Stranger than a fact list

I'm sitting on the floor, my back against the wall adjacent the closet, nursing my beer. The film plays on the tiny television screen, a documentary about Tom Flanagan, supermasochist. I share a story about a friend I had who loved pain, who was hit with a pipe and left for dead, who died. All the stories end sadly.

I sit on the floor, bathed in the glow of the television screen, I look over at the bed. Three bodies are tucked under the covers. One woman, two men. My friend Bryan is in the middle, he spoons the girl. Her name is Amanda. Thomas is on the outside, spooning Bryan. Giggles, moans, talk of the last condom. I nurse my beer.

I'm struck by the moment and what it signifies for me. It's Thanksgiving night. We've celebrated a founder's feast. I'm reminded of the bedding practices that I read about in a book of facts called "The People's Almanac." I'll paraphrase.

Travelers up and down the eastern colonies would often lodge at stranger's houses. It was a common practice to accept in travelers as they moved about. Another common practice, as was customary in the era of the potbelly stove, was to huddle together on cold nights, sharing a bed. There, bathed in the glow of the television was a practice as old, and older, than the 13 colonies. I was witnessing it, the bed as a chronotope. I was amused by this idea that the travelers and their hosts would share a bed and let the random shifting of bodies play out its own logic of titillation. I was witnessing a similar act. I was invited in. I avoided the invitation. I'm a prude, but I also want my mystery to remain. Perhaps she wants me to join her for many reasons.

We were playing Risk. In the middle of my roll, I went on a roll. I wouldn't shut up. The booze and the pot were kicking in. Thomas was sharing. I was partaking, laughing, smiling. I'm still full from the dinner, the beer is cold, the night is dark, the light glows warm, and we exchange glances, practice our global politicking. I have this idea to defeat all the other players but her, retreat my armies into Australia and 'give her the world.' Hopelessly romantic. She tells me that I made the stripper's night. I'm glad for this. A smile is a great gift to give someone. I play the clown, the goofball. I laugh and I cry. I'm singing falsetto, thinking of the story my grandmother told me about her father. He serenaded women from their window at night. Two women put out candles. He married the blonde. She was bright. She was from a rich home. He was a poor man who made a living working for a pharmacist and earning extra by carrying coal to the Jews on their day of rest, helping them stoke the hearth. It was the gay 90s, New York. Jacomino sang. Jacomino worked. Jacomino was my great grandfather.

It's impractical and cumbersome, this persona I create. It's clunky and selfish. I live out of my head like others live out of their car, a liminal life, a temporary condition. The body comes crashing down to the floor--a reminder of our mutual affinity. Beyond the words, beyond the promises, beyond the elaborate displays of affection, we're two bodies with compatible plumbing.