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About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 4, 2009)
OREGON S GAY/LESBIAN/BI/TRANS NEWSMAGAZINE SEPTEMBER 0 2009 3LM VOICES The Colors ond the Kids It’s Sunday afternoon, Shawn’s birthday, and I am standing at his front door ring ing the bell. Southeast Portland is beautiful today, girls in short sundresses biking by on Division Street with their hair shining in the sun, sprinklers making rainbows on front lawns all around me. The door opens—I’m surprised to see Shawn, a color designer and amazingly stylish man, in bright white box ers and a white t-shirt. I look him up and down: “Happy birthday, mister. When did you join a cult?” “No, dude, it’s for the colored water balloon fight. That reminds me, you and I need to make the balloons now. First, let me smoke.” It has been a week since I stood on the Hawthorne Bridge and realized I needn’t be resigned to numbness or sadness, and I spent the time considering what it was that would make me happy. I sent out a ticker-tape parade of resumes applying for crazily lucrative jobs, I chanted sutras at the Buddhist center, I cried on the couch of my new depth psychologist, I pushed a brilliant man against the parking meter on a well-lit street and kissed him hard on the mouth. I made exaggerated steps, great balletic leaps, toward happiness; and while I knew that something felt dif ferent in my life, the sadness was still there, sticking stubbornly to the world despite my ^ 3 REM EM BER b y Nick M ottos I always im agined a h a p p y life as a co lle ctio n of huge, ridiculous victories - writing a novel th a t gives Oprah m ultiple orgasms, e p ic year-long travel excursions, w aking up in my Paris flat with my fa c e against the hairy chest o f my philosopher- king husband. I have grand am bitions w hich is precise ly why I ve a ch ie v e d w hat I have... frantic attempts to dissipate it. Shawn and I sit on the stairs, gossip about boys and shoes. In his orange glasses I see the reflection of the trees, the clouds and myself as he stubs out his cigarette. “Ready to start making the balloons?” Four drops of blue food coloring drop into the yellow balloon—I pull the neck of it onto the faucet, turn the handle and it swells green. I am laughably bad at math, count- ing-on-fingers terrible; this sort of addition, this color plus that color equals another, is the extent of my skill with sums. Red balloon plus four drops blue food coloring, purple water balloon. Four drops red into yellow balloon, orange rubber jig gling obscenely in my hands. I am lulled into a trance by the repetition, the hard beats of Daft Punk and the sound of Shawn singing along in the other room, the balloons multi plying in the sink. My chest fills with breath and I let it go in a sigh, look down at the dye in the sink and the slick balloons, and realize the size of my smile. I always imagined a happy life as a col lection of huge, ridiculous victories-writing a novel that gives Oprah multiple orgasms, epic year-long travel excursions, waking up in my Paris flat with my face against the hairy chest of my philosopher-king husband. I have grand ambitions, which is precisely why I’ve achieved what I have in my life. At some point long ago I resolved to have an existence of profound glory—and here, with my hands stained red and blue, Kanye West blasting, I am surprised by the joy of such colorful and simple things. Through the window before me, Shawn’s handsome neighbor is smoking cigarettes in a white shirt and a dog is lying in the golden rays, her tongue touching the cement. The summer sun makes the dusty window lumi nous, makes the marigolds glow a violent orange and the water balloons glisten in the sink, makes me sigh and think of the ways that the colors and the kids keep me alive. Shawn comes up behind me, looks into the sink. “That’s probably enough,” he says. “Let’s get out to the park. Everyone should be getting there soon.” He picks up a green balloon, looks at it, looks back at me. “What's up, smiley?” “I’m glad you’re my friend,” I tell him, full of gratitude for the food coloring on my arms, for the dog panting outside and the light of the sun and my heart, beating in my ribcage. “Thanks, dude. You too,” he laughs, plac ing the green balloon back in the sink. “Nt*v, stop being a blissed-out hippie weirdo and help me get these into the truck.” I laugh back, smiling. “Let’s do it.” Nick Mattos remains a blissed-out hippie weirdo. He is the Portland correspondent for NYC mens fashion blog HommeBoy.net and co-editor of the zine When to Change. ++ HOLLYWOOD LOUNGE TUESDAYS with c/> SUZANNE & MISS MYLAR KARAOKE WITH A GONG! D o w n to w n - 412 Coffee SW 4th Ave Food by Stark St Cocktails SCANDALS 1125 SW STARK ST • PORTLAND www.scandalspdx.com f
