Flash 4 U

Friends

Hurricane

First night: Party hearty, red fruit punch and rum.

Next day: No power. Limbs slam the house. Sirens wail. Water jugs, batteries, first aid kit in the attic, ice chest stuffed with valuables; sealed shut. Shoulda sold the piano years ago.

Third day: “Levee’s broke. Get to the attic.” We splashed through the second floor and upward. Damp and tired, Tucker and I huddled on the plywood.

“Can’t swim.”

“Fine time to tell me.”

Fourth day: “National Guard’s coming. We’ll use the chain ladder through the window.” Tucker ordered.

“I’ll find something to float out on later.”

“Sewer plant’s underwater... There’s snakes, hungry animals. Looters – armed looters. Gotta go.”

“No!”

Bullhorn blasted: “Tucker, you in there?”

“Yeah, but Davey’s wimping out.”

Tucker left. Heart beating fast, I gasped for air, panic attack neared when a huge man came through the window. “What’s the problem?”

Wild-eyed, short, fast breaths, “Can’t swim.”

He dug in his pockets, pulled out a vial and a syringe. “Hip or shoulder?”

“What’s that?”

“Mr Calmer-downer.” Alcohol wipe, plunge, “Didn’t I see you at the spa last year?”

Rain on my face in the trooper’s boat, they duct taped me in a blanket. Floated along singing “If I Loved You” with a nasal twang making Tucker smile and nod.

Second floor classroom at the high school, cold meals in the hallway; dismal. Day brightened when the big EMT brought more evacuees.

“Need another shot, my heart is racing.”

“Just want to show your rear again.” He looked at me like a frowsy trick.

“No, really – “

“Fresh out of saline, pussy cat.”

Hot Text

Emailed a compliment on his fiction; he replied with comments on my stories. Many emails later he sent a photo. This author wove rich tales of intrigue, an ex-cop with vice experience.

His photo elicited self-intimacies, his hot text fueled me, even our discussions on punctuation: “I’ll show you where to correctly place your apostrophe....”

Manual stimulation became a habit reading his erotica - eager, excited partners engaged in vibrant play, brisk, intuitive moves.

Was he one of his incredible characters?

Common sense curbed that thought; we were only mechanics erecting plots, tweaking tone, fingering foreshadowing, slipping suspense through the pixels. Simple storytellers offering our fantasies to others – tradition ‘round the fire since time began.

It's all about imagination.

JO Theater

There he was again, naked and grinning, sitting cross-legged in front of the camera. Pointy eyebrows over buggy eyes, ragged goatee. Had a following of millions for twenty minutes a week. I hated his looks, his nasal drone and I watched weekly. Addicted, despite the prophylactic commercials.

Sexualized Romper Room for solitary guys. That's all it was.

Softly, classical music played as he read the name of an author along with the title.

I could almost feel the horny guys coming online – we’d watch him stroke, read the slutty excerpts. Viewers stroked along with him exercising our circling instinct.

With exaggerated expressions, he’d get to the description of climax, letting viewers watch his abs jerk, then he’d mewl. Red-faced, he led an international spunk release.

Breathlessly, he grabbed his wadded bandana and remind us to practice safe sex. Closed with the corniest phrase – “Love yourself as much as you love me.” A smile and the screen went dark.

What an idiot, I didn’t love him.

Mundane life continues – swing shifts, sports, laundry and always Thursdays at 11:30 with the bastard.

Had to wonder how much money he was making off my loneliness.

Dallying

Since Tony passed, an ice cream on a park bench – daily outing. Watch humans pass, pushing strollers, kids on bikes whizz by.

Men my age I scrutinize. Body shapes, fitness, hair, (lack of, artificial, dyed,) adult briefs, canes, broken veins, support wrappers adorning joints. Comical how my inspections bring nano-ripples of well-being.

On the left, oh yes, a fine specimen walking an angular Doberman. White ponytail and silver handlebar whisper CBD use. Heartbeats speed.

“All that sugar’ll put you in your grave.” Voice from my right. I turn to a chubby face, mismatched jowls, double chin with a stripe of white stubble he missed.

“Almost there now…”

Familiar face - oh, yeah. Senior center lunches are served at a repurposed elementary school. In the restroom last year his voice called softly, asking for help getting up off the child-size toilet. A few tugs, then leveraging myself between the stall door and wall, got him back on his feet.

Blue humor began. We burst into snickers about tea rooms, bath houses, spa fiascos. Splash of pizazz on government-beige day.

No piddly cheeseburgers with reheated canned corn for us. We got booted from the lunch program for “dallying” in the restroom.

Reminiscing isn’t a dalliance – memories anchor our hearts in our chests, our feet on the earth.

We’re still here.

We’re still laughing, sharing chips with hotdogs in the park.

DC Bound

Grandson helped me clean the attic. “Trash?” He held an old pair of jeans.

“Not sure.” Laid them near when a sting shot through my chest – Earl’s jeans. Years ago, I met him at a bar - skinny, dirty, broke. He was fresh to the game; hesitant - virginal. Openly laughed at his callowness, called him “Earline” and used him.

He showered, I inspected his dirty backpack: a change of ragged clothes, comb, toothbrush, a children’s book holding three elementary school photos. His sisters.

Sunday afternoon, said he had to get to DuPont Circle.

With a fifty, he left.

Dirty jeans held the memory of a kid who’d whimpered beneath me.

Warrior, conqueror, full-alpha male yet nothing won, no ground gained only an ugly stain on my conscience. A disturbing reminder of a tender young man in a hard situation.

Another man’s grandson.

Jam Bond

Along the short chain link between our yards were three red plum trees we pruned and pampered. The trees thrived, we harvested enough for a few jars of jam feeling like fruit magnates that first July.

Two decades of kids, laden clotheslines, classes, cars, college – Bud and I continued with our plums. Every spring, inspecting the blossoms then watching hard, green pellets fill to sweet, pulpy carmine orbs.

Every summer, fending off mockingbirds we picked, cooked, sealed with paraffin – our jam became a treasured gift among neighbors.

June-July; steamy humid - sharp stink, rotting fruit, fermenting plums. Comforting scent of friendship.

Family

Procrastination

“Get dressed. I have to leave.”

“In a snowstorm?”

“Got to get the boy.” He dressed and left. Followed him into a blizzard, blood pressure rising. An hour to Omaha; an hour back. Why did she wait so late to call?

Backpack in hand, he’s waiting for me, “How’s it going?”

Silence.

“That bad?”

“It’s the same – she’s working overtime. I’m with Nana most of the week.”

“You tired?”

“Tired of going back and forth. I miss you.”

“I know. I know I’m missing the best part of your life.”

“I’m missing the best part of my life – I need you.” He stared.

My only son…. Call the lawyer, file a few papers – changing custody wouldn’t be hard. I hate myself, my procrastination.

Gargantuan regret looms. Inaction screams I don’t love him or want him - same messages my dad sent me.

Right Out Loud

Seven-thirty Saturday night, ten-thirty in Texas; my phone buzzed. She called every week.

Angie and I were the youngest. Sensitive child, Angie’s a beautiful woman, talented singer. For years a glittering bauble, shining on the stages of a stinking refinery town, a red-headed coloratura belting out the old standards.

“’Sup sis? Channeling anyone tonight?”

“Jose.” She laughed. I cringed. Both of us were childless, too aware of our deficits; terrified to repeat the past. I married my work, her, her music.

“Jose?” She had another new fling?

“Cuervo, Jose Cuervo.” Ice cubes clinked. “Listen to this, ‘Outrage is the better part of Valium.’” That sent her into ripples of laughter.

“What’s going on?” The conversation halted while she drank, packed the pipe.

“Tommy, can you hear me? Tommy can you see me?” Slurred lyrics.

Police said it was an accident when they found our older brother Tommy. This week was the anniversary of his death. “Hon, I could find someone. Maybe a counselor...”

“Dead leave no trails.” Several gulps.

“He left a trail of trouble.” Hated Tommy, he brutally assaulted Angie and me as children. Mom’s first-born called us liars then threatened death - bodies in the bayous washed to the gulf; fish would eat us up within the day.

“Pity… that brotherly love…” She whispered into the phone.

“No love about him.” I waited, but my anxiety increased, maybe I should call the police to check on her. “Angie -”

“Lime and ice wait for no woman.” Her words slowed. “I was a good sister.”

“The very best. I love you.” Always felt bad that I was too small to protect her.

“Happy birthday to you…” She began in a crinkly voice. This had to be about Tommy’s death. He passed just after his birthday last year.

“Tell me about Tommy’s birthday party. Did he get the card I sent?”

“She who knows perseverance, knows peace.” Another gulp, or was it a sob?

“Perseverance?”

“Told all of them what I persevered right after he blew out the candles on his cake. Handed him his present, told him to stick it in his ear.”

“You told all his friends, his family? Really?” Dang! Spilled the family secrets at his party.

“Right out loud.” Suddenly Angie sounded sober.

“What did you give him?”

“Loaded thirty-eight.”

Friday Boy

Behind fierce gusts, spring sneaks. Kites soar, bright dots against the blue. Four-thirty already, hurry! Community center windows filled with cutouts of baby chicks; I wait.

Mom’s at happy hour, I pick up my grandson Fridays. He’s the pensive boy in a hoard of boisterous preschoolers.

A knot of brown pipe cleaners in hand, “See my bunny?”

“You’re my bunny!” Scoop him up to my chest; wiggly kisses with graham cracker crumbs. How I love this boy.

At home, noxious whiff, “Change?” Asking embarrassed him. Wipe what I can, use the shower hose. Flawless, he’s faultless to me though this brutal, shaming world won’t allow perfection, only problems with forever-labels.

Quick toweling, he waits for the signal, “Fly away, Friday boy!” I find him jumping on my bed, bouncing high, singing.

Tube socks pulled up high, clean diaper, my old tee shirt – he races me to the kitchen skating on the linoleum.

Chicken chunks at the computer, we research huge kites – animal shapes. Dripping catsup on the keys, we decide to fly a kite next Friday. Has to be red with a long tail.

Hiding under the blanket, he waits for me to find his movie. Snuggle as cartoon crabs dance to a calypso tune, then the drama becomes serious; music in a minor key. Crabs have conflicts too.

“You never yell at me like that.” Softly into my chest.

“Why would I yell?”

“I get poopy.”

“I love you – poop and all.” Kiss, hug, hold him against me to feel his arms around my neck. Sad to say, this is the only affection I get.

Feels like it may be his as well.

Swells

I’m like my great grandfather - a ‘swell.’ Mom’s code for queer.

The only photo of him was stuck behind the wedding portrait of my great grandmother’s second marriage.

Sepia toned - him and his brother in overalls. Great grandfather didn’t look so swell. I imagine he looked worse when his brothers roped and tied him in the smokehouse the week before his wedding.

First born son at twenty-six, my great grandfather found himself engaged yet not involved in his matrimonial preparations. Farmers needed children to work the soil, haul the muck. Ancient tradition – arranged, rural cure.”Two years later he was gone. Chicago, they heard. Incurably swell.

Found a few documents – union member, bought a Ford, later a small house. In a social column, “Smitty Warfield, manager of Chicago Coal Distributors” beneath a photo of men with pencil mustaches and greased-back hair, all smiling widely.

Courage, resolve, disregarding all you’d inherit to live an honest life. From the silent sketches of your history, I claim your integrity.

Lovers

Mother

Look more like your mom every day. Full-faced, full-bodied, one-hundred percent endomorph. You detest your curves, I adore them. Full, round, substantial, that’s what I’ve always wanted.

Scrawny models, emaciated hookers, swimmers’ bodies – too much like what hides in dark Appalachian hollows, ignorant and armed.

Your mother’s face, soft and smiling; her warm eyes watch us from the bookshelf.

Mother me, I’m still weary from the road to find you. Nurture me till my soul calms - the Heber Springs horrors fade.

Erasure

Naive and lust-provoked by a boy whose mother cut his hair too short – me and you.

Syrupy salad days, we studied in the stickiness of a European summer. Nightly, enveloped in the stink of the Seine, frantic sex; both insatiable. Baguettes and soda as we ran to class with dark-circled, smiling eyes. Delightfully candid, kissing in public, openly ourselves – you branded my heart with patterns of love. A repeating pattern for those days.

September, pencil holder carried the crumbs of my heart. You erased me – your sinful summer fling. Devastated, I hid, studied. Calculus and tears. Socrates and sighs when I smelled the Missouri.

Religiously indoctrinated, you returned before graduation. “Why are you here?”

Said you wanted to explain the truth to me. You didn’t leave. Not that night or the next day or the next week.

Our truth written over my erasure.

Dancing Our Difference

Dancing on the edge, we risked it all, thinking the millions of dots of colors below was confetti. No. They were the remnants of our kith; paramours of our ilk. We didn’t know that – too far away see. Again, and again, grand jeté en tournant. Leotarded, leaping, hearts pounding, nothing other than sky and air in mind.

We pirouetted from peril through intuition alone, pridefully smiling – always on point, en pointe. Unnamed stars impelled us upward, away from the edge.

By chance we succeeded - spinning, capering in a celebratory dance of us. Us – glistening, lucky boys to love each other more deeply than the abyss we unknowingly escaped.

Close

Ron’s clan couldn’t handle his boyfriends. Okay. We settled peaceably alongside my mostly apathetic family – not completely comfortable but what family is?

Ron took the co-carer’s role when Dad was diagnosed with dementia. Shuffling the furniture, we began a routine. Ticked me off when Dad invented what he couldn’t remember. Breathe, forgive, release; my mantra.

The first year, friends visited. Visits tapered to emails then schmaltzy e-cards. Ron and I shored our endurance nightly in exhausted embraces. We watched Dad recede from life. He receded further quickly. Ron and I were at a loss at times yet became closer in this obligation.

Stayed closer around Dad until October. Despite planning, deep gray times hit. Dad’s heart gave out, mine broke though we’d loved by tolerating each other. Abrupt end to intense duties.

Sudden memorials completed, off to Florida. The sun set as we swam out with Dad’s ashes. Ron held me as I cried and the last of Dad swirled away.

Ron and I have no one to obligate. We value life and we value our closeness even more.

True Love

“Shut up! They’re both black.” He slipped on his loafers and left in a huff.

Mom always said I lived too far down in the details to realize what mattered.

He matters. Socks don’t. Lucky to have someone to tolerate me. He could do better than a man with wingnut ears, beady eyes into extreme order.

Such gifts he brings: A silent butler, organic disinfectant, a micro-tool set and a cutting board with both inch and millimeter grids. Valentine’s Day he outdid himself – a caulk gun engraved with my initials and tinted caulk to match the countertops. He knows my very heart.

Must be true love.

True love matters.

Ownership

First few years with you were an anxious dream. Like walking down Broadway with a fifty-carat diamond in my open palm, twinkling, glimmeringly perfect. Who would snatch you away?

Quick smile, flashing eyes, you flirted with life; life winked back. Your charisma dissolved familial antipathy – Mom doted; Dad never treated me that well. Smooth course we sailed through the years. Smooth allowed us the intimacy that became our haven.

Photos -- Bali, backyard, beer garden at the festivals. I remember your unruffled grace in horrid accommodations, delays - frustrations you met with serenity. Your joy was like roman candles, bright - overflowing. Sorrows tempered your wisdom. Celebrations brought reflection and gratitude for change.

Through your passion you showed me that this planet was mine and every human kin, no distinctions drawn. You showed me how to claim this earth; walk the planet as mine – all in it shared between us.

Still, your smile warms me – even as microbes revel in your frailty. Hot coffee with your pills until I use, yes, kiss your stained coffee cup with every sip to cherish the memory of a man who gave me the world.