We live in the past, present, and future, and are constantly travelling across these times in our human ways: reflecting, dreaming, manifesting. Today, we’re journeying with “My Name is Kyle” by Claire Fantus, from Room 48.2 Travellers.
“My Name is Kyle”
by Claire Fantus
I am seeing Kyle. He is blonde and eager. He snowboards and hangs around. He goes to shows, like Punk Rock ones. He was one of the first Punk Rock listeners, he says. Dead Kennedys. Butthole Surfers. Whatever, I never heard of them. He talks about the snow, how he snowboarded 100 days and got a pin. He gets the first chairlift of the day. I’m not sure what else he does, I think construction.
I forget why he hangs around with someone like me, the glasses and frizzy hair. I guess because I talk a lot. I fill the void. I think of my family meeting Kyle. How to explain ski bums to a group of working urbanites. My dad wears blazers and reads The New Yorker. My mom likes real estate. I would tell them he’s a hedonist, a tantric guru. He’s, like, on a higher level, I imagine saying. Doesn’t he need a job? they would ask. I would answer with something abstract, like jobs are just social constructions. Also, he has a job, I’m pretty sure.
I ski a bit but I’m not good. I am nervous to go fast and get stuck in the trees. I think of falling in a tree well, which is a hole where you can get trapped and suffocate. I can’t risk being buried. I need air. Kyle asks why I live in the mountains if I don’t ski. It’s a good place to hide, I say. He laughs. I never thought of that, he says.
I ask Kyle about his past; I think he’s slept with countless women. I ask for the stories, the juice. We slept together a few times and that was it, he says. Yeah, but what, like, happened between you guys? I pry. That’s really it, he says. The stories seem empty, the women faceless. I might die of boredom.
But Kyle fascinates me still. I’m like an anthropologist studying a rare breed: white men living in ski towns. Who is this blond guy devoid of stories? I decide I’m his biographer.
Tell me more, I say.
About what?
Your flings.
Why?
I like hearing.
About women?
Yeah. They’re like me but not me.
You wanna date yourself?
No, that’s not what I meant.
So, we go over them, the details. A girl whose house reeked of cat piss, demanded the lights off while he fucked her. Another girl that jumped into bed with him when he was half passed out at a party, the best friend of his crush. An older woman who was a mystic and read tarot cards at the mall, a divorced farmer with five children, a ski patrol lady with a firm ass. The stories continue and I can’t get enough. More plots, more twists, more turns, more thrills.
I become entangled with Kyle and his stories. They’re unlike anything I know. Often a new one pops up that I’ve never heard. How could you forget that? I tease him. I’m kind of embarrassed, he says. You’re a real Don Giovanni, Kyle. I’m not what you think, he says, looking serious.
One day we hike up the Kootenay Columbia, the locals’ favourite. You can see the whole town but not much else.
Mountains have a way of eclipsing the view, I say.
What are you doing with me? asks Kyle.
The wind picks up, the sun diffusing into the clouds like a runny yolk into a pan.
I’m doing a research project on men.
Come on. He rolls his eyes.
I am. I think I’d like to be you sometime. Go around the world inserting myself.
That’s kind of offensive.
Why?
I don’t know, that’s not really what I’m like.
We go out that night, to the brewery. I am wearing a baggy flannel shirt, standard red and black. Where did you get that? he asks. Your closet, I grin. I grab his weathered Chutes Lodge hat and stuff my hair into it. We meet a girl. She’s passing through town. Work your magic, I whisper into Kyle’s ear. But he doesn’t do anything. He’s got no moves. He sits idly drinking his beer.
What’s your story? she asks.
I turn away from Kyle, my back to him. I tell her about my snowboarding pin, 100 days I explain. She’s never heard of Dead Kennedys but it’s no big deal. I speak about the construction I do on the side, that I hardly work in winter and even barely in spring.
Wow, what a free spirit, she says.
I can’t remember where she’s from or what she does, just that she is wearing shorts that make her bottom look round like a ripe melon. I invite her back to Kyle’s place. I have a key, so it’s no problem. I tell him to stay for a few more drinks and to meet up with us later. We mess around. I direct everything, say get up sit down turn around. Kyle tries to get in the house and is banging on the door. I turn the music up, close the curtains. I don’t know where he goes.
I wake up early. I have to get to work, I say. Let yourself out whenever you want. I don’t ask for her number. I don’t ask for her name. I don’t ask for anything.
I had a great time, she says.
I put my leg up on the couch to tie my shoe. I feel like pinching myself, I say, shaking my head with a plastered smile.
What’s your name, anyway? she asks.
It’s Kyle, I say. My name is Kyle.
