Boy Meets Grill
If I can fit in anywhere, it’s in a group of men standing by a grill — is something I used to think. My certainty slips away, however, as I shift awkwardly in this loose semicircle of masculinity. There is a definite pecking order, and you’d think Grant would be at the top, since he’s doing the flipping, but you’d be wrong. Always look for the power behind the throne. In this case, Trevor, Derek’s buddy from college.
My roommate Derek’s invitation came this morning, “Hey, I’m grilling with some buddies, you should come” — said with his back to me while leaving the room. Derek always refers to his college friends as “buddies,” which serves as a helpful reminder that he and I haven’t been friends for very long. In my experience, it’s important to have very clear rankings of friends, and longevity is as good a metric as any.
I feel like I’m not really contributing much to this “grill sesh.” Maybe, should I, is this the right time to offer advice? Everyone else has offered advice. They probably think I don’t have any advice. Advice is grill currency. It’s now or never: “That one looks ready to flip.”
“Nah bro, not yet. You gotta wait.” Trevor (Trev?) asserts while sipping his IPA sagely. Shit, what was I thinking? No man has ever been blamed for burning meat, but flip too early and it’s over, you’re a goddamn grill pariah.
I try for a rueful smile, something that says, “Oh, I know, I was just playing. Haha I never even flip burgers. I let them flip themselves. Zen, yo.” But that’s a lot to communicate in one smile, and it’s possible I’m showing too much teeth. Or too little. I’m pretty bad at tooth calibration.
I take a swig of beer as cover and realize my bottle is empty just as I bring it to my mouth. Too late, I’m committed. It’s either angrily throw this bottle in the fire or pretend to drink. I opt for the second option, and, although I’ve mimed at a collegiate level, my performance is met with the stony silence that only non-mimes can achieve.
I’m sweating, even though it’s early March, and who grills in March? I’ll tell you who grills in March: serious men. These ain’t dads in the yard. I’m talking bros in the back. This is the crew I need to get in with if I’m ever going to make it as a frontend web developer in this town.
I risk a glance at Derek, and his eyes are shooting daggers at me as though they were a dagger howitzer with an infinite supply of dagger ammunition defending a fixed position at The Battle of Dagger Hill. God am I good at analogies.
Derek’s regretting ever inviting me. I can see it in the way his left foot is angled slightly away from me, and also in the way he leans over and hisses, “Stop making me regret ever inviting you.” I’m very good at reading people.
Before I can craft an appropriate smile-reply for Derek, I notice a subtle shift in the group. Heads are being thrown back, shoulders squared, and preparations made for condescending explanations of complex phenomena such as fiscal policy and cricket. It can only mean one of two things, and it’s definitely not the second one. My suspicion is confirmed as a young woman approaches. I hastily throw a veggie patty onto the grill and dash off a quick smile to the effect of, “I’m thoughtful *and* fun.”
“I assume the garden burger is for you?” — her eyebrows are raised. Shit! Women can eat meat now! I forgot about feminism! I freeze my smile (one less thing to think about) and realize that my hands haven’t been in a standard position for over a minute. Pockets. Pockets are normal. There. Hands are taken care of, I shift my attention back to the smile, curling up one side of my mouth, and then the other, as if to say, “Please trust that I’m fun.”
She’s still staring at me. That’s good! Is it?! Oh god, now I have to say something. I should’ve thought of something clever, but smiling this well takes up a surprising amount of brainpower. Think! Garden burger, garden burger… “I’m…not a gardener,” I mumble, and she laughs. Wait, she laughed?? Am I funny? I didn’t think I was, but maybe I am. This could be good. Funny is good, I think.
Oh my god now she’s smiling at me! Okay, play it cool, just give her some light miming. Oh, what’s this? I’m trapped inside a glass box. Uh oh, how do I get out of here? Is there a door? Oh no, I’m running out of oxygen! This is an airtight glass box and I don’t have much time! God I’m charming.
Her eyes seemed to say, “I can’t see the glass box, and yet I know it’s there, because of how good you are at miming, and nothing gets me going like some good miming. My last boyfriend couldn’t mime or satisfy me.” Her mouth, however, said, “Are you ok? Is this what a stroke looks like?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d be breaking the first rule of miming,” I said out loud, breaking the first rule of miming.
“Is this clown bothering you?” Trev really knew how to insult a mime. “Here, have a burger. Flipped ’em myself.” He was daring Grant to contradict him, but all the flippers in the world can’t give a man balls.
“Hmmm, that looks a little burnt.” My heart leaps. My bottle is still empty, but I don’t care. I drink deeply and mime a smug, satisfied belch, which I politely trap within a glass box. “But at least it’s not a garden burger, thanks.” My heart sinks. I mime another drink, but sorrowfully. Trev gets the girl, again. I mean, I just met Trev, but I assume he always gets the girl.
Trev walks away with the girl of my dreams. I stare into the burning embers, long and hard. Are there answers in there, or just questions? Or just coals? Suddenly, it all comes together. A moment of clarity. I know what I have to do. “That one looks ready to flip.” Grant looks at me, at the burger, at me again. Grant is in awe. “You’re…you’re right.” Grant flips it. “It’s perfect.” That’s right, Grant, it is. Everything is. Except my love life. And I owe rent to fucking Derek.
