#my beardie has been so mad because we saved a stray cat and he is always meowing like he’s never been fed before yet has a little pudge now

[scudismystud]

patron saint of bearded dragons 🙏

I wholeheartedly accept this title!

[kristin-briana]

I never meant to fall asleep. My original plan was to glare in Drewǯs direction and sift through all his notebooks and crank up an episode of Teen Mom; in short, I planned to be a jerk for the duration of my visit.

Instead I wake up at three a.m., the couch pattern printed on my cheek, crusty drool streaking my chin. Two strangers with banjos and harmonicas and half-assed beards sit on either side of me. Drew is cross-legged on the floor next to the tv, squeezing a djembe between his knees. The sounds coming from their instruments resemble music in the same way that a Nepalese accent repeating "spoon" over and over resembles English.

"When did I get stuck in a Mumford & Sons video?" I ask.

Drew ignores my question and says, "Roommates, this is Wilhelmina. Willie, these are the roommates."

They look at me as if they've only just seen me. "Drew. What the hell. There's a girl on our couch," says the most bearded of the two.

"What did we say about taking in strays?" says the other. "We donǯt even know if she's had her shots.

"She could have mad cow disease," says the beardy one. "She could have any number of contagions, and you have brought her into our home without any concern for our health and wellbeing –"

"She doesn't have mad cow disease," Drew interrupts. "She's my..." His lips pause, and behind his teeth I can almost see his tongue struggling with the correct title for me. Friend is lodged in his throat; he almost chokes on it. Girlfriend twists his lips into a pucker like he tasted something sour. Finally he says, "We were neighbors, back in Seattle. She just needed a place to stay tonight.

"Just tonight?" says the beardy guy. "But I like her. She's growing on me. Can't we keep her? She could be our mascot. She could come to all our shows."

Drew says, dryly, "I doubt weǯre going to book any shows with you playing banjo."

"Nonsense. I get better every day." He glances at me, and explains, "We have a bet going. We each have to learn one instrument per month, and play a passably good concert at a passably cool bar. This month we chose a hipster theme."

"Where does the bet come in?" I ask.

"Everyone is betting we can't do it."

"But... what do you get if you win?"

He blinks at me like he doesn't understand the question. "Everyone is betting we can't do it," he says again. "If we win, we get the joy and dignity of proving everyone wrong."

"Also, we'll be cool," says the roommate with the harmonica. "We've never been cool before." He plays a quick shrieking scale, for emphasis.

"Well, Drew's cool," says beardy. "But that's because he's a legit musician, and he's like one of five black guys in Portland."

"He's Cuban," says harmonica guy. "You're Cuban, right, Drew?"

"You look a little Indian around the eyes. And by Indian I mean America-Indian, not Asia-Indian."

"I don't know, maybe Filipino too?"

And I can tell that Drew loves his roommates, because this conversation doesn't knit up the skin between his eyebrows or freeze the smile on his face. It's not always like that. In my memory, these kinds of conversations drove him deep into himself, chasing circles around the questions no one can answer. At least half of our relationship was based on those sorts of questions. We built ourselves a family of two and wondered about the rest – the ones that hung on the edges of our memories. My aunts and uncles and grandparents, the pictures in Mother's albums; and Drew's case files with notes about the home he left as a baby. Drew and I played the "guess my race" game; but between the two of us it was serious, and usually ended with me saying that race was invented by bigots, that it's culture and family that really matters; and Drew would say that he doesn't have much of a culture or family; and I would insist that Mother and I were his family, which sounded much cheaper and cheesier than I wanted; and then we would both get quiet until someone changed the subject.

"So, Willie," says the beardy guy. "What brings you to Portland?"

"A homeless artist with a zombie-cat tattoo stole my bus fare," I answer. They all laugh, which seems to be the typical reaction to my misfortune. I still don't know why it's so funny. They, at least, have the decency to stop laughing when I scowl.

"That sucks," says the harmonica guy. "How much money?"

"Everything I had." Because I wasnǯt about to tell him the exact amount.

"Well, where are you headed? Maybe we can give you a ride?"

I open my mouth, to tell him about Discovery and Wilhelmina's land and the cattle built with horny toad bodies. But I swallow the story, and instead I say, "You can't give me a ride. Thank you, but it's too far. I'm headed south. Visiting family in New Mexico."

Drew has looked intentionally bored up for the whole of this conversation – arms and legs crossed, chin resting on his chest – but now he sits up, staring at me with eyes suddenly sharp and bright. He stares and stares at me, because he knows what New Mexico means and it never occurred to him until just now. He never thought that I might leave home for a reason; he just assumed that I was selfish and ungrateful, running away for the fun of it. Asshole. I think it hard in his direction, hoping the word somehow bounces from my brain into his.

"So what's your plan?" says harmonica guy.

"You could always hitchhike," beardy guy says. "I had a friend who got all the way around the country, riding on the kindness of strangers." A wrinkle of concern appears between his eyebrows. "Of course, he's three hundred pounds and looks like a skinhead, and you're little and a girl and so nice it makes me nervous. So maybe hitchhiking isn't the best idea."

"Maybe my little-ness and nice-ness is hiding a very powerful person," I tell him, straight-faced. He grins. When I don't grin back, the smile falters, falls, and then blooms back even bigger.

"I like her," he says to Drew. "Can we keep her? Can we at least give her our jar of pennies and a sandwich before we send her on her way?"

"The jar of pennies is mine," Drew says. "Not ours. I'm saving up for a Les Paul. And she doesn't eat sandwiches. Sandwiches are second-rate food, and we are adults who deserve pot roast and cake."

It's a direct quote. He's quoting me, reaching back into the past when we were young and happy and maybe a little drunk. We kissed for hours that night. I don't remember anything else except the kissing and kissing and the smell of Seattle's cold winter rain. I can't believe he remembers. Drew's eyes flick toward me for a second, and the smallest corner of a smile brushes his mouth.

Harmonica guy looks at me, then at Drew, then back at me. "You said you two were neighbors?"

I look down and away, feeling heat and color flare into my cheeks. "We grew up together. He moved into my apartment building when I was seven. Right across the hall."

"A360," Drew says. His fingers tap out a staccato rhythm on the djembe, and it sounds like a racing heartbeat.