Free Marcelo in the Real World by Francisco X. Stork

younger, messier version of Stephen Holmes.
    “My name is pronounced Mar-se-lo,” I say. I think of the bad word that Yolanda used to refer to Stephen Holmes and his son, Wendell.
    “Of course it is. Sit down, Marcelo, sit for a second.”
    “I need to help Jasmine. She’s going to show me how to operate the copying machine,” I say, still standing.
    “Just for a minute.” Wendell comes from behind the cardboard boxes and removes a paper bag from the chair where he wants me to sit. “I need a mental break from this crap.”
    I sit down and put my hands on my legs. I want to say something to Wendell, who seems to be waiting for me to start the conversation, but I can’t think of anything to say. Despite hours of practicing at Paterson, initiating “small talk” is still a formidable challenge for me. “You play squash,” I finally think to say. Only I’m aware that I did not enunciate the phrase in the form of a question.
    “I see you’ve been talking to the old man.”
    “Your father is not old,” I say.
    “I’ll tell him you said that. It’ll make him happy.”
    “It is good to be happy.” I think of Jasmine. Jasmine is nothappy I’m working at the law firm. I’m not happy either. The effort required to converse politely is draining every drop of happiness out of me.
    “Speaking of happy, I’d be happy if I were spending my days in the same room with Jasmine. She’s hot, isn’t she?”
    “Hot.” Why is it that whenever I don’t understand how a word is used, I tend to repeat it?
    “Do you notice things like that, Marcelo? You know, when a woman is hot to look at, pleasant to the eyes, attractive? Do you get that urge we all get when we see a good female body?”
    “No.” I think the answer to that question is no. I gather that Wendell is talking about sexual attraction.
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “No.”
    “That’s not possible. Are you attracted to men then?”
    “No.”
    “Maybe your testosterone hasn’t kicked in yet. If it hasn’t, it soon will. The male’s need to sow our seed wherever, whenever, as much and as often as we can—maybe it hasn’t hit you yet. You’re what, eighteen?”
    “I turned seventeen on March twenty-sixth.”
    “Then the hormones of adolescence have long started to flow. I can tell just by looking at you. Look at you. You’re almost as tall as I am and I’m six feet. Your voice is deep. You shave, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re built solid. Look at those biceps.”
    Wendell grabs my arm and squeezes it. I try to pull it away. I don’t like people to touch me without warning me first. I hope that I have not offended Wendell. “I lift weights every day.”
    Wendell ignores my statement and goes back to his original topic of conversation. “You mean to say that looking at Jasmine and looking at me are all the same to you.”
    “You and Jasmine are persons.”
    “But have different types of bodies.”
    “You are both persons. You are essentially the same.”
    “That’s deep, Marcelo. It really is. If you really feel that way and are not trying to pull my leg, or anything else for that matter, I take my hat off to you, I guess. But I’m not so sure. I don’t think you’re being totally honest with me.”
    “You don’t have a hat on.” It is my attempt at humor and at changing the subject but it doesn’t work on either count.
    “You mean to tell me that you never,” Wendell lowers his voice, “never want to, you know, do it.” Wendell has made a circle with his index finger and his thumb and is sticking the middle finger from his other hand repeatedly in and out of the circle.
    “It.”
    “It.” Now Wendell lifts his arm slowly up in the air like an elephant raising his trunk.
    I know that Wendell’s finger poking is a gesture meant to signify sexual intercourse and that the rising arm signifies an erection. The rules regarding sexuality and conversations about sexuality are hazy, confusing. I don’t know whether Wendell