The Magic of Tom Collins (Blog #105)

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Not to be a stereotypical homosexual, but I love (LOVE) a good musical, and rarely a week goes by that I don’t listen to at least one Broadway show tune. All that being said–and I hope I don’t offend anyone here–and by that I mean I don’t care if I offend anyone here–but I’m not IN LOVE with the musical Rent. I mean, I adore parts of it, but I have a difficult time with the soundtrack because of all the “voicemail” numbers and all the BEEPING. Maybe it feels too much like real life to me. Anyway, a few weeks ago–for no apparent reason–I put on the Rent soundtrack for the first time “in a month of Sundays” while driving to Fayetteville.

As I’m wont to do, I eventually settled on a single, solitary song called “Santa Fe” that I kept on repeat for nearly a week. I can’t tell you why, but I must have listened to it fifty times or more. It’s this snappy little tune about a guy and his boyfriend who are dreaming about getting out of New York City and running away to open up a restaurant in–you guessed it–Santa Fe. Maybe my fascination had something to do with dreaming and thinking about what’s possible.

Within a week of listening to “Santa Fe” for the first time (recently), I got the ever-living shit knocked out of me and my car when I was rear-ended in the worst possible way. Within three days of the accident, I knew my car (a Honda Civic) was totaled and that I’d need a new one. So I made one phone call to a dear friend who almost always knows what to do (and if he doesn’t at least sounds like he does). He said, “Go see Johnny Jack in Van Buren. Tell him what’s going on. He’ll treat you right, and if he says it’s a good car, it’s a good car.”

So that’s what I did. On Monday, July 3rd, about closing time, I stopped by Jack’s Motor Company and met Johnny. Initially he steered me toward a Ford Focus, which met all my requirements in terms of price. But I didn’t like it. (I still don’t like it. You can’t make me like it.) But Johnny said I should come back the next day and test drive it. “I’d really like an SUV,” I said. “How much is that Nissan Murano?”

“Too much,” Johnny said. (I’m paraphrasing.)

But then Johnny continued, “In a couple of days I should have another SUV in. It might be just the thing.” And then he quoted me a price that actually seemed doable, probably thanks to the person who sent me over. So the next day, July 4th, I went back to Johnny’s with the intention of test driving the Focus, just to give it a chance. (Everyone deserves a chance.) But when I got there Johnny said, “You’re in luck. That SUV I was telling you about got delivered early.” And there it was, a beautiful 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, freshly cleaned with the stereo blasting one of my favorite tunes, “Africa” by Toto.

Did you catch that the car was a Santa Fe–like the song?

Well, I took the car for a spin and fell in love within five minutes. I picked up Mom and Dad, and Dad said, “Bite the bullet. You’re not going to be happy with anything else.” When I got back to the lot, I told Johnny that I wanted it, and he said, “I’ll put a sold sign on it. Whenever you settle the insurance claim, it’s yours.”

It was that easy. I really only had to look at one car.

A little over a week later, the insurance check finally cleared. Today was the day! I guess I thought buying a new car would be a hassle, but it wasn’t. Johnny was awesome. Is awesome. As one friend who knows him said, “He’s the man.”

I’m calling the car Tom Collins, since that’s the character who sings the song about Santa Fe in Rent. And I don’t mind saying he’s pretty sweet. It’s the first time I’ve ever owned a daily driver with leather interior, heated seats, powered everything, tinted windows, and a moon roof. Plus, it’s pretty spacious, the perfect size to host an intimate wedding reception. But seriously, I couldn’t be more excited. I mean, if you have to get slammed in the ass while minding your own business and are forced to buy a new set of wheels, a car like Tom Collins is the way to go. As my aunt Carla said, “There’s a difference between living and living well.”

You may already know this, but Tom Collins isn’t just a character from a musical about being broke and infected with HIV. It’s also a drink–made with gin, lemons, sugar, and carbonated water–that’s been around for over a century. And whereas I’ve lived my entire adult life and never had a Tom Collins, I figured today was a good time to change that. So this evening I celebrated the Santa Fe by going to El Zarape with my friend Justin and ordering (and drinking) the adult beverage that shares the name of my new car.

Well, sort of. My friend Jimmy was our waiter and bartender, and he’d never heard of a Tom Collins. So we Googled it, and he said, “Sure, I can do that.” But when he talked to the other bartenders about it, they said, “The carbonated water will ruin the alcohol. So leave that out, add a splash of Triple Sec, and use another orange liqueur instead of an actual orange for garnish.”

OMG, y’all. These are the kinds of friends you need in your life. Jimmy’s Modified Tom Collins was UH-MAZING. It was basically like lemonade on steroids.

GRRRR.

When Justin and I got back to his house, his wife, Ashley, and her friend Schuyler wanted to go out for Taco Bell, so I said, “I’ll drive!” (I’ve never had a car I’ve been proud to pile a bunch of people in for a fast food run. God. It really is the little things.) Anyway, at Taco Bell when it was our turn at the Drive-Thru, the voice on the other end said, “Just a moment please,” and without thinking I blurted out, “Take your time. Order when you’re ready.”

And then everyone inside Tom Collins exploded with laughter, which I thought was the perfect way to start our new life together.

I’ve spent most of today in awe at the way the universe works, the fact that something that initially seemed awful (my car wreck) turned out so well. Before me, the Santa Fe was owned by only one person, a little old lady whom I spoke with on the phone and told me the only reason she was getting rid of it was because she’d backed into a trashcan and wanted a car with a backup camera. Now that I’ve spent a day with Tom Collins, I kind of want to call her back and tell her how grateful I am she didn’t see that trashcan. And I could just hug my friend who sent me to Johnny, and I’d dance at Johnny’s wedding, except for the fact that he’s already married.

I guess a lot of people would say that my randomly listening to a song called “Santa Fe” a week before my car accident and an old lady hitting a trashcan with her Santa Fe vehicle and then trading it in at the same time I started car shopping were simply coincidences. But at this point in my life, I know better. Joseph Campbell said, “When we follow our bliss, we are met by a thousand unseen helping hands.” Personally, I love this. It’s like I’ve spent so much of my life waiting for something magical to happen, and then one day I realized magic has been happening all around me this entire time, gently waiting for me to notice, to start dreaming again, to believe that anything and everything is possible because–it is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perhaps this is what bravery really is--simply having run out of better options, being so totally frustrated by the outside world that all you can do is go within.

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Free Enough for Now (Blog #90)

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You know how they say the truth will set you free–like that’s a good thing? Well, I’m not completely convinced. For the last thirty minutes–honestly–I’ve been running from the truth. What I mean by that is that every day I sit down to blog and almost always “know” what I’m supposed to write about. Most of the time, that’s okay. But sometimes, there’s a big part of me that really doesn’t want to tell the entire fucking internet that I’m an out-of-work homosexual who lives with his parents or that I’ve spent so much time with chocolate cake over the last several years that we’re about to enter into a common-law marriage with each other. But for some stupid reason I decided to start a blog about being honest and vulnerable, which means–damn it–I have to be honest and vulnerable.

Sometimes I hate that.

Yesterday I started reading a juvenile fiction book called Wonder. It’s written by RJ Palacio and has been turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson that will be released this fall. Here’s a link to the trailer (you should watch it if you feel like crying), but it’s basically about a boy with an abnormal face and his search for acceptance, authenticity, and love. I’m not done with the book yet, but the first hundred pages are told from the boy’s perspective, after which other characters, like his sister and a friend from school, share their perspectives. As a reader, I was a bit thrown when I realized someone else had hijacked the narrative, but I was fascinated to get more than one perspective.

This evening I went to dinner with a couple of friends at El Zarape because our friend Jimmy was waiting tables and it never hurts to know the guy pouring your margaritas. That’s us in the above picture, including Jimmy, minus the friend who DOES NOT like to have his picture taken. (I personally have a lot of dislikes but–obviously–that’s not one of them.)

For dinner I had a meal called Molcajete, which is basically steak, chicken, and cactus fajitas, served in a giant, appropriately pig-shaped goblet that I referred to as The Holy Grail. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Amen.

So here’s the part I know I’m supposed to talk about but really don’t want to. For the last week or so, I’ve really wanted a cigarette. I mean, I quit smoking six months ago, so I sort of thought the temptation part was over, at least when I’m brushing my teeth, driving my car, or blogging. But one of my friends who’s gone through the twelve-step program says temptation doesn’t work that way, that you can go months without a craving, and then–bam–one shows up “out of the clear blue sky.” (If only boyfriends worked that way.)

Well, I’ve been handling all the cravings like a champ, even the ones that have basically been so persuasive and seductive they might as well have been Zac Efron lying next to me in bed saying, “I want you. I don’t want anyone else except you.” It really hasn’t been a problem to say, “I’m sorry. You’re cute and all, but I’m saving myself for fresh air.” But tonight at dinner–out of the clear blue sky–I had a REALLY BIG margarita, something that always lowers my standards, so when dinner was over I ended up saying, “Fuck it. I want you too, Zach–I mean–cigarettes.”

But really. Look at that thing. It would probably lower your standards too.

So I went to the gas station to buy a pack, and I’ll be damned if they hadn’t stopped selling my favorite brand, so I walked out. And went to the gas station across the street. Which had also stopped selling my favorite brand. (My mom later said this was “a sign from the universe.” I hate it when people use something I would say against me.) Anyway, I went with a different flavor and smoked one and a half. I actually quit in the middle of the second cigarette, which, historically, I don’t do. I wish I could tell you they tasted terrible, like sin and regret, but I loved every bit of them. Of course, that’s the part that scares me, so I locked the pack in the trunk of a car because I figured I’d be less likely to smoke anytime soon if they were there.

This is a strategy that may not work, since–you know–it was my car and I have the keys.

The truth doesn’t suck.

Back to being honest, I have a lot of shame around smoking. I’m not exactly sure why, but it’s probably because–at this time in history–it’s rather frowned upon. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Anytime smoking has been on my list of things to talk about in therapy, I’ve always shown up with the sirens on, lights flashing. OH MY GOD, I SMOKED ONE AND A HALF CIGARETTES LAST WEEK! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? MAYBE I SHOULD LIE DOWN ON THIS COUCH. I KNOW–LET’S TRY HYPNOSIS. But no matter how worked up I get about the actual thing, my therapist is always like, “This again? Who gives a shit about cigarettes? You’ll quit when you want to. Now would you stop judging yourself already?”

I’ve been thinking tonight about how I’m a lot like that book I’m reading. I like to think of myself as one central character, like, this is my story. But the fact is that this is our story. What I mean by that is that there’s a part of me who loves cigarettes, who comes out of the woodwork when I drink margaritas the size of crock pots. Likewise, there’s a part of me that hates cigarettes, who came home and immediately took a shower, who’s typing now, who’s usually in charge. And there’s a part of me that judges myself, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t, that accepts that I’m human, that understands I need to break the rules I’ve set for myself–occasionally.

I’m learning that all of these parts, all of these characters, deserve to have their say. I mean, I’ve tried to get rid of some of them, but they’re simply not going anywhere. I might as well listen to all of their perspectives. I know that lately I’ve been listening a lot to the character that says, “Do more. Get shit done,” so I’ve been reading and writing and exercising and eating well and go-go-going constantly.” But that’s only part of the narrative. And my guess is the character I’ve been ignoring and hearing as, “Smoke a cigarette,” was actually saying, “Would you stop being such a hard ass and take a damn break for a minute?” (Must be a problem with my ears.)

I mean, yeah, I could take a break for a minute. I’d actually like that part of the story.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I admit it. The truth doesn’t suck. I mean, I don’t know that I feel “set free,” but I do feel lighter, less worried, less ashamed. Hum. Surely that’s a good thing. And maybe–just maybe–that’s free enough for now.

[Lastly, Happy 42nd Wedding Anniversary to my parents. I’m really glad you decided to get hitched, even though Dad said it was possible for me to be here even if you hadn’t. I wanted the blog tonight to be about you and not cigarettes, but that muse wasn’t talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing is set in stone here.

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