The Queer as Folk Grocery Store Challenge

Physics, Groceries, and the Homosexual Agenda
by Mint Witch / Mintwitch

There are certain physical laws that emerge only within the boundaries of your average grocery store. Similarly, natural laws held to be self-evident and universal elsewhere, such as momentum, inertia, and gravity, work only anecdotally in the marketplace. That is, one assumes gravity, and therefore doesn't float helplessly in midair, futily trying to reach the produce section, although it is possible. On the other hand, the lesser known natural laws, the ones less well publicized, are flaunted regularly, and no one is the wiser.

Take, for example, two people shopping together on a quiet Sunday, around noon, let's say. These two people are actually at least four people, and could be a cast of thousands. There is the person with the list, the person with the legal tender, the sane person, the idiot, et cetera. Each of these people is convinced that he himself is the sane one, that his companion is the idiot, and he never agreed to this outing in the first place, so why are they here?

Then there is the list, a quantum anomaly, and its antithesis, the checkbook. The laws of Market Physics state that both the list and the checkbook will always be in the possession of the whichever party insists that the other party has them; however, the list and the checkbook cannot both be in the possession of a single person at the same time, which causes the dimensional fold known among experts as No, You Have It.

Adding to the confusion among laymen, is the aisle that slips in and out of existence, temporal distortions, and the sucking vortex hidden behind the breakfast cereals from which the occasional, confused, Jehovah's Witness is spit out like interdimensional phlegm, and one has a zone that rational entities would avoid at all costs.

Fortunately for the alien scientists that design supermarkets (a.k.a. Human Studies Lab 101- Lecture held beforehand in the supply closet), Homo sapiens is not known for either reason or rationality.

Witness the pair currently in the bakery section, re-enacting the Pastry Chef War with less than perfect historical accuracy, the taller wielding a wicked baguette.

Or something.

"My name ees Inigo Montoya. You killed my fodder. Prepare to die." Swish. Thrust. Parry. The baguette has mortally wounded the patricidal sourdough! "Mwa-ha!"

The shorter of the two, Justin, observes from the other side of the display table, grateful that at least Brian isn't juggling, although the potential is there. I.e. Brian is stoned, and if he had known that before they left the loft, well, they wouldn't have left the loft. Hindsight, meet 20/20. Handling Brian requires endless patience and a degree in abnormal psychology. Too bad Justin has neither of those things.

"Brian," Justin says patiently, "Step away from the bread." He's actually trying hard not to laugh, to look firm and unamused. An appreciative audience only encourages Brian, which explains Michael, a pattern Justin is determined to avoid. Along with cult movies, but how could he have been expected to know about that?

There are volumes worth of Brian studies, and Justin has barely made a dent in the Cliff Notes version, even after three years. Michael seems to take a certain vindictive pleasure in being absolutely no help at all. Briefly, Justin considers calling him, but abandons the idea; Michael would enjoy having all the answers far too much.

"Justin? Justin, um, Taylor, right? Ethan's friend?" The guy is a little taller than Justin, with shaggy hair and a vaguely familiar face, like everyone he met through Ethan, doing the Ethan thing, doing Ethan.

Brian raises his baguette menacingly, giving the guy a suspicious look. The baguette waggles from side to side, because Brian is tilting back and forth like a tweaked pirate, or a slightly embarrassing boyfriend.

He glares at Brian as the man weaves around the display, tucking the brutalized baguette and its sourdough victim into Justin's basket as if he actually intends to buy them, and faces the guy. "Ethan's fuck-buddy, actually. And you?" Brian asks, politely.

Justin allows himself to be upstaged, stepping back a pace. This guy isn't The Guy, but he might as well be. Liars lie, it's what they do, so there is no way of be certain how many guys Ethan actually fucked before Justin found out what exactly rings and promises are worth.

Random shaggy guy holds out his hand. "I'm Collier," clearly expecting civilized behavior. Brian stares at it like it's covered with rancid, green slime, until the hand drops and makes its way awkwardly into Shaggy's pocket.

"Of course you are," he replies, smoothly sliding his arm around Justin's shoulders. "Nice to meet you."

His fingers fiddle possessively with anything in their reach, hair, collar, snaps and buttons. "So... how is the prodigy, these days?"

"Ethan's fine." Collier fidgets, smiles, shifts his weight under Brian's rapidly sobering gaze. "I mean, I guess so. He's touring, you know."

Brian nods: he knows. He makes it his business to stay current on the life and times of Ethan Gold, chance meetings at art shows notwithstanding.

Justin is still trying to place this particular friend of Ethan. His hand clenches around the handle of the grocery basket, and he leans imperceptibly into the arm as he thinks, shrugs, gives up. "Sorry. You look familiar, but..."

"That's okay; it was just some lame party." Collier flushes. "You, uh, made an impression, that's all."

"Hmm." Justin turns his head to meet Brian's curious look. "Did you fuck him?"

"God, Brian, I think I'd remember that." Collier is probably startled to suddenly be relegated to the third person, talked about instead of to, when he's standing right there.

"You need to get out more, Justin," Brian responds, seriously, as only he could be in this situation. "You should fuck him."

Oddly synchronized, the pair favors Collier with twinned speculation. Collier responds by looking cornered while standing in the middle of the aisle.

"He's kinda... skinny," suggests Justin, noting the loose jeans and sweater.

"Yeah, but skinny guys always have the biggest cocks. Look at you." Justin nods, acknowledging the accuracy of the observation, but doesn't seem convinced.

"You could fuck him," he offers, hopefully.

Shaking his head, Brian declines, shuddering. "Not my type. Look at what he's wearing. Old Navy." Brian is the type of label queen that can actually manage to break out in psychosomatic hives to avoid prêt a porter, like one of those birds that pretends its wing is broken to distract predators from the nest, only Brian is preserving the sanctity of his wardrobe, not his offspring. Mel once commented that Brian would go into a burning building to save an Armani tux, but the theory hasn't been tested, although Justin has been tempted once or twice, usually when they're fighting.

"Uh," Collier waves a hand. "Thanks? But I'm straight. Just not, you know, narrow."

Brian rolls his eyes and removes his arm, giving Justin a little shoves as he lets go. "Right. You're up, Sunshine." He points at the clock over the pastry case. "Half an hour. I'll be in the deli. Be there or I'm leaving you here," he orders and relieves Justin of the grocery basket.

Resigned, Justin bumps shoulders with Brian, as he reaches for Shaggy's waistband to drag him to the restroom. "Don't forget Captain Crunch," drifts back, past the stunned metrosexual being towed behind Justin. "And I want milk, real, whole milk, not that soy shit you drink."

Obviously ignoring him, Brian picks up Collier's abandoned basket and pokes through it, wrinkling his nose at the crap food in it. He picks out the lone apple and a brown wrapped magazine, crunching into the fruit as he strips the paper away to reveal rather nasty gay porn. "Um hmmm. Straight my ass."

Brian drops the magazine on top of Justin's basket, chewing thoughtfully, and heads for the organic foods section.

THE END