Gulliver Takes Five Read Online Free PDF Page A

to find out if I got cast in the First Equity National Tour of
Wicked
tonight! I was so happy!”
    Crap. I feel terrible. Really I do.
    The trouble is, I feel a lot sorrier for myself. So I issue his marching orders: one, he promptly tells me where I can find Christian, and two, he doesn’t tell Christian that I’m coming. Grant looks hopeful, despite the continued crying, and agrees that he’ll do this right away. He sends some text queries about Christian’s whereabouts to his pals, then apologizes that it’s taking so long for them to get back to him; it is a Saturday night, after all.
    Grant sits, still naked, on his bed in silence, staring at his phone, urgency growing more evident on his face. I replay the video, turning up the volume so he can remember our time together. This breaks him down into sobs again. It’s like prodding him with a Taser. Five minutes later, he gets a text message with an address. I make him check its legitimacy with another friend. Confirmed—they both saw Christian at this Upper East Side address.
“Some old dude’s pad,”
one of them writes.
    Now I know my next stop. Where I will let Christian know that I know why he really broke up with me, what he was REALLY doing this evening. Also: where I will proudly show him my homemade porn, still fresh from the fuck oven. Two can play at this game, you deceitful shit.
    I wish Grant good luck as I head to the door and tell him I hope he gets the part. Because once I’m done with my ex, Grant will want to be as geographically far away from me as humanly possible.
    I also tell him to invest in some fucking enemas next time he sluts around. And that “sir” is a weird and creepy thing to say to someone you’re fucking.
    In the stairwell back down to the street, I decide (’cause why the fuck not?) to upload a choice segment of the video to XTube and Facebook anyway. And when it asks me to title the piece? Only one phrase pops into mind. “Good Morning Starshine.” How’s that for dramatic irony?

    Christian loves riding the subway. We used to search out empty cars late at night and swing from the handlebars or dance around the poles in the center like we were the MTA’s personal go-go boy troupe. He’d read the ads aloud and comment on how smart or dumb they were. He always tipped the guys who played mariachi music, gave a dollar to the deep-voiced six-foot-five black man who carried a plastic bag full of fried chicken for anyone who needed something to eat that night. Me? I’m a cab type of guy. The subway smells like shit and barely works. Christian made it tolerable—fun, even. But now he’s ruined it. I’ll never go beneath this city again.
    I feel only marginally bad for shoving aside a guy who tries to climb in a cab he rightfully hailed outside the Port Authority. The ride is far too slow, and glaring at the drivers clogging the streets doesn’t help. My hands won’t stop shaking, my fingers maniacally wiggling. All this excess energy surging inside me and I’m stuck in Saturday-evening gridlock. Having to cross Times Square to get to the Upper East Side is always a nightmare; add to that this fucking rainstorm and you have the worst-possible driving conditions next to a mandatory evacuation of the entire island of Manhattan.
    I’m willing Christian to stay where he is. I want to destroy him—then I want to get home and pass out. I swig two Red Bulls and another baby vodka bottle I picked up at a liquor store outside of Grant’s apartment to pass the time and sustain my buzz, trying to drive from my mind any cute memories of Christian. Or should I let them have their way with my head? Each one makes me smile, then fills me with rage as soon as I think of him with Grant.
    Stay put, Christian. Don’t you fucking move.
    When I finally reach the Upper East Side high-rise where Christian’s presence was confirmed, it is past midnight. I may need some sort of alibi to get past the doorman and up to whatever shindig I am