Hooking Trout - 9. Christmas Tree Blues

For as long as I've known Doug and Stew they've had a blue Christmas tree during the holiday season. Not the shiny tinselled sort with a mixture of blue and silver, like the little silver and green, or plain silver ones you get in any regular hardware store or gas station.

No, this is a six-footer in pure midnight blue. Stew's contribution is a set of sparkling white lights that fade in and out at random. A more poetic person would say the tree looks like moonlight reflected in the deep waters of the Mediterranean. Except their particular fake fir boasts a more revealing feature. At Doug's insistence this year, they have adorned the branches with fifty star-shaped baubles in crimson and have a drag queen fairy on top holding a rainbow flag. Doug calls the ensemble his personal statement, letting visitors know just how patriotic he is. Stew has also plastered the whole thing with a banner reading "Make Christmas Gay Again."

This holiday season, for the first time, I realize how tacky and vulgar the whole ensemble is. Something so distasteful would have no place in my apartment.

The worse thing is that in all the time I've known Doug, I've never given their over-the-top tree a second thought. Sure, it stood in the corner of the room at the end of each year, but I never noticed. Until now. And for the first time, I realize how much of an effect Amanda is having on me.

I've told the boys I'm giving Amanda, an old friend, a place to stay—but no more than that. Initially, the arrangement had its challenges. Sharing a bathroom is not something I've had to do since—forever. But it's what friends do for friends or family members. Doug's sister, for example, stayed with them for a couple of months last year, and she's arriving again at the weekend, so I'm sure my personal admission did not raise any eyebrows.

So here we all are tonight on a gay boy's night in. We use Doug's place when Stew visits his Irish born mother, who lives upstate. Doug calls her the Irish Hell Hound and refuses to join him. She's a dog trainer and offers lots of free advice on how to bring up canines and what constitutes ethical ownership. She seems to relish citing instances that point to Doug being the worst possible of owners. Doug, not being one to take things lying down, challenges her back, and the two usually end up in a shouting match. So, at Stew's insistence, the otherwise cool Doug stays home and invites the rest of us over. It's a diplomatic compromise.

They're repeating a program showing highlights from this season's Project Runway. Last month we had Drag Race, the other The Amazing Race with two gay couples we supported. Even though I'd be happy to watch the season football highlights, this is a crowd-pleaser, and the evening has become a kind of a tradition for many years. Incredibly, they still manage to stretch this particular program to an hour, even though this season is the least eventful in history. During a commercial break, Bill gets up to go to the kitchen for top-ups. After tossing a can of beer to Tommy and keeping one for himself, he hands a couple of bottled Moscow Mules to Doug, who takes one and passes one on, without taking his eyes from the set.

"Not the same since Heidi left."

"Or Michael Corrs. I loved his 'make it happen' trademark. Man, those rotating hands."

"Someone had a fucking plastic bag creation last season. A fucking garbage sack, I kid you not."

I add my opinion, eyes still glued to the screen. "I swear, one day, one of those models will end up wearing nothing but their birthday suits."

"They almost did in season ten."

I lean back on the sofa, taking in their banter, and hear myself speak softly.

"Could I get a glass, Doug?"

"I didn't get what that Korean girl was trying to do with the shrink wrap and styrofoam creation. The poor model looked like packed supermarket meat."

"A what, buddy?" says Doug, without turning.

"And how hot is that guy from Vietnam with the tattoos and that fucking bamboo kimono thing? I'd do him in a fucking heartbeat."

"A glass, please."

We are watching a commercial for the latest family-sized Honda. The actors gleam almost as brightly as the merchandise.

"And a coaster, if you've got one."

Without turning, I sense all eyes upon me. When I do eventually pivot into the silent stares, I hold my hands out in defense.

"What? I don't want to mark the table."

Even to my own ears, the words sound feeble. Worst of all, they're now out in the room.

"Told you! She has his hairy fucking balls in her purse, man," says Tommy, "I fucking swear."

As you can tell, Tommy does swear. A lot. I don't remember how he ended up in our tight circle of friends, but nowadays, things wouldn't be the same without him. Not a fan of labels, he's Asian but does everything he can to deny his heritage, including dying his hair surfer-blond and surviving on a diet of Wendys. If asked about his sexuality, he will shun people trying to pin him down, and Doug was once quoted as Tommy's preference is not so much fluid as 'anything with a hole.' To confuse things even further, he likes to temper some words with the lilt of the lyrical Irish. Born in the south of Ireland, his family moved to Brooklyn before his third birthday. If asked, he will tell people I'm not Chinese, motherfucker. I'm Cork Asian.

Some friends don't warm to Tommy mainly because he adopts no decency filters where conversations are concerned. This idiosyncrasy also attracts a particular type of guy. He told us he's recently split from his latest redneck grizzly shag called Dom because they had become too familiar. Well, finding Tommy in bed with Dom's father is, I guess, about as familiar as you can get. To add incest to injury, Dom kicked him out of the apartment, so he's been staying in Doug and Stew's spare room temporarily.

At Tommy's remark, Bill, in the easy chair, grunts a guffaw and goes back to watching the program. He seems chilled, but underneath his calm exterior beats the heart of a man who would give Dr. Hannibal Lecter a run for his liver. The expression passive-aggressive doesn't do him justice. If things ever turn ugly on the street, it's comforting to know Bill bats for our team.

Meanwhile, Doug kicks some brightly-colored pet toys out of the way and fetches a tumbler and coaster from the carefully arranged collection in the glass-fronted walnut sideboard. Part of me is amazed he knows where to find them. By the time he has dropped them down in front of me, I am wading in shame.

As a kid, if I ever wanted a mouthful of orange juice, I'd go to the refrigerator, happy to take a quick swig and put the carton straight back. Nine times out of ten, when I closed the fridge door with the juice container in my hand, my mom—my biological mother, as opposed to my stepmother—would materialize before me, waving a tumbler in my face.

At that moment, I realize Amanda has replaced my mother. She, too, is always handing me a glass in one hand and holding a coaster in the other every time I am about to chug a bottle of water, a wine cooler, or the occasional lite beer. Now, with Pavlovian inevitability, I experience disorder if my drink isn't served the same way.

"Tell them you're not on the turn, honey. Please?" says Doug. He continues to study the TV show, but a smile appears in his artfully groomed beard. I wonder for a moment if he thinks this is all part of an act.

"Kick her the fuck out, Trout-buddy. My brother married a vagina, and she sucked him in and spat out his bones. Should see the bitch eat chicken wings. Fucking scary," says Tommy. "Turned into one of the fucking Stepford Wives once they was married. Run for the hills, is my advice. Get her the fuck out of there while you still got your fucking hairy balls in your hand."

Tommy's calmness is reassuring. I am in two minds how much to give away. Doug and June have told me we need to keep this on lockdown, but the boys know Amanda's staying with me.

"Tommy, I'm gay. She's just staying temporarily," I say, which is kind of not a lie.

"Okay, pretty boy," says Bill, swivel-slouching around to face me. "Let's check how bad this is. I'll do the pussy man test on you. Check how far into the slime you've actually sunk."

Coming from Bill, this is not an offer that can be politely declined.

"Yeah! Fucking pussy man test." Tommy bounces on the couch. "An' remember, you gotta answer truthful." I turn to Doug for support, but he sits smiling at the screen, enjoying my ordeal.

"Okay," says Bill, taking a deep breath like a game show host. "Question number one. How much of the bathroom cabinet did you give her?"

Odd one, this. Initially, I gave her half, but I've noticed products multiplying, things I've never heard of populating half my side of the cabinet, and now all along the window ledge.

"Half!" Doug's turned head, and quizzical look does not go unnoticed. He and Stew visited the apartment with June a month after Amanda moved in, so he'd have seen the bathroom. "Seemed only fair. Women need places to put their—you know—feminine things."

"Okay, then. We'll give you that one," says Bill. "Question two. On the nights you eat at home, who washes dishes? You or her?"

I am beginning to feel cornered. I cook and wash the dishes most nights. She often works late with the new promotion, and besides, she likes my recipes. Okay, so when she is home, she stands over me in the kitchen and tells me what I'm doing wrong, but she does like my cooking. At least, that's what she tells me.

"Definitely not me." Doug's stare begins to make me uncomfortable. "Well, on the rare occasion, when we entertain." I'm forgetting he and Stew stayed over for dinner.

"Okay. Last one. The million-dollar question."

Dragging out the time, Bill slaps one gnarled hand on top of the other, squeezes, and produces a series of eye-watering cracks. Bill never talks about his sex life. Doug and I have often wondered what he likes in the bedroom—his weapons of choice—but have never been brave enough to ask.

Before he can speak, Tommy butts in.

"You ever blow off your pals 'cause she wanted you to do something else?"

And with a silver bullet straight to the heart, I'm taken down.

"Hey c'mon," I say, my palms face upwards in front of me. "That was one time only. To watch a movie with her because she didn't want to go—"

"Fucking three times, man," Tommy continues relentlessly. "Once 'cause you was shopping for more furniture. How much freakin' furniture can fit into that pad anyway? And you blew us out twice at The Ramrod, once 'cause she wanted you to meet the old queens from work, and the other for the stupid old fuckin' Brit movie. What's it called? Love Already."

"Actually," I say, correcting him. "The movie's called Love Actually."

A movie I really enjoyed, actually. Oh shit, I ponder, it's official then. I really am turning into a—.

"Fucking pussy! Kick her the fuck outta there!"

"Think it might be time to fess up, buddy?" Doug remains calm but nods and gives me a look that says 'Show Time.' I look at him quizzically, but he nods slowly and winks.

"We got engaged, okay?" I realize I'm coming off sounding defensive. "She got her promotion, and we're getting along really well. I know it's not—you know—exactly perfect. But she's happy about the set-up, putting a bit of order into my chaos. And it gives my family—well, my grandma—something to look forward to. I mean, really, guys, give me one good reason why in the hell I should not?"

"Uh, she don't have a dick," says Bill, characteristically coming straight to the point.

"Even if she's trans or pan, run for the fucking hills."

"Dial it down, Tommy, will you? Come on, guys, take a second to think about this." By talking about me in front of them, I can tell Doug’s giving me space to think and explain. "It's not difficult to figure. She's straight, not LGBTQIAPK, or any other letter missing from our ever-expanding private member's club, and as we can all testify, Trout is a certified gay man. So what in the name of Judy could possibly possess him to want to get hitched to this female friend of his?"

Bill uses the remote to put the show on mute, now fully invested. The room goes silent. Doug is clever. My father used to play a similar game with me, feed me a few clues, and get me to draw my own conclusion.

"You got her fucking pregnant!" shouts Tommy.

"If that's the case," I answer quickly. "Somebody ought to put an urgent call into the Vatican. Because no bodily fluids have passed between us."

Once again, everyone falls silent, but Bill smirks knowingly.

"Green Card," says Bill, nodding slowly, catching up with Doug's acceptable lie. "She needs a Green Card."

Doug doesn't confirm or deny, neither do I. We don't need to.

"You can't breathe a word, guys," says Doug, urgently, holding Bill and Tommy's attention. He's damn good at this. "Not to a soul. You could get them both into deep shit with the law if anyone found out. Even we'd be in trouble if they could prove we knew and didn't report them."

"She paying you big bucks, I hope?" says Bill, totally calm.

"I—we haven't discussed anything financial yet." Truth to say, it's going to be the other way around. I'm eventually going to be paying her off.

"So you're just doing the noble thing? For a friend?"

"Yeah, I mean—I suppose you could say that."

"And in the meantime, she's redecorating your apartment, getting you to wash her dishes, taking over your bathroom, and retraining you to do things the way she wants them done?"

"Run for the fucking hills…"

"Uh, it's not quite that bad, Bill," I say, noticing Doug is letting me sweat this one on my own. "To be honest, it's good to finally get a bit of order, a bit of structure in my life."

"But you don't need to roll over and play dead pretty boy," says Bill. In our group, he rarely speaks, but when he does, people listen. "Perhaps the time has come to piss on your territory. Show her you care, sure, but also that it's your pad, and you can still make your own decisions. Hey, Tommy's looking for a new place to crash for a couple of nights, why not let him stay with you?"

"I'm not sure she'd like—"I begin to say, before stumbling to a stop.

The response is subliminal. I had to suffer two nights creeping around my own apartment, trying to avoid Gina, frightened to open a cupboard in case she jumped out and tried to strangle me for dumping her brother. Why shouldn't we trade psycho for psycho? Maybe Bill is right; this train is hurtling downhill, and perhaps I need to slam on the brakes a little.

"Hell, yeah. Why not? Sure he can crash on my sofa bed for a couple of nights." I say, with sudden resolve. "What do you think, Tommy?"

I am sure I'm the only one in the room noticing Doug gently shaking his head at me, but I ignore him. This time my eyes are on Tommy, who is still mid-rant.

"Run for the fucking—what? Oh. Wow. Okay, cool."

Before I slouch back into the sofa, I pick up and spin my coaster across the room. After taking a triumphant tug from my bottle—ignoring the tumbler—I thump my feet onto the glass coffee table, knowing with satisfaction that before I leave, I have a clean handkerchief in my back pocket to wipe off any marks.