“Home is a Fire’’ Compilation Released
Jordan Nasser left his dream job behind and took the opportunity to re-examine his life — an experience he highly recommends if you ever have the chance. A graduate of the University of Tennessee, he was raised in Knoxville before moving to New York City. He currently lives in Stockholm, Sweden.
In his debut novel, “Home Is a Fire,’’ he drew upon his experiences growing up in the South. Quirky characters, outstanding reviews, and mentions in the Advocate, Paper Magazine, and the New York Times placed the book on the Amazon top ten rated LGBT fiction list. The story continued in “The Fire Went Wild’’ and “This Fire Inside.’’
The three novels have been re-edited with new material and are now available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.
Excerpt:
The Subway
The 4 train is barreling down Lexington Avenue, and I can see the reflection of my face in the glass of the subway door. I’m not pretty. My mind is wandering to when I first moved to New York from Tennessee, twelve years ago. I was twenty-one, fresh out of college, and ready to take on the world. In my first week in the city, I vividly remember squeezing myself onto a packed subway car similar to this one, with a sweat-inducing lack of air conditioning. There were a million hands, arms and bags stretching between poles, doors, and ceiling, like a Twister board on the move, yet no one was touching anybody else. New Yorkers have this uncanny ability to live in this vast metropolis of millions, and yet never violate the space of a stranger. It’s an unwritten rule.
I had sardined myself next to a lady in a dark blue polyester suit jacket, skirt, and running shoes. Very Working Girl. She was staring off into the train doors with a glazed look that was a mixture of boredom and acceptance, the reflection of her face next to mine. I was all smiles and newbie excitement. Slowly, dully and with no emotion, her lips parted.
“I been riding this train for fifteen years,” she said to no one in particular, her eyes never moving.
I glanced away from her reflection, creased my brow and assured myself that I would never become her.
And now, here I am twelve years later staring at my own reflection, the corners of my lips resting softly somewhere down near my toes. My boyfriend, David, is talking non-stop about our upcoming wedding. We are on a packed express train on our way to city hall to apply for our marriage license, and he’s ticking off the items on our to-do list. His lips are moving, and his hands are fluttering about excitedly, like a kid who just had too many Pixy Stix. I’m leaning on the back of a seat, between the pole and the door with my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans and he’s practically dancing on the tips of his toes in front of me, “surfing” hands-free. He refuses to touch any surface on the train. Ever.
“And then we have to look at that spot in Central Park again, remember?” he started. “Not the one where Tony and Jill got married. That was awful. All those screaming kids, right? I mean, how could they? That’s why I don’t trust wedding planners. Didn’t they check that space at all beforehand? And I know you don’t want a religious ceremony, but do you really trust that online preacher license thing? Can you really get ordained online? I mean, yeah, it would be great for Marcos to marry us, but is it legal? Really? Because I don’t wanna run into problems with our taxes later, you know? God knows we don’t wanna get audited. But we can talk about that later. I mean, there’s so much more we have to decide.” He pursed his lips and paused for effect. “I think I really wanna wear white. Can I wear white? Is that crazy? I mean, I know we’re not virgins and all, but do you really think that matters these days? Besides, hello, we’re gay! All rules out the window, right? HA! My mother is freaking. I mean, she’s way too excited about this already, but she is gonna get worse. Total control. She’ll want total control over this thing. But I promise you, babe, I’m not letting her anywhere near it. It’s just you and me against the world! It’s gonna kill me, but I’m gonna pull this off all by myself. Just you wait! Oh! And…”
And I’m staring at his face, and I can hear what he’s saying, but I don’t think I can listen anymore. My heart is racing, and all I can feel is the bump, bump, whack of the tracks below my feet as the snippets of graffiti on the tunnel walls race by. The beads of perspiration start to trickle down my forehead. My stomach is rising up to meet my throat, I can feel my back get prickly with sweat, and I’m about to ruin another shirt. The train pulls to a stop at 14th Street, and I instinctively shift to one side of the door as the city begins to move all around me. David is still talking. It’s as if he has taken control over all of the oxygen in the subway car, and I’m on life support.
“Next stop, Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall,” the pre-recorded voice speaks out, jarring me back to reality.
The doors chime to warn they are closing, and I step off the train, backward, as they shut in front of me. David, in a panic, rushes forward with his hands pressed to the glass door.
“Oh, my god! Oh, my god! What happened?!” he screams through the glass. “It’s the next stop! Oh, my god! Don’t panic. It’s okay! Get the next train, and I’ll wait for you!”
“I’m breaking up with you,” I say softly, almost to myself.
“Wait?! What?! I can’t, I… I can’t hear you.”
“I’m breaking up with you,” I scream, and repeat. “I’m breaking up with you. I’m sorry.”
The car is pulling away, and suddenly David is no longer speaking. His hands are still pressed to the glass. His face is white and pale and frightened and…gone, to Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, without me.
I take another step back and feel faint. I can’t breathe. I need air. The thick heat of the tunnel is pressing down on me as I bound up the steps two by two to Union Square Park and grab the nearest free bench. There’s a homeless man to my left with his entire world of belongings strapped to a wire shopping cart, like a Grand Canyon mule made of blue plastic and metal and string. He is the “King of the Magpies,” and he collects every shiny object in his path. To my right, a tourist is eating an overpriced street pretzel.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at it numbly, knowing there is only one call I can make. There’s only one person who can make me feel better right now.
The phone rings, and I get her voicemail.
“Hey Mom, it’s me, Derek. I’m coming home.”
‘’Home is a Fire, Books 1–3'’ is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.
