Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [235]
My head was spinning. I managed to pull down the bedspread and get at the pillows.
“You gonna sleep in your clothes?” Scheer asked as if amused.
I felt his hand on my back, rubbing it. “You shouldn’t sleep in your clothes,” he said. He started to undress me, but I roused myself. “Just let me sleep,” I said.
Scheer bent closer. In a thick voice he said, “Your parents kick you out, Cal? Is that it?” He sounded suddenly very drunk, as if all the day’s and night’s drinking had finally hit him.
“I’m going to sleep,” I said.
“Come on,” whispered Scheer. “Let me take care of you.”
I curled up protectively, keeping my eyes closed. Scheer nuzzled me, but when I didn’t respond, he stopped. I heard him open the door and then close it behind him.
When I awoke again, it was early in the morning. Light was coming in the windows. And Scheer was right next to me. He was hugging me clumsily, his eyes squeezed shut. “Just wanna sleep here,” he said, slurring. “Just wanna sleep.” My shirt had been unbuttoned. Scheer was wearing only his underwear. The television was on, and there were empty beers on it.
Scheer clutched me, pressing his face into mine, making sounds. I tolerated this, feeling obliged for some reason. But when his drunken attentions became more avid, more targeted, I pushed him off me. He didn’t protest. He crumpled into a ball and quickly passed out.
I got up and went into the bathroom. For a long while I sat on the toilet lid, hugging my knees. When I peeked out again, Scheer was still sound asleep. There was no lock on the door, but I was desperate for a shower. I took a quick one, keeping the curtain open and my eyes on the door. Then I changed into a new shirt, put my suit back on, and let myself out of the room.
It was very early. No traffic was passing along the road. I walked away from the motel and sat on my Samsonite, waiting. Big open sky. A few birds in it. I was hungry again. My head hurt. I got out my wallet and counted my dwindling money. I contemplated calling home for the hundredth time. I started to cry but stopped myself. Then I heard a car coming. From the motel parking lot a white Lincoln Continental emerged. I put out my thumb. The car stopped alongside me and the power window slowly went down. At the wheel was the man from the restaurant the day before.
“Where you headed?”
“California.”
That smile again. Like something bursting. “Well then, this is your lucky day. That’s where I’m headed, too.”
I hesitated only a moment. Then I opened the back door of the big car and slid my suitcase in. I didn’t have, at that point, much choice in the matter.
GENDER DYSPHORIA IN SAN FRANCISCO
His name was Bob Presto. He had soft, white, fat hands and a plump face and wore a white guayabera shot with gold threads. He was vain of his voice, had been a radio announcer for many years before getting into his present line of business. What that was he didn’t specify. But its lucrative nature was evident in the white Continental with red leather seats and in Presto’s gold watch and jeweled rings, his newscaster’s hair. Despite these grown-man touches, there was much of the mama’s boy to Presto. He had the body of a little fatty, though he was big, close to two hundred pounds. He reminded me of the Big Boy at the Elias Brothers’ chain of restaurants, only older, coarsened and bloated by adult vices.
Our conversation began the usual way, Presto asking me about myself and I giving the standard lies.
“Where you off to in California?”
“College.”
“What school?”
“Stanford.”
“I’m impressed. I’ve got a brother-in-law went to Stanford. Big muckety-muck. Where is that again?”
“Stanford?”
“Yeah, what city?”
“I forget.”
“You forget? I thought Stanford students were supposed to be smart. How are you going to get there if you don’t know where it is?”
“I’m meeting my friend. He’s got all the details and stuff.”
“It’s nice