You Can't Push It Underground

“You little fucker, you are not going to set me up on my birthday, okay? You are going to let me have a night off,” Frank whines, switching the phone from one ear to the other.

“Fine, if that’s all you care about, then fine. Call it my birthday present to you,” Brendon says.

“You had better get me a real fucking present you asshole,” Frank says, “I may be all grown up and shit, but you, of all people, are going to get me something.”

“You’re so needy,” Brendon says.

“I am not needy, I just like taking advantage of our friendship.”

“I need new friends,” Brendon groans with a long sigh.

“Yep, but you’re stuck with me,” Frank gives him a toothy smile that he can’t see, but Brendon rolls his eyes anyway, anticipating it. “Hey, I was thinking. You know Gerard?”

“I am familiar with him, yes.”

“Maybe, do you think maybe you could maybe invite him too... maybe? Like only if he wants to come, but he should if he wants to,” Frank says gracelessly.

Brendon would give Frank such a judgmental glare right now, but he also feels himself smiling at how stupid Frank is sometimes. Does he even realize that he just broke the world record for number of ‘maybe’s’ used in one sentence?

“Oh so that’s why you don’t want me to get you a date.”

“No!” Frank answers too quickly, “I mean no. I just... he’s fun to talk to I guess. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Mhm, right,” Brendon, says skeptically.

“Really!”

“Yeah, I’m sure. You just find Gerard uninhibitedly attractive, and also you think he’s adorable. I know you, Frank, and I can tell that you are smitten.”

“Who the fuck says smitten? Did we take a time machine to the nineteen fifties?” Frank asks.

“Fuck off, you know what I mean,” Brendon says.

“Sure. Just, yeah, ask him. Casually, you know. Don’t make it too obvious, but also-”

“Yeah no, you’re not at all infatuated with him. There is that better? Oh and it’s totally true, Frank you like him.”

“I do not like him, what are you a third grader?” Frank asks, defensively.

“Yes you are! Whenever you start insulting me more than usual it means that you are lying to me. You just called me a third grader from the nineteen fifties, therefore you totally have a thing for Gerard, and I am amazing.”

“You’re making shit up.”

Brendon scoffs, “I am not! You like him. Oh god, and I fucking knew it too. I knew he was for you, and I had my suspicion the other day at the bar, but I couldn’t confirm anything until you just fucking said it. You so like him!”

“That is insane. I like no one, especially not Gerard.”

“Oh yeah, right. So the first time in literally months where you don’t pick up a guy on a Saturday night, just coincidentally falls on the same day as when you were at the bar with Gerard.”

“That was your fault! You distracted me! By the time I could’ve found a guy it was already too late.”

Brendon makes another incredulous noise, “You lie! There was a blonde dude at the bar, who was eyeing you for like an hour. I know you saw him! He knows you saw him. The only person who doesn’t know that you two were practically eye-fucking each other was Gerard.”

“Oh please, he was not my type,” Frank says.

“Your type is ‘male, alive, and willing to fuck.’ That guy was both male and alive, and unless he just had a lazy eye, very willing to fuck,” Brendon replies.

“Think what you like, I don’t like Gerard,” Frank says, and the doorbell rings, “fuck, Brendon, my neighbors are making their rounds earlier today. I’ll call you later, okay? Just invite Gerard, alright?”

“Yep, sure, I’ll invite your future boyfriend,” Brendon says in a singsong voice.

Frank’s almost relieved to have his neighbors as an excuse to hang up the phone, because when he does he can take a deep breath and try to reassure himself that he doesn’t actually like Gerard. He tells himself that, but he’s not certain that his brain receives the message.

Frank takes a deep breath and walks over to the front door.

His hand does not want to pull it open, but his ears are being violated by the sound of the incessant doorbell.

“What can I do for you today?” Frank says, all in one long breath.

The woman, Mrs. Sinclair, is a short red-headed woman, smaller than Frank so her size is notable, with the most plastic expression that has ever graced this earth. Now she’s probably the kind of woman who would scold a person for getting cosmetic surgery, as ‘you should be happy with what god gave you,’ but honestly her face looks like a carnival mask that she got on sale at the goodwill where she bought her floral pink grandma blouse.

Mrs. Sinclair’s husband is not that much more unique. He’s got the most easily forgettable face a human could ever possibly comprehend. Now obviously, you can’t imagine his face, because it is honestly just that boring. He’s tall compared to his wife, but he can’t be any more than about 5’10, so he’s not intimidating. He doesn’t own any clothes other than the same douchey khaki cargo pants, with pockets where pockets should not be. The plain white shirt he wears is far too V-neck for his age, and it needs to be washed with some sort of industrial strength bleach. Or just acid so that the shirt stops existing altogether. The bad part about that would be that he would no longer have any shirts in his possession at all, and Frank would be rightly assassinated for forcing the world to have to see Mr. man-boobs shirtless.

Suffice to say, when Frank opens his front door, and every other time he sees them, his nose wrinkles and his face looks positively sour.

“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Sinclair says.

“Afternoon? It’s fucking eleven,” Frank says.

“We got an early rise, it’s our afternoon,” Mr. Sinclair says.

“I don’t know if I have to spell it out for you guys, but afternoon means after noon. As in afternoon has to come after the time that is referred to as noon. After twelve. It’s not after twelve, it’s before twelve, so it is morning.”

“It’s a figure of speech, it’s relative to the time at which a person awakens,” Mrs. Sinclair says. They talk in turns, and Frank’s never understood that, but they never ever say more than one sentence at a time. It’s actually kind of creepy. Frank still hasn’t ruled out the idea that they’re robots.

“It’s not fucking relative to anything. Afternoon is after fucking noon,” Frank says, already trying to keep himself from socking the girl in her nose.

“Well afternoon also refers to the latter of the day.”

“It does not refer to the latter of the fucking day! Afternoon is the most self-explanatory word I have ever come across. It ain’t no fucking dawn or dusk, where the definition isn’t in the word, because afternoon is the definition for the word, as well as the word.”

“Watch your language,” Mrs. Sinclair says.

“Watch your language,” Frank says back, to demonstrate how little her words mean to him.

Mr. Sinclair starts, “We were just wondering if you were interested in-”

“No I’m not,” Frank interrupts.

“It’s just that there’s a service every Sunday-”

“Sunday? See, Sunday’s don’t work for me, I’ve got my satanic rituals and virgin sacrifices on Sunday’s, so my schedule is pretty much filled,” Frank interjects once again.

“Well on Wednesday’s-”

“Also no good. I host my weekly gay orgies on Wednesday’s.”

“Now, the sass is greatly unappreciated,” Mrs. Sinclair states.

“Greatly unappreciated? I wonder what that must be like. I wonder what it’s like to have someone disagree with you, and interrupt you at all hours of the day. Oh god, wouldn’t it be worse, if you’d expressly made it known that you want someone to go the fuck away?”

“We’re just trying to help you,” Mr. Sinclair says.

“And I’ve told you countless times now, that I don’t want your fucking help,” Frank replies, looking him in the eye. “Now is that all, because I really should get back. I was making myself some cereal and I don’t want it to burn.”

“How does one burn cereal?’

“How about you invite me to your house, and I’ll show you how you burn cereal,” Frank says, fantasizing about blowing their kitchen up.

“No thank you,” Mr. Sinclair says.

“Then you can be on your way,” Frank says, grabbing the door, and trying to push them out of the front entrance. If it were up to Frank, he would hit them in the face with the swinging door, but the guys foot is in the way so he can’t push it more than two inches.

“Don’t you think you could-”

“No I can’t, sorry. Oh, and just to let you know, I’m going to have a few friends over on Halloween, so if someone pukes on your front lawn, you know who to thank.”

“If that happens, we’ll call the cops.”

“And I will call the fucking Lucky Charms Leprechaun to put a rainbow over your fucking house so that everyone can see the fucking rainbow in your motherfucking garden!” Frank says, finally slamming the door shut. He takes a deep breath and holds himself back from punching the wall. He wants to punch one of those brauds in the face though, but he’s sure that they’d file some sort of suit against him, and he can’t really afford it. If only he could afford to move to a new house, then his worries would be over, but sadly he cannot.

“God I fucking hate them,” Frank says, trying to shake his anger off.