Come If You Want - Chapter Two

🥦🥦🥦🥦

You are reading ‘Come If You Want,’ a serialized novella by Brendon Holder. This is the second chapter. You can catch up on the first chapter here.

---

“‘Come if you want?’” said Palmer’s therapist, repeating Palmer, who was repeating the sock puppet that was ventriloquized by Hank earlier that day. In a way, they were all ventriloquized by Hank. But wasn’t that what therapy was for? Repeating and dissecting the words a potential lover once said to you? To Palmer, romantic observation always felt less desperate when you could trace it back to the DSM-5.

The evening sun cloaked his apartment in an almond ray, backlighting Palmer as he faced a phone propped against the kitchen backsplash for his virtual session. He carelessly dumped frozen broccoli into the pan, a few greens missing the wok entirely, and raised it to fry. A wedge of salted butter pillowed the greens, melting into a yellow moat; the topple of broccoli, a castle.

“Yeah, that’s what he said. Or, what the puppet said, I guess.”

The therapist hummed in the self-congratulatory tune of a-ha! “Sounds like a date to me,” the therapist concluded.

“A date? It’s like… not a date. It’s his show. He’s literally at work.”

“Nonsense,” said his therapist, silencing Palmer with a wave of an index finger that mimicked Oprah. “Anything can be a date. If I had that attitude, how do you think I would have met my first husband through volunteering at the morticians' conference?”

Palmer’s face froze in the video chat, but the wifi remained connected. “You were a mortician?”

“Me? No, never. But you gotta fish where the fish are. Morticians know a lot of hot, recently single widows.” The therapist wrote something down, impressed with their therapizing, and continued, “Anyway, I’m the one asking the questions here. So, what’s stopping you from going?”

“I dunno. Sock puppets? The whole thing was kind of weird.”

The therapist’s hands moved towards the screen as if they were attempting to reach through to Palmer, perhaps to rid the doubt from his body with a couple of stern shakes. Their eyes were beady, bright orbs, skittish in the way someone’s irises flicker across a screen when multitasking on a call. Texting someone else or reading a group chat, not quite paying attention. Remembering that Palmer was still there, his therapist mustered, “Are you not free tomorrow?”

“I am. But I don’t know if it’s… like romantic.”

“Of course it is. Everything is romantic,” said the therapist. “This is your avoidant attachment coming out. We’ve talked about this. This is what happened with… What’s his name?” Wait for it. “Timothée!”

“You mean, Timothy?”

“Yeah, Timothy. Not Timothée, not him. Timothée was totally out of your league, anyway. Anyway. This sock guy! He also called you hot.”

“No, the sock called me hot. Hotter than Islamabad is what the sock said.”

“I think that Islamabad is lovely this time of year.”

Palmer dumped a family-sized amount of teriyaki sauce into the pan and asked, “Have you been?” More often than not, it felt like Palmer was in the market for opinions, and his therapist was just another voice. A cognitive behaviour therapist. One who was meant to inspire action, and ‘restructure’ his thoughts. But, a year and a half into their weekly sessions, which were out of network, like all good therapists, and he was beginning to feel jaded, the therapist only adding to the dizzying cacophony of voices that clawed at him through the screen. He dipped a pinky in the pan and placed it in his mouth.

“Again, I’m the one asking the questions here,” returned the therapist.

Hands behind his head, Palmer assumed one of those power positions he’d seen on YouTube. “Okay, but he also said, ‘come if you want.’ What does that even mean? Is that an invite? Or… just something nice to say. Fake nice. A pity invite? It’s lowkey rude, like, ‘come if you want.’ Okay, what do you want? Do you even want me there? Like, what the fuck, man?” Palmer pushed the broccoli around in the frying pan. The greens crackled under the heat like a little bitch. He realized it was burning on one side and flipped each floret with tongs as a snake of smoke hissed toward the ceiling. He side-eyed the smoke detector and thought back to Mizz Bella Noche’s vape smoke. “I’m going to ask Calvin,” he said breathlessly, his words sticking together like toffee.

“Calvin?” The therapist chortled. “Your friends are perfect idiots. Don’t listen to anything they say. It’s like when Leo told you to start going to A.A. to pick up men. If they had any sense, they would tell you Narcotics Anonymous is where all the hotties are. That’s where I found my second husband.”

“You were in N.A?”

“It’s called field experience,” said the therapist. “Anyways, this is a sign from the universe. You've got to follow it. Your homework for this week is to put on a slinky little outfit and stomp your lonely heart to this guy’s show.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think that’s all we have time for today. Great work. I’ll chat with you next week,” said the therapist. And with that, the therapist promptly logged out of the video chat, leaving Palmer alone in the apartment with his broccoli.

The evening light had excused itself, darkening the apartment. He plated the broccoli, now brown from the sauce, and shuffled some leftover nigiri onto his plate. Yesterday, he ordered more than one could eat in a single sitting.

Palmer grabbed his phone from the kitchen backsplash and droned it over his plate to take a picture. Snap. This duplication of plates – the one in the phone and the one in front of him – briefly created the effect of a second person. It was like there were two Palmers eating dinner: the one with the plate of broccoli in his apartment and the other trapped in the phone. For a moment, he felt less alone, and, without thinking, zoomed into the picture of his plated dinner with great introspection. But the food looked more disgusting on the screen than in real life, the digitally captured image jolting Palmer back to his own fleshy reality. Anxiously, he deleted the photo as if to save the second Palmer from eating the second, more nasty plate of broccoli, and was alone in the kitchen once again.

He lit his big candle and allowed the woody waft of hinoki and cardamom to fill the room. When he returned to the dining table, he noticed two notifications blinking against the brim of the phone’s lock screen. The first was a voicenote from his friend Lindsay. He hit play:

“Hey, Palmie. I hope you’re not getting too sweaty; I heard about the heat wave y’all are having. Always dab your pits like I told you. Anyway. I’m just double-checking that you got the Save The Date. Check your spam just in case. Oh, and I gave you a plus one. In case you meet someone from now until the wedding.” He could hear her smiling. The words ‘plus one’ puckering like a Venus flytrap. Another knifey reminder.

Annoyed, he clicked on the remaining notification, which revealed a Venmo request from his therapist. It was for $350. Mechanically and without much thought, he clicked the pay button and opened up TikTok to fill the void left in the apartment.

Reliably, a window opened:

A drag queen on stage with amber hair and a crimson fishtail gown appeared through the screen. She was suspended mid-air, dangling from a rope, Japanese bondage style. Hoisted, she levitated in front of a crowd, the spotlight illuminating her body. Her shape was drenched in what Palmer presumed were rhinestones. She rotated back and forth like a wind chime and opened her mouth to catch the vocals with her teeth. “My loneliness is killing me,” the voice sang.

The queen’s voice sounded distorted and deep. Warped as if submerged underwater. She reminded Palmer of Jack’s goldfish, upside down and unalived from being overfed. Overloved, Jack had corrected when he sent the photo to the group chat.

“I must confess… I still believe,” the queen warbled, her lips moving in perfect unison to the track. Palmer recognized the song but had never heard this rendition before. It sounded chopped-n-screwed as if the queen was crunk off that lean. Like she were a siren bellowing through choppy waters, drowned by her solitude.

The music was lethargic and somber. It felt inappropriate to eat, so Palmer put down his fork and watched, hooked by the performance and glued to the window. The sound of an ascending harp fluttered hauntingly behind the vocals. It sounded almost like a lullaby. No, Palmer thought. A eulogy. But for what? He licked his top row of teeth clean in anticipation of what was coming next.

“When I’m not with you, I lose my mind,” continued the song, the queen’s jaw trembling to punctuate the emotion wedged between the words. Her eyelashes nearly reached her hairline. She wore a beauty mark on the left of her chin. Freckles, too, Palmer noticed.

“Give me a sign,” she croaked out to Palmer. And, as always, Palmer listened.

The floors of Raoul's Roundhouse clung to Palmer’s sneakers as he maneuvered through the bar. He had previously been to the pub but never inside, preferring the breeze of the back patio to the poorly ventilated interior. He inhaled only when he felt necessary and in short, snippy samples.

To his surprise, the place was packed. The crowd looked like townies, even though they were technically in the city. He imagined that the townies lived in the neighbourhood before the ugly apartments went up that forked the sky, before the Madewell and pho restaurant managed by Siliconese-looking white guys appeared. Before Palmer. They looked like they had a scent. Not a bad scent, but how he imagined a cottage by the lake would smell. Of maple, of memories, of spiced rum.

The opening act – a twin set of tap dancing yodellers – finished, and the back-of-house staff began to clear the stage to prepare for the main event. Palmer presumed it to be Hank.

“We don’t have mezcal here. Are you okay with just a regular margarita?” asked the bartender. Always order a mezcal margarita on a first date, Kieran once told him. It shows that you’re open to possibilities, and have a sense of spontaneity — a wild side, even. Palmer thought the mezcal made him look worldly, but now wondered if ordering it at a place like Raoul's Roundhouse made him look like a tone-deaf snob.

“Er, yeah. That’s fine,” said Palmer, eyes darting as he dug into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He took out the device and tapped it on the card reader machine. He hesitated awkwardly, monitoring the screen to ensure his payment went through, not because of a lack of funds but due to a lack of faith in the efficacy of tap-to-pay systems. Relieved, he edged closer to the front of the venue.

By now, the stage looked more developed, populated with verdant props and shrubs. Palmer could make out tiny homes and shops that spilled into a semicircle around a blue oval that lay flat on the stage. As he moved closer to get a better look, he discerned that it was a lake.

The lights dimmed, and the murmur from the crowd went out like a bulb. But the scent that Palmer thought he imagined remained. He lifted an arm to sniff if it was coming from him.

Hey diddle fellow in the fishing town.

Grab a honey and some money, come buss it down!

The voice emerged from nowhere in particular. Palmer scanned the stage until he saw the face of the sock he met at the farmer’s market. He never got his name, but was somehow put at ease seeing him again. Palmer gave him a little wave, but wasn’t sure if the sock noticed.

If you’re feeling sad in the bins, a widdle lost and found.

Then come a liddle closer, come gather ‘round!

The crowd closed in tight, and Palmer shuffled forward to not lose his place. The sock puppet was wearing a messenger hat and a jacket. His flow sounded like Slick Rick with a touch of Lin-Manuel Miranda (complimentary).

Here on the lake, it ain't up for debate,

Got the best damn hake if you up for a taste.

You can get it by the crate if you wiggle ya waist.

You can have it with some steak, give ya titties a shake!

A dirty-blond dreadlocked townie from the crowd rocketed up and down eagerly, her breasts knocking about under her V-neck. As Palmer looked around, he saw that the crowd began to sway rhythmically.

It’s very necessary,

If you smoking Mary,

If you wanna high,

Then hit up my apothecary.

This voice was new. Female or femme presenting, thought Palmer. It emerged from the other side of the stage from the mouth of a sock wearing a shawl and a hot dog hat. She wore a stethoscope around her neck.

Got dust if you fairy.

Rocks if you wary.

And if you feeling scardey,

Got the cat like Tom and Jerry.

Come to my prairie.

Take a Roger, then a Larry.

Got some magic berries,

That’ll have you lookin’ like Halle Berry!

Palmer started to twerk as if possessed by something greater than himself. Then he stopped, remembering himself and his weird way around his own limbs. But then he started again, this time adding in some of the moves he learned from the Camila Cabello TikTok. The witch doctress with the hot dog hat continued rattling her long list of ointments in a delivery fit for Foxy Brown:

Allergic to dairy?

Got a pill that’s very

Easy on your bowels in case your

Shits be legendary.

At this point, Palmer fully lost control. But so had the rest of the audience. All around him, people were grinding, gyrating, do-si-doing, crip walking, and two-stepping. A man collapsed over another and rolled around the floor gleefully like a toddler. Palmer’s knees kissed each other as he arched his back and rolled his way to the top. He did this three times as he spun in a circle and returned to face the stage. When he did, a new sock had taken the stage. The sock was bald, with half-moon eyes and a smize. It was naked except for a name tag that read “MAYOR.” The sock opened its mouth:

By now, you’ve seen a few tricks of the town,

East and West now, but the South gets loud!

Get’s loud!, hollered the witch doctress in support, to the right of the “mayor” sock.

The Mayor sock continued,

By now, you’ve seen a few tricks of the trade,

The skills that get paid and the bricks that got laid.

Get laid, DAWG!, shouted the fisherman sock. This time, Palmer was sure that the sock winked at him, seemingly remembering him from the market.

The new sock cracked on:

You’ve met a couple locals,

Fisherman Fred and that witch doctor hoe!

“She’s a hoeeeeeeeee!” Palmer cackled wildly from the crowd. He downed his margarita and did a widdle twirl. He imagined that he was the mayor’s wife, finally belonging.

By now, this sock party is starting to stink,

So if this is your kink, Palmer, let’s grab a drink!

The clatter of hands fell over Raoul's Roundhouse as the attendees hoisted dollar bills upon the stage. A striped pair of Fenty underwear catapulted above Palmer’s head and landed on the very edge of the lake. Slowly, the rest of the stage brightened, the silver spotlight expanding its surface area, and a dark figure emerged. Hank stepped forward into the light, smiling. His shiny head floated above the stage, gleaming beyond his black crewneck and dark trousers like a balloon of skin. He bowed to the crowd and immediately locked eyes with Palmer. He winked.

Without thinking, Palmer felt his right palm orbit towards his denim pocket as if his phone and hand were magnets for each other. He felt the urge to take a picture of Hank right then and there to send to his group chat.

But something stopped him. Instead, he let the moment linger between the two of them for a touch longer.

Then, he winked back.

---

Thanks for reading the second chapter of ‘Come If You Want.’ I will be discussing it with readers and special guests in the comments and the Subscriber Chat, so download the Substack App to participate. If you like what I do, consider sharing with a friend (or group chat) or upgrading to paid. The second chapter dropped on Tuesday, July 22nd. Read it here:

---

LOOSEY is a newsletter about culture, art, technology, and the way we live. If this is something you like, consider subscribing and sharing. Let’s be friends on Instagram.