True As It Can Be - 7. Chapter 7

Brunch is far less formal than the dinner from the prior night, the food was easier to identify. The chicken fried steak is good, but I don't understand why it's called "Chicken", when the only thing in the fried patty is ground beef. I do have to admit though, the beignet doughnuts were a slightly different texture than I’m used to eating from Dunkin Donuts or Krispy Kreme, it’s airier.

Before enjoying brunch, I had to confront something I faced before. Brad continued to wail and groan from his room as he did last night. I knew my presence alone could not settle him forever, but I had an urge to go back to his room to soothe his pain, but Cook directed me to eat the food he made as he went into Brad’s room. While the food sounded amazing from Chip’s description, the sound of Brad’s anguish isn’t appetizing. Luckily the sound began to fade as the meal commenced, until it disappeared completely. I can only hope Cook has soothed his pain.

Chip appears to have a voracious appetite throughout the brunch. I didn’t notice what he was wearing earlier, when he barged into the room to wake us up. I got a good look now. He’s wearing a yellow and blue Pokémon T-Shirt, blue pajama pants, and fluffy blue slippers. In the back of his T-Shirt, a Snorlax is devouring a pile of food, while it sits on a bed. The text bubble reads, “I woke up hungry”. Chip is dorky and adorable with how he represents his moods with his clothes, all patterned after a certain Pokémon. He might be on the autism spectrum and have ADHD, but emotionally, he’s far more comfortable with himself than anyone I’ve ever met.

As I am about to finish my last bite of beignet, Mrs. Potter enters and exits the room several times, she is carrying several packages each time. When she is done, there are 4 boxes of variable sizes.

“Noon-time mail for you wonderful boys,” Mrs. Potter announces to everyone, drawing all of our attentions. Chip appears the most excited of all as he jumps to his mother’s side.

“Mom, is it here? Is it here? I’ve been waiting forever for the new games to come out. I played the original Diamond and Pearl non-stop on the old DS just to know the story of the Sinnoh region like a thousand times. I wonder if they’ll add the Giratina distortion world into the new games now or if they’ll hold off for a DLC with the Legend of Arceus in January,” Chip turns to me with a huge grin, “Beau, I pre-ordered all the games and put my name in a lottery for the special events code, so I can get a rare Pokémon. I really want to win the code for Arceus, he’s like God, you know. I mean he’s literally the Pokémon God according to his description. He’s cool and powerful, but sometimes gets too judgmental. It’s like this old lady in our old apartment building, who gave me lots of candy, but she didn’t like my white shirt and green tights Kirlia outfit. She told my mom it doesn’t look right. So, I borrowed a white blouse from Katie for the weekend to complete the look and she…”

Mrs. Potter interrupts Chip and gives him a medium size white FedEx package, “Chip, honey, I think this is what you are looking for.”

Chip tears into the package and reveals two smaller video-game parcels with the holographic design of a Pokémon on each cover. He stops telling us his story and is silently worshipping the new video games in his hands.

A round of chuckles ensue, except for Chip, who rushed upstairs with his new video games. That kid and his love for Pokémon is something else.

That leaves 3 packages unopened for the rest of us, I know of no one, except Morris’ family, who would ever send me anything by mail, since my family had disowned me. I wonder what packages the other boys get around here?

Mrs. Potter lays a large package down, she points to Paki and Francis, “Paki Featherworth and Francis Lumens, this package is from the Lumens family of Boulder, Colorado.”

Francis blushes, “Don’t make us show it off, my parents give the weirdest gifts and I do not want to embarrass Paki more than he is already. Last time, they sent us flavored condoms and a braille copy of the Gay Karma Sutra with tactile images of sexual positions.”

Paki smiles at the mention of their previous gifts, “They were being very generous and the book was a useful reference. I have never known that images on a page could be so…provocative with just your fingers.”

Mrs. Potter snickers at the couple, unfazed by the sexual banter, then notices my perplexed expression, “Oh Beau, I forgot you are new to this. One of the things Cook asked for all the boys in the house is that they share any packages they receive. It’s supposed to reduce the feeling of social exclusion.”

Francis groans, “It might make you feel more included, but it’s still really embarrassing.”

Paki opens the package; it holds two wooden boxes. One box holds a small fully stringed wooden violin-like instrument with a wooden string bow. In the other box, a wooden flute is inside. There is a note at the bottom of the package with a picture of a redheaded woman and brown-haired man. Paki reads the note with enthusiasm as Francis reddens feeling the wooden musical instruments in his hand.

“To Francis and Paki, it was great video chatting with you both over Halloween. Paki, I know we’ve said this a million times, but we are both proud to meet you as Francis’ boyfriend. Since Francis and you are not coming to our home for Thanksgiving, we want to send a piece of home to both of you. We hope you two can make music together, just like us.”

Francis sighs, “I haven’t played the Pochette in years, even when I could see. Mom must have gotten dad to fire up the 3D printer.”

Paki laughs, “I can barely play the flute, too. My music only seems to attract pigeons.”

Mrs. Potter chuckles, “Well boys, I bet you will make wonderful music together,” She pulls up another package, “This one is addressed to Wanita Garcia or Warren Garcia from Noah Brinks of Doral, Florida.”

Warren looks at me for a reaction at the 2 names on the mailing slip, I did not give him any. My mind rectified what it meant about Warren quickly, based on all the occupants of the house. I might have never met a trans-person before, but I don’t have any issues with it. My mind makes quick mental assessments about pronouns and relationships. According to Chip he’s gay, so he identifies as male. Logically based on this information, he was born biologically female and has a male identity. It explains why he was weary in front of me earlier this morning. Knowing he probably has female sex organs doesn’t change my view about his attractiveness. He’s still cute in my eyes, it doesn’t make me straight or bisexual to admit that.

Warren blinks twice at me, before speaking, “The University has me on file as Wanita Garcia due to my state ID, so mail for Warren Garcia gets lost, if my birth name isn’t on stuff. I did not change my name, because I couldn’t afford a physician statement for gender transition or a lawyer for a court order.”

Warren did not drop his gaze on me, so I acknowledge him as best I can, “That sucks, I’m sorry you have it so rough, Warren.”

He turns to Paki and Francis, who are nodding in agreement, then he addresses me, “Most people, including gay guys, react to this stuff hard. Sometimes they can be very…hostile.”

I honestly don’t know how other people react to learning someone they know is actually biologically a different gender than the one they identify with. Mrs. Potter is smiling at me in approval. Paki and Francis seem fine, while Min shows his usual neutral expression sitting in his wheelchair staring at the final package. I wonder what other reaction should I be having in this situation.

I shrug my shoulder, “I guess I am not like other people. Being just an inch taller than what would be classified as a dwarf with a body that people make judgments on, I’ve got nothing to say. You are still Warren Garcia to me, the same cute and slightly scarred boy I met yesterday.”

Paki walks over to Warren’s unscarred side, giving him a quick punch in the shoulder, “I told you Beau would not judge, just like me. We small boys understand how our body doesn’t measure our truth.”

Warren’s expression softens for a moment towards me, then he shifts back to his usual combative demeanor, “Well, he doesn’t have any good sense, neither do you, especially with his clothes. Someone should really take you out shopping for age-appropriate stuff.”

What is it with people in this house judging my fashion sense? I know I wear bright T-shirts and other kids’ clothing, but it’s out of poverty, not a stylistic choice.

As I was about to repeat myself, Paki intercedes quickly before I could speak, “That’s cute, you want to dress him up yourself,” Paki smirks at me, “Warren is volunteering to take you on a shopping trip. I’ll probably join you guys, too. Don’t worry about the money, we all get a $1,500 clothing budget, including you.”

Mrs. Potter runs out of the room and comes back quickly with a credit card in her hand, “Oh dear Beau, I forgot to give you this yesterday. It’s a Visa credit card with fixed spending limits within certain categories. The limits are $1,500 for clothing, $1,500 for transportation, $3,000 for meals outside the house, and $4,000 for books or discretionary needs.”

As I stand there in shock of my sudden influx of cash, I am struck by the possibilities what this money could do for me. My work-study job only pays me $650 per month with limited work hours on Monday thru Wednesday. It would only barely cover books I bought using my own credit card after 4 months of a semester, leaving me with $300 in spending money.

I stare at Warren, somewhat dumbfounded at the offer of a shopping trip, “I…uh…”

Warren shakes his head, “You also need a haircut, Paki can help with that. I leave my hair long because it helps hide some of this,” he points to his burned skin, “No makeovers though, don’t worry, I’m not into that. I never used makeup until I came here, but Paki has an eye for it and sold me on it. I’m better at picking out clothes that look good and make sense. You need some shirts, sweaters, a few pairs Levi Jeans, and a winter jacket. Paki is good with skin and hair care. He’s got an eye for fashion too, but I am better at value.”

Paki bats his otherworldly eyelids at Warren, “Keep adding the praises, I think Francis is getting jealous.”

Francis smirks, “You all look the same to me, but what do I know,” he winks with his blind eyes, “I can’t shop with you guys, today. I’ve got a big Modern European History 50,000-word final report to write. Professor Sterns is a bastard to demand we turn in our final paper before Thanksgiving.”

As Paki returns to his boyfriend’s side, Warren shifts his attention back to the package in his hand, he opens it to reveal a framed photograph of a strawberry blond-haired boy wearing only swimming trunks next to a surfboard. He’s fairly good looking and there’s a hint of mischief in his smile. I notice he’s grabbing the front of his trunks with his right hand and rubbing his nipple with the other hand, suggestively. It feels very intimate and sexy, something shared between lovers.

Warren shows us the photograph, then he addresses me, “He’s my boyfriend, Noah. He’s attending college at UCLA. He promised to send one framed photo of himself every month to prove he still loves me. I told him we could end everything after what happened to me,” a tear forms in Warren’s eye, “He should find a low maintenance boyfriend in Cali, but he still refuses to give up on us.”

I can’t imagine how deep their love must be for this kind of exchange to continue. Separated by thousands of miles, Noah having a plethora of temptations and Warrant being surrounded in a house full of gay guys. No wonder, he’s surly.

For the last package, Mrs. Potter grows sullen as she brings it over to Min, “I am so sorry about this. This package is a return for Min Takato, originally sent to Ito Nakamura Setagaya, Tokyo, Japan.”

Min’s expression shifts from neutral to despair, “Arigato gozaimasu, I hoped he’d receive this gift from me. I shall try again on Monday.”

He opens the package to reveal a blue and white stuffed toy cat with a red collar with a yellow bell. It has a belly button pocket filled with Snickers and Twix chocolate bars. He has a short one-line note attached to the toy cat, as well.

He reads it, "Owabi" お詫び

I blink at the unfamiliar Japanese word and Min answers my unspoken question, “It means “deep remorse””, he puts the toy back in the box, “Mrs. Potter, may I be excused to my room?”

She nods and Min wheels himself down the hall. There’s something deeply sad about what just happened, I wish I knew why he reacted so strongly. I motion to follow him, but Paki holds me back.

Paki shakes his head, “He doesn’t want anyone to interrupt his pain. We’ve tried.”

An unsettling quiet descends into the dining area as we stand there motionless, while sobbing can be heard from Min’s room. His sobbing is less primal than Brad’s cries of anguish, but the latency and noticeable attempt by Min to hold his emotion in check makes it worst. It’s a deep personal sadness, I wish I could understand.

Mrs. Potter tries to shift the subject back to the shopping trip, “Well boys, Chip will be preoccupied with that game for most the weekend, why don’t we head out soon. After we clean up the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher, I have time and it would save you on an Uber. You can use a little time in the city. I will be nearby you guys, but won’t hover. You can call me, when you are done shopping.”

In very little time, we clear the table and deposit our dirty dishes into the dishwasher. We all went back to our rooms for a change of clothes and to grab our smartphones. Before I left the house, I went to Brad’s room. Cook was sitting near his bedside; Brad had fallen into a blissful silent sleep.

Cook glances at me, “I gave him a sedative to help him rest and deal with the pain. It should be out of his system by tonight, when his next Methadone dose will be given.”

I nod, “I’m going out shopping with Mrs. Potter, Paki, and Warren.”

Cook smiles widen, “I’m glad Warren is starting to trust you. He’s a good guy, but his past dealings with people have made him cautious. If you show him genuine kindness and openness, he’ll return in kind.”

I wonder about Warren’s past and the burned skin that cover a portion of his face and body, but decided not to pry Cook for information. It’s Warren’s story to tell me, like Paki said last night. I leave it alone.

I walk over to Brad and had the urge to part his blond hair to see his disfigured face. Cook probably notices my gesture, but I don’t care. I try to find the Beast that scared me yesterday, the boy I read last evening, and the haunted young man in the darkness. All I see is a complex man, who confronted his demons for me of all people. I pat his head soothingly, then leave his bedside.

Before I leave the room, I hear Brad’s voice calling to me in his sedated sleep, “Beau, Beau, come back to bed with me…”

Mrs. Potter has a nice silver-colored Toyota SUV with ample legroom to fit a soccer team, let alone 3 college-aged boys like us. I never got my license and I don’t know if any of the other boys can drive. I used the time during the drive into Boston to set up my phone and connect to my Gmail account. She drives us to Copley Square, dropping us off in front of the old Prudential Mall.

Paki directs us to follow him to a boutique salon on Newbury Street, a few blocks away. A hair stylist greets us as we enter the posh looking interior. Paki knew exactly what to ask for all of us. He tells them to give me in his words, “number 3 clippers on the side, scissors on top, massage the scalp, moisturizing mint shampoo, and hydrating conditioners”. I don’t know what that all meant, but I trust him. It takes about an hour to get my hair cut, the first time I’ve had it cut since leaving Minnesota, which I knew I needed badly. What I did not expect is the deep-tissue massage they did to my scalp. A huge load of stress is getting lifted from my body. The hair stylist’s fingers are firmly pushing against my temples as hot jets of water are cascading against my head. Then, suddenly she adds the mint shampoo, which surprisingly cools my head despite the hot water. The combination of the massage, hot water jets, and the cooling shampoo leaves me refreshed and rejuvenated. By the time we leave the salon, we are each $200 lighter, but the exorbitant expense is not even an after-thought. If all upscale salons are like that, I can imagine why people spend so much money for their hair.

We went to a place called the “Thinking Cup”, where Paki got a Hazelnut Latte and Warren got a French Hot Chocolate. I want to be adventurous, so I order the Vanilla-Ginger Latte. The foamy milk coffee is amazing, plus the ginger adds a little kick on top of the sweet vanilla. We receive some curious looks initially, but a lesbian couple with a plethora of piercings, tribal tattoos, and hair product catches more attention than us. No one is gawking with hostile or offensive intent though, it’s mostly curiosity. That’s one thing I’m happy about being near a major city, people are more curious about who you are in relation to them than folks out in the country, where people just mind their own business and try to ignore what isn’t in front of them.

As we leave the coffee shop with our specialty drinks, Warren points down the street to where Mrs. Potter dropped us off, Prudential Mall, “We can check out Canada Goose for quality winter clothing, maybe drop by Club Monaco and Ralph Lauren to see if they have any sales. Then, we should probably walk down to Macy’s to finish the trip.”

Paki nods, then asks, “We could just buy the other stuff at Saks Fifth Avenue, it’s kind of like Macy’s, right?”

Warren shakes his head, “Nope, they charge you more there than Macy’s for the same stuff. It’s just a fancy store name that makes rich people feel better for paying higher prices for the same stuff normal people buy. While we have money, we shouldn’t waste it on a gimmick like that.”

I ask Warren, “Why don’t we just go downtown to TJ Maxx, they have brand name stuff and lower prices.”

He shakes his head, “That’s the other extreme, discount chains do get bulk discounts for clothes from brand name stores. They don’t have great selections with color or sizes that are right, so it forces you as the shopper to spend hours hunting mislabeled racks. It’s possible to find bargains, but it takes too much time and you end up exhausted in the end. They wear you down in the search for a deal, so you will settle for something less than you deserve. Even in the best outcome, you are just sacrificing quality and time for a lower price at those places.”

That’s how we end up walking through Prudential Mall. Canada Goose was our first store, where we loaded up on winter clothing. I found a really nice jacket, despite the sticker shock I got seeing the price is $179.99. Warren notes that the quality of the jacket and its insulation makes it a good deal for my needs. We also each got parkas, sweaters, gloves, and a beanie. My total is $757.91 and I begin to worry about how quickly I’ll exhaust the $1,500 clothing budget.

However, Club Monaco was a non-starter, there’s nothing there that any of us are interested in. It’s funny the tropical designs and frilly shirts have no effect on three openly gay guys. I wonder if we’re exceptions to the rule or a reflection that old tastes are dying out. Ralph Lauren is a different story; its selection is more suited to our tastes. However, Warren frowns at the prices for the limited items in stock. I also have a strange feeling at Ralph Lauren, like we are being watched by someone. I think it’s the pushy salesman, who is trying to persuade us to buy cashmere sports coats, which seem very pretentious to me. We depart that store with no purchase either.

Before we left Prudential Mall though, someone bumps into Warren and causes the remaining quarter cup of hot chocolate to land on his shirt. We are standing near Saks Fifth Avenue department store, so he told us to go inside and try stuff on, while he goes to the bathroom to clean up.

Paki and I walk around the big department store, which I do have to agree with Warren appears to be exaggerating their prices with items like Ralph Lauren shirts costing $69.99, when the actual store was selling them at $49.99 without a sale. Still, this store is useful due to its larger selection and variety from various brands. Paki and I try on different things, like button-up shirts, Henley shirts, Chinos, and festive cardigans. The dressing room has 4 alcoves, the largest room at the end and the first room are locked throughout our clothing expeditions in the store. We are popping in and out of the gender-neutral dressing room in the back, while a smiling saleswoman at a nearby cash register isn't keeping an eye on us. She's busy counting a large stack of hundred-dollar bills, maybe close to $10,000, which seems odd in context. There are relatively few shoppers at the Saks Fifth Avenue store, the prices probably scare most buyers away and the wealthy clientele probably are going to the clothing boutiques we passed by on Newbury Street and other parts of the square. At some point, while I am in the dressing room and Paki had gone back outside for a different shirt to try, I hear a loud argument. I hear Paki’s voice and a rough sounding man’s voice claiming he was reported to have stolen something from Club Monaco. I’m trying on pants, so I couldn’t get out of the dressing room, quickly.

I hear Paki calling back to me, “I’ll be back soon Beau, there must be some mistake and the video footage will clear me.”

With both my new friends suddenly out of the picture, I didn’t feel right being in the dressing room trying new clothes. I got dressed in my own clothes and grabbed my Canada Goose shopping bag. However, before I could leave the dressing room, the largest alcove at the end of the room opens and a strong arm pushes me inside. I encounter someone I had not expected to see again, especially off-campus and alone in a confined area.

Gary Gaston smiles at me, “What an unexpected pleasure to find you here Beau?”

Knowing what I do about him now, I shudder with realization about all the random events, “It was you, the hot chocolate and the false stolen item claim.”

Gary’s brows furrow, “Oh, what do you mean? Accidents with hot beverages happen and your one-handed African friend looks like someone suspicious enough to be labelled a thief. Am I to blame for racial profiling?”

Cold sweat begins to form on my forehead, I ask fearfully, “What…what do you want from me, Gary?”

He looks up and I notice the blinking camera light is off, meaning we’re not being recorded, “I always get what I want Beau.”

Author's Note: Yes I left a little Cliffhanger