Syrup by Maxx Barry Page A

‘fags’?”
    I’m beginning to find Tina just a touch confrontational. “No! I—”
    “Is someone’s sexuality that important to you?”
    “Usually, no—”
    “Good.”
    “Tina, look,” I say. “I’m not really interested in whether 6 is a lesbian or not. It’s whether she lied to me about it.”
    Tina stares at me for a long moment. “Men,” she says, and not in a good way. “I’m amazed that this patriarchal society even has a word for lesbianism. As far as men are concerned, it’s just another word for threesome.” She points at a closed door. “That’s 6’s bedroom. Don’t go in there.”
    “Okay,” I say, resolving to check it out as soon as possible.
    “I mean, Christ,” Tina says, her face twisting. “It’s none of your business. It’s no one’s business but the girl’s. She’s still a person, that’s what’s real. But no, men want to know all about it. There’s nothing more fascinating than a girl who won’t have sex with you.”
    I am defeated, and I hold up my hands to show it. “Okay, okay.”
    Tina pauses. “At least, that’s what 6 says.”

bedtime
    I do get the sofa.
    After the fun and frivolity of last night, I’m totally bushed. 6, however, wants to stay up for Letterman . On the sofa, I snuggle into a pillow and a blanket, my feet nestling a few tantalizing inches from 6’s bottom. For about five seconds I drown in a rush of stupid fantasies, then utter exhaustion claims me and I dream that

a brush with letterman
    “Wow,” Letterman says. “Hey! This is good!”
    I smile modestly, and, since this is TV, give a little aw-shucks shrug for the camera.
    “No, this is really good. I like it,” Letterman says. He looks at me, still holding the can of Fukk. “Can I keep this? You mind if I just hang on to this?”
    “Sure, Dave,” I say.
    “Tell you what,” Letterman says. “I’ll do an ad for you.”
    “Hey, you don’t have to—”
    “No, let me do an ad,” Letterman says. “I can do it.” He strikes a pose for camera two. “I’ve had a Fukk today—have you?” The audience goes crazy, and Letterman gives them all a big grin. “What do you think, Scat? You want to run with that? Huh? Huh?”
    “You should write ads,” suggests Pamela Anderson, who I notice at this moment is sitting to my right in a fluffy white dressing gown.
    I smile. “Actually, Dave, we had to be very careful with the advertising, because—”
    “Because it’s Fukk ,” Letterman says. “You can’t say Fukk on a billboard! No! You can’t do that! Can he do that?”
    “Well, exactly.” I frown intelligently into camera one. “We had to be careful. That’s why all the advertising has just the word Fukk, nothing else. You see, if—”
    “Hey, wait a minute, what’s this?” Dave cuts in. I turn and see him frowning at the Fukk on his desk.
    “What?”
    “I can’t pick up the can.”
    “What?” I say again, confused.
    “I can’t pick up the stupid can .” He reaches for it, and his hand passes straight through it. The audience gasps. “What a stupid can,” Dave says, looking at me accusingly. “I can’t even pick it up.”
    “I don’t understand ...” I lean over and try to pick up the Fukk, but I grab thin air.
    “It’s not even real, ” Dave says contemptuously. “What a stupid soda.”
    Someone in the audience boos daringly.
    “I don’t understand,” I say again.
    “Well, boy,” Letterman says. “You must be a dumb ass.”
    “Dave,” I say, wounded.
    “Why don’t you just shut up,” Letterman says, “you dumb ass.” The audience screams with laughter.
    I look around wildly for support. Pamela pouts sympathetically and reaches out a supportive hand. It passes straight through my shoulder. “Ooh,” Pamela says.
    “ Now look what you’ve done,” Letterman says, as if he just can’t believe it. “Now Pamela’s not real, either. What a dumb ass.”
    I open my mouth, but suddenly I’m sinking, starting to pass right through the