Holiday Flash 4 U

Red, Green, White, Gold

Colors of summer days years ago. Sweating, hiding in the bushes before the only red light in Wenona. Stake bed trucks hauled watermelons in June.

When drivers stopped for the light, Brian ran, clambered up and over the back end. I caught when he tossed. Two heavy, green striped fruits.

Cracked open on the top of a fence post then stuck our faces into the red, sweet meat ringed with white as the skin under our shorts. In our early teens, we used the other half for a sticky fuck, grunting and grinning. Melons weren’t all we fucked.

Blonde Brian, sun-streaked hair, slender, tanned from our teen escapades. We were inseparable before graduation.

Six years and four children later, he told me not to call anymore.

Late at night I drive by Brian’s house hoping for a glimpse to remember the red, green, white and golden days.

Yellow Rectangle

Half way; twenty minutes more.

Red reflector on the gate post. Slow, turn. D-r-r, pause, d-r-r; cattle guard. Turn the engine off, glide to the carport, see the yellow rectangle. You’re at the side window lit by the old Tiffany lamp.

Our college days; your parents prayed us through those years. Drugs, drunken orgies until you tired of it. “Need a job—I’m burning time.”

Patiently put a condom on me, took me to the clinic, rubbed ointment, mixed the hangover cure. My debauchery you ignored. My fetish expertise increased while you took a job, added night work as a dispatcher.

Said there was a lot of good in me and waited till I came around or died from my fleshy exploits.

Got caught with the son of a cop. Sobering, but no charges. Rehab; my self-pity spectacularly hid my complete humiliation. No super-dom, just another stoner, a pretender.

Took a year to find work. Felt good to build the bank account, pride increased beside you in our own place, didn’t need the alcohol often. My man Manny knew my dark, zigzagged past to our marriage; wasn’t afraid.

Both your parent’s passed within three years. Left you the small farm. Sold our house in town, moved to the country. Long commute for me.

Flocks of relatives visited, we vacationed with them at Rivera Nayarit. Your nephew came to live with us, Paolo; young and charmingly naive.

Silently step onto the porch. Ballads play, Paolo starts the washer, singing to the music. Cumin, onions, smells of dinner waft through the screen door. Never thought it would be so good. Farmed my mota behind the barn until I forgot about it as we remodeled, put in an orchard.

Domestication complete when you bought me the mini tractor. Took the three of us hours to mow then shower behind the tool shed.

Contemplating

“Gonna keep the bar again?” Always the weekend before Christmas, our traditional open house. Last ten years, Dad tended bar. “Forecast says humid, hot. Bring the coolers.”

Dad raised me by himself. We indulged during the holidays; otherwise frugal, industrious. Tolerated each other well.

“Gonna bring a friend. Don’t say anything when we get there.” Dad ordered.

“She’s that much younger?

“Few years older. Don’t say anything or we’ll leave. Tell Miles and the guys.” Dad snipped.

Friends came early to decorate, prep the food. Rental company brought tables, chairs. Festivities began soon. Turned the music down, called everyone to the patio: “Barkeep’s bringing a friend. Don’t say anything about her.” I imagined a plastic surgery freak wearing stretch pants and too much makeup, big earrings.

Met Dad down the block with the hand truck. Oh, he brought an older man-friend. Big guy, tattoos peeked from the sleeves of his shirt. Good looking, trim, silver-haired. Shook hands, loaded the coolers. Said his name was Alex. He looked familiar.

On our way through the house, I introduced my dad and Alex; a few shook his hand, grinned. Miles whispered that Alex owned the spa, worked the counter when his staff took breaks.

Followed Dad to the garage, to the wine and beer, “You and Alex, uh...“

“You said you wouldn’t say anything. Don’t ask either.”

I was in that same uneasy, contemplative zone when I was twelve.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Find a good-looking guy in the middle of November, keep him till February fifteenth. Parties, sex, gifts—great time. Then ditch the fool and troll through the bars till next November.

Worked my plan for years though a few of those young bucks wanted more, got tearful, called for weeks. Stalked me; got a little ego buzz off that. Sorry boys, no-strings affair. Won’t be tied down.

If I saw them later, I denied knowing them.

Seasonal sluts were getting harder to find; Thanksgiving at Denny’s. Decided to cancel the parties, concerts, all the events – refused to go alone, appearing the aging loser.

Twenty-fourth of December was too lonely, put on my green cashmere. Went to the bar hoping for a quick pick-up. At the end of the bar sat Michael, from 2011. “Hey, remember me?”

Sideways glance, sneer, “No.”

“C’mon Michael, you remember my hot rod.” Sat beside him, “This isn’t a candy cane.” Put his hand on my thigh.

Checked his watch, stood, “Got to catch a plane to Athens.” Exited on the arm of a younger man. My holiday squeeze from 2015.

Torture

“Eggnog?”

“I’ll take the brandy. Give my nog to the cat.”

“Baba au rhum? Edible? I made the oyster dip you like.” He kissed my cheek, hugged tight.

One ounce of brandy, “Candy’s supposed to be edible.” I took one.

Grease, sugar, salt. I could imbibe but I’d pay for it with swollen ankles, digestive disruptions to rival Old Faithful.

Too many people acting stupid, screaming over the music. Hot, mix of funny smoke, cologne and sneaky bodily fumes. Raunchy tattoo reveals were chased to the bedroom. No, I don’t dance, but my feet are stepped on by everyone who passes. This isn’t celebrating, it’s torture.

Head home to my chia seed crackers, tasteless soup. Music is rich on the tube, humming along feels good. Fell asleep before the ball touched down thinking of how much my boy still loves me; doesn’t want me to be lonely.

I’ll tolerate annual torture to say I still love him as well.