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.
Pony
Two dark, rain-slicked streets came together diagonally atop Capitol Hill in a wedge. And in that narrow wedge sat a bar, looking like a ship run aground in the night. Half was a dilapidated building and half was a patio of sorts: a ramshackle, half-constructed metal wall under what looked like a temporary roof. A large pole sprung from the wreckage, where one expected (with total certainty) to see a tattered Jolly Roger flag fluttering in the mist—but instead there was a green neon horse.
They’d arrived at Pony. It had started to drizzle, but inside, the bar was warmly lit. It was half-empty but felt buzzy nevertheless, perhaps due to the 70s pornstars plastered on the walls and the penis piñatas hung from the ceiling. Dave felt immediately at ease. A tall, beautiful woman in a cinched black dress and bright pink pigtails sat in a corner, talking to a male friend.
They got drinks and went to the patio, congregating around a fire table.
“So… you won’t believe it… we had to return another rug,” said Little Matt, “Isn’t that awful? It just didn’t fit the room. You can never tell online.”
“Rugs are tough,” said Dave, trying to sound interested.
“But it feels so sparse in the foyer without one…”
The Matts were going through a Matt-centric phase, the second since Dave had known them. The first had been before and during their wedding (with an echo-phase when the wedding photos were released). This one was centered on the new townhouse. It was understandable… big life moments required big decisions: is the master closet large enough? does the kitchen really represent us, and our aspirations? and now, what kind of rug sends the right message in our foyer?
Dave, needless to say, was happy for them. They were his friends, a pair of DINKs building their own little American Dream—without parental help or a financial windfall. How rare! They’d scrimped and saved for the place, a townhome in the Central District. It was exciting—and just a tad annoying.
It wasn’t that Dave was jealous. He, personally, would’ve gone in a different direction. The landscaping was a little tacky, not that there was anything wrong with euonymus. It also seemed expensive, a million dollars for a narrow box; he suspected they’d bought at the peak of the bubble (which was sure to collapse any day now).
No, it wasn’t jealousy… it was just a lot of rug-talk.
“Anything going on with you?” said Flores, picking up on his apathy, “Any trips planned?”
“Nothing… literally nothing,” said Dave, wondering if he should plan something just for the conversation topic. As they stood for a second in silence, he scanned the inside of the patio. Admiring a Boston fern basket, his eyes migrated past graffiti (“Cum on Eileen,” “I wish I was were a cat”) and landed on a Doug flag sticker.
“Oh, Dave!” said Little Matt, face lighting up, “I can’t believe we forgot! We discovered something the other day! Flores, pull it up. He’s gonna die.”
“He probably already knows,” said Flores.
A moment later, Flores pushed his phone toward Dave. It was an OnlyFans profile—and it was Rob, Dave’s roommate. Dave squinted at the screen.
“Well look at that. I knew there were more visitors than usual.”
“Looks like he’s just getting started… only a few posts so far,” said Little Matt gleefully.
“Have you subscribed?” asked Dave, but before the Matts could answer, the patio door swung open. It was the woman in pink pigtails with her friend.
“Doing some online shopping, boys?” she said, glancing at the screen, “Mind if we join you?”
They shifted to make room.
“Did we find anything to put in the cart?” she continued ruefully, “Because if not, perhaps I can interest you in Hugo here.”
The man with her laughed, shaking his head as if he was surprised by this introduction. Dave watched as the woman began bantering with the Matts, carefully pushing Hugo in their direction.
Dave couldn’t hear well across the fire, but he enjoyed observing the show. Little did the woman know that she was trying to pimp her friend out to one of the at-most-seven monogamous gay couples in Seattle. And they were militantly monogamous, unwilling to even consider a break with their Catholic traditions. Dave admired them for their radicalism, and saw it, in some ways, as a form of kink—a repression, a bondage.
There was no judgment, obviously. Dave was supportive of any type of human connection. He just wished he could get some himself. And he was flexible, at this point. He’d take open, he’d take closed, he’d take polyamory, he’d take whatever—as long at Lennox was included. But he sensed that something about him wasn’t perceived as dateable, not to mention fuckable. He wasn’t even noticeable.
Just then, however, he was noticed. Having suitably lodged her friend between the Matts, suspecting-yet-not-fully-aware of their monogamous context, the woman slid over to Dave.
“And who are you?” she said.
He introduced himself, thrusting his hand forward. Her eyes lit up, and she shook it professionally.
“I’m Ms Tris,” she said, staring at him.
He felt strangely drawn to her, but he assumed everyone felt that way. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. But, even at a gay bar, he didn’t know what was appropriate, so instead he said, “The music is good, right?”
It was. She told him that it was a DJ called OurHouse, or maybe YourHouse, or maybe YourMom (“do names really matter?”). It was a disco vibe, a riposte to the times. She said there would be dancing later, and Dave said he wished he could stay.
“Why not come back after your rally thing?”
“It’ll be too late… I go to bed early and wake up early.”
“It’s only late if you know what time it is,” she said matter-of-factly, “And I’m not the type of person who cares very much about clocks. I’m no Salvador Dali.”
Dave’s eyebrows arched in amusement. But he didn’t have a response, so he just stared into the fire. Tris took the opportunity to glance at her friend talking to the Matts, and her suspicions were confirmed—it wasn’t happening for Hugo.
She turned back to Dave and they caught eyes, Dave in deep discomfort, and Tris in nonchalance. She asked if he liked his early-morning job. He said it was fine. Her late-morning job was also fine. Other things weren’t fine, as everyone was aware, but Tris had a strategy. “Selective delusion, dear. A little delusion never hurt anyone. Sometimes it produces deliverance!”
“It sounds like you have gay friends,” deadpanned Dave.
She giggled. Then she reached into a purse and removed a piece of colorfully patterned paper.
“You’re interesting,” she said after a few seconds as she began carefully folding the paper on the edge of the fire table. Then, with an air of mystery, she said, “I see something in you.”
“You do?” said Dave.
“I do,” said Tris, pausing to use her teeth to reinforce a crease, “You’re special. You’re going somewhere.”
“Well, thanks. I hope… I hope you’re right. I think.”
She smiled playfully. And then she handed him the origami crane. He pulled on the neck and tail and the wings flapped in unison.
“Wow, thank you so much.”
Just then, one of the Matts declared, “We probably should get going. We should get to this rally. You ready, Dave?”
He nodded and slipped the crane into his pocket.
CASCADE 1: Going Downhill | A Failed Homosexual |.Crypto Karen | New Neighbors
CASCADE 2: Madison Park Beach | Home Economics | Morning in Bellevue
CASCADE 3: Bootcamp | Zoom and Slack | Cal Anderson Park
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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