28. Oliver Branch

           I have always been amazed at how stupid some undergraduates think I am. Sitting in my office grading the first round of papers from my Shakespeare’s Comedies class, I was absolutely appalled. Did these people think that I could not spot internet plagiarism? Did this one guy actually think that I would buy that this was his own original theory on Shakespeare’s use of twins, and not one just culled from Wikipedia’s Comedy of Errors page? Which is was, word for word. Really?

          My office phone rang, “This is Dr. Stiles.”

          “And this is Dr. Branch,” My good friend Oliver laughed melodiously. “You always sound so immensely professorial on the phone. I mean you can just hear the elbow patches on your corduroy jacket sing. ”

          “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I said. “How are you?”

          “Better now to be talking to you. Wanna do coffee?”

          “Sure.” I pushed the papers away from me in disgust. They could wait.

          I had met Oliver a number of years ago, after he took a position in the University Library. He was my age, our Humanities Librarian, having moved up from New Orleans after finishing his Ph.D. at Tulane in Literature. He was a good friend who had gifted me with Charlotte Bronte almost immediatley after mreeting him. He was also the biggest closet case I had ever met. And by biggest I’m talking walk-in closet sized. Oliver was gay as Christmas, gay as pink ink, gay as the day is long, but not really, poor thing. Like Hitler, Oliver too was closeted.  

          “It is charming, Spring and all,” Oliver said in his sweet as sassafras southern drawl. As we walked toward the Student Union he dramatically bowed to an emerging flower garden, and quoted, as was his way. “I wondered lonely as a cloud over vales and hills, until I came across a host of golden daffodil.’”

          He was a petite specimen of a man with a shock of dyed blonde hair. His attire was always early 80’s goth band, with a selection of silly jewelry. He was not as much handsome as he was interesting to look at. He winked up at me and I smirked back.

          A group of frat boys shuffled passed and one of them snickered.   

          “Stop it,” I snapped, embarrassed. I always tried to pass on campus. Oliver did not. Ever.

          “What?” Oliver pirouetted over to me, “May we not dance to the Rite of Spring?” He smiled, obviously enjoying my discomfort, and curtseyed.

          “Oh for God’s sake Branch, man up.” I snorted and stomped ahead.

          “Come back Jimmy Dean! Come back!” he called melodramatically, following me like one of the lost flock from Swan Lake.   

          Nothing had ever happened between Oliver and I, and not because I hadn’t tried. He used to be one of my drinking buddies, but each time he had just had enough liquor he would want to talk about Jesus and how Jesus wanted him to be straight. And there’s nothing more of a buzz kill than having Jesus appear at the bar after about 9 or 10 drinks. So we had always stayed platonic, which was for the best as he was a flat mess.

          Settled in a high-backed dark oak booth in the Union food court, we sipped our coffee and watched the students pass. 

          Oliver was blathering on about some new lace he had bought, “And it wasn’t exactly jacquard, but it was close, and the most lovely lilac color…”

          “Thad wants to move out.” I interrupted.

          “Really?” Oliver stopped, hands dancing mid air. “What brought this on? Is he back on the bottle?”

          “No.” I said sternly, not sure if I should continue. Oliver and Thad hated each other; and I assumed it was not just jealousy over me, but a deep seeded real hatred of everything the other stood for. They could not even speak politely in society, as it was always pointed between them. I was used to it, but I knew there was no way Oliver was going to go easy on Thad. But Oliver was my only really gay friend, even though he wasn’t, and I desperately wanted someone to talk to.   

          “Well, you said it wouldn’t last.” Oliver sighed.

          “It’s not that we’re breaking up. He just wants to move in with his friend Bettina.”

          “That Nubian coiffer?”

          “Yes.”

          “She scares the bejesus out of me.”

          “She should. She’s scary. He’s been hanging out over there more and more, and then he spent almost the entire ice storm at her house, and they just had a ball. A ball! And now she wants him to get a house with her, and he wants to move it. So we’re not breaking up.”

          “But he is moving out?” Oliver asked, one lone perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised.

          “Yes.”

          “That’s the bad thing about being gay.” He looked dramatically away, running a thin white hand through his hair like Daisy Buchanan.

          “And what’s that?” I sighed.

          “No permanence. Since there’s no gay marriage or adoption in Oklahoma, there’s nothing binding you together. It just makes the gays all floaty, just float over here and float over there. Nothing solid. Can you see a married couple with kids announcing, ‘Oh, one of us is moving out.’ No. That would be the end of that. But not, not with the gays. They just floaty, float, float.”

          “You know that’s why the State keeps us like this, not stable, so we’re not a threat. For as long as we can be looked on as party boys-no marriage-no kids-they don’t have to take us seriously. But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Why haven’t you taken him up to Connecticut or Vermont or another of those gay marrying maple syrupy states and married him then? It wouldn’t count here, but at least it would count somewhere. It would give you some legitimacy. That piece of paper.”

“I’ve been okay with it being how it is. I’ve liked it like this…” I trailed off.

“Do you want to marry him?” Oliver asked, tapping a perfectly manicured nail to the table.

“Yeah…Yes,” I paused. “Just not right this minute. I mean by the time the Supreme Court finally makes gay marriage legal all over the country and all the states, including Oklahoma have to agree, I’m sure I’ll be ready by then.”

“So then just enjoy it. You said things had been kinda sang froid lately. Maybe this will be good for you two. Let you two know where you want to go. What you want. And if you’re not breaking up, the space might be nice.”

“You think?”

“Maybe it’s like separate bedroom. Couples do that. My parents have separate bedrooms, always have. Maybe this is just a natural progress, a lessening of the nesting. The next phase. But instead of separate bedroom you have separate flats.”

“Yeah. I guess. But I don’t want separate places…”           

“That which does not kills us makes us stronger,’ Mr. Nietzsche,” Oliver said tapping his head. “I guess this will really let you know if you want to be together or separate.”

“Huh.” I looked away.

Oliver cleared his throat and I could tell he was now uncomfortable with this: he could only briefly mainline gay before his God guilt kicked in. But he had given me some good advice: Maybe Thad moving out was the right thing for where we were right now. I certainly didn’t want to get married. I felt a bit better.  

“So I met this totally hot girl in the library the other day,” Oliver began without a whit of irony. “And she came up to the Reference Desk and she was, like, so into me.” He flattened his little lady hands on the table and smiled wide and joyous.      

I wanted to laugh, as I was pretty sure he was still a complete virgin, but I just played along as I always did. “Really?” I asked. “What did she look like?”

“Straight black hair like Tuesday Addams, and the wardrobe to match! Cute black babydoll dress, three-quarters length, with a little pink ruffley hem. I mean just precious. Precious!"

“Sounds precious.” I said.

“Oh, and her breasts,” he cooed. “Her breasts were huge! Huge! Both of them!”

“Nice, nice,” I said, using my coffee cup to cover my smirk.