Belated by Lau

Birthdays are overrated.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I pull on my sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. I catch my reflection in the refrigerator before I open it, and it occurs to me that I should probably brush my hair. I should probably cut it, too, but I miss it long and I’m not much caring lately about...well...anyone.

There are a lot of people who care about me. That’s what my press agents tell me. That’s what my label tells me. There are a lot of people who care about you, Darren, and you should cut your hair.

I should also be wearing better clothes. I kick the vegetable drawer to see if anything still rattles in it, but it’s just an empty plastic thump that responds. I should be wearing better clothes and not let myself get caught outside the grocery store by photographers from “Crown”. I should not let myself become so rattled by said photographers that I forget to even buy groceries, until I get home and realize that I don’t have a thing to eat in the house and not my mother herself could pull me from this house again tonight.

But most of all, I should not be alone on my birthday.

I pull a bottle of whipped cream off of the top shelf and shake it half-heartedly. Thirty-one is young, I tell myself as I shoot some of it onto my finger in a little bakery-proud dollop. Compared to the cast of “Friends”, I’m a teenager. That, paired with the whipped cream, makes me smile. I stash the can under one armpit and see what else I can find in terms of food.

There’s not much.

I find myself angry that I have even considered being worried about my age. There is no reason to care. I am a conflicted young man, my sister once said.

She’s right.

Disgusted, I toss the whipped cream back into the fridge with a clank and let the door rattle shut behind it. My socked feet slide smoothly across the fine tile of my kitchen, and I contemplate running as fast as I can and seeing if I slide into the glass doors at the end of the hall that leads up into my living room.

I decide that a hospital trip on my birthday, and explaining that to the doctor, is not high on my list right now, and scowl as I open up the bread drawer. Moths fly out, like out of a cartoon wallet, and I damn the day I ever thought to fire my personal shopper. What, exactly, had I thought was wrong with being a Diva?

I slide open my door to the cool May evening and stare out into the dimming yard. The lawn would need to be cut, and logic told me that it wasn’t time to start feeling the home-maker vibe. My last attempt at lawn-mowing had turned out poorly. I would call the lawn service in the morning.

Overcome by a sudden, intense desire to go and make lawn-angels in the thickening weeds, I slip off my socks and drop off the porch and onto the lawn. It is lush under my feet and I crawl a few yards into the very middle, and fling myself onto my back.

It isn’t as satisfying as I’d anticipated, mostly because I could immediately feel little tiny bugs begin to twitch at my ankles and wrists. Bugs, or blades of grass or...anything equally itchy and obnoxious. I force myself to lie still, citing the fact that, dammit, it was my birthday, and nature needed to shut the hell up for a second and let me be.

Breathing in the green around me, I let my fingers stretch into the soil.

Be one with the force, Darren.

I snort trying to hold back laughter and the moment is absolutely ruined. There goes my serious, depressing evening of birthday misery. I sigh, and sit up, slapping at the bugs.

“Take that,” I whisper fiercely. “If I don’t get to eat, you don’t either.”

“Hey,” comes a voice behind me.

I scoot to turn around. He drops to a crouch in front of me, and hands me a bag of greasy fast food restaurant foot. Chicken nuggets. Fries. Deep fried everything. Jesus.

“Saw the evening papers. Nice picture,” he says as I grab the bag. He doesn’t need to say anything else. This is how well he knows me. Bearing food and ridicule, like a mother of...well, any ethnicity.

I fit my entire face around half the chicken before he gets out, “...and happy birthday, you old fart.”

“Fugh ewue,” I say, smiling around the meal.

He settles himself on the grass. “Maybe later. I got you something. Want it now?”

I nod viciously and swallow. “No presents today.”

He eyes me. “From anyone.”

I shrug, suddenly cranky.

“Well, fuck that.” He offers over a small, poorly wrapped box. “Here. For you.”

I contemplate it for a moment before stuffing it into my pocket. He props up an eyebrow.

“Well?”

“Later,” I say.

“And now?”

I lean forward slightly. “I didn’t think you were going to come. I was fully planning on watching 'My Own Private Idaho'.”

The other eyebrow goes up.

I lean farther forward.

So does he.

“I have whipped cream.”