52. His Big 4-0

The DING-DING-DING, WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP,CHING-CHING TING-TING of the slot machines ratatated through my head with percussive density. Angry clouds of cigarette smoke lingered over the maimed poor, hunched protectively over their pulsating gambling machines. Apparently gone were the days where one had to exertingly pull a lever, as now the downtrodden simply had to push a button to make electronic screens spins with apples and oranges and little pots of gold they would never win. Ah, the benefits of a modern world. And above the DING-DING-DING, CHING-CHING TING-TING sang the dulcet tones of a Dokken/Poison/Ratt medley played from hidden speakers.

I was in Hell in our local Indian casino.

When Thad and I first gotten back together, we used to go to the Casino now and again, as he loved it. But I had quickly grown to hate it, as the place was so depressing, full of the old and disabled and destitute and hopeless, all spilling their coins to the giant golden Indian god of gambling. And after one especially morally appalling trip involving the sighting of not one, but two people with stumps, I finally put my foot down and refused to go any longer.  But as it was his 40^th birthday, and this was the one thing he really wanted to do, I had to agree.

“I’m having such a blast!” Thad screamed, running by to stop and grab my hand like parishioner to a particularly lachrymose priest. 

“Great! Great!” I winced, really trying to fake it.  

He smiled crazily and ran back over to Bettina, who was lighting up another cigarette, drunkenly propped up against a slot machine like the lady she was.  

We had been in this den of gambling inequity for almost three hours now. As planned, we had picked up Bettina at their house and headed out to the Casino, out across the river and into redman lands: the Chickasaw Nation. We had his birthday dinner in the big restaurant, and it was fine except for all of the elderly with oxygen tanks and face bandages. Thad had ordered grandly and then complained about most of what he ate, as was his way. Bettina had requested a small glass of wine, which then turned into two more before the check was handed to me. Our big Injun waitress may have once been a man, but I was not sure.  

After dinner we had retired to the gaming area of the establishment, as Thad’s favorite thing about the Casino were the slot machines. He loved the lights and the DING-DING-DING noise and the thought that he might win enough money someday to never ever have to take orders from his parents again; but he never did. He lost, just like everyone else there, except when he lost he just lost his allowance. When they lost, they blew all of their government check and then had to go home and eat cat food for the rest of the month. Charming.

But for now Thad was happy, thrilled to be with Bettina and thrilled to be feeding money I had given him into a large flashing, singing machine. The two of them ran among the blinking and blaring machines like enflamed children, having the time of their damn lives. And I looked at my watch wondering how much longer I was going to have to smilingly persevere.    

“Are you sure you don’t want to play?” Thad said, dancing back over to me a few minutes later, whimsy in his eyes.

“No, no. I’m fine here,” I said, patting the table in the food court I current held down. “I’ll just watch our cokes. You go have fun.” I felt like the father watching his son play in the ball pit at McDonald, if the ball pit was full of sin and the dying elderly.   

“You know she’s just lit,” he said, thumbing back to Bettina.

“Is she on hard liquor yet?”

“Oh, of course!”  he laughed.

“At least it’s on her dime now.” I huffed.

Ignoring my jab he said, “Thank you for letting me invite her.” He was sincere. “This is a great birthday.” He touched my hand, which in a redneck place like this could get you kidnapped and tied to a fence and left to die if you weren’t careful. But by doing so in such a public place, I knew he meant it.

“Sure,” I said, snapping my hand away, not wanting to be slain as Pantera blared in the background.  

Thad giggled and ran back to Bettina. I watched them both light up, as the Casino had some sort of Satanic pact with the cigarette companies so that you could leisurely smoke anywhere within the entire grand hall. And drink. And probably purchase a woman of leisure.  But as I watched Thad take an extended drag off of one of Bettina’s long brown black lady cigarettes, I knitted my brow,  jealous as all get out that I could no longer smoke, but he could. He had recently just gone back to smoking in front of me, now sporting it enough that ashtrays again dotted the backyard like mushrooms after a spring rain. He still said he wanted to quit, or at least he did between cigarettes.

With small eyes I watched them laugh and exhale together, and just hoped that that was the worst of his current vices he had picked up from living with her. The fact that he had remained sober through all of his 40^th birthday proceedings was amazing to me. I had also not heard any more of Spandex Hair Mane, and let me tell you, I had been listening. And as this was the last hour of his birthday, and so far he had not combusted, we were almost in the clear. I mean, I had really figured he would have taken back to the bottle by now, amid fits and birthday curses, but no, so God love him and fingers crossed.

In fact, as his birthday had neared, he had seemed to take it in stride. His parents had a little party for him up at Ma’am’s, but I was not invited, as his parents would be there. This cut me, but I swallowed it, thinking ‘it’s just Thadworld. He deals with my shit; I deal with his.’ So then the next day, Mom and Becky had come over and brought him presents. And some of his other friends had called or sent cards. And then earlier today I had given him his gifts-some clothes and an Xbox gaming system, which seemed a gift a 40 year old man should be embarrassed to ask (nee begged) for, but he was just thrilled and couldn’t wait to start fighting zombies, or shooting aliens, or driving over prostitutes, or whatever middle-aged men did in those weird masturbatory games.

 But this Casino night was the end of it. This was it. He would be 40. And apparently okay with it.  

A loud bell went off down a long row of machines and I glanced over to see an old woman doing some sort of victory dance with her walker. As I looked over the waves of unwashed masses, and how happy they seemed plugging their last dimes away at a hope that would never come to them, it made me think that maybe the unexamined life might be worth living.

When I turned 40 two years ago, it had torn me up. I had felt unaccomplished, indigent, useless, as I was only an Associate Professor with only two published books, had only sort of travelled extensively, was heavy but in good health, and who had just gotten back together with the love of his life. But I didn’t have a novel published, or own an island, and thus I had been morbidly depressed.

I looked up to see Thad trip by, chasing Bettina, heading to the bank of Price is Right glimmering and popping machines. He was smiling, with apparently not a  depressed thought in his head even though he lived off his parents, had no job, had not finished school, and the only real accomplish he could stamp on a resume besides catching me, was that he had recently trumped his twenty-year alcohol addiction. But he was happy, so happy right now. Maybe he was the lucky one; the one with the uncluttered mind.

And I loved him and envied the Hell out of him for it.    

About ten minutes later Thad slunk back over and took a mournful drink of his coke.

“Did you win anything?” I asked, over the DING-DING-DING racket.

“No,” he said, downtrodden. “I just lost it all on damn Bob Barker over there.” He sighed dramatically.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked, hopeful.

“No…” he smiled, trying to be precious.

“Do you want some more money?” I said dryly.

“No…” he tried to fake, but then “Yes!”

I shrugged and pulled out my wallet, handing him another twenty.

“Yeah! I’ll be done soon!” he screamed, running back to Bettina and the flash-pounding machines, waving the twenty above his head.   

            I consigned myself to continue crowd watching as Motley Crue roared from above over the DING-DING-DING of the place. To add to the ambience, a trashy couple had sat down at the table next to me to have their dinner of nachos and cigarettes. They were lookers, with maybe a mouthful of teeth between them; luckily the nachos looked soft and gummy.   

Across the food court I saw something that didn’t make sense: the metal footrests of a wheelchair lying beside a trash can. I craned my head around to see if some wheelchair person had dropped them, but everyone around was ambulatory, and smoking. I looked back and tried to take in why the footrests would just be cast aside, as they had to be an expensive part of a wheelchair. But I couldn’t, which left me feeling weird and surrealistic.

Bettina walked by and winked at me. I smiled. She was a pretty girl; too bad she was an alcoholic. She strutted over to a waitress and ordered what I assumed was another cup of swill. Thad had disappeared, I guessed in search of the perfect DING-DING-DING, CHING-CHING-CHING game.   

Now that I was almost done Sherpaing him through his hallowed birthday, I was becoming nervous about my upcoming Shakespeare conference in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I was on countdown to just over a month till I left, but Thad had told me I was not allowed to rambled about it until after his birthday, as I had stayed mum on the issue. The fact that I could travel at all amazed me, but it took weeks of worrying and list-making to get me through it. So I had already planned to begin really worrying about it tomorrow-post his 40^th- and the thought enticed me.   

Thad popped his head around a bank of TING-TING-TING machines and waved me over.

Gathering our cokes I walked over, “Yes?”

“Hey!” He said, “Check this out! I’m winning!” and he pointed to the slot machine he sat at. It was Wheel of Fortune, and he was up $10.  

“Good. Neat.” I could care less, but, again, was trying to be a good spouse.

An old geezer sat to his left, systematically pushing a button to make his  machine spin.

I watched Thad push the button and watched him watch the electronic display spin, and wondered how he didn’t wonder if the whole thing was fixed, as it clearly was. If we can’t trust electronic voting machine, why in God’s green Earth would we trust electronic slot machines?

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and looked up at me, “Bettina gave it to me. Do you mind?”

“No,” I lied. “Of course not, it’s your birthday…” but the irony was lost on him as he leaned over to old man next to him and said, “Do you mind?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders with an implied, “Why not…”  

Thad lit up and smoke curled up and around his face and into my nose, and it smelled wonderful, but also kinda like failure. But more like wonderful, which made me want to smack him in the head. He pushed the button again and the electric display rotated and the machine went DING-DING-DING, and he did it again and it did it again, and he did it again and it did it again, and he was just mesmerized, hypnotized. But then after a few spins he began to lose, and dropped down to $5.

But next he pushed the button his machine exploded with PING-PING-PING and TWANG-TWANG-TWANG and flashing lights and as the display showed he had won $25 and Thad jumped up and down and acted like had had won the damn lottery and he looked up at me with the most joyous expression of accomplishment on his face I had ever seen, and I just softened as he was so happy, even though I knew it meant we would have to be here for hours more. 

And as the bell on Thad’s machine stopped BLING-BLING-BLINGING, the old man leaned over and said, “Wow! You did good!”

But it was how he said it that was the most interesting: he said it through a tracheotomy wand held up to the metal hole in his throat. And Thad just froze, cigarette held up in mid-puff as I tried not to laugh, as the look on Thad’s face was priceless. And after a second he said, “Thanks…” and turned to exhale his smoke discretely, and the man said, “Sure,” in his mechanic robot voice of doom voice. I really had to force myself not to laugh as Thad crushed out his cigarette and turned around and looked at me and mouthed, “Let’s go.”  

And for saving me, I mentally thanked Tracheotomy Man.    

We found Bettina at the bar (duh) and got her to wrap it up, even though she wanted to stay. She whined around a bit as she sucked back her glass of firewater, but now that Thad was freaked like he had seen his Ghost of Christmas Future, all he wanted was to be gone, so he just kept tugging on her to hurry.  

In the car driving away, Bettina in the backseat arguing into her phone with Bayne, Thad took my hand and whispered, “Thank you. You did everything right.”

“Well, my pleasure, baby. You deserve it. Happy Birthday.”

He squeezed my hand and I felt truly happy.  

As we drove out of the parking lot we passed an old drunk looking man scooting around in his wheelchair, and I realized where the discarded footrests had come from: He had just thrown them away so he could move around, unfettered.

 The power of that Casino was awesome. 

53. Farmer’s Market Massacre

Being of good country stock on my Mother’s potato-loving Irish side of the family, I have always had an interest in the agrarian sect: it’s ways and morays and just how they loved their Loretta Lynn 8-tracks and Hank Williams, Jr. sleeveless t-shirts won at the State Fair. And these salts of the earth were never on better display that at our local Farmer’s Market.

Held weekly, local farmers from the surrounding countryside would come into town, bringing their most freshly picked bushels and pecks of all manner of vegetables and fruits, and random country junk the needed to sell to buy pills or booze or meth or whatever got them through living out in the country. These fine folk would lay their wares out on folding tables covered in plastic gingham tablecloths under tailgating tents in the parking lot of the country fairgrounds for the city folk to rummage through and make comments like, “Well, it’s from the country-so it’s got to be good.”

On this one somewhat bearable Saturday morning in July, before the temperatures were to hit a high of 102, Thad and I curtailed our garage sailing to head to the Farmer’s Market. We were in search of a good cantaloupe, as the ones at the stores had just been bland as all get out lately.

I was fine cutting our garage sailing short, as Thad had done pissed me off at the last one by screaming, “Mike! They got silver! It’s cheap! Come here! Come here!” So by the time I had stomped over to him, to see the well-priced silver pieces, the proprietress had also walked over, and decided she now wanted twice for them what she had marked. I could have strangled him, except he was completely oblivious of his sin, having no conception how to follow the Four Cardinal Rules of Garage Sailing at all. Suffice to say, I did not get any silver this morning.  

           “Are these juicy?” Thad asked, holding up a big fat cantaloupe to a wrinkled little grandpa farmer in Big John overalls.

“Yup. They’re up from Texas. Oklahoma hasn’t produced a good cantaloupe yet this year. Not enough rain. Makes ‘em tough. Texas got some good rain that just missed us. So them be good.”

“Good, good.” Thad smelled it, squeezed it softly, and said, “Well, okay. I’ll take one. How are your tomatoes?”

As the oldster began a diatribe on the effect of rain on tomatoes, I wondered over to look at a booth of potted plants. They had all sorts of flowers, much bigger and healthier than you could find at any chain store or garden center. The heat had already killed some of my front porch potted petunias, so I bought a half tray of big pink ones. The granny sales lady handed me my change and smiled, “God be with you.” Ah, country folk.

Looking back around, I didn’t see Thad. With petunias in hand, I began to walk the rows of booths, smiling at people as they passed. Junk booths were interspersed with the other booths, allowing people to drag out grandmas’ old quilts or granddad’s antique tin cars to sell along with the fruits of the land; it all made for an interestingly bucolic shopping experience.

Since Thad’s birthday last week, a huge weight had lifted from my shoulders: the danger had passed. He had seemed a little down since, but nothing too much.  He mainly had been at his house playing with his new game, which had given me ample time to freak out over my upcoming trip: three weeks and counting. 

Turning a corner around a display of wind chimes made of shredded coke cans, I spotted Thad at a junk table talking to a short lady with odd blonde ponytails. Thad was animated, laughing and waving his arms. The lady stood with hands on hips…and then it hit me: I recognized her. I knew her. Those pony tails. Those crazy eyes! And then she turned to me at that exact moment and I swear mouthed something looking right at me: it was the Garden Rapist!  

I gasped and almost dropped my petunias.  How dare her show her face after stealing my terra cotta chicken planter full of clover! What was she even doing here? I stepped behind the coke can wind chime display and peered back out like a spy. She was manning a table of crap: it must be her booth! How heinous! How despicable! To ruin something as charming as the Farmer’s Market with her vile thieving self!

And what was Thad doing? He was just chatting her up? Did he even know it was her- The embodiment of porch-stealing evil? I watched his body movements: he was perfectly at ease-he had no idea the monster he was blathering too! And there she was, just drinking it in, probably laughing at his innocence, thinking how she would go home and rub her dirty feet all over our purloined terra cotta chicken planter full of clover, and maybe even plan to come back in the cover of night and steal even more. Maybe even my new petunias, before they could even take root! She looked up, and I swear she looked directly at me again, and I double dog swear I saw laugher in her eyes! Laughter at our expense!

Without another thought I stomped over to Thad.

“What you doing?” I snapped, red-faced, not acknowledging the witch.    

“Hey,” he said snidely. “Just talking about bird feeders. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I spat. “We should go.”

“What’s your deal?” he said, clearly not understanding the moral terror of the situation he was in. 

“I would just like to go now.” I said as sternly as possible.

“Well, hey there Michael. I thought that was you…” the Garden Rapist said as stickily sweet as possible.

Without turning I said, “Hey. We were just going.”

With a confused look on his face, Thad mouthed, ‘What?’ to me.

And I mouthed back, “Garden Rapist.”

And he mouthed back, “What?” screwing up his face.

And I mouthed back, ‘GAR-DEN RAPE-IST.’

And his eyes got really wide like he had just seen death or accidently weighed himself.

“So how is you guy’s garden?” the Garden Rapist said, apparently having watched or entire pantomimed exchanged and thought nothing of it. “I could still use some of those big ol’ irises of yours, if you want to do another exchange.” 

And then, without thought, I apparently just frickin’ lost it. I’m not exactly sure what I said, but I turned and exploded on her with something like, “How dare you! After you stole my terra cotta chicken planter full of clover! Really! Why don’t you just return it and we can call this good, as I have already called the  Police and now that I know you have a booth here, maybe I should just tell them where they can find you! Huh! How would you like that! Huh! Huh? Just return it- YOU THIEF!” gesticulating like a crazed Italian.

And then there was silence.

With blood coursing through my head I could hear very little else besides the throbbing in my brain, but what I could certainly hear was the complete silence of everyone around me. The Garden Rapist stood transfixed, silent, mouth open. As if in slow motion, her husband, who I had not noticed before, stood up from behind her and walked over, looking mad. Thad took my arm, and pushed me, but I would not move. I couldn’t. I was stuck.

And then everything came back to present as Thad whispered, “We need to go.”

I looked down to see that I had dropped my petunias all over the ground: It looked like a CSI floral crime scene with splattered dirt, exposed rootballs, leaves bend unnaturally back, and flower heads decapitated. 

“But, my flowers…” I muttered, unmoving as he tugged on me.

I looked back up and the Garden Rapist looked so scared, like she was about to cry. And her hippy-dippy husband looked like he was about to jump over that table of handmade birdhouses and kill me right then and there. And that’s when I knew I had overstayed my welcome.

“Come on!” Thad barked, pulling on me, and I moved one step, treading on my poor little dropped flowers, and then another to let him lead me away.

And all of those good God-loving country people around us watched as we left in shame, Thad hiding his face like Sean Penn from the 80’s. I was numb and suddenly afraid I might be arrested for assault.

Once at the truck, I stopped, “You know that was the Garden Rapist?”

“No, I didn’t know it was her! But, good God, did you have to yell at her like that!” He said, whipping his keys out.

“But she stole my terra cotta chicken full of clover…” I said.

“I know! Just get in the car,” he snapped. “It looked like you were going to kill her. I thought she would pee her pants. You ought to be glad they didn’t call security.”

Getting in the car, suddenly shame-faced, I mopped the sweat off my brow. I had no idea I hated her that much. 

“Was it that bad?” I asked like a child.

Throwing it in reverse Thad snapped, “Well, we won’t ever be coming back here again. Does that answer your question, Mr. Psycho?”

As he sped us off, I decided that the cantaloupes from the store were just fine enough for my taste. Those country people could just keep their moist, rain-soaked ones.

54. Spandex Hair Mane

          August came in like a lion eating a lamb: it was the hottest summer Oklahoma had ever had in recorded history. It was the hottest summer ever for a state in recorded history.

I sat in my office, sweating through the 35th consecutive day of temperatures over 100 degrees, as the air conditioning blasted the sweat off of me. Banging away at my PC, I desperately tried to organize my upcoming conference trip (countdown: 2 weeks), but all I kept thinking about was what Thad had said over lunch.

          We had gone and grabbed a quick bite at KFC, and as he was driving me back to the University, from out of nowhere he said, “Have you ever just wanted to move away?”

          And my heart sank-as there it was: the inevitable depression that came along with 40. In that one statement he expressed depression and complete displeasure with everything in his life, which, of course, I assumed meant me. Typical of Thad to be late on everything, even late to his own sorrow, as his birthday was almost two weeks ago.

          “Yeah,” I said, but then, “No. Are you okay?”

          He just waved his hand to signal ‘I am done with this conversation.’ And that scared me even more.

          We drove on in silence.

Whereas my depressions were loud and tawdry affairs, his were quiet and lonesome. I would roll about the floor and moan, decrying my horrid life to the Gods, but he would just retreat like a hurt animal, either to heal or flee. I just didn’t want him to flee. Not again.    

          So sitting in my office, typing and web surfing on my trip, I just wondered how he would fare without me for almost two weeks. I mean, Thad hated it when I went I made evening plans without him; whereas he, on the other hand, could skip away from me at a whim-but, me, oh, I had to clear it with him first. And I had cleared this trip with him, and even asked him to go, but his fear of travel precluded him leaving the state.  

But I didn’t think the reality of my actual departure had started to sink into until I had really begun to rattle about the trip, now post-birthday. And apparently already depressed about his 40th, suddenly he was now aware of my imminent departure, and had already started showing signs of separation anxiety. If I didn’t answer the phone now in 3 rings or less, he would howl. He always wanted to know where I was. And suddenly he was snippy about everything, especially the trip, which he had no interest in talking about. And it’s not that he wasn’t being supportive,  it’s just that he wasn’t being that supportive. But I understood and made myself hold my tongue.

I refocused and continued through the conference brochure, making notes of which meetings I wanted to attend and which tours I wanted to take. The trip was for the International Shakespeare Conference, which looked to be a good one; I had attended them on and off over the last decade all over the world, and always enjoyed them. They were full of interesting international scholars, editors, and book people, and as I was looking for a publisher for my next book, the contacts I made at the Conference could make or break the project. Plus, I had never been to Puerto Rico and was looking forward to exploring the island. And although not a beach person, a tropic local was appealing, especially as it was a remarkable twenty degrees cooler there on the Equator than it currently was in nasty ol’ Oklahoma.  I just hoped Thad would be okay in my absence.           

Later at the house, as Thad made dinner in the Kitchen, his cell phone went off.

I sat in the dining room perusing the conference schedule. There was a session on Mistress Doll I would definitely have to be at. And a sunset boat tour I shouldn’t miss.

His phone rang again and he walked out to the Dining Room and picked it up: “Hello?” and then “Oh! Hey! How are you!” and then promptly dropped his voice and walked straight into the Bedroom. 

Immediately en guard, I strained to hear but I got was “Bettina…yes, crazy,” a few laughs, and then a, “I’ll call you later.”

As he exited and walked back to the Kitchen I restrained myself for exactly one and a half seconds before I asked, “And who was that?”

“Oh…that?” he paused, and I could tell he was trying to calculate the decision of lying, but then just, “Julian. The drummer from…”

“Yeah, I know who he is.” Spandex Hair Mane! “What did he want?” I tried to sound casual, but know I sounded like J. Edgar Hoover with a run in his stocking.  

“Just to say ‘hi.’; Thad said coolly. “I had called him last week and he was just calling me back. We might go do something.”

“Really?” I said, standing, telling myself not to recreate the Garden Rapist massacre here in the Dining Room.

“Yeah,” he said defiantly. “I mean you’ll be gone soon, and I have to have someone to hang out with.”

            If he had stabbed me with a dagger it could not have hurt any more. And that’s exactly how he planned it from the look of accomplishment on his face: this was my punishment for leaving him.   

“Oh, neat,” I said way more icily than I meant. “What about Bettina? I mean, can’t you hang out with her while I’m gone.”

“Yeah, but she’s depressed, so she’s no fun.” 

“What do you mean?” I wanted to stab him repeatedly with a screwdriver.

“Well, don’t say anything, but she broke up with Bayne the other night. That’s one of the things Julian wanted to talk about. Apparently they had some big blow out at Bayne’s late Sunday night and stuff got broke, and they haven’t spoken since, and Bettina says she hates him and never wants to see him.”

“Then you should probably spend more time with her…”  

“Yeah,” he fakely smiled, walking back into the Kitchen. “So do you want chicken or ham on your salad?”

“Ham.” I said, my face beginning to twitch, looking for that screwdriver.

Thad hanging out with Spandex Hair Mane while I was gone was actually the worst thing that could happen. As I assumed there would be drinking, and infidelity, and then we have to break-up, all while I’m trapped on a damn Caribbean island, powerless. I began to pace, wishing I smoked, wishing I smoked. And I could tell Thad was just doing it to get to me, just to smite me. And that enraged me, as why would he do that when he knew what a nervous traveler I was? It was just cruel!  

“I don’t want you hanging out with him!” I kinda screamed, arms akimbo.  

“Pardon me?” Thad said looking around the corner of the Kitchen. “And why not?”

“I just don’t.” I barked.  

“So, I’m not supposed to have any other friends besides you? Is that it again?” 

“No,” I lied. “You know what I mean. But guy friends: no.”

“You have male friends…” he countered, in a tone that said not to trifle with him.

“I know. It’s just that you know how nervous I get about leaving, and why would you do this to me right here before I go-just to punish me for going? You know this is a work thing and I can’t get out of it. I’m trying to get a publisher for my book, you now this? And I invited you and you said no. So why don’t you not jerk me around on this just because you’re mad that I’m leaving.” I was raging, yes, but it was a wee rage.

“He’s straight,” Thad said in a calming voice.

“Well, yes, you were too when I met you.” I snapped.

He walked over to me, “It’s nothing. He’s just a friend. It’ll be fine.” I could tell he now was getting the attention he wanted, and was thrilled by it, which just redoubled my pain and hurt.   

“I still don’t want you hanging out with him.” I repeated.   

“Sorry,” he said impassionedly as he moved away. “But don’t tell me who I can or can’t be friends with. It’s rude. And it’s just a friend thing.”

I eyed him and remembered the screwdriver was in the tool box in the linen closet again…but then thought of something even more painful.  

“Okay,” I smiled. “If that’s how it is, then you won’t mind if I go have coffee with the Gaybor?” I said it with as much moxy as I could smarth. “I mean it’s just a friend thing.”

I had called his hand and raised him one handsome gay neighbor. 

“That’s fine,” Thad said in a most unconvincing tone.

“Good. Okay. Then I’m okay with you too. Just as long as we’re clear.” I said back to him, my voice shaking.

“Good,” he grimaced.

“Fine,” I agreed.

 We stood there, silent, like two old west gun fighters, just waiting for the other to drop first.

 “I’m going to go home now,” Thad said after a second, with eyes down.

“Okay, but…” I began.

“No,” Thad interrupted. “We’re done here for today.” He said, finger up. He washed by me, grabbed his keys and walked out the front door.

 I heard his car start, back out, and drive off down the street in one fluid moment.

I looked in the Kitchen to see that my salad was only half done and wondered if I had overreacted.

But logic was not with me, but rage was as he had left me alone in my lividness. And all I wanted was to cause him pain for the pain he had caused me. I went to e-mail the Gaybor.

That would teach the little bastard.

55. Coffee with a Gaybor

           Damn the immediacy of e-mail.

The following afternoon as I sat in the Student Union and waited for the Gaybor, I now realized maybe I had over-reacted last night. The Gaybor had e-mailed me back almost immediately last night to say ‘Great! What about coffee tomorrow?” and now I sat waiting on him, rather shame faced amd regretful.

          I had called Thad this morning but he had not answered. I had not apologized, but I did leave a nice sounding message and a “Call me back.” He had not. So I had not spoken to him since he stomped out. At this point I knew just to let him call me. I had planned on cancelling this coffee if Thad and I had made up, but as that had not happened, the chess game that was our relationship continued: Queen takes Gaybor.

          Sitting in a booth in the big empty Student Union Lounge, I thought about last night: it’s, not that I thought Thad would run out and cheat on me with Spandex Hair Mane the moment my back was turned, I mean, especially now that Thad was sober and in control of his sensibilities, it’s just I did not appreciate my emotions trifled with. And last night I felt Thad had poked at me just to be poking at me, mad that I was leaving. And thus he got my wrath. It was all his fault.

          But now I was in a rather sticky wicket of a situation, feeling very weird about the upcoming coffee. I was not cheating, I mean the Gaybor was just a neighbor and colleague-but a handsome one. I mean, all clothes were going to stay on and all, and it was just coffee, but I still felt bad, like maybe I really was cheating. Maybe the cheating was more in the intent than the actuality. Whatever the case I wished that I had never e-mailed the Gaybor and I wish god-damn Thad had just answered my call this morning so I could have cancelled this whole damn thing and not be sitting waiting now.

          In the midst of my mulling, the Gabor walked up.

          “Hey…Steve,” I said rising.  

          “Hey there Micahel. Nice to see you. Glad you finally took me up on my offer.” We shook hands.         

          “Sure. Sure,” I said, flustered, as he was handsome as an Abercrombie and Fitch ad, except with a few more clothes on. He was in khakis shorts, a snug yellow polo and running shoes-a very collegiate summer look. His hair was sun dappled, and slightly windswept, like an early Robert Redford before the crinkly skin set in. Suddenly Thad and his messy phobias and alcoholism and bitchiness and raspberry streaked hair were not looking so good by comparison.  

          We walked over to one of the little restaurants and got drinks and went back to sit in a high-backed, dark wooden booth, just across from where Oliver and I had sat and fought about Bettina two months ago. Oliver and I had not had much to do with each other since: served him right.   

          Steve and I began by talking about our chosen professions: He being in architecture, talked about Frank Lloyd Wright and I being in Literature, spoke of Shakespeare. So we did our professions well, and got that out of the way. I watched him as he talked, his red lips, the way he laughed, the hand carefully drug through the hair, and pretended I had never heard of Thad, ‘Thad who?’ I asked myself. He really should have called me back: It was all his fault. He shouldn’t have provoked me. 

          “Your book?” The Gaybor repeated.

          “Pardon?” I asked, pulling myself out of my reverie, even angrier at Thad for now ruing my coffee date with a cute guy.  

          “You had said you were working on a book?” he repeated.

          “Oh, yes: Whores in Musicals.”

“Really?” he laughed.

 “Yeah. I wrote a series of articles about whores and whorehouse imagery in Shakespeare-Mistress Quickly, “Get thee to a Nunnery” and all-and it got turned into my first book about two years ago.”

“That’s great.”

“Thanks.  It sold a few hundred copies, like most academic titles, you know…”

“Yeah…”

           “But it got me some acclaim in the Shakespearian world. So then I was watching RENT and it made me think about whores in Broadway plays, so I started researching that, and it’s really just crazy how many there are.” I stopped to take a breath, knowing I was just about to completely out myself, but better now than later.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I continued. “ I mean, if you think about it, musicals really developed out of opera, sort of an American happy bright opera, but the early gay Broadway writers-Cole Porter, Jule Styne, Jerry Herman-they couldn’t write what they wanted, love stories between men, so they put whores in instead.”

            “And the gays are the whores?”

            I raised an eyebrow and continued, “Well, no. The whores are stand-ins for 

the gays, as the gays and the whores are similar because the only thing they are 

doing wrong is having sex society has deemed illegal, which then they are then 

persecuted for. But the sex hookers have is normal sex, it’s not bestiality or incest 

or something awful, it’s just illegal in the eyes of the law.” 

            Stopping here, I attempted to judge his reaction. I was good as out now, but 

what about him?  Was this just another closeted guy like Oliver? Or was this one full 

fledged straight? I couldn’t imagine that, I mean, he had originally asked me to coffee

and all.

            “Really?” he said, apparently unphased. 

            So I continued. “The writers added prostitutes in the place of the gay guy, 

so they could relate to it. Think about it: Guys and Dolls, Oliver, Cabaret, 

Chicago, Best Little Whore House, even Gigi - Gigi for God’s sake! It’s the guy 

falling in love with the whore, but then not being about to have her because of who 

she is. The whore is the number one represented profession for women in musical 

theatre. And that’s why gays love Broadway.  Whores in Musicals. ” I smiled 

triumphantly. 

          “That’s really great.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I never was much into musicals.”

          “Oh,” I said. Maybe he was straight, or at least butch.  “My Dad left me all of these Broadway albums of his, and I always just liked them.” And not to dip into histrionic remorse, or veer off into the maudlin fact that I had not heard back from my father yet, I changed course with, “So what’s your research about?”

          He lectured about some architecture something or other-barrel vault, ancient Egypt, blah, blah, blah, and I continued to watch him and wonder what exactly he looked like under those clothes and what I was getting myself into. Was this a straight dude who suddenly was realizing he was chatting up a gay? Would he bash me with some sort of ancient building tool? A level? A lathe? Or was he a gay?  

          After a few minutes the topic changed to our neighborhood and how he liked his house and gardening and how much his dog Ennis liked the yard.

          “So you and your partner live there?” he asked with a big white smile.

          “Well, no, but we did for just over two years. He-Thad- moved out a few months ago and moved in with a friend…”

          “Oh…” he said with a pause.

          “No, no.” I cautioned. “We’re still together. He moved in with a female friend to help her out. They live just east of here, and it’s actually not too bad. I thought it would be awful, but it’s really working out. I see him every day and he spends the weekends. It’s very mature seeming.” I kinda lied, kinda not. So we were absolutely on the gay strand now, so I looked at him with a John Waters' ‘Your turn, Mary’ look.

          “Yeah,” He began. “My ex- and I had the same thing for years. He was in the military and kept a house up in Tulsa, and I was there most of the time, but I still had my own apartment. It worked out for the most part, I mean, until it didn’t work out any more.” 

          “Oh. Well, that’s too bad.” I said understandably. So we had contact: He was gay! I smiled broadly, relieved that I would not be bashed with a T-square.

          And as he told me briefly about how he and the sergeant had met, and then dated for ten years, but then broke up, and that’s why he left Tulsa and moved to Norman, I just thought: Did he want this coffee to be more than just about coffee? Was he hoping I was single? Was he already in love with me, from afar? How would I break it to Thad? Or would I have to, since he never god-damn called me back!

The Gaybor’s cell phone rang and he whipped it out, “Sorry. Hold on.”

          “Sure, sure.”

“Hey!” He said into his phone, launching into a stilted conversation

I sat and mused over his good looks and how I just wished Thad would call. And I realized, this guy was handsome and all, but I just wanted Thad. Thad: my messed-up, broken little puzzle piece that fit with my messed-up broken little puzzle piece. That’s all I ever wanted, idiot bastard. I should not have thrown such a fit last night, but this coffee was a mistake. I needed to call and apologize, and tell him that I trusted him and that he could hang out with whoever he wanted, even though I did not believe that.  

And then I looked back at the Gaybor and wondered if I was going to have to break his heart, like his older military Ex-. But I would let him down easy. Tell him how long Thad and I had been together, and about how much Thad meant to me. I’m sure the Gaybor would understand. He seemed strong. He would move on.

The Gaybor hung up and said, “Sorry about that. That was Matt, one of the wrestling coaches. He finally called me back and we’re going out later this week.”

“Oh,” I said completely surprised.

“Have you met him? Little burly guy? Beard and buzzed head. Hot.”

“Yeah,” I said, having seen him around campus. “He’s gay?” 

“Sure. I met him at this party up in the city a few weeks ago, and we’ve been texting back and forth since, and now we’re finally going out!”

“Yeah.” I said, suddenly deflated, not liking this Gaybor at all. So if he wasn’t in love with me from afar, what was this coffee all about? Huh? Did he just want to be friends? Gross. Was he one of those gays who collected other gays, in some sort of kumbaya, sort of we should stick together kind of way? Eugh. How offensive. How common.

“He lives out on 6 acres near the lake,” the Gaybor continued in a rather unappealing falsetto tone. “I’ve heard he’s got horses and a hot tub…”

As the Gaybor went on to describe what sounded like the beginnings of a 1970’s porno, I just became more and more uncomfortable. What was I even doing here? Why would I jeopardize my perfect relationship with Thad for something so stupid as a coffee with some random dumb guy? And I felt so stupid for thinking he was interested! I just wanted to go. I needed to call Thad and make sure everything was okay, that he still loved me, as apparently Mr. Dumbass Gaybor didn’t.  

“So this has been very nice…” I said, interrupting his ramblings on the hunky wrestling coach. “But, gosh, I’ve got a lot of work to do on my book…” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” the Gaybor  said, “This has been nice.”

We made a few pleasantries as I gathered my stuff, then he, “Well, if I don’t see you around here, maybe I’ll see you around the neighborhood.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” I said with no passion in my voice at all.

As we stood he said, “Oh, hey! One more question: Have you had anything stolen around your house lately?”

 I stopped to stare at him, “Yes. I had a terra cotta chicken planter full of ivy stolen in April, why?”

“Really? Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I had some patio furniture stolen from the back of my house last month, and I talked to my neighbors to the north, and they said they had some nice concrete urns stolen in June, and they found them at this trashy rent house around the corner, so they just went and took them back. And I went over there, and it looks like college kids, and I peered over their fence and didn’t see my furniture, but they had a lot of other random yard stuff just piled up back there, like they had a collection going or something. So just be careful. It just looks like they probably get drunk and just go out looting. ”

“You are kidding!!” I exclaimed and then briefly told him the story of the Garden Rapist and my talking to the Police before Lady Gaga and ended with the story of me bawling out the Garden Rapist out at the Farmer’s Market two weeks ago.

“Huh. Well, if it wasn’t her, I bet it was these kids. You ought to go check out their yard.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said suddenly realizing what a terrible person I was. “I’ll see you around Steve.”

“Okay, bye. We should do this again…”

“Yeah,” I called as I stomped off, suddenly aware of all of my sins: I had implicated the Garden Rapist to the Police and then humiliated her in public, in front of her peers and husband, all on no solid evidence. And I had done the same to Thad. I was a terrible, terrible, crazy person.  

I took off, running across campus, through the horrid heat and hot wind, to try and escape myself. I was a terrible, terrible person. I had to call Thad and apologize. I had to.