Story by J.J. Krause
Cascade is a serialized satire about four Seattleites –– a failed homosexual, a crypto-obsessed mom, a party-girl-turned-caretaker, and an unorthodox professor, all trying to hold it together in a world coming apart. Catch updates every few weeks on the Capitol Hill Seattle Blog. In this installment, we meet Dave, Karen, and Tamara on a weekend day as an unexpected heatwave hits Seattle. Want to skip ahead? Get the book.
A Failed Homosexual
Dave scrunched his nose as he entered his apartment—it smelled of cat litter, decomposing carpet, and stale pizza from Zeek’s. The windowsill air-conditioning unit was rattling. On a sectional facing a TV too big for the space, he spotted hair—shaved into severe, militaristic crew cut—peeking above the backrest.
“Morning,” said Dave, in a voice that was surprisingly soft for a man so tall.
No response. Netflix was on. Dave dumped the bananas in the kitchen and glanced at his roommate. Rob was slouched on the sofa in sweatpants, swiping. Dave caught a glimpse of his screen: a shirtless man. Then—swipe—another.
“Big night last night?” said Dave, a little louder.
Rob didn’t look up. After a few seconds he blinked and said, “umm…the usual. Got home around three.”
“Where’d you end up?”
More poking and swiping, as if solving a riddle. “Cuff? Then some after parties.”
Dave had never been to an after party. He noticed a DoorDash bag with a stapled-on receipt. “What’s for breakfast?”
Rob didn’t answer. Music from his phone clashed with the TV, but he didn’t seem to mind. Dave turned to leave, but just then Rob’s bedroom door swung open. A young man emerged, clad only in underwear: black hip briefs with lettering on the waistband that read, “Nasty Pig.”
Rob’s eyes remained attached to his screen. The young man looked at Dave, and Dave had a reflexive urge to shake hands with a visitor to his home. He decided against it.
“I’m Dave,” he said with a bizarre wave, feeling his face flush.
“Sup,” the young man said, not giving his name and not embarrassed in the slightest.
“You too,” said Dave, and then, “Not much, I mean—not much is up.”
The man smiled and disappeared into the bathroom. Flustered and somewhat aroused, Dave turned and fled the room.
Closing his bedroom door with relief, he entered a radically different climate: the humidity skyrocketed and the pizza smell gave way to a lush rainforest scent. An exotic-looking cat looked up at him from his bed, and a metal shelving unit jammed with houseplants blocked his window. He slid the peace lily into the mix, his gift to himself on this day, his thirty-third birthday.
Pulling aside a tangle of leaves, he looked out. From his perch, Madison Valley stretched before him. He could see who skipped the moss treatment this year, and whose landscaping was succumbing to brambles. Directly below was an old Craftsman, gutters overflowing with pine needles. In the distance was the Arboretum, trees leafing out.
It wasn’t a bad view. But, at thirty-three, he’d hoped for a bit more. Thirty-three felt momentous. It was a big one—like fifty, or seventy-five. He was a third of the way through life, optimistically. And while he was reasonably happy with his first triennium, he was entering his second with trepidation. He’d been in this apartment for nine years; like many plants on his shelf, he needed to be repotted. But where could he go?
He sat on the bed next to Lennox. Her coat looked less oily than usual. Maybe the thyroid drops were working? She released a broken croak as he rubbed her ears. Her vocal cords weren’t as pristine as her namesake’s.
His eyes drifted to an African violet on his bedside table. Ignoring the early signs of a mealybug infestation, he gazed at its stamen. His mind went back to Nasty Pig. How long had it been since hip briefs had emerged from his bedroom door? He couldn’t remember. After all the hoopla of coming out—informing his parents, purchasing new swimwear, investing in martini glasses—he wasn’t even getting laid. It had all been so inconvenient, so expensive. He was told he’d be “fabulous.” And here he was, ten years after the big event, renting this dumpy apartment. Single, celibate, and aging. A failed homosexual.
And now he was supposed to eat cake to celebrate. For a moment he thought about bailing. “Testing positive” for Covid had been such a perfect excuse, but it wouldn’t deter his friends—they’d bring soup. It’s so hard to get out of your own birthday. He’d need something more severe. Maybe if he was hit by a bus in the next hour, he’d have something valid. “He couldn’t make the party, because he perished”…“He’s gone?”…“Yes, King County Metro did him in; he’s deceased.” You couldn’t fault someone for that.
It could be worse. A park party was dodging a bullet as far as gay birthdays were concerned. A group dinner would be hellacious… the cocktail tab alone could trigger bankruptcy. And now many gays were planning birthday trips to celebrate themselves—each ratcheting up the prior by choosing a more-distant location. Skipping Leavenworth for Miami. One-upping Miami with Bogotá. Spain was now being discussed. What was next? Madagascar? Mars?
Dave shuddered. No, he’d never do that to himself. Without a presence on social media, he didn’t get credit for exotic trips. There were no Likes, so travel just wasn’t worth it. And it was prohibitive for him personally, due to extensive watering rituals and Lennox’s renal disease. He wasn’t upset; foreigners hated us now anyway, so best to stay put. The park would get the job done fine.
He rose from his bed and went across the room, where another shelf faced the plants, but this one was jammed with books. It was an odd collection: The Picture of Dorian Gray next to Why Minsky Matters; Epictetus’s Discourses shoved above the latest edition of Irrational Exuberance; Bonfire of the Vanities by a row of European economic histories. They were jumbled together, covered in coffee stains and sticky notes. He’d wanted to be a writer once; he’d even won some contests in school. But those days were long gone.
At the end of his bookshelf was an “up next” pile like an unsteady Jenga tower, and next to it was the mail he’d just brought in. He sorted through it, tossing junk into the trash. Then he came to the final item: the strange newspaper. He didn’t subscribe to any physical newspapers, though he fantasized about doing so. He held it up like some sort of relic. It reminded him of childhood in the 90s. In a bohemian font, it said:
The Cascadian
A Bioregionalism Journal
Spring Equinox Edition
Raising an eyebrow, he tossed it on a shelf. It was weird-enough to warrant a perusal but he’d have to examine it later, because mortality beckoned. He slathered on sunscreen and packed his bag. He pulled dusty pink shorts over a speedo. Sighing melodramatically, he swung open his door and fetched rosé from the fridge.
In the living room, the brown takeout bag had been ripped open and mauled. The half eaten burrito sat on the coffee table amidst wreckage of aluminum foil and splattered Tapatío. Nasty Pig was nowhere to be seen, but Rob was still positioned on the sofa, still swiping. Dave recognized the torso on his screen: it was Rob’s own. He was reviewing his profile.
Dave didn’t bother saying goodbye. It was time for his party.
CASCADE 1: Going Downhill | A Failed Homosexual |.Crypto Karen | New Neighbors
J.J. lives in Seattle and can frequently be found on foot trekking up and down hills, stopping only to record one-liners and half-baked ideas.
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