For Better or For Worse

Chapter 1-1

For Better or For Worse

By Emery C. Walters

It started at Budget Buy. I was in there buying my groceries for the month like I usually do, on the last Sunday of the month, middle of the afternoon, after the post-church crowd had lunched off the free samples and the dollar hot dogs.

I pushed one of their huge carts, the only kind they have, but I’m a big man. Well, okay, I’m five ten, but I’m built. Well, I’m decent-looking, okay? You can’t miss me, though, because my hair is bright blue.

Why is my hair blue? I have nieces, that’s why. Spoiled little princesses who turned their big baby blues on me and asked if they could do my hair. When they got to the “Please, Uncle Jake,” I had to give in.

I had no idea. My brother is still laughing at me, but my sister-in-law thinks I’m wonderful.

I hate cooking, but my father is coming over, so this evening I will cook up huge vats full of what I call Grandma’s w*********h Hillbilly Beans. I’ll serve some and freeze what’s left. Voilà! I’ll be all set for whenever I can’t go out to Lenny’s or Roy’s Diner. It’s really a type of fabada, to be honest, but that sounds so gay.

It’s not even really white.

When my nieces come over, they ask for Crap on Crullers. My specialty, though we tell their parents it’s really creamed fish on toast. It’s cream, butter, flour, a drop of—

What’s this? A Channel Six camera crew filming some guy in a suit and tie. The Real People’s Cooking Show with Pierre de la Rhubarb? Never heard of it, or him.

“Now this braised hogget with buffalo milk cheese and crushed artichoke thistle puree over whipped crème de crushed cobnuts saupoudré is…”

Thanks to me, they had to stop the cameras and start over. He lisped and flipped his ascot, batted his eyelashes and then rolled his eyes when he saw me. Wait, was that eye liner? Yes! I burst out laughing, a sort of blue-hair laugh. All right, it’s an elephant-sized guffaw.

The director said cut, and everyone turned and stared at me.

Some lumberjack, who looked familiar, probably just in from the woods for his monthly fill-up, glared at me, his mouth twitching. I recognized him from Gillie’s, the gay bar one town over. He caught my eyes and started giggling. His lip quit twitching, and he roared. It was all over then. And all over the newspaper the next day, too. We almost got arrested. Just before the manager called security, the two of us were bent over double, laughing and holding our stomachs, trying not to pee our pants, failing to not attempt mimicking the star.

I eventually recognized the star. Some of the guys at the bar loved his show, although a couple were more given to saying what they’d like to get hot with him rather than what they’d like to cook with him. Some of their comments came back to my lumberjack friend, whose name I finally remembered, Larry.

“Braised hogget, my ass!” gasped Larry.

I stammered out, “Whip it, baby. Hoo hoo—whip me!”

I thought I heard some passerby add in, “He said crushed nuts,” but I may have been hallucinating by then.

Just as two beefy security men came over (one of whom Larry and I both knew quite well from Gillie’s), the star of the show got pissed off, grabbed his can of the whipping cream he was there to sell, screamed something in French, and aimed the can at the person closest to him. It would have been me, but security guy number one (the one we didn’t know) stepped in between us and took the shot of creamy white goodness right to the face. With the star chasing behind us, still screaming in French, Larry and I bolted out the door. I have never laughed so hysterically in my life as I did when I saw that that guard get creamed in the face by that chef.

Hiding behind a delivery van, Larry wheezed, “He got a facial!” Then he whooped for a while and was finally able to go on. “It’s not my fault he had just suggested spicy stuffed sausages in baked buns when I caught sight of you. I even said it out loud, but I thought very quietly, now there’s a man whose baked buns I’d stuff a sausage in, but he heard me! He was staring right at me, turning all shades of red, probably thinking I meant him, the skinny little Brooklyn t**t. All I added was, it’s the Budget Buy way, and then all hell broke loose! That was fun, wasn’t it? Except now I have to go to Lindon’s instead to do my shopping. My Lord, my housemate Andy eats like a race horse.”

“Larry,” I wheezed back, because I was still giggling, too, “You have a package of sausage in your hands. Did you pay for that?”

Larry looked mortified, then laughed and pointed. “And what’s that in your pocket? Or are you just happy to see me?” He grinned, and I realized he was a hot looking bear, not that that was my type…normally. I reached into my pocket. Half a pound of bacon. My face flushed. “Whelp, time to go!” I laughed. “I’ll see you at Lindon’s, right?”

And we parted ways. As I drove home, I was grateful I’d gotten the bacon, as it was the only thing I needed for dinner. I was sorry I’d stolen it—I hadn’t lifted anything since I was twelve years old. And that had been a pack of Kentucky Kings, which had made me so sick I’d never smoked again. Halfway home, my cell phone rang. As there weren’t any cops around, I answered.

“It’s Larry! Would you like to get together later?”

“Why don’t you and whatzhisname come for dinner?” I laughed.

“He’s out of town,” Larry said, trying to sound disappointed. “Anyway, he’s only my housemate, not my, um, you know.”

“Just you then. And me.

“What can I bring? I have a big—um—sausage.”

We settled on wine, and I drove the rest of the way, happily trying to remember my grandmother’s recipe. It wasn’t until I pulled into my driveway that I remembered my father and his aide were coming for dinner.

“s**t!” I said to my cat Felicia as I went inside. She only climbed up my jeans and started licking whipped cream off my chin.

It’s there in the eyes; no, that’s not quite true. Sometimes it only hung in the air, in the spirit, in the mind, or didn’t even show up until later. What was that? Did he mean what I thought, what I felt? Did that really come from him, or did I imagine it? What difference does it even make? I needed that so bad, that contact, that acceptance/acknowledgment/comfort. Connection; that’s the word I wanted, that’s what it is.

I mean, everyone is so distant, so distinct. Before the universe expanded, weren’t we all one? Wasn’t everything the same thing? That must be what life after death is like, returning to the fold, to the oneness. And I just had a taste of it. Or maybe I just needed to get laid. Either way, those moments shared with Larry were very warming to my heart.

I never really looked at any of the bears before, but Larry? What a stupid name for a guy like him, all muscle and hair, and those eyes. He should’ve been named Bruno or Gregor, something Russian. Maybe even Italian, like a mafia boss.

And he’s coming for dinner! Here! And I’m making Grandma’s Beans because Dad’s coming.

I didn’t tell Dad there’d be another guest. Hmm, I didn’t tell Larry either.

Does he really go by Larry? Lawrence? Lawrence Welk? Lash Larue? Maybe he has a nickname. I hope he won’t be upset. Dad’s pretty easy going, though I’m not positive he’s okay with me being gay. I mean, we never talk about it. And if Larry flirts with me or we kiss or get mushy or something, Dad will have to notice. It will be like right in his face! Oh, God! Oh, God! Does he even know?

I stood at the stove, stirring my beans, my Dad’s old family recipe, passed down from his grandmother. I had the bacon sizzling and was busy picking it out to drain. I turned the radio on to my favorite station, and my current favorite song came on. It was full of pumping and jiving and rocking and yet new, all at the same time.

The singer blared out, “Drink all the rum! Grab that bottle, grab that butt, be a pirate and strut, strut, strut! Yeah!”

And I just had to move to its rhythm, had to dance. I grabbed the olive oil and added it to the beans, just a touch! Voilà!

“Yeah, grab that booty, grab that butt!” the song went on. “Drink the rum! Drink it up!”

Dancing over to the liquor cabinet, I grabbed the bottle and took a glug. The doorbell rang, and my cat jumped up on the counter at the same time as the song finished up with a crescendo of drums and electronic huffing.

“Crap!” I shouted. “Get down!” I reached for the cat, but the cat moved. I grabbed the rum. Another glug! I swallowed and shouted, “Hell yeah!” and as the song died in my ears.

The doorbell rang again, and I was getting so stressed out and wound up that I poured the rest of the rum into the beans. And never noticed, until several days later when I had to ask myself, “But why is the rum all gone?”

Although, the way the evening went, you’d have thought I’d have figured it out sooner.

Although I had moments of sentient potato time as I called it, I was usually up and happy. Tonight was no exception. The afternoon’s festivities had brought joy into my heart. The laughter and excitement of finding a kindred spirit while grocery shopping had been an amazing gift, fulfilling my dearly held philosophy that you never know when there’s going to be a party. And, of course, a party can be anything at all.

A party could be Larry at the door with a big sausage, right? I was giggling when I opened the door, but it wasn’t Larry. It was my father and—someone. A woman; his aide, I presumed. At least, I thought so. My father and mother had been divorced for years, but still, if my father had started dating, he should have told me. I felt a bit huffy, put out.

“Well, come in, and who’s this?” I barked heartily, if with a large amount of what-the-hell-are-you-doing-to-me?

Now, I’m of average build, with enough muscles that I could strip off at the gym and not be ashamed. Enough everything, actually, if I do say so myself. I was good-looking in a dark haired, golden-skinned kind of way, with cupid-bowed lips and breath-taking sparkly deep-sea blue eyes. Even with my blue hair to match, or maybe because of it, I knew I was good looking. There was no fakeness to me, no pretense. It was all natural beauty, the kind only good health and high cheekbones can give you, and, my mother used to say, cod liver oil as a toddler.

“It widens your face so you have wide-spaced eyes instead of those narrow, criminal looking things like your cousins have.” Yep, that was Mom, sweet as sugar laced with arsenic. If she’d done nothing else, she’d made me feel I was attractive, and when you’re gay, especially when you’re just figuring that out, that really matters.

The woman who entered with my father towered over both of us, and her hair was swirled up and out like Daisy Duke dressed up for church. Her make-up was gobs thick. Her hands were huge, and they had curly hair on the backs. My father was giggling.

“This is my friend, Chomolungma,” which he pronounced wrong. “Mount Everest, that is.”

Oh, my God. I almost whimpered. I nearly said it out loud. I covered it with a well-timed burp. I could have sworn the woman winked at me.

“Call me Eve,” she boomed.

Still in a bit of a trance, I got out, “Uhhh, come in and have some rum. I mean, gin. The rum is all gone.”

Eve raised one eyebrow. A brief whiff of my breath had likely told her where the rum had gone. Wait, I thought as I led them into the living room, does my father…This was his aide, right? There was some sort of ID badge on her hefty bosom, so I guess so. Did he know she was not what she seemed? Just how bad off was my father now? I know he had some memory issues, and also didn’t see well, but come on.

As they sat down, I said something about drinks and pointed at the cabinet, and then the doorbell rang again.

Picture it: My father was at the bar, Eve was wandering around and admiring my artwork, some of which I’d painted myself. Felicia was standing in the middle of the back of the couch, her fur and tail out, hissing in the general direction of my father. Now my dad is by no means a frightening man who hates cats, but he does have his moments, moments when he uses his cane for emphasis. Get in his way, he’ll move you out. Sit in his lap, well, if Felicia did anyway, he’d move you off.

When I opened the door to see Larry standing there holding a bunch of flowers in one hand and a jug of red wine in the other, I could hear the air stir behind me as they all turned to look. Who knows, maybe they thought I’d ordered pizza.

“Howdy, hot stuff! I brought my big sausage over!” Larry was not, and probably never had been, quiet. He shoved the flowers at me and leaned in for a kiss, never quite finishing the move, but close enough for me to watch his eyes rove over the room behind me.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or die, but watching his face change color was adorable.

“Oh, you have a cat, how cute. What’s his name? Brie? Buffalo Milk? Bratwurst? I forgot your cat’s name, but isn’t he cute? I just adore cats.” Larry was babbling nervously now, which I thought was funny, and I liked him for it.

Luckily, Felicia liked him, too, and the moment was over. As I turned, I saw it would never be quite over, as my father’s eyes had narrowed and his lips were pursed in the way he’d always had when he was thinking hard.

Eve just smiled and walked over, extended a long-clawed hand, and said, “So sweet to see you again, Lars.”

Uh oh. The temperature in the room dropped.

“Everyone,” I said, “This is Larry. Larry this is my dad, and I guess you know Eve. And Felicia, who seems to love you. Felicia, get off his leg.”

Felicia, apparently, really liked Larry. And contrary to the name, Felicia was a boy.

At least Larry had jeans on. Cats have claws.

I remembered a few more manners and said, “Thank you for the flowers and the…Look at your sausage! It didn’t look this big in Budget Buy! I mean…I’ll just take this and put it in the…in the…fridge, yeah.”

Barely making sure everyone had a drink and was sitting comfortably, I almost ran back into the kitchen, carrying the huge sausage in both hands. The beans needed to be stirred. They looked like a witch’s cauldron, and I wondered if I’d forgotten to add the eye of newt. Then I ran into the dining room and set another place at the table, or two, I dunno. Anyhow, there were four when I got done. One, two, three, four, put the bottle on the floor. No, wait. There was a noise behind me, and I saw Eve had come in.

“A girl’s gotta offer to help,” she boomed and winked. “Hey, you don’t look so good. Sit down a minute while I put the knives on the right side of the plates.”

I sat. The room was circling the drain, and I giggled, then burped, then realized I was going to be sick.

“Rum,” I burbled and groped my way back to the kitchen. Behind me, Eve shut the door, muting the conversation from the living room, which was probably just as well. Eve held my arm and guided me to the sink.

“Well, f**k,” she said as I puked all over, missing the sink entirely.

“Iss just rum,” I said.

“No, honey, you’re vomiting blood.” She handed me a dish towel and quickly turned off the burner under the beans. “You’re going to the ER, sweetie. Do you have an ulcer or cancer or anything?”

“Do I what?” Then I looked at the towel. “f**k,” I repeated and realized that whatever it was, I was about to deal with it on the floor.

I was vaguely aware of being gently rolled onto my side and of seeing shoes. Larry’s hand was soft on my cheek.

“I’ll get my car. Let’s roll.”

My father snarled, “What did you do to him?” but nobody answered. Then he added, “St. Joe’s is closest. I know half the staff there personally. Can I help carry him?”

But I knew he needn’t even try, for I felt myself lifted by two very strong arms, and held against a very squishy bosom that smelled vaguely of lilacs. The last thing I heard was Felicia’s loud, questioning meow, and someone saying sardonically, “Bye, Felicia.”