Don't Wanna Know

Chute plopped himself onto the top bunk and tried to relax, drained by another day walking around in 90-90 (ninety degrees, ninety percent humidity). The light went off a few minutes later, and Chute rolled on to his stomach, while letting his left arm hang over the side of the bed. After a few minutes more, as he lay there in that confusing dim grey area between sleep and consciousness, something hit Chute's left hand. He could not immediately tell what it had been, but he knew it was Slave, the occupant of the lower bunk, so he was not alarmed. Chute figured Slave had simply rolled over, sat up, or adjusted his bed sheets.

Soon, however, Chute felt it again. Now, had he been partially asleep before, he was wide awake--and wondering. What was going on down there? Seemingly in answer, Slave started tapping and hitting the hand playfully, and Chute began to be concerned. And he didn't quite know what to do, but decided the best move was to continue to act asleep; surely Slave would notice and would quit what he was doing.

He did not.

After a few minutes during which Slave continued his sporadic gentle amusement with the hand, he stopped. Chute felt he had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Two things remained: he must wait a sufficient amount of time before sleepily rolling over (so as not to give away the idea he had NOT slept through it all); next, he must prepare to act like he didn't know this had happened tomorrow. He wanted to forget it, and he certainly did not want to talk about it.

Evidently, Chute waited too long: After pausing a couple minutes, Slave resumed his amusement with renewed courage; the result was that Chute felt something wet on one finger. He became completely frozen with fear. Fear. And there was the wetness again. Chute was screwed. He had gone too far down the faking-asleep-road to acknowledge now that he was awake; to do so now would be to condone, to sanction this...this thing. And for sure, down in his gut, it was there at a full boil, the sum off all the judgments Chute had made, the comments he had heard from others, the teasing he had received because of Slave. If Chute was going to let this happen, he was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims he had misunderstood or misfelt.

So he let Slave go.

The next thing Chute knew, Slave was sucking the middle finger of his left hand. (And in case the pronouns are confusing, Slave was NOT sucking his own finger.) If Chute had felt fear before, he was terrified now. Close-to-crying, I-miss-my-mommy terrified. Why him? What was this happening for? Why had Slave now confirmed every suspicion, every rumor against him? Wasn't it possible Slave was just a small, effeminate boy who excelled at cooking, ironing, singing, and being polite?

As he lay there stock-still, yet flailing in the maelstrom of these awful questions, Chute noticed that Slave stopped sucking. Chute immediately jumped down from the top bunk, and went directly outside to wash his hands. Never had he washed them as diligently and desperately as he did then; he was a doctor preparing for surgery. Three surgeries. Or four. He scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. If he washed his hands enough perhaps he could clean the past few minutes from his memory, from his life.

When Chute returned from washing his hands, Slave was also out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in a chair, visibly upset. Chute did not speak to nor look at him. Instead he sat at his desk, organizing papers and books, looking for a cassette tape. Slave began:

"I have tried so long to overcome this. I can't."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I am talking about!"

Chute did, but he wanted to hear Slave say it. He wanted him to admit it. After a few more seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did: "I'm gay, Boss."

"That's all you need to tell me. I don't need to hear any more," Chute returned. "You're fired."

"I know."

Slave went home the next morning.