted advisor. They’re going to want to know more about you. Some of them have daughters your age.”
Oh, god. I know where this is going. But all I say is, “Uh-huh.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“No one serious.” Marnie’d be the first to agree that we’re not dating.
Marnie gets shit for having a fuck buddy instead of a boyfriend. No one’s said the kind of things about me that they say about her, so the comments are just because of her gender. I don’t know what to do about it, though, other than defend her if it happens when I’m around.
“Our clients love to know their accounts are being handled by a family man. It gives them comfort.”
I want to stare at him and call him on his bullshit—hypocritical much?—but the problem is, it’s true. Our whole business is based on giving people comfort. We get smaller mugs for the office so our elderly lady customers’ petite hands aren’t overtaxed. Our carpet is inoffensive blue and our walls are painted inoffensive tan and our art is barely one step up from hotel art (because a lot of that shit can be offensive) in an effort to be inconspicuous. We don’t want to be noticed. We want to be part of the background.
Murph wasn’t kidding about me being the man in the gray flannel suit. That’s how Dad sees this place.
That’s why he pretends Mom’s still around. That she’s just on a business trip. Still.
“Thanks for the offer. I’m glad to meet with clients.” And I won’t be talking about anything personal.
“Mrs. Riley really enjoyed meeting you at the company picnic in May. She mentioned you specifically.”
Oh my god. Mrs. Riley is a widow and certified cougar. “Dad, I’m not—”
“I’m stating facts, Jason. You’re at the age where you should be settling down.”
“I am settled down. I own a house. I work. I eat right and exercise properly,” and I don’t have to explain myself to my father. “What more do you want?”
“It’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want. And I think you really want a wife, you just haven’t found the right one.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” I mutter.
“Well, in any case, you’re going to start coming with me when I meet with clients. Even if you don’t have a girlfriend yet, at least we can move your career along in the right direction.” He turns and leaves the room.
After my dad is gone, I come up with all the things I should have said in the moment. To tell him to get the hell out of my personal life. Or, more politely, that I’m thankful he wants to help, but it isn’t needed.
I don’t need to be reminded that I don’t have anyone. I have a girl I fuck and don’t talk to, my sister who orders me around, and a brand-new roommate who happens to be homosexual. That’s it. All my friends have left town.
I text Becky.
Jason: Dad wants me to find a wife
Becky: Did you tell him about Marnie?
Jason: No
Becky: You don’t have to do what he says
Jason: Yes
Becky: But you’re texting me because you want me to remind you of this fact?
Jason: Yes
Becky: Consider yourself reminded
My phone rings, and I pick up. Becky starts talking without saying hi. “I get it, okay? I really do. I still want his approval. And so do you. I still wear clothes I think Dad will like when I go over there. Even though I should wear whatever the fuck I want.”
I force out a laugh. “You do it, too, then? Censor yourself around him, to please him?”
“Yeah. I wish he’d like us just the way we are.”
“Me, too.”
“So what are we afraid of?”
I make sure Dad isn’t listening. “The Look. You know the one.”
“Don’t scare me, big bro! I’m gonna go hide.”
“You can’t tell me I’m wrong.” Dad can take us down with a single glare.
“You’re not.” She sighs. “Dad’s a diva. It’s always about him.”
I cock my head. “Diva? I’ve never thought of him that way. I picture a diva as someone who wears sequins.” Unbidden, an image of Murph comes to me, but I can’t see him as a diva—at least not one who puts himself over other people. He’s just too sweet.
WTF? When have I ever thought of a guy as sweet?
“You know it’s true.”
“Yeah.” I pause. “Thanks.”
Becky adopts a serious tone. “That will be twenty bucks. You can pay the next time you see me.”
“Har har.”
“Listen. When you get stellar advice, it’s worth something.”
“What’s your advice?”
“Do whatever you want. It’s your life, no one else’s.”
I look down at my desk. “Yeah. I might start taking you up on that.”