“That’s what makes them good parents.”
“Yeah, I think that’s true. When I was eight, they gave me the Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Best Christmas present ever.”
“When I was eight, I got a bicycle. Best Christmas present ever.”
Dante smiled. “See, we’re exactly alike.”
“So,” I said, “you were going to tell me about the word ‘camp.’ ”
“Not that you really care.”
“Tell me anyway. You can’t begin a thought without finishing it.”
“Is that a new rule?”
“Yup.”
“You’re gonna have a much harder time keeping that rule than me.”
“No doubt in my mind that you’ll call me on it.”
“Bet your ass.”
“A very Ari response.”
“You’re rubbing off on me.”
“You are in deep fucking trouble.”
“Maybe you’re just the kind of trouble I was looking for.”
I’d never had that kind of fun with anyone except with Dante. “So, the word ‘camp.’ ”
“ ‘Camp.’ It means an open field. It was a term to describe a level geographical place used for military exercises. But it also has a slang meaning for the tacky ways homosexual men behave—mostly when they’re playing around.”
That made me laugh. But I wasn’t sure I was quite getting it. Dante could read the puzzled look on my face.
“You know, if a guy acts, like, you know, super gay on purpose or if someone—that’s like they’re camping it up. And anyone who has really horrible taste—that’s…” And then he stopped. I could tell he’d thought of something. “The Village People—they’re camp. They’re all about camp.”
I was smiling. “The Village People? The fucking Village People.”
And then Dante started singing “Macho Man.” He got all into it. And he was laughing at himself. And then he said, “Do you think I act gay?” And all of a sudden, with that one question, he went from clowning around to being pensive and serious.
“What does that mean? I mean, you’re gay, aren’t you? And I’m gay too. Wow, it feels funny to be saying that. You know, that time I was at your house and you told me that your mom was inscrutable? I didn’t really know what that word meant, so I went home and looked it up. And then I got to know that word and it began to live inside me. And then that word was different because it was mine. The word ‘gay’ is like that. I guess it will take a while before it lives inside me.”
I could tell Dante was thinking. And then he said, “There are no words in the English language that could describe you, Ari Mendoza. There are no words in any language.”
“So now we’re a fucking mutual admiration society.”
“Don’t be a shit. I just said something really great about you. Just say thank you.” And then he began humming “YMCA,” a song I hated but everybody else seemed to like. His face lit up with a smile that reminded me of the light in the desert just before the sun went down.
“You know, Ari, it doesn’t seem like you’re the kind of guy that would like other guys.”
“Whatever the hell that means.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“I do know what you’re saying. No, I don’t think you act gay—I mean, if you’d tried out to be one of the Village People, I don’t think you’d have made the cut. And anyway, does liking other guys mean you act a certain way?”
“For some guys, I think.”
“Do you think about this a lot, Dante?”
“I guess I do. You?”
“No. Mostly I think about you.”
“Good answer.”
“Damn straight.”
“We should train ourselves to avoid using that word whenever possible.”
“Is there a handbook for gay guys?”
“We should write one.”
“We don’t know shit about being gay.”
“Is there a class we can take?”
I shot him a look.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “What if the whole world knew?”
“Lucky for us the fucking world doesn’t give a damn about us. It’s not as if we’re important enough to be investigated by the FBI or anything.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe it’s a good idea not to go for camp.”
“Well, for now, we’re all about the level-field thing and not the tacky-horrible-taste thing.”
“You’ll never be camp, Ari.”
“How do you know that?”
“You don’t have it in you.”
“I don’t really know what I have in me. Nobody knows what they’re going to become. But you? You, Dante, are going to be a well-known artist. You are an artist. Art is not just what you do—it’s who you are.”
He had a serious and fierce look on his face. “That’s what I really want. I want to be an artist. And I don’t care if I get famous. And I don’t care if I ever make any money. I have dreamed of being an artist all my life. What about you, Ari?”
I thought about the list I’d made—of the things I wanted to do. I thought of the two things I had crossed out: Learn to play the guitar and Make love to Dante. If I wasn’t any good at music, maybe I could be good at making love to Dante. But how could I be good at it if I’d never done it before? And there wasn’t anything on my list that was long-term. I had no plans for my life.
“Well, I’m keeping a journal. I think that might help me in my quest to become a cartographer. And maybe I won’t ever find some great passion for something like you have. But when I’m old, I don’t want to be asking myself if my life mattered. Because if I was just a decent guy, if I had just been a good man, then my life would have been a good life. I guess that doesn’t sound very ambitious.”
“You have something I’ll never have. You have humility. And that word lives inside you. And you don’t even know it.”
I think his idea of me was a little generous. “I’m not humble. I like to fight.”
“Maybe that’s your way of protecting people.”
“Which doesn’t really make me very humble at all, now does it?”
“You want to know what I think? I think I have impeccable taste in men.”
“Well, I’m not exactly a man—but, hey, if you need me as an excuse to give yourself a compliment, well, what’s it gonna cost me to play along?”
He shook his head. “Ari, I think you know that I just gave you an indirect compliment. When someone says something nice about you, say thank you.”
“But—” He didn’t let me finish.
“Thank you. That’s all you have to say.”
“But—” And he stopped me again.
“Just because you don’t think that you’re anything special doesn’t mean I agree with you.”
Two
“TREES!” DANTE YELLED, LIKE A boy who’d never seen an apple tree or a pine tree. He hung his head out the window, the wind blowing through his hair. He closed his eyes and took in the fresh air, breathing in and out. It was a natural thing for him to make himself become a part of the landscape. Maybe that’s why he didn’t like shoes. I wondered if I would ever belong to the earth like Dante did.