The One With Willy’s Wonka
Despite not being my first choice in career, being a male exotic dancer did garner a lot of benefits. First, I could make more money in one night than I could working all week at some crappy, minimum-wage job at a fast food restaurant. This means less hours worked per day and less days worked per week. Second, Ruby offers us an hourly rate, which is practically unheard of in our line of work, specifically in the LA area, which leads into the third benefit of the job: Since I get a base pay (that is actually pretty decent), and all tips come in the form of cash, most of my income is under the table and tax free. This means that, after I claim the base pay plus whatever percentage makes me reach the federal minimum wage rate, the rest is straight profit.
I was counting said profit from our party the night before when Taylor stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes bloodshot and his hair disheveled. He was only wearing his boxers. “Damn it, Taylor. Go put some clothes on.”
He turned away from whatever he was searching for in the fridge to face me, placing a hand on his hip. “If we were on the beach, this would be considered acceptable attire,” he commented.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure that you’re not allowed to have an open hole right over your junk on any beach in the country,” I remarked, getting up from the table. Taylor shot me a dirty look, grabbed a soda from the fridge, and walked back to his room.
Thirty minutes later, Taylor reemerged from his room wearing a pair of tight white pants, a shirt I thought was a bit too small, and a green scarf (complete with fringe) over what looked like at least five leather-strung necklaces. I swear, Taylor is the only man on the planet who could pull it off without actually pulling it off. “You look ridiculous in that scarf; it’s not even cold out.”
“It’s an accessory, Zac. It’s for aesthetic purposes, not practical,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. A piece of it stuck up in the air; had it not been for how long his hair was, it would have pointed straight to the ceiling.
“You’re such woman,” I commented. Taylor opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. “Go make me a sandwich.”
“I would, except we have nothing to make you a sandwich with,” he retorted. “We need to go grocery shopping,” he added, looking at his watch. “Want to go now?”
“Sure, Tay. Let’s go.”
Taylor spent the entire fifteen minute ride singing, rather poorly, along to Queen. I, personally, would rather have had anything but Queen in. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Queen; they were actually one of my favorite bands. Rather, it was the fact that Taylor, in all his singing glory, sounded like a cat being murdered when he tried to sing all of Freddie Mercury’s high notes. My ears bled every time “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on the radio.
But at least it wasn’t Journey.
When we finally arrived at the grocery store, I rejoiced that I could turn the music off and stop listening to Taylor’s version of a falsetto. It took two minutes inside the walls of the supermarket for my glee to fall into a seething hatred of all things Taylor-related. He immediately disappeared on me, without any indication of where he was going, how long he would be, and where he’d meet me. Given his lack of planning, I went about locating the items I knew we needed before starting in on the extras.
A few minutes later, Taylor finally returned to the cart with an armful of various items ranging from general hygiene needs to an assortment of chocolate. I watched him dump everything in unceremoniously, counting a total of three bags of Peanut M&Ms, two King Size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and a 1.5 pound bag of Milk Duds mixed in with soap, shampoo, and deodorant. “What the fuck is all this?” I asked, pointing to the chocolate.
“Chocolate?” Taylor shrugged, as if it was commonplace for two grown men to have a candy stash Willy Wonka would be jealous of.
“No.”
“No, what? They’re on sale.”
“No,” I repeated, shaking my head. I pulled out the M&Ms and was about to put them back on the shelf when Taylor snatched them from my hand.
“What the hell? I want those.”
“NO, Taylor!” I pried the bags of candy from his fingers, tossing it in with the pastas on the shelf behind me. Taylor growled and glared at me, but didn’t say anything else as I continued down the aisle toward the checkout lanes.
When we finally made it to a line and got our things on the conveyer belt, Taylor was making a big deal of some multi-colored phone car-charger on the display next to the conveyer belt. He was making such a big deal of it, I couldn’t help by try to figure out what it was he wanted me distracted from. It took me until I saw the cashier slide the last bag of M&Ms across the scanner to realize Taylor had picked up all the candy I had discarded. “What the hell is this?” I demanded.
“We had this conversation, Zachary. That is choc-o-late.” He enunciated the syllables of the word, nodding his head as he did so. I refrained from backhanding him, and just gave him a dirty look instead. “What, Zac? Come on, I have been craving chocolate for days.”
In retrospect, I probably should have punched him right in his stupid mouth.
“Damn it, Taylor!”
A few heads turned to our location, Taylor’s cheeks blushing at the attention. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered loudly.
“I told you not to put your Preparation H near the food!” I responded, purposefully projecting my voice across the front end of the store.
Taylor shoved me, with more force than he ought to have, and I stumbled backward a bit, nearly knocking over the stupid chargers. “What the hell, Tay? Stop being such a bitch,” I rubbed my arm where he had pushed me, his palm leaving it sore.
By the time we had finished our little spectacle, the young cashier was pulling the last of our things across the scanner. I nodded a hello to her, and a small smirk turned up the corner of her mouth. “Did your girlfriend here find her maxi pads alright?” the girl asked, batting her eyes at me. It only took a glance at Taylor–bright red cheeks, fists clenched at his sides–for me to lose it; he was so angry, I could see the steam rising from the top of his head.
I continued laughing all the way to the car, unable to control myself as Taylor walked briskly ahead of me. He sat, pouting, in the passenger seat, leaving me to transfer all of the groceries from the cart to the trunk. He always had some reason to leave me with all the heavy lifting; of all the things about Taylor I found obnoxious, this had to be number one on the list.
When I got in the car, I turned to Taylor to ream him out for the way he acted in the store, but before I could, he finally exploded. “What the holy fuck was that, Zac? I mean, really. Do you have to be such an evil asshole all the time?”
“Whatever, Taylor, I was just joking and you know it,” He was so exasperating sometimes.
“Fine, yeah, whatever,” He crossed his arms over his chest in the seat, staring out the window as I drove, refusing to speak.
Taylor stubbornly continued his silent treatment all the way back to our apartment, rushing in to the house before the trunk was even popped. With no one to complain to, I dragged all of our groceries into the apartment alone, depositing them on the floor in the kitchen. “Tay! Come help me put these away!” I called down the hall.
I was halfway through the bags of cold items when Taylor emerged in the kitchen, wearing gym shorts and a wife-beater. “Do I have to? I want to go to the gym.”
“It’ll be there when you’re done–it’s open twenty-four hours,” I reminded him, throwing one of his bags of M&Ms at him.
Despite the fact that he stuck his tongue out at me, Taylor did as I asked and assisted me in putting away the groceries. It didn’t take him long to forget why he was pouting and start talking my ear off; I wasn’t really paying much attention. He’d never know, of course–sometimes, I would swear Taylor spoke to hear his own voice.
With the last of the groceries safely in the cupboards, I turned around to see Taylor leaning against the counter, munching on his M&Ms. “Want some?” he held the bag out to me.
“I thought you were going to the gym?”
“I am,” he nodded, walking toward the door. “You wanna come?”
Glancing at the clock indicated it was only two in the afternoon–I had no other plans so I hung my head and agreed. “Just let me go get changed.”