Romeo and The Scaffolder

A man and woman are walking arm in arm. They are too carefree to be lovers. Ahead of them is a guy who looks like he could be a scaffolder. The narrator, behind all three, tells the unfolding story.

The two of them walked arm in arm. Not lovers it seemed. They were too close in a carefree manner. The guy turned his wrists and swayed with his hips. His high pitched voice ululated as he gasped and ogled the guy ahead of them. I was walking behind all three. I was drunk too.

The bloke in front of them was a rough athletic man who looked like a scaffolder -- someone who worked with his upper body. The muscles were not excessively enlarged for show but merely fulfilled a function. Perhaps he was that rare breed of gym-goer that still sought to maintain some ability to move at speed too, like we would have needed to do in more dangerous times.

“Hey, you’re so handsome,” said the man, arms locked with the woman’s, returning from a local gay bar.

The scaffolder -- I’ll call him that -- wasn’t among friends now. He didn’t need to react to maintain some show of dignity and masculinity. He allowed himself to catch the eye of the suitor. Then he looked down.

“Hey fella, what do you do?” continued Romeo (I’ll call him that).

The scaffolder continued walking but it seemed to me that he slowed a bit and the suitor left the closeness of his female friend to draw nearer to the guy.

I caught up with the girl. She was German. She wore tight denim shorts, a loose black metal t-shirt and low heels. She was hot and sweaty from dancing.

“Looks like your friend’s in with a chance,” I said.

“Yes, it seems so. He’s always doing that kind of thing.”

“Why not?” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Well, because I get left alone.”

I wasn’t exactly sure of the situation. I’d only said that Romeo was in with a chance because of the slight drop in the scaffolder’s pace. He didn’t really look the sort.

“You know that guy’s not gay,” said Tanya.

“So you have nothing to worry about.”

“That won’t stop him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean lots of straight guys want to try something out once.”

“Really?” I raised my pitch at the end of the word to emphasize surprise. I knew people tried stuff.

“Actually, there’s not much difference in the outcome.”

“Yeah, but it’s different.”

She agreed with her eyes and smile. We walked on silently for a while. Romeo and the scaffolder had quickened their pace, it seemed. They were most definitely walking together. Then there were some words, a facing towards each other, a turning away by the scaffolder and then a turning back. There were dark corners and alleys all around.

“It’s funny what people will do when they’re drunk,” she said.

“Yes, it is.” I wondered what we could do.

We got talking some more.

The guys shifted off into a corner of the world somewhere for that big experiment. “Why not?” I think he would have thought as he acquiesced to a liaison he’d maybe never let himself consider before.

The German and I talked of tattoos. She had them everywhere. She was a wild-child. I was too wasn’t I? Why not do everything? I wouldn’t get a tattoo though. She had piercings too.

“Really? You have a piercing there? That’s cool.”

“Seven.”

“Wow, amazing. Can I see them?” Had I just said that? It didn’t seem wrong to ask at the time. I mostly wanted thrills out of life. She looked interested.

“Why not?” she said.

“Would you like to come back for a cup of tea?” I was playing with my Englishness and I’d drunk enough beer.

“Fruit tea?”

“Yeah. And I’ll walk you home later.” It was already 2am.

I couldn’t see Romeo and the scaffolder. The young woman and I walked the dark summer night streets talking of wild and free things. I made her fruit tea back at my flat. I could see she was a little lost in her life. I can’t say I wasn’t either but I was happier than her. In our libertarian minds it was nothing to ask to see something.

Lying casually on the bed she showed me her jewellery and I looked interestedly, but, unlike when Romeo showed the scaffolder his flamboyant self, no desire was aroused.

I was disappointed with myself. All the freedom had led to this -- this moment of disappointment for her too. My body was on the come down from the alcohol and she acted as though disinterested.

“I’ll walk you home shall I?”

“Okay,” she said, soft voiced and tender but betraying a sadness concerning the world which I also could feel. I closed myself off to that suffering and not knowing what else to do and wanting to sleep, I fulfilled my duty, taking her most of the way to her house. She said she could go on by herself. We swapped phone numbers.

“Give me a call,” she said.

“Yes, I will.” But I knew I wouldn’t.

“Why not?” I thought. The question brought back so many answers now. I thought that in the future I would sometimes answer that question in my head with “Because…”

Because she’s vulnerable. Because I want to sleep. Because it leads to too many other responsibilities. Because sometimes deferred gratification means more gratification. Because the world is bigger than this here now. Because she needs a friend. Because afterwards I might feel sorry that she feels rejected. Because you cannot disengage sex from everything else in life… because it’s connected.

But if someone had answered this question for the scaffolder, instead of allowing him his silence, perhaps he would have missed his exotic release down a back alley one warm summer’s night. Perhaps he would have never grasped another man’s muscles like he would a scaffold pole and given himself that enduring memory for the rest of his working life as he clasped those colder lengths.

I imagine he sometimes sits with The Sun newspaper in hand, brew in the other, and thinks, “Well I gave it a go. It was something.” He’ll never tell the lads. He might tell a lover.

Reviews

[KT-B]

ha great story, sometimes the best bit of a night out is the walk home and who you meet! - :)

[Joshua Knight]

Thank you. Yes, so true.