Inside Joke

Inside Joke

Lex Silvas

29/07/26

Dear God,

it’s me, Marcello Garcia — Cello, remember? The one who’s supposed to show up at church more, but only turns up when things get really tough. Yeah. My grandma, who’s more of a saint than all the saints put together, always speaks well of me to You, I know that. I hope You believe her, ’cause if it were just up to me, the record wouldn’t look quite so clean. To refresh Your memory: I’m this Cabrón on his knees between the pews, praying with whatever faith I’ve got left, begging You to save me from this spell. That’s right, spell. ’Cause it’s got to be the devil’s work, this girl… or guy… or girl who’s also a guy. You know exactly who I’m talking about. They say she’s got the power to make straight men, strong and sure of themselves like me, start thinking all kinds of stupid stuff. And I — who never even considered doing anything with a woman who didn’t have everything exactly where I expected it to be — I think that’s clear enough — now I catch myself imagining soft, intimate touches with that being in lipstick and a gentle voice, who insists on being more of a woman than any woman I’ve ever known. I don’t even know how that can be possible. The way she moves, her laugh… have You ever heard her laugh? What the hell is that? Sounds like angel music mixed with a cabaret joke. That’s why, God, I’m begging You: keep Your son straight, steady and strong until this week’s over and this girl’s gone far away. Because if not, Lord, I don’t know if I’ll walk away from this mess saint or sinner. And I want things to stay just the way they are — I don’t want to have to sit down with my mom and explain that her precious boy’s got a thing for someone who’s got too much hair, so much I can’t even tell if what’s underneath is real or just an illusion. So please, Lord, keep my dignity intact. That’s all I ask.

Amen.

I make the sign of the cross and stand up, convinced I’m strong enough now to face the biggest enemy I’ve ever had: something that threatens who I am, and it’s going to lose, ’cause there’s a real man here. Or my name’s not Marcello Henrique Garcia — son of immigrant parents, stand-up comedian, and permanent cast member on Midnight Comedy Tonight. I love this job, and I’m not about to end up back in dive bars playing to cheap crowds for pennies. I’m not throwing this chance away over some silly craving that a good lay ought to sort out — but for some reason, it just isn’t doing the trick.

Stupid question that just popped into my head: if I don’t sleep with a guy, does that mean I’m actually straight? Or does a real man not turn away, even when things are like this? A fair question — one I’d never dare type into Google, what if someone hacks my account and blasts it all over the place? Better stick to straight porn and cat videos. No one side-eyes a guy for watching cat videos. After all, “pussy” happens to mean the same thing in English as the parts I’m supposed to be interested in. Yeah, best stop thinking about sex — I’m in public, walking the streets of New York, and I don’t want to be sporting a hard-on by the time I get to work. Besides, hard-ons probably draw trans women right to you, so let’s think about something else. I’m spiraling over an imagination — what if there are more like her around? Let’s talk about me, Marcello — raised in America by my parents to be the man I am today. Not someone questioning who he is — a man who loves women, every way there is — no, I meant only one way — God-fearing, and knowing the devil’s always lurking. That’s why I keep my guard up. My heterosexuality thanks me for it. I’m a real Latino — not the decorative kind you only see listed as an option at Chipotle. Dark, curly hair that’s never settled on a single style; round, expressive cheeks my mom calls “an angel face” and I use to my full advantage. Dark eyes, a smile that comes too easy — my manager says that’s why people laugh before I even open my mouth. Twenty-eight years old, average build, a belly that’s not a belly — just personality piling up. The kind of guy everyone recognizes at the bar before he’s even stepped on stage.

I reach the building after a fifteen-minute walk. There are already a few fans by the door, and I stop for them — autographs, photos, you know, the whole famous-person routine. Then I’m past security and heading up in the elevator to the NVA studios — National Variety America, the network I work for. I walk in, say hi to everyone, and head straight for the head writer’s office. I knock twice and let myself right in:

— ’Sup, dummy, I’m here — I say, stepping into Bill’s room.

Bill’s a big guy, a little clumsy, dark hair, blue eyes — the type who’s always showing off some dumb new gadget he bought. I love him. My only real friend around here, honestly. He’d never put me in an awkward spot. I slump down in the chair across from him, flopping any old way.

— Hey, Cello, glad you made it — he says. — We’ve got costume fittings today for Sunday’s show.

— What kind of outfits? — I ask. — You still doing that frog sketch I told you about? That’s “grogrogrotesque.”

He doesn’t laugh, just keeps typing, working on something that’s probably for the show.

— The frog sketch got cut because it would’ve run eleven minutes over time — he says without looking away from the screen.

— That’s a shame.

— It’s a new segment we want to introduce — he goes on. — You’ve heard what they say about Scarlett King?

— That she’s got a dick? Yeah, I heard.

— That she seduces straight men and turns them gay too — he says. — Kylie Kenner ranted about it for hours on her show.

— Never heard a word about it — I lie.

— Anyway, I wrote a piece yesterday we could really play with.

— Well, I’m sure she must be charming and all, but a straight guy would never be attracted to her — I say, laughing without a trace of humor. — That’d be insane, right?!

— Look, I’m married, and even I thought she was attractive — he says, as serious as anyone admitting that ought to be. — You have to admit she looks like a real woman with those full lips.

— Don’t be ridiculous — I say. — She doesn’t pass that well. A woman’s a woman, and Scarlett King isn’t — I let out the nervous laugh I use to convince myself of things. — She dated Conrad Blake, you know — that big star famous for only going after the hottest women in Hollywood.

— I might’ve seen something about it on TMZ — I say. — But Conrad never actually confirmed it.

— The sketch has you as the handsome prince, climbing Rapunzel’s braids to kiss her beneath the moonlight and break the spell that makes straight men want to be with her.

I laugh out loud, a little uneasy.

— You’re not serious? — I ask, cutting off my laugh when I realize he absolutely is. — It’ll be fine, just a quick peck on live TV. It’ll be hilarious. You do that little pouty face like you don’t want to do it, y’know, the same bit you did in the baby sketch, and people are gonna lose their minds laughing.

— Dude, I just walked in, haven’t even had a decent coffee to wake me up properly, and you’re already telling me to kiss someone who’s biologically male in front of millions of people.

— It’ll be hilarious.

— My mom’s gonna see this — I say. — My folks back in Mexico, and every girl I ever hoped to ask out someday.

— The LGBT community’s gonna love it, and you might even win an Emmy — he says, getting excited. — You know how these awards love giving prizes to straight actors who take on LGBT roles and calling them brave for it, while actual gay people are out here dying on the streets every day.

— That’s… pretty specific — I say. — You okay?

— We need an acting award, haven’t won one in what, eight years?

— An Emmy’s not worth my mom losing her mind — I say. — You know how it is, the network’s breathing down our necks about ratings.

— A gay kiss isn’t gonna boost the ratings — I say, laughing. — What about our long-time viewers? Those conservatives who protested when we put a Latino on the show next to a Black guy?

— They’re busy campaigning against Rebecca Kardall getting pregnant live on her daytime show now — he says. — Conservatives get bored of things fast, you know that.

— I watched that episode — I say. — Pretty cheap porn, if you ask me.

— I know, the horses were a bit much — he says. — Look, I… I don’t have what it takes to be some LGBT icon — I say. — I wouldn’t know what to do with Lady Gaga showing up at my door in the middle of the night in New York. And then there’s the whole actually liking men part.

— You’re turning this down. Why? — he asks, stopping typing and turning to face me. — Scarlett seemed really excited about it and already agreed, same as the network.

— You talked to her first?

— She called right before you got here — he explains. — There’s no reason you can’t do this.

— It’s not that — I say. — I… I… I’m just thinking everything through. You know how practical I am. I don’t need religious groups lighting my house on fire in their God’s name. My cats live there.

— You don’t have cats.

— I was planning on adopting one — I say.

— I get why you’re worried — he says. — But nobody really cares about that stuff anymore. And the numbers’ll go through the roof if we pull this off — he sighs. — And I cast you because everyone knows you’re the funniest guy here. And who better than the straightest guy I know to pull this off?

— You’ve got a point — I say, smiling. — I am the straightest guy around. I’m with women almost every Sunday after the show. Everybody knows that.

— That’s the spirit — he says. — Scarlett’s coming by tomorrow to work out the details. I’ll polish up the jokes and send the script over later.

I stand up and give Bill’s hand a squeeze.

— Alright, I’ll let you get back to it — I say. — Send it over soon, I’ll start going through it. I’m so… excited.

I leave Bill’s office and head straight for the restroom. Once I’m inside and sure I’m alone, I stand before the mirror, close my eyes, and feel total despair wash over me.

— God, my God. You there? — I whisper. — Could You at least answer messages or hire a better secretary? I… I actually have to kiss her now? Is this real? Now I’m really screwed. How am I supposed to stay straight through this? I need to think of a way out.

I glance toward the window and imagine jumping, but it’s so small I’d probably just get stuck — and as soon as I picture it, the image is so ridiculous I almost laugh.

— I am so screwed.