Binge Read online

  The men brought me into an empty room with a bunch of chairs stacked against the wall. The cousin who seemed to be the oldest took a chair from the top of the stack and placed it in the middle of the room, as another took me by the shoulders and guided me to have a seat, firmly plopping me down. The men circled me. For years I had prayed for something like this, so I guess you should be careful what you wish for?

  “So, what are your intentions with our baby cousin?”

  My heart raced. Everyone was clearly under the impression that not only were Danny and I still dating, but we were getting serious. I looked around at all the men staring down at me from above, and I realized just how out of place Danny was in this group of cousins. He was tiny compared to them, far from athletic, and most notable of all was the only (openly) gay one of the bunch.

  “We’re taking it slow and just figuring things out. My intention is to treat him with respect.” I was sweating. The cousins exchanged looks among themselves, seemingly pleased with my answer.

  The next cousin took his turn. “Have you ever cheated on Danny?”

  “No,” I answered without a moment of hesitation. That was easy, because I hadn’t. Maybe I could get through this interrogation without having to stretch the truth or spin my answers too much? Maybe if the rest of the questions were as simple, I could get out of this unscathed?

  “Do you love Danny?”

  I choked. Of course my answer was no, but do I tell them the truth and humiliate Danny, or do I bite the bullet and protect his dignity? My heart ached for him. He clearly was the perpetual bachelor of the family, and since he’d never been one to bring a +1 before, he obviously talked me up to just about everyone, maybe even innocently while we were still dating. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and imagined him, helpless, unable to get out of bringing this amazing, charming, handsome, hilarious, and above all, humble guy he had promised to the wedding. How could I blame him?

  “I care about him deeply, and if I’m going to tell someone that I love him, he’s going to hear it from me first—not from anyone who forced it out of me.”

  The cousin who asked narrowed his eyes at me, and I didn’t break eye contact. He slowly nodded and looked to the next cousin. I exhaled.

  After a few more questions, I found I had survived the interrogation. The cousins, pleased with my answers, pulled me up and brought me into a great big manly group hug. They ruffled my hair and playfully patted me on the back, and it was the closest I ever came to that “Fratguys Whip Out a Ruler” erotic story so formative to my budding sexual imagination.

  I got back to the table where Danny sat with one arm around his mom’s shoulders. As I sat across from him, he looked at me.

  I will kill you, I mouthed.

  Sorry, he mouthed, before quickly downing his drink.

  Just then, “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas began, and his mom screamed and frantically looked around the table for someone to dance with. When nobody volunteered, I grinned. I was never going to see these people again, and if I was going to be the best +1 of all time, why not go all out? I got up, took her hand, and led her to the empty dance floor, a move that was met by applause from the entire reception. I spun her around, sang along with every lyric, and couldn’t care less that I was a sweaty mess. I looked back at Danny.

  He sat, leaning back with his arms crossed, shaking his head. I will kill you, he mouthed.

  Sorry, I replied, twirling away.

  if you can’t beet ’em

  I’M PASSIONATE ABOUT THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY. So much so that I once threatened a man’s life at one. But before you just assume I’m some type of middle-American mall-dining lunatic, let me explain.

  The Cheesecake Factory is just one of those places where dreams come true. Free bread at the start of the meal . . . sides of spicy mayo handily available . . . unlimited refills on Diet Cokes that were already the size of my head . . . I guess I’ve always considered it some type of earthly heaven. It’s where I celebrated the night I won two Teen Choice Awards in 2014, and where I took my mom out to dinner immediately after we were on The Ellen Show in 2015—it’s sacred. When I grew up in mid-Michigan, the closest Cheesecake Factory was a four-hour drive away, and I always perceived it as a fancy restaurant, like California Pizza Kitchen or Olive Garden. Clearly, I’m a foodie.

  My order at the Cheesecake Factory is simple. I always order the SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger—it’s a patty consisting of a delicious blend of lentils, grains, and beets, topped with onions, tomatoes, cheese, avocado, and spicy mayo. It’s fricking delicious—pardon my language. It’s so fricking delicious, I always suggest it to newcomers to the establishment. It’s compatible with almost all dietary restrictions, yet still edgy and fun, with a kick of beets that will make your shit a deep red the entire next day. What’s not to love?

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a restaurant that takes the time to create an entirely separate menu dedicated to healthy options. But if I had to make one complaint about the Cheesecake Factory, it would be the name they chose for this menu. If I didn’t already have a complete lack of shame, I’d have a tough time as a grown man saying out loud to another adult that I’d take the “SkinnyLicious” version of anything. Luckily, the waiters of the Cheesecake Factory have to wear an entirely white outfit from head to toe, even out of season. We each have something to be ashamed of, to which we can tacitly agree to turn a blind eye.

  I’m a man of routine. I enjoy the finer things in life, repeated over and over, until I’ve grown disgusted by them. On the scale of delightfully-just-discovered to absolutely-sick-of-it, I was somewhere around always-needing the SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger. Now, I’m by no means a vegetarian—Lord knows I’d deep-fry any animal and dip it in ranch dressing with absolutely zero hesitation or regrets. Now that I’m thinking about it, that sounds like a YouTube challenge. Stay tuned. So, yeah, that SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger . . . I love it on its own (coincidentally vegetarian) merits.

  Sometime around mid-January in 2014, I was dining at the Cheesecake Factory in the Grove outdoor shopping mall in West Hollywood, Los Angeles. I was joined by my friend Korey and his mom and brother, neither of whom I’d before had the pleasure of sharing a meal with. In an attempt to impress them with both my pseudo-health-consciousness and exotic tastes, I passionately recommended the Skinny-Licious Veggie Burger to Korey’s brother. I couldn’t say enough good things about it, and I told him how he would die for the beets in it. Like any levelheaded human, he was sold, and he ordered his own. Two SkinnyLicious Veggie Burgers coming our way! I felt like a missionary bringing the Good News to pagans. How could anyone be deprived of such glory? With so much beauty in this burger, it felt impossible that people could live their entire lives without knowing how blessed we are to be living contemporaneously with its wide and ready availability.

  After a couple rounds of the free bread, our meals arrived. This looks different, I thought, and upon the first bite, I immediately realized what was wrong. No . . . beets?! I hadn’t realized that the Cheesecake Factory had another veggie burger option, and Korey’s brother’s burger had the same defect! What happened to our beets?! I’d promised him an alarmingly red bowel movement coming the next day, and here I was, disappointing my guest. I was devastated.

  I’m not one to ever send a meal back to the kitchen, not because I feel that it’s rude, but because I’ve worked in food service with terrible human beings. I’ve seen teenage food preparers do unspeakable things to food for absolutely no reason, much less a merely flimsy one. I’m not saying bad things would necessarily have happened had I sent back my SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger, but I always like to play it safe.

  Disappointed, I went home and had a completely unmemorable shit the next day. Save your pity for now, it gets worse.

  Fast-forward a week. I was with a few of my YouTube friends at my apartment, playing bartender and making drinks. We couldn’t decide what to do—it was Friday night, and everyone had a different notion of wh
at an ideal night would look like. As a natural leader, it struck me how I could appease the masses . . . let’s do tonight right. I looked at my boys with a smirk, knowing my next two words would elicit the most passionate consensus democracy had ever seen . . . Cheesecake Factory. I must have had one too many whiskey sours because I had completely forgotten the debacle of just one week prior. We hopped in a cab and headed down the street, with growling stomachs and dreams of outrageous portions, plus unlimited carbs and carbonation.

  After perusing the absurd forty-page menu, I decided to just stick with my go-to choice: the SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger. As the waiter went around the booth taking our orders, one by one, I flashed back to the traumatic memory of what had happened last time: a beetless burger. This would not be happening again, so help me God. I asked the waiter tentatively, “So . . . the SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger . . . it says in the menu that it has beets in it, but last time—”

  “Oh, yeah, they changed that, like, two weeks ago, it doesn’t have beets anymore.”

  You know when someone tells a character in a movie or a TV show the most traumatic news, and the camera starts to slowly tilt and lose focus, the messenger’s voice starts to soften and echo, and the recipient of the news stares off into the distance contemplating how life will never be the same? For me, this was that moment.

  I snapped back into reality. “Fine . . . I’ll take that . . . and a side of ranch.” If I was going to be enduring a beetless burger, I’d at least drown my sorrows the only way I knew how. Twenty minutes later, I was completely sobered up, and there it was, a pale brown SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger, looking up at me as if to say, Everything has changed. I ate half, and I couldn’t bring myself to take home the leftovers. Which had never before happened to me in my quarter century of life.

  Now, I know you’re thinking: Tyler—there are worse things in the world. There are people who don’t even have burgers. I get that, and I validate their troubles. But let me be insane for a couple more pages, okay?

  The next incident was mid-February, a full month after the initial menu change. I was checking into my hotel on a five-day trip to Hawaii. I was accompanied by a bunch of YouTube friends, who, while driving from the airport to the hotel, exclaimed in complete astonishment, “Look! They have a Starbucks here too!” “Oh my God! McDonald’s!” All of us had completely forgot that we hadn’t actually left the country. I guess it was our concept of the island’s being isolated that also gave me the hope that maybe . . . just maybe . . . the Hawaiian Cheesecake Factory might be outdated, in the best way possible. There was only one way to find out.

  After a long day at Waikiki Beach on the coast of Oahu, we decided to return to the soft touch of a familiar friend, and we asked for a booth for four at the nearest Cheesecake Factory. While scanning the menu, I recounted to my friends my previous month of disappointments. I decided to ask the waiter if Oahu’s SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger might—just might—still be made the old way . . . beets and all. In full confidence, our waiter assured me that it was still the same old SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger, made completely as stated in the menu . . . beets and all! I wanted it. I needed it. I ordered it, and I decided, fuck, it’s been a month of disappointment, I’m not even going to get it SkinnyLicious—add cheese! Let’s get crazy! Beets are the perfect reason to throw my SkinnyLicious diet right out the window. In fact, give me an order of deep-fried macaroni-and-cheese balls for the whole table. Let’s get fucking nuts. When my friends ignore potential partners’ negative qualities because of how hot they are, I describe them as blinded by the beauty. In this same way, I was blinded by the beets. I didn’t give any fucks. I was ready.

  As time went on, my lust for the beets grew, and my doubts about their availability began to take root. What if the waiter didn’t know about the change? It’s the exact same menu, and it’s a chain restaurant . . . and, I mean, we are still in America . . . technically. This might not end well. No, no, no . . . don’t be silly. I had asked the waiter; he confirmed the beets would come. It’s as simple as that. I need to trust him. Our waiter gets me. He knows how important this is to me—how important it is period.

  Then the food started to arrive. One by one, my friends received their plates of outrageous portions, until I was the last one without any food. My eyes shifted from plate to plate. My thoughts began to race—this is it. This is the moment he comes over and tells me there’s been a mistake. No, no, no . . . it’s coming. It’s coming. It must be coming.

  “I swear to God, if my burger doesn’t have beets in it—” I began, right as our waiter rounded the corner empty-handed. Our eyes met, and I knew. Last time, my body involuntarily resorted to shock. This time, something different happened.

  “So I just checked with the kitchen, and unfortun—”

  Boom.

  You know that urban legend about the mom who gets in a car accident, and her baby is stuck underneath a car, and in this urgent situation her body gives her enough adrenaline to lift the car and save the baby? And afterward, she comes to and realizes she blacked out and doesn’t recall anything that happened? That was me at the Cheesecake Factory that day. I blacked out in a rage fueled by absent beets. As the waiter scurried back to the kitchen, I began to regain my senses. My friends gawked at me, and I began to laugh nervously. Wait . . . what did I just say to him? Did I make a fool of myself? Was I an asshole? Like, more than usual?

  They recounted everything that had happened just two minutes earlier, and I was appalled. Apparently, in a fit I couldn’t control, I had slammed my fists on the table, sneering, as these words came out of my mouth: “I will fucking kill someone.” I wasn’t loud enough to be heard by any other tables, but I was loud enough to definitely get me escorted out if I weren’t a five-foot-five-inch, platinum-blond twink in a tank top. “Fine, bring me the normal Veggie Burger. That’s fine. I don’t fucking care.”

  I had been blinded by the beets. I had threatened to kill someone over a SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger. If I hadn’t had my T-Mobile incident back in high school, this would have been my official all-time low.

  When our waiter returned, he was accompanied by his manager, and I knew this was to be the most shameful moment of my life: I’d be escorted out of the Cheesecake Factory while on vacation in Hawaii for threatening to end the life of a man in an all-white outfit and nonslip white shoes. I deserved it. I’d crossed a boundary, and that simply doesn’t fly at a classy restaurant such as the Cheesecake Factory. I looked at my friends with an expression that communicated my apologies for being the source of their embarrassment, then I looked up at the employees who would now be putting me in my place.

  “About the beet situation . . .”

  Oh, great, now this has become a situation. Our waiter totally went back and told everyone he had a situation on his hands. And it’s me, I’m the situation. He’s going to go home today and get on Skype and talk to his girlfriend, whom he’s in a long-distance relationship with, and complain to her about me, and she’ll tell him to not let it bother him, because I’m just a low-life, shitty person who doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and also she thinks they should start seeing other people. I was sure of it.

  My head dropped, my hands were clasped under the table to ensure no more slamming fists, and just as I was ready to be taken away to my unfortunate fate, the manager surprised me: “We are very sorry, and because of the mix-up, we’re going to give you your meal free.”

  Who was this man? Why was he forgiving me my sins? What did I do to deserve a second chance? In the words of our good friend Jesus Christ, homeboy got slapped and turned the other cheek. Side note: I am unfamiliar with the Bible, but I’m assuming it was Jesus who said that?

  God, I’m a fucking dick. That’s all I could think. It was a simple misunderstanding, yet somehow I forgot that the waiter just made an honest mistake. He didn’t mean to deprive me of my beets. As someone who has been on the other side of the service counter, how could I be so blind to the situation and treat
him like that? Well, if you’d ever had the original version of the SkinnyLicious Veggie Burger, you’d understand. But still.

  I apologized profusely to the waiter for the fit that I threw, and he assured me that it was okay. As if the free meal weren’t enough, he told me I could also have my choice of free cheesecake. In my shame, it tasted like ashes, but that didn’t stop me from finishing it.

  mood killer

  TYPICALLY, I WON’T BE CAUGHT DEAD ON A beach. There’s just something about the texture of sand, the inescapable dampness of the ocean, and the unappealing possibility of being eaten by a shark. And, yes, I know, you have more of a chance of being struck by lightning than being bitten by a shark, but I’ll pass on both.

  So when I was in Hawaii for a YouTube convention in early 2014, I was definitely a bit out of my element. Luckily, the men there were enough to distract me from my objections and lure me to the sand, and, boy, was I on the prowl. They were tall, tan, and their muscles bulged from surfing. In contrast, I was pale, dumpy, and likely to hiss like a raccoon at the mere mention of physical activity. I could only hope the locals would find our differences exotic and intriguing.

  And one did! We met on Grindr and decided to meet up in the lobby of my hotel, then go for a walk on the beach. So there I sat, on a bench next to the bellhop, with him knowingly judging me for what I was obviously doing in the lobby at 2:00 a.m. When my guy arrived, he was just as handsome as his pictures, and I was all heart-eyes emoji. We made our way to the empty beach, where just twelve hours ago swarms of tourists had been. The moon was huge, the crashing waves were the only sound, and I was thirsty.

  We moseyed down the damp beach, flip-flops dangling from our fingers, chatting about who we were, what we wanted to do with our lives, and everything in between. At first he was shy and quiet, but also incredibly handsome with a perfect smile. He told me about his family and his job as a teacher, and I told him about the weird life I had as a YouTuber. Sometimes I can be forward, but this guy seemed so gentle, unassuming—and a little bit nervous—that I let him take the lead. As we walked, the backs of our hands brushed against each other a few times, until he finally made a move and grabbed mine into his.