I made my New Year's resolution, grabbed my keys, and got in the car before I could change my mind. It was warm outside but bone cold in the green machine, a dry, still cold leftover from a week of nights in the driveway. I pulled my sweater over my hands, swatted at the fuzzy dice Keith gave me for Christmas, and smacked the lever for the heater. I drove to Keith's with the heat on and the windows down, the steering wheel slipping under my sweater-covered hands as the dice dangled from my mirror.
Their fur is matted and worn and the white string is dingy and discolored. Keith says they're "the real thing" from the 50s, whatever that means, and that fighter pilots in World War II used to keep actual non-fuzzy dice in the cockpits of their planes for luck. I'm not sure how that works or why Keith thought I needed luck, but the dice are the same frog green as the green machine and I like them a lot more than I'll ever let Keith know. I haven't had them a week yet but I think the green machine would look naked without them.
I gave them another good thwack when I pulled into Keith's driveway, hoping for some of that World War II-era luck with keeping my resolution. I didn't think I needed it; I wasn't having a single doubt as I strode up to the porch and rang his bell six times before knocking out Shave and a Haircut on his door. I was almost bouncing on my toes I was so excited to tell him.
But then he opened the door and as soon as the possibility was staring me in the face, my stomach dropped down to my knees and I felt lightheaded. My mouth went dry and I dropped my keys. "Drinking already?", he joked as I picked them up. "Well, it is New Year's," I said. I twirled the key ring around my finger to prove I wasn't a total klutz before I stuffed them in my pocket.
I don't think I spent more than an hour at Keith's. I told him I was just killing time before a party and I thought I'd say happy New Year to him - I didn't say one thing about my resolution. I left without telling him I think I might be gay.
It was still December 31, 1989, five hours away from 1990. I told myself it didn't count.
Their fur is matted and worn and the white string is dingy and discolored. Keith says they're "the real thing" from the 50s, whatever that means, and that fighter pilots in World War II used to keep actual non-fuzzy dice in the cockpits of their planes for luck. I'm not sure how that works or why Keith thought I needed luck, but the dice are the same frog green as the green machine and I like them a lot more than I'll ever let Keith know. I haven't had them a week yet but I think the green machine would look naked without them.
I gave them another good thwack when I pulled into Keith's driveway, hoping for some of that World War II-era luck with keeping my resolution. I didn't think I needed it; I wasn't having a single doubt as I strode up to the porch and rang his bell six times before knocking out Shave and a Haircut on his door. I was almost bouncing on my toes I was so excited to tell him.
But then he opened the door and as soon as the possibility was staring me in the face, my stomach dropped down to my knees and I felt lightheaded. My mouth went dry and I dropped my keys. "Drinking already?", he joked as I picked them up. "Well, it is New Year's," I said. I twirled the key ring around my finger to prove I wasn't a total klutz before I stuffed them in my pocket.
I don't think I spent more than an hour at Keith's. I told him I was just killing time before a party and I thought I'd say happy New Year to him - I didn't say one thing about my resolution. I left without telling him I think I might be gay.
It was still December 31, 1989, five hours away from 1990. I told myself it didn't count.
