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
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