Talk Vomit

By Sam Farquharson

As always, I put on my shiny black “ass-kicking” Doc Martens, brush away any last bit of tree nuts off my teeth, and take one more bite of dinner to soak up any alcohol I would have at Jay’s apartment. I haven’t seen Jay in a month and I hope they’re okay. When I scrolled through Facebook I saw that they took an impromptu trip with their family and boyfriend to Disney World. I didn’t get an invite. I’d just spent Thanksgiving with them. I didn’t even know they left. I wrap my six-foot-long scarf loosely around my neck and tightly around my face to brace for the biting seven-degree weather. That guy who hurt me those years ago will always be the reason why nothing can touch my neck. 

There are two ways to get to Jay’s. If you take one route, you make a left at Chipotle and stay on Brookline Ave. until you arrive at Kenmore Square. There is a restaurant that guy still goes to along this street. I usually cross the road and hold my breath until the black awning is in the distance and the shining logo glows dim. I remember when Jay and I first walked to their apartment and I recognized where I was. Trembling, I pulled them into oncoming traffic as tears fell down my face.

“Why did we cross the road, my house is on the other side?” they asked, eyes widened to show they were listening.

“He… he still goes there and has a drink or two. I panic walking past, it feels like any moment he can come out and…”

“I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” they interrupted. We continued our journey and I remembered the countless nights when they’d stayed up to listen to me sob as the bruises he left on my neck and chest spread and shrank with each heave. Jay always managed to whisper, “You’re so strong” before my appointments at the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center (BARCC), and waited in the lobby until I was finished. They made good friends with the receptionist that semester. 

After you arrive in Kenmore Square, you make a right until you arrive at an apartment building with a grey awning and pretentious name. We often stand at the front door and repeat it while scratching our chins to mimic the bourgeoisie. 

The other way to get to Jay’s is much longer but they spent a lot of time finding it for me. You go straight down Boylston and past the apartment building with dead rats caked into the sidewalk. There is a little dirt hill you walk up and then you reach a highway off-ramp. On a particularly warm winter day, we saw a blonde woman sitting on a broken kitchen chair playing the conga drums. She was sitting in the middle of the ramp letting cars zoom by, the wind complimenting her beat as a melody.

“I wish I could be as carefree as that,” said Jay, smiling at the performer.

“Me too, but I have homework to do,” I responded.

Today, I walked the first route and clenched my teeth as the cold wind whipped my face, feeling like burn streaks. I remembered to cross the street and focus on just arriving in Kenmore. Soon enough I would be greeted with the warmth of Jay’s apartment. I could hear the crowd cheering in Fenway Park as music bellowed from the speakers. “Concert or baseball game?” I thought as I made my way past the bridge.

I remember when I walked to Jay’s on the day I was absolutely certain I was going to kill myself. It was early August and I sat through a meeting where my boss Asha accused me of sleeping with my coworker, Vin. 

Vin slammed his hands on the table and yelled, “I promised I wouldn’t be violent anymore.” His hands weren’t that big, but I was fully aware cis-white men can and will get away with whatever actions their anger projects. It was the summer with the highest record of police shooting unarmed black males. Long story short, I found myself crossing a bridge past Fenway Park, my white silk tank top flapping in the wind as tears accumulated on the rims of my rose-gold aviators.

“It’s gonna be okay, Sam,” Jay said through my phone as I pressed it against my hot cheeks. I was one block away from their apartment and I could see them standing beneath the awning in their black Doc Martens, holding a tote bag. I fell into them, sobbing as the beat from the shaking cup of the homeless man on the milk crate matched my high and low moans.

“I’ve got two therapists waiting for you downtown. I get out of work at six. You can spend the night, those people fucking suck.” They held my swollen face in their hands and wiped the moisture off of my chin.

I was now close to the grey awning and I instinctively changed my voice to a nasal tone. Jay waited in the doorway for me, house slippers still on and their frame swallowed by an oversized black hoodie. 

“Why, I have arrived at the Braemore,” I said, making sure to wear a faux disapproving frown.

“Indeed, you have,” they responded, mirroring my face. When we entered their apartment they began to tell me about school, their trip to Disney World, and the stack of assignments that needed to be completed.

“I got you something,” Jay said as they pulled out a beige and brown box. On the cover there were chocolates shaped like beer bottles and beneath the label was a surgeon general warning. “They’re Brandy chocolates. I can’t believe they had these at Disney.”

“We’re drinking Brandy now? I guess we really are grown-ups,” I joked, unveiling the cocoa mound beneath the foil wrapper. As we bit the tip and swallowed the liquor and mocha center, I saw Jay begin to stare off into space.

“My dad is dying and he doesn’t have a long time,” they said, finishing off the rest of the treat. “Hence, the whole random trip. He’s always wanted to go.” I bit the inside of my cheeks and I hugged them until I felt the tension in their shoulders release.

“I am here for you if you need anything and I will always support you,” I replied, grasping their palm in mine.

“Let’s have another,” Jay responded, handing me a chocolate. We toasted and bit through the sweet layer to let the bitter flow onto our tongues.