“Collect Call”
A NSFW non-lewd Pack Street fanfic by Hasty, made for /ztg/.
Pack Street and its characters are the creation of Weaver. Thank you, Weaver!
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Liking other animals is a dull ache in your bones. (Attraction’s the big word. I know it, but I don’t like it, it’s bullshit talk that makes it sound fancy, instead of some fuck spending ten minutes in the bathroom trying to clean the spooge out of his pants after getting a lucky upskirt cause a car passed.) You can’t reach, change, or explain it, just shows up one day and stays. It’s a feeling inside that gets bigger then smaller on its own, no matter what’s going on, or what you do. It’s like nothing else, so you change everything to deal with it, and then you don’t remember what it was like before, or what you were like before, so you can’t tell if you did something wrong, if something’s wrong with you.
Nobody on Pack Street has made me being bi a problem. But I can’t count on that anymore since Remmy moved in. First he tried to avoid us, then said a bunch of stupid shit, and now he’s trying to fit in. Just cause people don’t hate him now doesn’t mean that he’s not going to rattle some more cages the next time he opens his mouth. Remmy pushes it. Sooner or later he’s going to bring up shit that’s too close to home.
I have to give him the lowdown, between him and me, but there’s more to it than pack street bullshit. I’m scared of giving myself away. It’s hard to hide that you like somebody. Since the block party I think Remmy thinks I’m straight. So he hasn’t noticed that I get ditzy around him. Any slipups I made around him, long looks, he probably though was me being the dipshit I am. If he knew that I swung that way, he’d lose the blinders. He’ll pick it up after a while. I’d have to wait until he did, and hope that nothing went too sour. Maybe I should fuckin’ lay my cards on the table. Part of me wants him to know, cause I hope he feels the same, and just didn’t say anything,
but I’ve seen how he looks at my sister, and I’ve seen how he looks at me.
It’s six in the morning. I don’t know if the clock on the wall is right, but that’s what it says. It’s been a long wait in the lobby for this fuck to get off of his job. But it’s got to be done. Some bullshit is on TV. I hated the sound of their voices so I muted it and put on captions. The sun is bleeding across the sky, turning the skyline the nasty pink of bare skin. The couch smells like stale beer and dog. The whole thing is a fuckin’ disgrace.
Marty slinks in, and sits in the big chair. He’s so light it squeaks a little when he sits. I chuckle. He glares, then makes a face. He’s looking for a way to make fun of me, but has a change of heart, or indigestion or something and his face softens, at least as much as the face of a guy like Marty can.
“You watchin’ this, Wolter?”
I chuck the remote at him. He brings his arms around it like a football player as it hits his chest, and he falls back into the chair.
“No, you can put on whatever.”
He throws on the volume and switches around for a better program. It’s a blur of bullshit, and I move my gaze to look at his eye twitch every time he flicks to another show. It gets worse as he gets frustrated, with his mouth starting to curl and his legs kicking up and down in the seat, drumming against the leather. As the quest for a decent show drags on, the fit stops being funny, and I turn to stare at the floor until we pass a rerun of Jackass.
Shit yeah. Jackass is my favorite. “Yo, stop there!”
“That horeshit?”
“Horseshit? Fuck do you mean?”
“Jackass is awesome, Marty, the fuck’s wrong with you?” It’s Remmy walking past. I’m at that point in liking somebody where you really notice what they’re wearing. His shirt’s really faded, torn at the bottom with the doublethick ring collar thing at the top. The picture is some hooves in circles. I don’t get it. He’s got a bit of a shuffle going. Maybe work was long today.
“Hey.” What an opener, and I sound like I’m drunk. Fuck me.
“Hi, Wolter.” He doesn’t look at me as he falls into the other end of the couch. “Seriously, Marty, what’s your problem with Jackass?”
Marty turns to him with his mouth open, but doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, only stares at Remmy like it’s obvious. “It’s a bunch of shitheads who think they’re a lot funnier than they are, laughing at their own idiocy for an hour.”
“Fuck, Marty, it almost sounds like they’re having fun.” Remmy likes Marty being a shithead, I guess, cause he’s grinning.
“They’re fucking meatheads who get off on other people’s discomfort, and their idea of fun is the stupidest shit imaginable. That anybody would want to waste their time watching them is pretty disgusting.” Marty’s put on a smile. I think he was looking for an argument or something.
“You sound pretty bitter. Maybe having friends would help.”
That was pretty close to the bone. The smile’s gone. “Well, enjoy,” and Marty walks off.
No one else now. Remmy is watching Oxville ride a cheap plastic scooter with ice skate blades strapped to it on a frozen lake. The scooter breaks in two under Oxville’s weight, and he smacks his head into the ice. Remmy chuckles.
“So, uh, how was work?”
Someone else falls on the TV, makes a big clatter and a little music plays to make fun of them. “It was a very long shift. Some bastard ate the sandwich I brought.” Remmy put one of his legs over the other, and sank his shoulders into the couch. Then he turns toward me some. His head’s pointed between me and the TV. I don’t know if he wants to talk or if he’s just sitting funny.
Worth a shot. “What’s the stuff on your shirt mean?”
He wrinkles his face. “Uhh, it’s a band logo. ‘Goatspeed You, Black Emperor.”
Christ. Maybe they’re like White Snake or something? I try to act excited. “I didn’t know you were into metal, Remmy!”
His face screws up again. “They aren’t metal, really. They’re weird.”
“Oh.” I can’t think of a follow-up. He looks back at the TV again. I clear my throat.
“..ey, Remmy.”
He turns to me, looking kinda annoyed. “Yeah?”
“I uh, need to talk to you about somethin’.”
He turns down the TV. “Uh.” Great start. He turns to face me. I don’t know how to read his expression. “Is that pig fucking with you or Anneke again?”
“No, it’s not that.” I don’t want to do this in the lobby. “Can we, um, take this outside?” I hear somebody up on the stairs. Hopefully they just want the remote.
Remmy looks at me. His eyes are tired and his mouth sags. I think he’s not in the mood, but it’s too late, I already asked and he’s going to say yes. Fuck me.
“Yeah, sure.” He mutes the TV, and we stand up and walk out.
It’s fucking cold. I don’t know why, it doesn’t get this cold around here until the winter most of the time. There’s a streetlamp that casts off light like an oil fire, and it makes the whole street look sick. Nobody’s out now. No cars either. We walk down to the end of the steps and sit down, and he turns to me.
“So what’s eatin’ you?” He smiles a little.
Was that a joke? I should’ve laughed, shouldn’t I?
I fake a grin a few seconds too late. “Uh, there’s something about me that I think you should know.”
He shuffles his feet in place on the sidewalk. “Okay, whenever you’re ready.”
I choke a few seconds and look at the ground before I turn back to him.
“I’m bisexual. Mostly men.”
He doesn’t look surprised.
“Oh, okay.”
There’s somebody down the block looking at us. I watch them turn and walk away. I want to follow.
It’s getting brighter now. The bricks of the buildings on the street look like mud and shit in the shallow light. Remmy coughs. “Is there any reason you told me like this? Outside, in private, I mean. Is it a secret, or a problem or something?”
He seems real. I ought to too. “It’s kinda complicated. It’s not a secret, but it’s not something you talk about, really.”
He waves his arms and smiles a little. “Tell me about it, man.”
I pause. He cracks his jaw.
“…I don’t want to bitch at you –“
He doesn’t smile but the expression seems comforting. Maybe I’m looking too into it. “It’s fine, Wolter. Just say it.”
“Okay. Just tell me if it gets confusing or anything.” He nods.
“It’s clear to me, at least, that I’m gay. I can see it when I look in the mirror. A trashy aardwolf, wearing “light” eyeliner and low-cut T-shirts, worrying about my weight. It’s not really a good look for me. I just do it cause I feel I have to, to get other animals interested. But that’s whatever. The worse part is that you carry it with you wherever you go. You can’t turn it off, and even if you dress different, talk different, your bones shake, itch under your skin, and make you twitch, fuck up. Even the way you look at people can give it away. On Pack Street, you can’t hide anything for a minute, but most places you can’t keep that sort of shit quiet long anyway. You’re trapped.”
I fold my arms and curl up. The pose is some fucking “I’m-a-quiet-boi-fuck-me-daddy” thing, like I’m trying to look cute when I tell him my big story. Christ.  “So you’re gay, or at least kinda gay, on Pack Street. People will know. It can’t be a secret. The big deal is how you act.” He mirrors me. It’s weird to watch.
I know I’m saying too much but it feels nice to say it, finally. I keep going. “To help with that I don’t act alone. Me and my sister are sleazy. Anneke sleeps around cause she likes it. She likes having eyes on her. Short-lived is great because she doesn’t have to do much beyond what she likes to do – advertise herself. I like feeling good, and sex feels good, but I really do it cause if I act like her I don’t have to think about what I’m doing or what it says about me. You’re a team, and you work as a team, and the whole thing ends before you have to explain yourself. It helps we have the same targets - dudes, mostly, and girls sometimes. But the ends don’t shake out even. She always brings dudes back – for obvious reasons – but being a slut who goes lesbo sometimes isn’t a big deal on Pack Street, so Anneke can take them home and just get a bunch of jibes in the morning. If I pull a chick, and they wanna go to my spot, same difference.”
He’s idly scratching his arm. I need to wrap this up before I fucking bore him to death. “But guys don’t come here. The pack knows I fuck dudes. But just because they know and don’t fuck with me about it doesn’t mean they think it’s okay. There’s a lot of old hate for fags with preds. It’s weak, they think. So queers are playing for the other team, prey, pretending they’re something they’re not. It’s not open or strong, but people still think that way, and it simmers. I don’t know who keeps quiet to stop any shitshows from starting, and who’s looking at me sideways. I’m a pretty poor judge a’character. But the end’s the same. There’s an uncommon offhand remark about faggots or a judging look at me, but never a callout, nothing on me personally.”
“So yeah. I’m not very tuned in to social shit, so I don’t have gospel truth on this. Maybe I’m just paranoid. But I can’t get a grip on what people want from me, or what’s okay. So I just want you to know that I’m gay, and that’s why I act funny, and that I don’t really want to talk about it with other people, or bring up “gay rights” or anything else that could fuck things up. I just don’t want to start anything.”
It’s light outside now, but it’s not a nice sunrise. It’s cold, it’s blinding and it hurts. I look at the pavement for a little while. When I look up at him he looks really tired.
“That’s pretty heavy shit, Wolt. I’m sorry you have to deal with it.” He tries to smile, it looks pretty fake. I try to breathe more easily, and show I’m happy he cares. “These fucks can be pretty insensitive sometimes. I’ll keep mum on the topic so you don’t have to take any heat. But if you need somebody to talk about it with, just tell me.”
Nice of him. “Sure.”
He gets up. “I’m going to head in, it’s fucking freezing. But thank you –“
“Remmy,”
….his face tells me he knows. He puts his legs apart slightly. Like he’s waiting for a punch or drawing a gun.
“I like you, Remmy. I don’t think you feel the same but I want to be on the level with you.”
He just stares at me, like a doll. The wind’s picked up, it’s like ice against me, and it ripples his shirt across his chest like an old flag.
“Wolter, I’m not like that.”
We both stand still a little bit, looking in the other’s eyes. I knew it was coming but it still feels like a betrayal.
The wind’s howling now, extremely loud, even though the sky’s clear. He looks at the ground, then pulls the knife out. “I’m sorry,” he shouts over the wind, and turns and walks inside, leaving me on the steps. I can’t hear him move. It’s like watching a ghost. The sun is at the right spot to make the glass doors in a blank white, and he disappears inside, every window on the building blanked out, keeping my eyes outside. I shut them and weep.