A Gay in the Life of Melinda Finch

A Gay in the Life of Melinda Finch

Published by Siobhan Minty at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Siobhan Minty

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Dedicated to Marc

Who showed me what real love is...

Table of Contents

Part One - Fool

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Part Two - Transformation

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART ONE

Fool

CHAPTER 1

The August moonlight illuminates my white silk scarf. In the front seat of Nick’s pickup truck, I lean over to stroke his hair. A grey one sticks out of his sideburns, and I pluck it out.

Ouch! he yelps and rubs his right sideburn.

I laugh. You’re such an old goat.

Nick is just two years older. He’s uniquely hot. He wears T-shirts with peculiar little symbols on them, similar to the one he’s wearing now with the mechanical chicken that’s laying not an egg, but something that looks more like a screwdriver. I love his tanned skin, his muscular body, his thick, dark hair and those puppy-dog eyes he makes when I stroke his head.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Maybe about that one guy, Rocco, until he tried stuffing an anchovy up his nose. I feel like some pathetic schoolgirl when I’m around Nick, only I’m thirty-one. I have an animalistic attraction when it comes to him, like how my Persian cat, Bitchy, purrs with rapture when she sniffs her litter box.

I lightly kiss Nick’s forehead and then his goatee. Then I lick a path from his chin to his ear, spending a few moments sucking on his ear lobe. Nick bites his lip and shivers. I can tell he loves it when I do this to him because his leg shakes. This is our routine every time we park at the abandoned SLM Incorporated warehouse building on the outskirts of downtown Toronto, although police cars pass by every so often.

Don’t want any cops hearing, Nick says as he reaches across me to roll up the passenger window.

I turn my head to the right side and realize my scarf has caught in the window. I try to free it as I feel Nick’s tongue run across my eyebrow. I push him away.

Playing hard to get? Nick squints in the sexy way I’ve become accustomed to since I started seeing him. I know that’s the cue he’s about to unbutton my shirt, but I can’t seem to get my damn scarf out of the window crack. I fumble with the handle to roll down the window, gagging for air. Oh my God—I can’t breathe.

Mmmm. . .sexy, he moans as he plays with my flower-shaped, white buttons. Do that weird sound for me some more. You’re turning me on.

He gets turned on by sounds that resemble a walrus in heat? I yank at the scarf, but it’s no use. Why do these things always happen to me? His full weight is on me, pinning my arms down as he ravages my mouth. Doesn’t he realize I’m suffocating?

So sexy, he mumbles.

I’m crazy about this guy, but sometimes he can be an utter dimwit. The seductive white fabric tightens around my throat and sucks the remaining air out of my lungs like a python going for the kill. Black spots dart around me. Who is going to feed Bitchy if I die? I manage to free one arm and make a feeble attempt to pull at the scarf once more. My head hits the edge of the panel above the passenger window. The last thing I hear is Nick cursing while he attempts to rip the scarf away.

* * *

Melinda! Mel!

I feel Nick’s hand squeeze my shoulder as he shakes me back to consciousness. In the other hand, he holds the menacing silk.

His forehead furrows. You all right?

Oh my God, I’m alive! Couldn’t you sense something was wrong?

I’m sorry. I was so into it—I didn’t realize. It’s alright, Softy, you just passed out for a few seconds. He calls me Softy because he thinks my skin feels like velvet.

He rocks me back and forth. My head feels like a grenade has exploded inside of it. I have to ignore the pain, though, and cherish this moment. I know I won’t see Nick during the weekend. Weekends are reserved for his girlfriend. I try to avoid using that word because the whole thing seems surreal. I never wanted to be the other woman.

Nick’s going camping with her on Saturday. During the week, she works in Guelph, moulding clay pots. He religiously spends the weekends with her. The rest of the week—including time spent in abandoned parking lots—is saved for me.

Her name is Gwen.

* * *

The day I found the courage to introduce myself to Nick, we connected instantly. I worked part time at the Java Hut, the coffee shop just down the road from where I live. I knew I wasn’t moving up in the world, serving coffee with grounds at the bottom of the mug, but I needed the job.

The atmosphere reminded me of a little piazza café in Sienna, not that I’d ever been to Italy, but I enjoyed looking at photos in travel books. The lights in the café were dim, almost like candlelight, and beige cobblestones lined the floor. Potted philodendrons hung on the walls, but my favourite part was the ceiling. Whenever I walked into the café before a shift, I would look up at the fresco of the night sky. Small specks of light shimmered through the painting of the moon over the ocean. A silver border accented the ethereal spectacle. Too bad Mariah Carey’s high-pitched squeal ruined the effect as Vision of Love blared from the sound system. I couldn’t understand why Bryce, the owner, was so obsessed with the Diva. He played her albums from the moment we started brewing coffee until we drained the last urn.

I also worked as a phone-line tarot card reader. The only thing my tarot card instructor hadn’t taught us was how to ward off the creepy aura of callers who wanted phone sex. That was the reason I took the job at the coffee shop, to find another way to pay my bills.

I had seen Nick around Java Hut mostly on my morning shifts. He always had sawdust in his hair from his woodworking job. He consistently ordered the medium Chai tea, teabag out, with double milk.

One morning my co-worker, Carlene, asked him if he wanted to sample our new Raspberry Tickler flavour. She offered him a small paper cup filled to the top with steaming red liquid. He smelled the beverage before taking a sip. After the sip, he gulped the rest of it down.

So, you going to buy a cup of the raspberry instead of the Chai this morning? Carlene said as she took the sampler from his hand and put it back on her round tray.

It’s good, but nope. I’m going to stick to what I know.

Carlene rolled her eyes and puckered her lips, her typical sarcastic expression. Have it your way.

As I dusted out the Tooty-Fruity crumpet crumbs from the three-shelf pastry case, a rush of adrenaline shot up my chest. I had to ask what his name was, but I was afraid that might be too forward. Instead, I focused on the number six on his T-shirt. Why do you have a number sex on your shirt? Did I say six or sex? I shoved the handle of the duster in my mouth and shut my eyes in mortification.

Are you on drugs? Carlene asked.

Nick stared at me while stroking his goatee. Surprisingly, he laughed, and I just stood there with the fluffy blue duster protruding from my mouth.

Nick turned back to Carlene. Your friend there is kind of interesting.

She’s been here for two months.

I guess I’m in too much of a hurry in the mornings to see who works here.

She only works on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, so maybe that’s why.

I hate it when people talk about me like I’m not there. I yanked the duster out of my mouth and extended it to Nick. My name is Melinda; what’s yours?

Nick grabbed the blue fluff and rigorously shook it.

You’re funny, and it’s Nick.

I snatched his cup and scribbled my number on the side of it. I then drew a lopsided heart on the lid with the same black marker. Carlene snickered. Nick looked at the designs on his beverage as if someone had just mutilated his best friend. I couldn’t believe what I had just done, but there it was and there was no turning back.

You could have just written it on a piece of paper, said Carlene.

I guess.

Thanks, Nick said as he turned to make his exit.

Call me. I mean, if you want to. I’d love to talk with you.

Yeah, sure.

The glass door eased shut as I peered at Nick climbing into his truck and speeding down the lot into the stalled traffic. From the corner of my eye, I saw Carlene staring at me and shaking her head. Stop undressing him with your eyes.

I’m not.

Yeah right. Carlene tossed the empty sample cups into the trash.

I didn’t think I was going to see him again. I had to say something.

He comes here almost every morning.

But what if he didn’t?

You know he has a girlfriend, don’t you?

My heart felt like it was crumbling into the pastry case. I squished a crumb with my finger in a futile attempt to crush out my disappointment.

I haven’t seen his girlfriend. Are you sure?

Yeah, she looks like a dyke.

I snickered. Come on. Stop fooling around.

I’m serious. She has this short, Three Stooges, Mo haircut and she always wears black business jackets with shoulder pads. Sometimes they come in on the weekends together when you’re not around.

No competition. What would a guy like Nick see in a stooge when he could spend his time with a girl like me? Large blue eyes, shoulder length hair, stylishly flipped up at the ends—ok, slightly short with a chunky bum, but we weren’t all destined to be in fashion magazines. Just then, I shuddered at my selfish thoughts. How could I even consider someone who was unavailable? But he was so hot.

Do you think he’ll call? I said. I couldn’t help myself.

One word of advice—if he does call, don’t throw yourself at him.

Two days later, Nick did call. It’s been a rollercoaster ever since.

* * *

The reason I keep holding onto Nick, besides the great sex, is because he’s convinced me more than once he needs a more affectionate girlfriend. He tells me that Gwen is cold. She doesn’t even hold his hand, much less do anything else, meaning absolutely, positively no sex. Their relationship has been unstable since before we met, but he’s too cowardly to confront her and tell her it’s over. He keeps reassuring me he will, but it’s complicated because their parents are close friends who want nothing more than to see their children unite both families.

I have no idea why there always has to be a glitch when I meet men. Since I was ten years old, all I ever dreamed about was getting married to the man of my dreams. Nick is by far the closest match when it comes to my dream guy. I keep visualizing him in a tuxedo waiting for me at the altar, flower petals scattered down the aisle, as I march down in a spectacular wedding gown with a sweetheart neckline. Then we’d happily settle down into marital bliss, living the suburban life, with a swing set in the backyard for our children and of course, a cat house for Bitchy.

Maybe one day.

* * *

I’ve done the dating thing for years now. Eight months with Nick is now my new relationship-longevity record, the shortest being two hours.

One of my many experiences was with Stosh. He was…how shall I say it? Fat. I know that’s mean. Ok, I guess I should say horizontally-challenged to be politically correct. He approached me in the Zellers department store diner one day while my friend, Shardelle, and I browsed our menus. Our girls’ day out had been a flop and after purchasing a pack of gum and some tampons, I thought we deserved a break. As we scrutinised our choices, Stosh waddled up to our table, a glob of dried mustard pasted to the corner of his glasses.

Can I take your order?

I’ll have the Biggy Yum-Yum burger with the Wam-Bam fries. I put down my menu and waited for Shardelle to order.

Excuse me, but you have something nasty on your glasses, she said.

Oh damn. Stosh took the corner of his soiled white apron and vigorously cleaned the right rim.

Just trying to be helpful, Shardelle said. I’ll have the Caesar salad.

Ok. Stosh grabbed the menus and shuffled off.

While we ate, I noticed him glancing at me from behind the counter. Does that guy have a lazy eye, or is he staring at me? I whispered.

Stop being paranoid, Shardelle said as she stuffed a soggy brown lettuce leaf in her mouth.

This salad tastes like fridge.

What?

Like the lettuce has been deteriorating in the fridge for a week. I’m not eating this. They must be trying to poison me cause I’m Black.

I covered my mouth to avoid spitting out my Wam-Bam fry. You’re the one who’s paranoid.

Shardelle waved her hand in the air to get our waiter’s attention. Stosh scuttled up to us, his belly rolling back and forth like a frantic tide.

Excuse me, but this salad is brown.

Oh damn.

And so our afternoon at the diner went, until Stosh dropped us the bill, only the bill read zero and had the name Stosh scribbled on the top in red pen. A phone number was written underneath, with the words, To the girl with the pretty brown hair and blue eyes’

Looks like somebody likes you, Shardelle said as she chewed on her stale complimentary mint. You going to give him a chance?

He’s not my type.

Stop being so shallow.

I’m not being shallow, I said as I searched my crinkled white plastic bag for the pack of gum I’d bought.

Yes you are.

No I’m not. Anyway, it’s easy for you to say. Your boyfriend’s hot.

This isn’t about me.

I ripped open the yellow bubble gum package and flattened the pink, mushy cube between my fingers, in preparation to chew. Why do you want me to go out with this guy so badly?

Because it would be so much fun to go out on a double date, girl.

Forget it.

Come on, stop being so fickle. What have you got to lose?

What is that supposed to mean?

All I’m saying is that he could be your future husband and you’ll never know because you can’t see beyond the surface.

I looked at the bill again. I didn’t want to be as superficial as my mother, living a life of appearances, but this was even beneath my standards. I searched Shardelle’s pleading eyes and a twinge of guilt overcame me. It was only one date. Weren’t friends supposed to make sacrifices for each other? Against my better judgement, I dolefully gave in.

* * *

My first, and last, double date with Stosh was at a Greek restaurant called Prometheus. Shardelle and her boyfriend at the time, Leon, looked like the perfect couple. They had been seeing each other for three years. He was tall, with a cocoa-coloured complexion and chiselled biceps, evidence of his daily weight lifting regime. I found it peculiar that he always wore a black bandanna on his head for every occasion, but I assumed it was because he was trying to hide a bald spot or some weird deformity.

Beside me, Stosh dipped his pita in a bowl of hummus. He licked the sauce off his lip and scratched his nose. Oh God, this is good. This is some good stuff.

He kept repeating it over and over. It sounded like he was going to come over a bowl of mashed chickpeas.

Do they have any olives? he asked me.

You can have some of mine, Shardelle said as she scooped two black ones off her plate and put them on Stosh’s.

Oh yeah, that’s good. Oh God. So good.

In that moment, I wondered if Stosh was more attracted to the hummus than he was to me. My mind leapt ahead to years in the future. I pictured Stosh, married, with two little Stoshes and a Stoshette running around the house like a stampede of elephants, denting the hardwood floors.

I saw him sitting at the kitchen table while his wife served him three plates of pancakes and a dozen scrambled eggs, with a platter of pita bread and hummus on the side. She would be an over-sexed, middle-aged woman willing to do anything to get her husband’s attention, including sprawling out naked on the kitchen table, smearing hummus on her face and chest.

Hey big boy, want to dip some of that over here? she’d say.

Why’d you waste the hummus? he’d groan. I was going to eat that.

* * *

The putrid smell of decaying olives jolted me from my nightmare. Stosh leaned forward, clutching his stomach with a constipated expression on his face. Then I heard it. At first, it sounded like a pricked balloon slowly oozing toxic gas into the atmosphere. Then, the sound augmented into something that paralleled an old, rusty motorcycle speeding down a back alleyway in full throttle.

Excuse me. Stosh belched.

Leon pinched his nose. Damn. What you eat, brother? Spaghetti and shit balls?

At that moment, the thought of being shallow didn’t seem so bad after all.

* * *

Before Stosh, there was Rocco the anchovy guy, then Darryl the ladies man, then Chad the maniac, then Justin the preppy, then Sheldon the mama’s boy, then Matthew the traitor, then Carlos the foreign exchange student, then Ben the commitment-phobic. I think I’ve lost track. When I look back at each person, I wonder why I ever got involved, but somehow I believed that one of them would prove to me that true love existed, that I wouldn’t have to be lonely anymore, that I’d have someone to come home to every night and plan camping trips with on the weekends.

* * *

You sure you’re ok, Softy? Nick says.

I rub my head. I really wish you didn’t have to go camping and could spend the weekend with me.

He wraps his arm around me and sighs. His musky cologne tingles in my nostrils. I know, I wish I could spend it with you too, but she’ll know something’s up if I bail.

And so what if she does? Don’t you think it’s about time you told her the truth?

Nick’s leg begins to shake again. This time I know it’s not because I’m turning him on. I don’t know how. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

Somebody’s bound to get hurt. This is about what you want now. It’s not fair to keep stringing both of us along, I say a bit more gently.

The only reason I’m still with her is because I don’t want to create friction between our families.

Is that worth being with someone you’re not completely into?

Nick switches on the radio. Coldplay’s Yellow vibrates throughout the truck. He plays with the volume. At one point, he turns it up so loud the bass sounds like it will shatter the windows. He quickly turns the knob back down.

So, what are your plans with her when you go to Big Beaver Park? I say.

Why do you do this to yourself, Mel? It only makes you more upset.

I’m just curious.

We just do what people do when they camp; sit by a fire with friends and drink. Nick pulls his arm back from across my shoulder and massages his own with the other hand. He yawns and checks the digital clock on his stereo. The blue-lit numbers glow in the darkness. 1:17am.

My eyes begin to water. I don’t want you to leave.

I don’t want to, either, but things will work out, I promise. Just give me some more time.

I want to say, Forget it, I’ve wasted enough time on you, but the thought of losing the man of my dreams because I didn’t have enough patience to wait a bit longer is more than I can bear.

He wipes the tears from my cheeks. It’s just a weekend, then we’ll be together again.

I nod.

Nick starts the car. The headlights beam a blinding light across the grey brick wall in front of us. I shield my eyes. He reverses. I wrap my scarf around my neck, coiling it again and again as if bandaging my wounded emotions.

* * *

I open the door of my basement apartment. Bitchy’s yellow eyes glare at me from across the darkened room. I flick on the light. She perches on top of my red couch, orange hair shedding on the pillows and claws extended, like a demon ready to possess its next victim. She is such an ill-tempered animal. She’ll do anything to make my life hell, which includes finding every opportunity to urinate on my furniture, floor and shoes. At first, I thought she had some type of severe bladder infection, but over the years, I’ve concluded she suffers from a chronic case of PMS.

She hates to be left alone. Whenever I talk to my mother long distance, she asks me if I’ve sold the little stinker. I can’t bring myself to give her away though. It’s strange, but Bitchy is the only one I can rely on. At least I know she’s consistent.

I hope you didn’t ruin the couch.

Bitchy stares like a disgruntled homemaker who’s been waiting around all night for her man. If she could talk, she’d probably tell me she wanted us to get couples counselling. I chuckle at the thought.

I’m sorry. I know I’ve left you alone all night. I’ll make it up to you. How about a can of those sardines you like for breakfast?

She springs off the couch, her tail pointing upright, and prances behind the translucent partition that separates my bedroom from the rest of the apartment. I flop down on my sofa. The creak of a bedspring from upstairs grabs my attention. The bedroom of my landlords, Roger and Kelso, is positioned directly above this spot. Sometimes when I watch TV at night, the ceiling shakes. The shaking has gotten so loud at times I’ve had to stuff toilet paper in my ears and count to ten backwards in a futile effort to block out the graphic images in my mind. The bungalow really belongs to Roger. His partner, Kelso, moved in three months before I did.

* * *

When I first viewed the home on Ninth Street, I was surprised when two Asian men answered the door. The section in the Toronto Star classifieds advertised a young couple looking for a single tenant. At the time, I thought they were brothers. When the shorter one with the spiked hair started nuzzling the arm of the one with the long ponytail, I recognised more than mere brotherly love.

As I walked down the narrow flight of stairs into the basement, the first thing I smelled