The Birds Are Gone Julia Purks (bio) When we were fourteen, my friend Aaron and I made an agreement to kiss each other on October 1 if we hadn’t kissed anyone by then. The plan was straightforward and understood, and it was never meant to be romantic, never meant to be repeated. It was August of our freshman year in high school, and we needed tangible evidence of being wanted by someone to ward off a fate of ugliness and loneliness. It was mutually sacrificial, tit for tat, an act falling backwards into intimacy and surrendering to the humid grasp of sexuality. It was something to be done for each other, not with each other. Nine years later, we sat together with Tom in the piano bar in Provincetown, Massachusetts. We had been there many times over the previous few summers, and every night we went, it was exactly the same, like watching the same film over again. The bald man with Parkinson’s shaking over the piano keys, singing into the dark room crowded with wet-eyed gay men. His piano playing is not slow or drawn out or smooth in any sense, but rather a series of chords banged out in quick, shaking beats as he sings with squinted eyes into the microphone. The chairs are full of plump bellies and gray beards, plaid button-ups cuffed at the wrist, faded tee-shirts and dark jeans, tattooed forearms and tiny silver hoops in hanging earlobes, salt-and-pepper [End Page 91] buzz cuts and the smell of aftershave, golden tan skin covering the backs of soft palms, wiry tufts of dark hair spilling out of unbuttoned polo shirts and combat boots, soft leather loafers, pastels, and sweat and drinks clinking, every word of “Moon River” silently mouthed with gentle lips, an entire room speaking a language that was never taught. Except for me, because I don’t know the words. I know a different language (Tig Notaro, 4 Non Blondes). Hands resting on shoulders, on thighs, on hands, on drinks, bodies swaying slightly from side to side, the shaking bald man singing, Can I have this dance for the rest of my life? Growing up, I would sit for many hours on the floor of my mom’s bathroom, the bathroom attached to my parents’ bedroom. My dad was not allowed to go in there. There was a heater in the wall about a foot above the floor, and I would turn it on and sit in front of it nearly every day until I was red and sweaty. My dad would beg for me to quit the ritual, his face pained at the thought of electricity bills and maybe the thought that I might wilt and die. Sometimes he would open the door just a crack, reach his arm in, turn the heater off, and then retract his arm, close the door, leaving me thawed out and in silence. My mom taped a map of the world onto the wall, just above the heater, to give me something to look at. While a girlfriend was breaking up with me, I accidentally lit her toaster oven on fire trying to warm up a cupcake for breakfast. Before that girlfriend and I broke up, we went on a road trip to the west coast. Our tent got rained on while we were camping in Oregon, and when we got to California, she dropped me off at a beach while she visited some aunts in the area. I was supposed to sit with the tent on the beach and dry it out in the sun. I didn’t bring any water and the beach didn’t have a snack stand, and after a few hours passed by, I began to grow thirsty and tired/fearful of the relentless sun. I dragged the tent to the edge of the beach, rolled it up and carried it with me as I walked down the shoulder of a stretch of California highway. It was hot. She wasn’t answering my calls, and I didn’t know when she would come back for me. I eventually showed up to a gas station and...
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