Page 17 of The End of Summer

Puppies.

My mother proceeded to carry that publication around with her for the next six months, proclaiming me a “published author” to anyone who would listen.

After Creative Writing, I had Oceanography, which wasn’t so bad. I thought it was cool to study marine life, and they let us go outside to the marsh to look at things like hermit crabs, which I now know have little to do with the actualocean,but alas, I was a mere tyke at the time. Also, we got to wear swim trunks for outside play, and I rendered it fun to sit on the ground in the muddy marsh, because I could pee out there with my trunks on and nobody would know. Just my little secret with the earth.

Best and brightest, folks.

Painting was next, and I was good at that. If by good, you mean someone with a talent for splashing and splattering and making a real big mess. “He’s like Jackson Pollack!” Mom would exclaim. I thought she meant Percy Jackson, from the cool movies my cousins let me watch, and I was like, “Yeah! I’m a Greek God!” which I thought meant I could carry a sword and kill monsters and other cool stuff like that. But when I asked the teacher of that class when I would get my sword, she just laughed politely and gently wiped the paint out of my eyebrow with a Kleenex.

Last but not least was Modern Dance. I was surprised to find that I was the only boy in the class. Just me and ten little girls. In a move that I now recognize was a genuine attempt at being inclusive, the teacher (Miss Wanda) created an entire routine around me. We danced to the remix ofChristina Milian’sDip It Lowand I was front and center with a solo during the part where Fabolous raps. I had so much fun in that class – I could pick up the footwork with ease, and Miss Wanda showered me with praise, constantly saying that I was a natural. “Watch out for this one,” she told my parents at the recital. “Your boy candance.”

At the recital, I think my father expected me to be hidden away in the back corner of the stage or something, but one of my earliest memories is killing it out there, really bringing my A-game to the performance, and the look on his face that could best be described asaghast.I overheard my parents fighting later that night in their bedroom with the door closed. The following morning, my father informed me that Saturday Academy would no longer be a thing I participated in.

That man has been dismissing me ever since I was six years old.

He started a war, though, and his sorry ass was fighting a losing battle. Ilikeddancing. So, as soon as I was old enough to do it without him knowing, I went for it. In high school, I joined a b-boy crew and learned how to breakdance, which gave me insane upper body strength thanks to all the tricks. Some of the breakers were also on the boys' step team at my school, so in my junior year I joined that too, at their urging. It was extremely competitive. We practiced every day, and there wasn’t a damn thing my father could do about it since I'd just gotten my driver’s license and could come and go as I pleased. Our team that year was recognized regionally in the State Qualifier for the National Step League, and camera crews came to cover it. We didn’t win, but we were on thelocal news at 10:00 p.m., and I made sure it was on every television in the house. Seeing my father’s disappointment at my popping, locking, and stepping was all the win I needed.

My mom has always believed that I have art in my blood. She didn’t want to admit that my stint as a b-boy and a stepper in high school were fueled by a passion for revenge against my dad way more than passion for the art of dance, though. Not that her fervent convictions thatmy son is an artisttranslate into anything of use with regard to my current job hunting situation, though. If only her unfailing cheerleading for my hidden talents (yes, we’re using that term loosely) could translate into a meaningful income, I’d have significantly lower blood pressure right now. She means well, though, and Lord knows she loves me, so I feel compelled to respond to her e-mail, however misguided or ridiculous her ideas of my potential future in slam poetry might be. I write her back – a quick, “Thanks, Ma, I’ll def look into that! Love you too, - B,” to appease her, before turning my attention back to the real job search.

I scroll through sponsored ads, widen the mileage radius, and momentarily consider the idea of getting a CDL license because according to Zip Recruiter, I could make up to $100,000 a year with benefits as a truck driver. (I cross the idea off my list when I read a thread on Reddit about fashioning a commode out of a bucket and a cushioned toilet seat and keeping it in the cab of your truck so you can pull over on the side of the road when you need to take a shit without having to worry about your ass cheeks getting cold. Um, no thanks.)

It won’t be slam poetry, and it won’t be trucking. But I’ll find something.

I have to.

I mean, what other choice is there?

CHAPTER SIX

GRETCHEN

Afew weeks into June, I feel like I’ve won the lottery.

I settle into a new routine: On Mondays and Tuesdays, I work out with Saffron, Cherry, Indigo and Arrow for most of the morning and then we go to the beach in the afternoon. (Not Arrow. She claims to not like the beach, but one time I tried to switch it up and do the community pool instead so Arrow could join us and Cherry told me not to bother. When I asked her why, she shrugged and said that Arrow’s too busy to hang out.) The rest of the week, I have shifts at Cosmo-pole-itan. I run tow-lot pickups, followed by party hosting, and I make more Jell-O shots in those few weeks than I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime. I am good at this job. I even learn to walk in the platform shoes Jenna got me.

I pay her back for them, because in three weeks I’ve somehow managed to bank a little over $7,000 cash. I’ve earned more than that; I spent some of it on bills and two hefty trips to the mall – specifically to Victoria’s Secret – to buy more “work clothes.” (The single skirt and fishnets wasn’t going to cut it for a daily uniform, I quickly learned.) Also, my body feels different. I’m eating better – havinggroceriesin your house will do that – and the daily workouts appear to be toning up muscles that I haven’t used in ages.

Also, it turns out that pole dancing is fun. I’m not very good at it, but I’ve learned a few spins and how to use various grip aids, depending on the weather and the moisture content of my body. It’s crazy how much science is involved. There are days where I need to douse my palms in rubbing alcohol just to keep them from sliding down the pole, and then others where I can get by with just a touch of a liquid we stock called Dry Hands. The pole has to be warmed to a specific temperature, and if it’s too hot or too cold, it can become slippery. Different parts of the body can be used for grip too, Cherry taught me. “The pits,” she said. “Armpits, knee pits, elbow pits. Anywhere the body bends naturally can create a good, strong hold.”

Pole dancing is not without its downsides, though. For one thing, holy hell, the bruising. My thighs and shins look a bit like those of a rambunctious first grader, all black-and-blue marks that I cover up with makeup before every party we host. Also, it can leave you really sore. We do crunches on the pole, shoulder and arm workouts on the pole, even pole lunges and pole squats, and I have a standing date with a bottle of Aleve first thing each morning.

There’s also the issue that my parents still think I’m working at The Diamond Excelsior. I wanted to tell them about being fired, but not until I secured another job. Now, anytime my mom and I chat, I have to narrowly avoid the subject of work altogether. This leaves me with very little to talk about, seeing as how I have no boyfriend. (Unless you count Zoloft, since we share a bed. Unfortunately, there’s not much to discuss on that front, other than his new love of stealing shrimp tails out of my garbage can – a gross hobby, sure, but so adorable that I can’t stand to stop him. Also, let’s not lose sight of the bigger picture, which is the fact that I can afford things like shrimp now. Mic drop.)

There is no doubt in my mind that Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew what I was doing to keep myself afloat financially. You think I’m kidding, but you don’t know them. Allow me to paint you a picture.

My father’s name is Andrew Andrews. He goes by Drew, but that doesn’t make what my grandparents did by calling him that any less horrific. I love my Nana and G-Pops, don’t get me wrong, but when you have a name like Andrew Andrews, you don’t exactly begin your life with the ancestral real estate of a glambassador of excellence. No Trendy McFabulous are you, no sir. Instead, you come bursting onto the scene with the equivalent of social jaundice, and you can’t even speak yet. You peer down the road that lies ahead and you can almost smell the teasing, the mockery, the disdain for your mere existence. So you learn how to fight. By second grade, you’ve been to the head nun’s office at your Catholic school more times than you’ve been to the dentist in your entire life. And evenshefeels bad for you! By the time you get to high school, you’ve changed your name to AJ – short for “Andrew Just-wish-I-had-any-other-first-name,” because your middle name is not John or Jack or Jim, it’s King.King.Fucking King! As in Dr. Martin Luther? No, indeed. It’s your grandmother’s maiden name. Which gives you the initials AKA.

Also Known As.

As you get older, you spend far too much time trying to figure out how to score the most badass job in the world so nobody will make fun of you. At least, that’s what my dad did. He’s the Chief of the Eastport Police Department. The high honor of Chief was bestowed upon him when I was in the fourth grade, and he’s never looked back. Every year, we sing “Hail to the Chief” instead of “Happy Birthday” when he blows out his candles, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

I don’t blame him one bit.

My dad grew up in Brooklyn, New York – Bay Ridge, to be exact. The son of second generation Irish-Scottish immigrants, he went to parochial school all the way through twelfth grade and then, because his grades were nothing to write home about and he couldn’t figure out what else to do with himself, he decided to enlist in the military after a recruiter came to the all-boys school for a presentation. He joined the Army right out of high school and not too long after boot camp, he was deployed to serve in the Gulf War in the fall of 1990. Lieutenant something-or-other Andrew Andrews then got himself hurt overseas – a non-battle injury resulting from a training accident that left him with three herniated discs. The hernia was so bad that my dad had to endure spinal surgery at the ripe old age of 21. On the upside, the honorable discharge set him up for pretty much any federal job he wanted, not to mention a heavily-supplemented ride to any public college he saw fit, a perk which he took to the bank when he enrolled in the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan.

By contrast, my mother Annie (that’s right, you sleuth – she’s Annie Andrews, as if the name situation needed more salt poured into its gaping wound) grew up in the tiny hamlet of Provincetown, in the curled-up baby fist at the end of Cape Cod’s arm in the sea. Eldest daughter of the Town Manager and his stay-at-home wife, Annie (then Myers) was a headstrong young lady who wanted nothing more than to see the world. She grew up in the art capital of Cape Cod, and from a very young age was drawn to the P-Town cultural scene. She excelled in the visual arts and, with her parents’ blessing, went to Sarah Lawrence College in Westchester, New York courtesy of the generous tuition support delivered by three different scholarships. Annie found her calling in sculpture, particularly ceramics. She made beautiful pottery – large earthenware pieces, slow roasted in the kiln with low-fire glazes that caught the attention of galleries in the West Village and Soho. During her final semester, she was taking an art therapy class, and there was a series on Art Rehabilitation for the Imprisoned, hosted at John Jay.

She was seated next to my dad, and as the story goes, he asked her out for a burger after the session.

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