This blog presents a series of short stories, listed below in reverse chronological order.


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I am an Oklahoma academic with an interest in creative writing.

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Monday, May 2, 2011

33. Queen Acres

The first few days without Thad were glorious. I got to do what I wanted to do, wear what I wanted to wear, and listen to NPR in every room of my own home without fear of ridicule. I pretended Thad was off on vacation or that I was a bachelor again, so I ate fried chicken in my underwear and danced around to Tina Turner, and it was just heaven.
But each night was not. Alone in the bed, I was haunted by sadness and pity and longing, but also paranoia, as my OCD reveled in bedtime. My fear was that Thad was out partying it up with Bettina and that at any minute I would get one of his infamous late-night drunk calls.
 In Thad’s prime of drinking just over a year ago, he would say he was  ‘going out with some friends for a bit’ and then I would not hear from him for hours, after a night of my own teeth gnashing and panic after calling him repeatedly to no avail. But there about 2 AM I would always get that drunken call to pick him up and bring him home. And I always did, so he wouldn’t drive, but it always led to a giant fight, usually because I then refused to take his drunk ass to Taco Bell or the Kettle for eggs and bacon.
And by giant I mean ugly like stepsister ugly, as liquor loosened his acidic lips to an unholy degree. And then we would scream and fight and, conveniently, he would not remember a thing about it the next day, apologetic, as I lividly stood getting ready for work, tying my tie, on four hours of sleep. I did not miss those days, but was terrified that they were about to begin again. And at night, alone in bed, I could not stop thinking about that inevitability.  

Yet after three days of Thad off on his own, everything seemed fine, with no late night calls or observed incidents of drunkenness. I saw him two out of the three days, and we talked on the phone through-out the one day I did not see him. Apparently besides doing laundry at the house, he also fancied doing lunch there as well as Bettina wasn’t much of a cook or a shopper, so their cupboards were fairy tale bare.
So the first few days of him being moved out, I saw him over lunch and in the early evening, but just not at night when he retired to his place to watch TV and putter, leaving me to do the same thing at the house. It was not as bad as I had feared, as the time I had alone in the evening was rather refreshing, catching up with friends on the phone, beginning Jayne Eyre for a fifth or sixth time, and just having some space to spread out, hoping Bettina was proving to be as positive influence she had portrayed herself. As long as he wasn’t drinking, I was fine.   

On the fourth day Thad was out, I got a text from him, “U HAVE TO COME C HOUSE 2DAY-K?! T” His texting had the insouciant verve of a hyperactive fifth-grade girl.   
I was in my office at school, working on a PowerPoint for my upcoming Victoriana class. I mulled over the text for an hour, until he called.
“This is Dr. Stiles.”
“Are you going to answer my text?
“Well, hello. How are you Thaddeus?”
“Fine! You got my text, right?”
“Yes.” I rubbed my head. It wasn’t going to get any more official that this; I might as well bite the bullet and just go see his new place. “Do you want me to come by after class today?”
“Yeah! Yes!” he sang. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
I hung up the phone and rubbed my eyes. Why couldn’t I just have a normal boyfriend?

Their house was a cute stone 1940’s Tudor just on the other side of campus, surrounded by other interesting collegiate homes. With hardwood floors, two bedrooms, a tiny mirrored dining room, stone fireplace and big backyard, it was really a lovely place. And you could tell Thad had already gotten a hold of it, as it was beautifully appointed with all manner of knick-knackery and rugs and art.
I had stopped and got a potted plant as a house warming gift, which Thad had fussed over as he excitedly gave me the tour.
While he had showed me around, I had tried not to spy too much, but I did note the scattering of ashtrays and the red wine bottles in the kitchen recycle; but I stayed mum on this, as Thad hated wine. But I wondered who did not. 
“So that’s the tour. Isn’t it a great place?” Thad said as we wound back into the living room.
“It is. I can tell you’ve done a lot of work. It’s very elegantly decorated.” I smugly thought that in a way it looked like an elegant wing off of my own home, but I kept that comment to myself.  
“Thank you, Michael that means a lot to me!” He smiled sweetly. “Bettina calls it Queen Acres!” He laughed. “Isn’t that funny? She said it’s because I demanded coral curtains in the bathroom to match the sea shell walls, but whatever. She even made up a song. Wanna hear?”
“Sure.” He was just so thrilled; I couldn’t squelch him, even though I wanted to, hating to see him thrilled by her.  
Thad cleared his throat and belted out, to the Green Acres tune, “Queen Acres is the place to be! Pink curtains are so tres jolie! Potpourri smelling up far and wide. Keep the heteros just gimme the homo-side, Dum, dum de dum, dum dum. Dah Dah, Dah Dah Dah, Dah Dah-Nice hair! Dah Dah ,Dah Dah Dah, Dah Dah-it’s Cher! Queen Acres we are there! Dah Dah, Dah Dah Dah, Dah Dah!”
I burst out, “That is so funny!”
He smiled ear to ear. “I thought you would like that.” And then lasciviously grabbed me by the belt to pull me close to him, “So, wanna go get a better look at the bedroom?”
“Uh, sure. Is Bettina here?” I said blushing, looking around.
“At work,” he smiled deviously.

As I drove back home later that night, a silly smile plastered on my face, I decided maybe him having his own apartment wasn’t that bad of an idea at all. It certainly made him happy, and that, apparently, was a good thing.

The next day in my office I checked my calendar and saw that which I had been dreading: my doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning. I had been fretting over it since I set it three weeks ago. It was just a general physical but I had been putting it off for the last three years. Thad had finally convinced me to go, and I went and scheduled it, so there was no backing out, no matter how much I was not looking forward to the hernia check, the Cholesterol blood work, and the prostate exam, my first as I was now over forty. But since I had set it up, I had been ruminating over the threat of needles and strange doctors with their hands in odd place and having to watch blood leave my own body.
But the really daunting part was that since they were already going to be doing all the blood work, I decided to have them toss in all of the STD and HIV test as well. Now, I wasn’t worried about anything, having not been randy in some years, and I was not having any weird 1983 Movie of the Week symptoms, but the thought of that dreaded wait for test results afterwards, and the fear associated with that, gave me distinct pause. And it’s not that I had never had those test before, but it had been a while…a long while…and in short, I was afraid.     
Pulling myself from this terrifying reverie, I called Thad, “Hey, my big appointment is tomorrow. You can still come with me to the doctor, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said. “Oh! Wait, what time?”
“Nine AM.”
“Oh, Mike. I told Bettina I would be here for the cable guy. We still don’t have internet and I already accidently blew him off once this week, so she’s had to reschedule it, and, boy, was she mean about it. ”
“Really?” I was immediately livid. “So you can’t go because of the cable guy? You’re putting YouTube, EBay, Amazon, and internet porn over me? You said you would go.”
“Look, dude, I would totally be there, I am so sorry, but I told her I would be here at the house between 9 and 11 tomorrow. I mean this is our second appointment this week and she’s already pissed. And she hadn’t screamed at me like that in years.”
“Really?” I said astounded. “Okay, Fine. You know I told you this, like,  three weeks ago when I first made the appointment on your urging, and I’ve talked to you about it, I can’t even tell you how many times since…”
“I know. I just forgot…”
“And you know how nervous I am. I hate needles and their doing the whole HIV and prostate thing, just all sorts of god awful stuff.  I thought it would be nice to have you there. You know?” I was spitting mad.  
“Michael, I am so sorry. I just forgot. I can ask Bettina if she can change the appointment, but she’s already so mad I missed it already once this week…”
“Look,” I sputtered, “Just forget it. I have to go.”
And I just hung up on him and sat there and scowled at the phone.
He called back but I let it go to voice mail.
He was already picking Bettina over me.

This was the other side of Queen Acres that I was going to have to acknowledge; that he now had a life and responsibilities that did not involve me, and my schedule, and my wants and needs, and I did not like that one god-damn bit.

34. Let’s Get Physical

I hate the doctor. I hate the doctor. I hate the doctor.
In the waiting room, I couldn’t even focus. Wanting to run out and then run home, I had to make myself stay. Having luckily been healthy my whole life, I had never had much call for doctors, so their tendency to make you strip naked and stick you with things was not just terrifying but also completely alien to me. But I needed this physical, and was glad Thad had hounded me to book it, and was pleased that I had garnered the fortitude to just have them just go ahead and run all of tests, but what if they found something? What if I had cancer? AIDS? Chlamydia? SIDS?  What would I do then?
But at least if they found something early I would be able to act on it. I didn’t think I had anything horrible, but being raised by a hypochondriac mother, I always thought I was dying of something or other. My OCD was in overload, creating phantasm after phantasm of back braces and head gear I would have to wear, needles the size of gleaming silver piccolos, and diseases that would eat away my nose like a syphilitic Henry VIII, all the while skeletal nurses laughed and pointed at my fat naked body.   
“Jennifer?” the Nurse called out into the waiting room.
A woman got up and followed the Nurse away to her doom.
My breathing increased. I wished Thad had been there to distract me, to calm me, to make me laugh at my own fears. But apparently getting HBO turned on was much more of a priority to him than me. He had called a number of times last night to apology and I finally talked to him, but I did not forgive him, and I let him know that.  He would burn in Hell for this.  
“Michael?” the Nurse called.
I bolted up, and almost ran away, but did not. I made myself follow her.
The Nurse took me to a side hall where she had me step on a scale that also measured my height. 
“246.” She said.
“You are kidding?” I gasped. “That’s as much as a small Howitzer tank.”
“Well, not really, the Nurse smiled checking a wall chart. “But you are about 66 pounds overweight, so you might think about a diet.”
I turned to slap the saucy little bitch then and there, but refrained and just pitifully moaned instead.
The Nurse tested by eyes and then took me to a small sterile room where she took my pulse and did some other innocuous tests, as I shook and tried to return her small talk with something other than the curse words I wanted to scream at her.   
She let me alone in the small hermetically sealed room. Sitting on the paper covered gurney, I felt small.
Moments later Dr. Deeds came in, a sweet woman about my mother’s age, the perfect doctor for a gay man riddled with fear. She had been my doctor for the last few years and had seen more of me than most women. She wore a lab coat and green eye shadow, inexplicitly.
Dr. Deeds started by looked me over and talking to me about my weight and my diet, hit my knee with a hammer, and then before I knew it she had me stripped down naked and bending over a table, and all without her ever even buying me a drink first.  
All I can say is that after once she completed her special ‘procedure,’ I felt I needed to go pick out a ring and make an honest woman out of her, as she had so made it to third, and maybe even fourth base. 
After I redressed, she smilingly told me all seemed good and fine with the checkup, and began to talk to me about the upcoming blood work.
“Can I go ahead and get…” I began. “I mean, I’m not having symptoms, but I thought since they were already drawing blood…”
She craned her head and smiled, “Yes?”
“STD and HIV tests? I mean, I don’t feel sick or anything, I just thought…”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all.” She said in the best, most chipper way. “Let’s just go through the list.”
Still all smiles, she pulled out another clipboard and began going over the additional tests, ticking off what I should get. 
She went through a few until she got to “Oh, Hepatitis B, you probably don’t need. I mean have you ever been with an IV Drug user?”
Reddening, I shrugged, “No, I don’t think so. But it was the 80’s. We didn’t ask a lot of questions. I mean, Kajagoogoo was big, so what do you expect?”
“I see,” She said with a glass eyed smile. “Well, we’ll get that one too just in case.”
I just smirked and tried not to look like a big fat dying whore.
After a few more questions and a more green eye-shadowed looks of reassurement, she sent me on for the lab work.

The bloodletter was a Vietnam Vet looking man, pale and wispy, with pointed yellowed nails. I again almost ran, but he handed me cups to pee in, and that distracted me enough that I just followed orders, and later joined him in his big burgundy bloodletting chair. As this Vampiritic Nick Nolte leaned into me with his needle, his breath on my body, I had to stop my urge to hit him in the face and scream “No! You can’t have it! It’s my blood!” but I just turned away not to watch the needle enter. As I felt the small prick I could not stop myself from looking back over, to watch my life essence seep out…my blood leaving me…as my forehead beginning to bead thick sweat and I got dizzy.  
After three vials, three vials, three vials full, Lestat topped me off and sent me on my woozy way, saying I would have results e-mailed to me within a week.
And that was it. I was done with the doctor, with a good bill of health and no immediate problems, and I was so happy and proud of myself for going, but now I had “within a week” to wait to find out if I had anything else, like, say, oh, I don’t know, AIDS. I didn’t think I did, I had always been careful and Thad had been tested many times, but my beloved OCD certainly did, and, boy, did it begin playing out some of the most creative death-and -disease scenarios in my head.
I left the Doctor’s only slightly less paranoid than when I got there, but definitely lighter on blood.     

In the car I noticed Thad had texted: “HOW R U? I LV U. CALL ME.”
Bastard.
But I called him anyway and told him my harrowing story of medical woe.
“So you’re okay?” he asked at the end of my story.
“Yes, but I still have tests I have to wait for.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” he scoffed. “But good you’re having them done. It’s very adult of you.”
“Well, I only did this with your encouragement, so thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Oh!” I continued, “She did tell me I’m 64 pounds overweight.”
“Wow. Well, maybe you should start your Program back up,” he said. “You know Oprah’s weight fluctuates too.”
“That’s good to know,” I said dryly. “So how is your cable?” I tried to make it sound as ironic as possible.
“He’s still not here!” Thad sighed. “And I don’t have any food." He paused. “What are you doing for lunch?”
“You rat bastard!” I exploded. “You can’t come and be with me when I need you and now you want me to bring you lunch?”
“Would you? That’s so kind,” he said, just full of himself. “Hush-up, you’re fine. I knew you would be, but good to have a doctor tell you. And next time don’t wait three years. Pick up some sandwiches, oh, and chips. And maybe a pickle.” 
“You have got to be kidding?” I was exasperated.
“Oh, stop it. You’re fine. It was just a doctor’s visit. What? A prostate exam and one needle? Welcome to old age. And when you come over I have a big surprise for you to make up for not being there.”
I paused, “What kind of surprise?”
“Do you know the definition of surprise, Dr. Stiles? I’ll show you when you get here-with sandwiches-and you will be thrilled! And pickles. ”
“Okay, whatever,” I sighed.

I showed-up at his house with sandwiches and cokes and pickle-o from Sonic, to find that the cable man still had not shown.
Thad rushed me in and sat the food down on the table in the mirrored dining room, “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
I frowned at him, not in the mood for games after so recently being probed by an elderly green eye-shadowed woman.
“Do it!” he shrieked and I automatically closed my eyes and put out my hand.
He sat something there.
“Now open them!” he sang.
And I did to see two tickets sitting there. I brought them up closer to read, ‘Lady Gaga…Tulsa…April 4….’ I did a double-take and looked up at him in surprise. He looked thrilled.
“What are these?” I asked, turning them over. “I thought you were going with Bettina?” Last fall she had found out Gaga was coming to Tulsa in the spring and gotten the two of them tickets and I had been mortified ever since that I had been left out. But he was just ecstatic to be able to go, and had been practicing his best Little Monster poses in ridiculous large sunglasses in the mirror lately as the concert was next Monday.
“She just found out yesterday she can’t go. Some kind of hair show in Dallas she has to be in, so I bought her ticket from her and now you and I can go!”
“You’re kidding?”  I said, mouth open, thrilled, as Gaga was the gay’s latest greatest messiah.      
“No!” He screamed, dancing around. “Its Gaga, bitches!”
“Oh my God! You’re kidding!” I said, hugging him. “That is so great! And it’s next week!”
“Yes! On Monday. Can you take off?”
“Hell, yeah! Someone else can teach those little snot noses Romeo and Juliet for once! This is so great!”    
And we kissed and danced and jumped up and down as he sang Paparazzi and we waved our arms frantically.
Running out of breath, we quickly stopped, holding our sides, wheezing.
“Now I did this,” he gasped, “to make up for not being able to be with you at the doctor this morning. So now do you forgive me?”
“Yes, of course,” I lied. “These are great! Thank you!” and I waved the tickets at him and yelled, “Its Gaga, bitches!” and we jumped around some more until we wore out and had to sit down.
A forty year old body can only celebrate so much in one day.    

35. Meeting Pablo

After much phone harassment from Becky and Mom all week, I finally planned with Thad to go over and meet Becky’s new foster kid Friday. Becky had been a ‘New Mommy’ since Monday, and had called me three times weeping and once screaming. Pablo had been crying since the social worker lady left. Becky could not console him as she knew nothing about children, which was twice as much as I knew. My only advice was “Can’t you just give him back and ask for a quieter one?” which made her weep more, to my astonishment. And the sympathy I got for Thad moving out and the trauma over my physical only lasted a few days before she flat demanded an audience with us.
Driving over to Thad’s, I rubbed my face, tired. My day had not begun well. I had startled awake two hours early after a dream where Thad told me “Jesus made AIDS so it can’t be bad because Jesus doesn’t make bad things.” That perfectly summed up how the OCD was handling having to wait for the results of my blood work. I simply tried to not think about it, which, of course, made me think about it even more. 
I pulled up in front of Queen Acres, stopped the car, and was about to go up, when Thad came flying out the door, still buttoning his shirt. His expression was not a good one. Bettina’s car was there and gay disco was blaring from the backyard.
“Hey,” he said getting in the truck.
“What’s wrong?” I sensed danger.
“Nothing. Just drive,” he said in his most twitchingly frantic voice.  
“Are you sure?” I asked, pushing it. “What’d she do?”   
“Michael, if you want me to go to this thing, just drive.” He looked away.
I started the truck and pulled out, heading to Becky’s apartment across town.
We were both silent for the ride, his tension palpable.   

Once of Thad’s traits I found most intriguing as well as most infuriating was his secretiveness. As blatheringly open as my lips were, his were diametrically opposed and always sealed tight. It made him an enigma, a secret I wanted to crack. But I had learned the limits to my prying, as when he closed down, he closed down. Then all I had in my arsenal of truth seeking was spying and snooping. Luckily I enjoyed both of those hobbies.  

At the next light I began rambling about work and he finally looked over at me and I almost ran the car off the road. 
“What is that?” I said pointing to his head.
“What?” he said innocently, running his hands through his brunette curls.
“That!” I again pointed to his head. “Are you bleeding?”
“No!” he snapped, pulling down the visor mirror, “It’s a raspberry streak. I had Bettina do it last night for spring.” He fretted in the mirror for a second before looking to me, “I thought it would look new and fresh. Does it look okay?”
I knew what I had to say and I did not say it. Rather I said, “If you’re going for that new and fresh head wound look, yeah, you got it.”
“Shut-up!” he snapped grappling back at the visor mirror. “Oh, it does look bad, doesn’t it? Stupid, stupid Bettina.”
As he moaned and tried to blend it away, I snickered to myself, happy to see his angel falling.  

Becky’s apartment personified the myriad spectrum of the color beige. In the stellar opposite of my ‘elegant hording’ montage of knickknackery, Becky’s OCD had driven her to stark Norwegian minimalism. Everything was sleek and modern and clean and spotless except for the tiny messy four-year old Mexican boy covered in grape jelly standing splat in the middle of the room howling at the top of his lungs, jelly spotting the floor around him.
We had only been there ten minutes and it was already horrifying uncomfortable. According to Becky, Pablo had been crying for the better part of the afternoon, and our visit had only encouraged more waterworks. She had tried to console him with a sandwich in the kitchen, which had initially abated his tears. But when he wondered into the living room with the sandwich, Becky snapped at him to get back in there to eat it, and he burst back into tears and dropped the sandwich to the silk sepia carpet, which sent Becky scrambling to the kitchen for a towel and some cleanser. 
I looked over to Thad as Pablo howled before us.
“Fun visit,” Thad said making an ugly face.  
I giggled and said, “It looks like someone took an ax to your head.”
“Shut-up! Just shut up!” he huffed, throwing up his arms.
Pablo must have taken this as a violent advance as his howling tone hit an even slightly higher octave; somewhere outside dogs were paralyzed mid-stride.    
Tranquilidad  por favor!” Thad snapped at him rashly and Pablo hushed immediately, eyes wide.
“Well good God,” I said, astounded, “What did you just say?
Thad rose to go to the wall mirror to fuss with his hair, “I just told him to be quiet.”
“I didn’t know you were bilingual!” I said in amazement, watching Pablo now watching Thad’s every move.
“I’m not,” Thad said off hand. “I just learned some from Ma’am staff over the years. She has always fancied small Mexican men; Esteban is just the most recent.”  
Pablo looked up at Thad imploringly with his big brown eyes.
“Well, say something else,” I urged. “It seems to have calmed him down.”
No,” Thad said in perfect Spanish accident. “Not until you apologize for telling me my hair looks like a hatchet wound.”
“That is just silly,” I said, but as Pablo began to well up again, I sputtered, “Oh, for god’s sake. Okay, I’m sorry. Your hair looks lovely.”
Thad looked back to the mirror, “You’re just jealous.”
“That I don’t have hair that makes me look like a struck hemophiliac, sure.” 
Thad turned with hands on hips to frown at me and Pablo let out a long howl.
“Please, Thad,” I said over the ruckus.
Hola. Me nobre es Thad. Ques es Bebe Grande,” He said pointing to me.
I smiled and bowed and Thad smirked with squinty eyes.  
Thad continued, “Como estas?”
Yo quiero ir a casa,” Pablo said in a small voice.
Que?” Thad said, lips pursed.
Yo quiero ir a casa,” Pablo repeated.  
“Oh,” Thad said taken a back. “lo siento.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, afraid.
“He wants to go home,” Thad whispered.
We looked at each other with wide eyes.
Becky burst in with a towel and 409, sweaty and maniacal. “Got it!” Pablo ran to hide behind Thad. 
“No, no,” Thad said moving away from the child, “No jelly hands on my pretty new pants.”
“Let him be,” I said, rising with some difficulty.
“What’s going on?” Becky asking, falling to the floor to spray and scrub the rug. “How did you get him to quit crying?”
Fingers in his mouth, but quiet, Pablo continued to follow Thad around the room.
“Apparently Thad is bilingual and just talked to him.”
“Thad’s bilingual?” Becky asked in utter, utter amazement.
“Why is that so hard to believe?” Thad snapped, and as then Pablo came at him with arms open, Thad scolded, “No! Parada!”
Pablo stopped and began to well up.
Becky looked on in amazement, “I don’t think he speaks a word of English, even though the social worker lady said he does. He hasn’t said a word I’ve understood since she left! Well, what did you say to him? What did he say?”
Thad looked at me and then back to Becky with a sigh, “He wants to go home.”
“Well, this is his home.” She said standing with some difficulty, jelly covered rag in hand. “Tell him that.”
Thad looked down to the sniffling child and in a consolatory tone said, “Esta es nuevo tu casa. Esta es tu nuevo Mamma. Comprenda?”
No. Yo quiero ir a casa,” Pablo said before he teared-up again and ran into the kitchen.  
“What did you say to him?” Becky said accusatorily.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” Thad snapped back. “I just told him this was his new house and you were his new Mommy.”
“Oh, sorry,” She said folding the rag up into a tight ball. “Well, thank you. I guess I’ll have to learn Spanish. Glad I took those three years of French.” She laughed, “How useful is that now?”
C’est la vie,” I smiled. “We should probably go.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said as something crashed in the kitchen. “Oh Lord!” And then to Thad, “Now how do you say it?”
Nuevo Casa. New House.  Nuevo Mamma. New Momma”
Nuevo Casa,” She repeated, “Nuevo Momma. Okay, got it. Thanks Thad. I might call later for more, so just keep you r cell phone on.”  
“No problem,” He smiled, apparently thrilled to be of use to her.  
“Oh, what happened?” She stopped him with a hand on his arm, looking up to his head with a frown of concern, “I think your head is bleeding.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Thad shouted and I burst out laughing.

On the way home I had to apologize again but appeased him by ccomplimenting  his Spanish. My amazing bilingual boyfriend: a raspberry haired sphinx with a secret.

36. Guerilla Garage Sailing

That Saturday, with the weather nice, we finally got to partake in one of our  favorite pastimes: garage sailing. There was something of the treasure hunt mixed with haggling that I particularly enjoyed in garage sailing. Thad just liked it for the inexpensive gewgaws he could purchase, but I went into it as sport.
There was nothing more exhilarating than talking an old man down by half to get a 1920’s silver pitcher for $3. Or to pay an old lady a quarter for a ‘plastic figurine’  that was actually an 1880’s ivory netsuke. Or better yet, the church junk sale which had a 1910 Duncan Phyfe end table for $10 because none of the Bible banging Baptists had ever looked away from the Lord long enough to take an art history class. Now, that was my form of entertainment.
I had slept poorly again, still awaiting my test results, but took advantage of the early morning to map out our garage sailing destinations and plan the day. The highlight was that tonight was going to be our first night together since Thad had moved out, and I was so looking forward to that. I had missed him and longed to have him back.    
Thad had said I could pick him up no earlier than 10 AM, so at 10 AM on the dot I sat outside Queen Acres with the truck running. I texted “I’m here.” And after five minutes I called, and then had to call again, and then up to knock on the door before he answered, half asleep, looking a mess.
“Hey, sorry. I just got up. Bettina had people over till late.” He blocked the door with his body. I could still see beer cans and wine glasses littered the coffee table over his shoulder, and the place stank of smoke.  My paranoia went into hyper drive. 
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he rubbed his face, “Can you give me 10 minutes and come back?” 
I eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he needed time to sneak some trick out, but forbade myself from saying that out loud. What I did say, though, was “Are you drinking again?”
“No,” he snorted. “Look, everything is fine. She just had Bayne and his band guys over after their show. I stayed up some but then just went to bed.”
“And you didn’t drink?”
“No, Michael, I didn’t.” He tone changed, now he was pissed, but at least I could tell he was telling the truth: When he lied he always sounded guilty, never pissed.
“Okay,” I breathed a sigh of relief, believing him. “I’ll go get us cokes and come back.”
“Cool,” he smiled a sleepy smile.
As I drove off, content that he was telling the truth, the OCD began to nudge me into doubt, telling me I was playing the fool. But I pushed it away; the day was too young and full of hope to slay it already. 

Twenty minutes later we were out garage sailing, with 7-11 Big Gulps. He had rebounded remarkably and was chipper and chatty. We listened to a Lady Gaga CD in preparation for our Monday trip to Tulsa.
“Okay, where next?” I asked. On these outing, I always drove and he played navigator, as Thad liked to be driven.  
“Past Campus Corner, near Berry and Boyd, on Leslie Lane…” he read from the map I had made.
“Wait, what are you wearing?” he said taking off his sunglasses to stare at me for the first time that day.
I was in camouflage pants, an American flag shirt, and a red, white, and blue bandanna around my head.    
“I’m dressed as a U.S. veteran,” I said proudly.  
“Why?” he asked with his head in his hands.
“Who haggles with a veteran? Especially now that we’re in three wars?”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not. I’m determined.”
He laughed, “I can’t believe you do this for junk. How many veterans do you know who want formal china?”
“Well, this one does, and I will limp if I have to. If I see Haviland or Limoges, I will limp it up crazy-and who’s going to deny a wounded American veteran a deal on some old dishes he wants for his grandmother?” I laughed conspiratorially.  
“You’re going to Hell.”
“Yes, but at least I’ll have the right china when I get there.”  

There were four cardinal laws we followed while garage sailing.
#1: Do not dress fancy. If you dress fancy you get charged fancy prices-no name brand shirts, no fancy sunglasses, and certainly no watch-as the poor do not wear watches, as where do they have to be, really?  Thad had a problem with this, always appearing like he just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad or an Ibiza dance club, so I made him stay on the other side of the sale from me and pretend he didn’t know me.   
#2 Never, under any circumstances let them know you were gay. Why? Because then they knew you had good tastes and had lots of disposable income, and would never cut you a deal. I knew how to act straight, but had to constantly remind Thad to keep his arms and voice down, for fear he would give us away. But he could never keep his strobe light under a bushel for long.   
#3: Never let on you know what brand something is, as if they know that you know it’s a Biedermeier chair and not just ‘some old chair,’ you will never get a deal on it. Thad used to walk in and say “Do you have any Blue Willow? I just love Blue Willow!” and if they did, you know they over charged the hell out of him for his brazenness. Now, simply by pretending you have no idea what it is, you can skirt old ladies of lovely antiques for just pennies on the dollar.
#4 Do not make idle conversation with the vendors, as you could accidentially  give away your hand. Thad was the worst at this as he had an almost Tourettes-like compulsion to talk-up any stranger within three feet of him. Over the years, many a good sale had been lost to Thad’s blathering mouth. “Oh, my partner Michael over there would just love that old Meissen piece you have there. Oh, Michael! Yoo-hoo! Michael!” to prove that he could break all four cardinal laws of garage sailing in just one really gay sentence. 

There were certain exceptions to these rules, but I was always the one who got to make that call, never Thad, as he was too liberal. At one mid-morning sale we were at that day I had decided I was not going to buy anything, so I had nothing to lose by opening my mouth.
“This is a nice platter.” I held up a porcelain platter with a gravy well. It was priced $5, which it was clearly worth, but I did not want it already having two at home I never used.
“It was my Aunt’s Shelby’s. She lived in Connecticut.”  The old lady smiled. “I’m not quite sure what she used it for.”   
Thad walked over and I gave him that ‘It’s okay to talk now-I’m not buying anything’ look. He nodded in agreement, like we were spies.   
I turned the platter towards her. “It would have been used for something with a sauce. See, here is the gravy well where the liquid would pool and then you could serve from it.”
‘Well, my goodness,” the lady said adjusting her glasses. “I had no idea. I should’ve been using it for that! You are a con-a-mon-sewer.”
Realizing she had just grievous mispronounced connoisseur, but not wanting to embarrass her, I smiled, put the platter down and said, “Why thank you Ma’am. You have a nice day.”
As we walked off Thad whispered, “What did she say?”
“I’ll tell you in the truck,”  I whispered back.

After a fast food lunch we hit a few more sales, ending up at an estate sale in the fancy part of town where they had a cash register and appraisers who knew the value of everything: guile would get me almost nowhere.  Thad had returned to the car, and I about ready to give up when I came across a Wedgwood jasperware tobacco pot marked $10. It was a lovely piece and would absolutely compliment my collection, but it had to be mismarked. Even at estate sale prices, it was clearly worth much more. But not one to question pricing in my favor, I grabbed it and walked right up to the check-out table.
          A middle-aged lady in glasses greeted me, “Well what do you have there?
I handed it to her, trying not to be too careful, “It’s a blue pot for my Maw,” I said in my most heterosexual grunt.
“Oh my, well isn’t that pretty? She’s fortune to have such a thoughtful son.” She began to look it over until she found the price tag. “Well, isn’t this cheap!” She glared up at me with small, sharp eyes, and I felt the air leave the room. “Was this the original price on it?”
“Yeah,” I looked away, trying to look crippled, trying to look American and crippled.
“And where was it?” she asked pointedly. The old marm clearly thought I changed the tag! The nerve!   
“Over there.” I pointed like a straight man, with no flair.  
She eyed the far table, looked back up at me, and then after what seemed like an eternity said, “Okay. We’ll it’s clearly mislabeled, but fine.” And began writing up the ticket.
I tried not to giggle, so thrilled to get such a deal on such a collectable-not just the best deal today, but the best garage sale deal so far this spring! And it would be the most stunning piece of Wedgwood I had found so far.
“Do you collect china?” She asked sharply, her pen stopping as she looked back up at me. She had mean eyes.  
“No,” I lied. “I just thought it was pretty.” I tried to sound as much like Lennie from Of Mice and Men as I could. “for my Maw.”  
She looked back down, “It’s Wedgwood Jasperware. It’s a very nice piece, with no cracks. It’s very nice china, probably from the 1920’s.
“Really? Huh? ” I tried to sound common, as common as possible. 
“The acanthus leaves skirt,” she continued, “and the Greco-Roman figures on it are also very nice. Very collectible. You’re getting a steal on this.” She stopped writing and looked back up at me, taking her glasses off, “But you know that, don’t you?”
Damn! Cover blown! I had met my garage sailing match! But as I didn’t have the piece in hand yet I had to stay in character!
“No… No,” I said, and tried to look even more American and even more crippled.
She studied me for a minute before she looked back down and finished writing up the ticket. “That’ll be $10.80.”
I paid cash and could not get my hands on the little porcelain piece fast enough. But as I left, I myself stay in character, slightly dragging my left leg, in case I ran into her at another sale in the future; the town wasn't that big and I didn't want my racket spoilt.  

As I limped up to the car Thad stomped out a cigarette. “Oh, for god’s sake! What did you get Born on the 4th of July? The grail?”
I just giggled and jumped in the truck, “I lost it in the war, you know.”