Will Robinson

♫ Floating By - Washed Out ♫

I woke up at seven-thirty to the sounds of Gerhard Lengeling’s sublime “Marimba” ringtone. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tried to get out of bed, where I was met with an unexpected weight. Wilbur was lying on my chest. With a yowl (on his part), I pried the silver tabby ball of chaos off of me and placed him on the floor. “Rr,” he growled. I gave him a placating pat between the ears and went to brush my teeth.

After finishing my Bathroom Business, I checked my phone. I didn’t really use social media, aside from Discord (online friends) and Snapchat (work friends), so it was straight to the calendar for me. It was a regular busy Friday: class from eight-thirty to noon, and work from one to seven. Not so regular was the banner notification reading “IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!” in decadent Futura Bold. Oh! I checked the clock again. Yep. It was September 24th, 2021, and I was turning nineteen.

I never particularly cared about my birthday. That’s not to say the people around me didn’t care–my family made a big deal out of it, showering me with gifts while cooing about how fast I was growing. But eventually the joy that came with getting older started to trickle away, and not just because of the ever more salient knowledge of my mortality. Once I’d completed the arduous task of graduating elementary school, birthday parties were no longer considered a social obligation. I didn’t have many real friends, so my 8th birthday, with its twenty guests crawling over every inch of a sweaty McDonalds Playplace, could be easily contrasted with my 12th, which only one person attended.* I’m sure you can guess who. The presents, and my excitement, stopped at around that time.

(*It was at the AMC in Walker. We saw Atlas Shrugged Part III: Who Is John Galt? and were the only two people in the theater.)

And now it was my nineteenth birthday. It was set to be a wholly unimportant day, perfect for turning an age that didn’t matter unless you were an Alabaman gambler or an Ontarian alcoholic. I swiped the notification away and tried not to think about the goals I used to make on my birthday, the ever-heightening standards of progress I’d set for myself. Instead, I told myself to go with the flow, to not be so rigid, so oppressive. This year, I was going to be better. I was going to go with the flow.

It was two days after the GSA meeting. After the mystery person had run out of the room, it didn’t take too much effort to realize who they were. But just as my return had evidently shocked Emmett, seeing them again was weird for me too. What was I supposed to say? How do you fix a mistake you’ve spent years regretting? I was so lost in these questions that I didn’t say anything for the rest of the meeting. I just sat there in a haze. When it was over, I walked out as fast as I could, giving only a quick word to Zoe about seeing her again soon. I needed the fresh autumn air to jog my thoughts. As I walked in circles around Welsh Street Park, I spent an indeterminate amount of time just thinking. Thinking about how to apologize, how to become friends again, how I might bury my guilt for good. Wait. That last thought was awfully self-serving, wasn’t it? That sent me down another rabbit hole of pointless introspection, which continued in dizzying circles until I slammed my head into the door of my apartment building. I checked my phone, saw that it was well past ten, and realized I’d spent an hour walking home. And I was no closer to an answer! Sleep. Maybe sleep would help.

Sleep didn’t help. I woke up on Thursday just as frazzled as I’d been the night before. I had to drink down two coffees(!) before I felt awake enough to actually focus. This wouldn’t hold. I needed to settle the situation before it settled me, nerves be damned. So when I saw Emmett answer a question in my East Asian History class, it almost felt like fate. But then he ran away from me, and I was no closer to a resolution than I was on Wednesday. Fuck. My one chance to apologise slipped through the cracks... at least until next week’s class. Luckily, one of the best ways to forget worries is to get new worries, and my birthday was enough to occupy my thoughts. And that’s how it went until class started.

Fridays were the busiest day of my week. I had two morning classes, a six-hour shift at the bodega, then spent my remaining free time riding a bike I borrowed from my boss, delivering Postmates to haute-couture Brooklynites. The first class passed like molasses. My brain flip-flopped between birthday-related existential angst, the re-dredging of every social snafu I’d ever committed, and the urge to actually focus on the damn class. It almost felt like a monkey’s paw situation. I was really good at multitasking, but only when I used it to worry myself into a tizzy. It was a gift when class finally ended and I could go to work, where I could blissfully stay “no thoughts, head-empty” for the next six hours.

Neighborhood Supply was a little bodega in-between two apartment buildings, initially opened in the 80s to serve the Puerto Rican community of Bushwick. Since its founding, it was run by Stefano Narvaez, an overbearing, overweight sixty-something, whose love for his employees was matched only by his love for pop.

My job was ostensibly to run the register, but I found myself picking up all the odd jobs around the store. My coworkers certainly didn’t mind my doing their work for them, and it helped keep me centered. Win-win. While I was cleaning, I felt like I was actually doing something with my life. Like I was a productive member of society, rather than some antisocial mannequin.

Within an hour, I’d really done all there was to be done. Stefano kept the place remarkably clean for a bodega, though that’s not really saying much. I spent the next few hours standing dead-eyed at the register, barking out hellos to the old heads brushing through the shelves. There, I fancied myself a people-watcher. It was nice to remember that every other person in the world was out living their own lives, with just as many complexities and negativities as mine. The octogenarian with a cane was buying flowers for his wife. Two kids spent ten minutes picking out a single candy bar, stretching their allowances to their final cents. They were all people. I was a person too, though I didn’t always feel like one. Sometimes I just felt like a burden, an anomaly present in the world where I shouldn’t be. Was I always going to feel like that? A loser who doesn’t know how to start conversations, who accidentally hurts the people he l–

“Hey!” my coworker exclaimed, as he slapped me on the shoulder so hard I almost wheezed. “Head in the clouds again, Rain Man?”

I shook my head to get the cotton out then turned towards him, rubbing my aching shoulder all the whIle. “Sorry, zoned out. Uh, when did you get here?”

“Like, two minutes ago.”

I pulled out my phone to check the time. “Didn’t your shift start an... hour ago?”

“Yeah.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.” Then he laughed like we were friends. Asshole.

“You’re gonna get us both fired, Ashton.”

“Not if you keep doing my work for me!” He chucked again. “Plus, I have an excuse. I had a date last night.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked. “How’d that go?” Ashton was notoriously bad with women, at least when he was sober.

“So, I matched with this chick on Tinder, right? We start talking, and she’s coming onto me so strong that I almost have to tell her to calm down, you know? We set up a tryst at this Turkish place. She’s hanging onto my. Every. Word. And she’s begging me to come home with me, which I’m totally down with. Then, just as we leave, she drops the bomb. Turns out she’s transgender.”

“Okay. And?”

“And?! I’m not into that shit! I don’t have anything against transgenders, but, like, that’s a man! If she wants to be called a chick then whatever, but I wasn’t gonna suck her cock.”

“Um. I–” I wanted so badly to tell him to shut the fuck up. I didn’t agree with a word of his screed, and I doubted he’d even managed to get a date at all. The bluster he had when talking about women was not at all earned by his out-of-shape, pathetically average face. But I didn’t want to be a stuck-up asshole anymore. Ashton was right about one thing: I could be awfully uptight. Every time I spoke up it was to argue, to shut someone down. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, however rocky the foundation, by starting an argument I knew I couldn’t win. So instead, I just said, “That sucks, man.”

He nodded solemnly, like I was consoling him over the death of a beloved family pet. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, it does. Anyway, how’ve you been, man? Got any dates?”

“No, not really.” I wasn’t seeking a relationship, and even if I was, I still didn’t like meeting new people.

“I don’t get you, Will. You’re attractive. Fit. Sigma-adjacent, even. You could get all the girls you want.”

“Maybe that’s just not my top priority.”

“Are you gay?” he whispered. “It’s totally okay if you are! As long as you don’t come onto me, lol!” Oh my god, did he just say ‘lol’ out loud?

“I’m not gay,” I said dismissively, as I opened up my phone to check the notifications. I saw a text from each of my parents wishing me a happy birthday, along with a couple notifications from my friends on Discord. Ashton, who was leaning over my shoulder, followed my eyes and saw the messages.

“Oh my god, it’s your birthday?! Bro, why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked,” I deadpanned.

“Dude! There’s this band I love that’s playing tonight! This is the perfect opportunity to go out together! Catch a buzz, cop some girls, you feel me?” Ashton waggled his eyebrows close to escape velocity. He must’ve seen my apprehensive face, because he decided to push a little harder. “It’s nearby, and the concert doesn’t start until after your shift ends. I know you’re free. C’monnnnn,” he begged.

“I don’t–” My first thought was to turn him down. But a little voice in my head whispered, why not go out? It was my birthday, and my friend/acquaintance/coworker wanted to take me out for drinks. Go with the flow, Will, the voice implored. See where this goes. I let out a nervous sigh and decided to follow my shoulder devil. “Fuck it,” I declared. “Why not?”

The band was called No Makeup, and they were the type of fare I expected Ashton to enjoy: loud, angsty, and overtly libertarian. All of the band members looked like they stepped out of a 2004 episode of Punk’d, save for the bassist who wore full missionary garb. The concert started at 9pm, but the venue was nearly full when we arrived thirty minutes earlier. “They have a two drink minimum,” Ashton said as we approached the club. “You can use this to get in. I don’t need it anymore.” He handed me a card which I realized was his old fake ID.

“Your alter ego is named Skeffington Liquourish?”

“It was made in the UK, okay?” Ashton blurted out. “It costs more to pick your own name.”

“Ah. Righto, chap,” I responded, britishly. We walked up to the bouncer and I handed him the card. He gave it a cursory glance and immediately waved us in. I was a little shocked, because Ashton and I didn’t look similar at all, save for an ethnically-ambiguous mien that made people ask us “where are you from?” in elementary school. Maybe my beard made me look older than nineteen, or maybe the bouncer just didn’t care. It was probably the latter. Man looked like a brick.

The Crouching Tiger was a pretty intimate venue. Out front was a tiny bar, which had double doors leading into a mid-sized concert hall. I say concert hall, but it was really just a room with foldout chairs and musty carpets, band posters lining the stained wood walls. It was probably zoned to fit around a hundred, but easily had twice that. As we walked through the bar, I caught Ashton leering at the ass of one of the bartenders, completely unsubtly. I didn’t say anything, ‘cause “go with the flow” and all that, but it brought my already-low opinion of Ashton two notches lower.

Once the show actually started, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself enjoying the concert experience. No Makeup was Alternative Rock as hell, but they played with time signatures in a way that bled into Math Rock territory. They still did that thing most alt-rock bands do, where the vocalist tries to sound as whiny as possible, but besides that they were shockingly good. Maybe my shoulder devil wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.

As we started to get into the meat of their show, Ashton kept getting up from his seat and returning with drinks, which he’d immediately shove into my waiting arms. “Will, you can be so fucking uptight,” he slurred, with a smirk that let me know he was trying to tease me. “But toniiiiight I’m gonna loosen you up.” He made a chugging motion with his hand, so I obeyed and drank.

It was really strong: a vodka coke, light on the coke. I made a face but swallowed and kept my composure. Ashton seemed to take that as consent, so throughout the rest of the concert, he’d silently take my cup and refill it. The loud music, the flashing lights, and the tipsy haze of alcohol all combined to put in a trance. He’d give me a cup, and without really thinking, I’d throw it back and swallow. Maybe I didn’t realize my own tolerance, or maybe whatever he gave me was just stronger than I thought, because I was dipping in and out of consciousness by the time No Makeup came out for their encore.

Toward the end of the concert, Ashton yanked me from my chair and dragged me into the bar. There, the music was muffled and the world a little more salient. There were two girls standing in front of me, Ashton’s arm around one of them. “Oh wow,” the other girl said. I could immediately tell she was absolutely hammered. “You were right, he is hot.” My brain was having trouble putting together the details, but I eventually sorted things out. Ashton found someone he expected me to hook up with.

“Will,” Ashton said, snapping his fingers to get my attention. I looked up at him with a delayed, vacant expression. “This is Ruya. She’s going to lose you your virginity.” I don’t know if he intended that to be a euphemism or what. He could have just said “she wants to fuck you,” and we all would have been better off.

“Hey,” Ruya said. She bit her lip and made what I could only interpret as very sleepy bedroom eyes. She was hot, with striking cheekbones, daring makeup, and a pixie cut. Not really my type, but objectively? An absolute smokeshow.

“Hey,” I said back. Again, my conscience told me to say no, to not go through with this. But you’re both drunk and horny, my shoulder devil whispered. Why not try it out, see where things go? So I said my goodbyes to Ashton, and walked with Ruya to her apartment.

Somewhere inside my vacant head a little voice kept repeating don’t do this, you don’t want to do this, but it was shut up by an absolutely inside-rearranging kiss from Ruya. We were locked in a heated embrace only enhanced by whatever drugs Ashton had given me. And then we had sex. Well, kinda. She pushed me onto the bed and went to town, and I didn’t really have a say in what part of town we got to visit. It was clunky and awkward, and neither party was really enjoying it. Eventually, I came to my senses and stopped the whole thing.

You know the sex is bad when you have an existential crisis mid-thrust. But that’s where I was when it hit me: what was the point of all this? I’d spent months following the suggestions of those around me in a Yes Man (2008)-style attempt to try things I wouldn’t try otherwise, and where did it get me? The only friend who celebrated my birthday was a transphobic creep, I was having an absolutely atrocious sexual experience, and I wasn’t happy with my life in the slightest. I thought going with the flow would help me overcome the sort of ritualistic, overly-logical behavior that led me to hurt Eliza. But I was starting to realize that it was only leading me down new paths of vice. I was struck with a sobering question, though not sobering enough to actually get me sober: was I ever going to exert agency in my own life, or was it always going to be like this? I didn’t want to hurt this girl, and I hated myself for letting things get this far. So I forced my brain to put itself back together, and I forced my body to push itself off the bed.

“Nooooooo,” she whined, trying to get me to come back. But I could tell her heart wasn’t really in it.

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna go. You’re, like, really drunk, and I don’t think we should be doing this.” I went to the bathroom to clean up. I looked at myself in the mirror–disheveled, drunk, and probably on the verge of passing out. I walked back outside to see Ruya on her bed. She was disheveled, drunk, and probably on the verge of passing out. I grabbed her comforter and sort of tucked her in, patting her lightly on the head. “I’m sorry about all this,” I slurred again. She didn’t respond. I went into her living room and joylessly passed out on the couch.

In the morning, I threw up. Ruya showered me with apologies about the night before, and thanked me for not going all the way. It turns out her friend had done the same thing to her that Ashton did to me. I still felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet for letting things get as far as they did. “Can I give you my number?” she asked. “Maybe we could start things over as friends.”

“That sounds good,” I groaned. Not because I disliked her proposition, but because I was really, really fucking hungover. I left her building and stumbled back home, where I slept for another ten hours.

And that was my nineteenth birthday.