Who Wears Short Shorts?

SEPTEMBER 26, 2009

Steve, an old college roommate of mine, and his partner, Scott, were in town from LA for a few days, and we arranged to get together for lunch on Thursday.

“Bring your wife,” said Steve.

I’ve known him a long time, and he was understandably curious to meet Deborah.

“Bring your husband,” I said.

Although Steve and Scott have been together for twenty years, they finally made it official, taking advantage of a brief window of opportunity when gay marriage was legal in the great state of California. Despite California’s infamous Proposition 8, which has since repealed gay marriage, their union is still legally recognized by the state, one of only a few thousand to enjoy the distinction.

Absurd.

My other college pal, Brian, is leaving next week for a six-month stint at a Buddhist Monastery, and I’ve been trying to work out a time to see him before he goes. I told him that Steve and Scott were in town and suggested he meet us for lunch.

Brian was the first to arrive, sporting a well-groomed salt-and-pepper mustache. “What do you think?” he said to Deborah, as he kissed her hello. “You like it?”

Deborah nodded with a thumbs up and a chuckle.

“You missed it,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I had a full, long, bushy beard. I just shaved it off this morning.”

“Why’d you get rid of it?” said Deborah.

“Someone said something to me — I can’t remember what it was — they compared me to someone. My beard was wild and nearly all gray. What the hell did they call me? Anyway, whatever it was, it wasn’t good. It bummed me out, so that was the end of it.”

When Steve and Scott showed up, Steve had a mustache, too, and Scott was sporting a thick goatee.

“Dude,” Brian said to me, “You’re the odd man out.”

Regardless, they let me sit with them and treated me as an equal.

We got a table outside and talked about the beautiful fall weather and how it compares to LA’s beautiful year-round weather. “Why doesn’t anyone wear shorts in New York?” Steve said. “It was so hot the other day, and I didn’t see a single person wearing shorts. Why not?”

“I wear shorts,” said Deborah. “Short-shorts, in fact.”

“Short-shorts, that’s different. That doesn’t count.”

We made small talk about other assorted things, mostly about how much New York has changed since Steve and Scott were here last, about what various neighborhoods used to be like, and what they’ve become. The restaurant we went to was only half a block from where I used to live, but back then, it wasn’t a restaurant; it was a gas station.

“How about you?” Scott asked Brian, “Where are you living these days?”

“Me?” said Brian, savoring the reaction he knew he was going to get, “I’m a man without a home. I’m leaving next week to enter a Buddhist monastery.”

Scott wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not, but it was true.

“Where?” said Scott.

“In West Virginia.”

“For how long?”

“At least six months. After that, who knows?”

“We know a woman who did that,” said Steve. “She gave away all her possessions and went to live in a monastery.”

“She wound up hooking up with some 18-year-old guy there,” said Scott.

“Yeah, I hear that happens,” said Brian. “But it’s not likely to happen to me. Where I’m going is all dudes, just a bunch of old monks. And two old ladies.”

“How old?”

“Late sixties.”

“Hmm, yeah, that’s not going to work.”

“I was wondering exactly how horny I’d have to be before I found myself knocking on one of their doors in the middle of the night,” said Brian. “I really don’t think I could get there.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Honestly, the woman we know is a stern, all-business Hungarian woman — a producer — not the kind of woman you would ever expect to do what she did. I mean, yes, the kind of woman you’d expect to hook up with an eighteen-year-old, but not the kind of woman you’d expect to give away her possessions to live in a monastery. She had a beautiful house, a nice car, and she loved her clothes and her gadgets. When she told us her plan, I couldn’t believe it. And I have to admit, It’s not what I was expecting you to say, either.”

“What can I tell you?” said Brian, “It feels right.”

Brian kept looking at his cell phone — an old relic that gets a laugh whenever he pulls it out — to check his messages and the time. “I have to skate,” he said. “I need to be somewhere at three.”

Scott and Steve had vague plans for the afternoon as well, and we all stood on the sidewalk exchanging hugs and well wishes. Deborah told Scott that she was going to add him as her friend on Facebook.

“Oh good,” said Scott. “How about you, Brian, you’re not on Facebook, are you?”

“I am, kind of. Someone set up an account for me, but I don’t know the password. It doesn’t matter. I won’t have much opportunity to use it, anyway. Not where I’m going.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I guess not.”

“It would be pretty funny if all of your contacts were monks,” I said.

“That would be awesome,” said Brian. “This is Sayagi U Ba Khin. He doesn’t talk much. And this is Seon Master Gosan Sunim. He doesn’t talk much, either.”

Brian was the first to leave, and after he did, Scott filled us in about his Hungarian friend. “I didn’t want to say anything while Brian was here, because I think it’s great that he’s doing what he’s doing, and I didn’t want to say anything negative, but after our friend left the monastery, she said she was exactly the same person she was before she went. She has that classic, constantly verging on miserable Eastern European attitude. ‘Nutting hess chenged,’ she said. ‘I em exactly ze seme ess before I left.’ We went to visit her when she was at the monastery, and as I watched her sweep — something she probably never did in her entire life — I knew it wasn’t going to work out. She didn’t look comfortable, like she didn’t quite know how to use a broom.”

“What about her eighteen-year-old boyfriend?” I asked. “Did he leave the monastery, too?”

“Yeah, he did,” said Steve. “He became an LAPD cop.”

Scott laughed and nodded. “It’s true.”