by Pat Henshaw
Max drove us to the Rock Bottom again for lunch. The grungy foothills cafe was just as tacky as it had been before and smelled just as delicious. The tables of surly-looking he-men in their Levis and wife-beaters or beat-up Western-cut shirts still stared and then whispered to themselves as I slid into a booth, the artist sketchbook tucked safely in my bag.
“So we’re ready to make some changes.” Max eyed the sketchbook as I took it out and laid it on the table.
“Whoa, not so fast.” I put my hand over the top of the book to keep it closed. “We’re a few steps away from starting. Let’s just take a look at the sketches and then talk money, and then if you’re still happy in a day or two, we can sign a contract. Remodeling isn’t anything to jump right into.”
The excitement brimming from Max’s face said Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. Open the damned notebook.
I sighed. I always hated this part of the job. Clients either loved the sketches and wanted the work done yesterday or they wanted to haggle every nut and bolt to the ground, changing the floor plan, the color palette, or complete idea on an almost minute-to-minute basis. It was exhausting either way.
“Okay, first, what you need to do is look at these drawings and imagine yourself living in these rooms, not just looking at pretty pictures. Ask yourself if you would be comfortable here. At this point, everything is changeable, but it won’t be the case when we start tearing down and making the plan concrete. So take your time. Be sure you’ve fallen in love before you begin.”
I waited until Max lifted his eyes from the sketchbook, looked at me, and nodded before I opened the book.
I went through the pages one by one quickly, not asking Max for a response and not watching him. This was the private, internal part, and I let him have his space. Max wasn’t my first client who kind of knew what he wanted but couldn’t articulate it.
The first glimpse tainted the vision the client originally had going into the project. I could steamroll clients into taking what I’d given them, but in the long run, they had to live with the new reality and I wanted them to be happy. I really wanted Max to be happy.
“It’s perfect,” Max whispered just as the waitress brought our food. “Let’s do it.”
“Let’s eat first, before we break ground.”
I didn’t talk during lunch even though Max wanted to get me to sign him up and start moving.
After we finished the cherry-apple pie, I said, “Now I’m going to go through and point out some pricey details. Think about if you really want them because they add time and money to the design. We can easily discard them.”
“No, I want it just like you’ve got it in here.” Max tapped the sketchbook with his elegant fingers. “Just exactly what you’ve got here.”
I sighed. “Let’s try it my way, okay? Will you just listen?” I was holding an edge of the sketchbook closed and looking into Max’s eyes. I didn’t want Max to be an ultimately unhappy impulse buyer.
Max tentatively touched my hand. “I trust you.” He rubbed his fingers over mine.
I was surprised by the touch of his fingers, which had immediately made my body tingle. I’d read about people being attracted and feeling a zap of electricity, but I’d never experienced it before. As far as my past liaisons with men went, we’d both showed up, which was enough for gratifying sex.
“Just a few minutes of listening.” I could hear a shaky quality in my voice.
“Okay,” Max agreed, sitting back and putting his hands together on the table.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. I looked around the cafe, hypersensitive to the quiet scrutiny of the other diners. Were they leaning out of their chairs to listen to our conversation? Why did they make me feel uncomfortable?
I looked back at Max, who seemed oblivious to their attention. His eyes went from the sketchbook to me. He seemed to lean toward me, and his eager look seemed to be trying to hurry me along. His impatience made me smile.
I took a deep breath and started my spiel. “There are some carvings in the pictures you should think about. Atop and along the sides of the windows in the living room, master bedroom, and the kitchen, and on the headboard and bedposts in the master bedroom. You said you wanted to bring the outdoors in, so I thought these carvings would be perfect.”
I turned to the pictures. I’d drawn animals like squirrels, foxes, and badgers carved into the wood.
In the master bedroom, the four bedposts looked like geese landing at the head of the bed and taking off toward the windows from the foot of it. Across the headboard and footboard, I’d drawn pussy willows swaying with frogs, butterflies, and small birds among the reeds, all carved from one piece of hardwood.
Having worked with a wonderful carver so many times in the past, I knew he would take my ideas and flesh them out, probably change them as he saw fit, and leave Max with stunning pieces of art—if Max could afford them and, more importantly, if Max liked this idea as much as I did.
“Beautiful.” Max traced the birds taking off in flight.
“Yes, it is. You’ll notice the wood on the floor, around the windows, and making up the furniture is the only brown. The rest of the room is blue.” Actually the blues ran the scale of hues from Alice blue to ultramarine, but I made it a policy to use only the most basic names for colors since many of my less artistic clients got lost in the fancy color names.
“I like other colors, not just brown,” Max protested.
I nodded, not about to remind him that he’d only wanted brown and green. Except for the touch of Max’s fingers on my hand, my spiel had been pretty standard. As far as I was concerned, no surprises were good surprises.
“In the living room and kitchen”—I found those pages—“you’ll notice that the predominant colors are yellow.” Well, from canary yellow to goldenrod, but who was counting? “Also, I added more rustic carvings to the decks. Animals between the posts of the back deck and birds on the bedroom deck,” I said, flipping to the relevant sketches and pointing them out.
On each page, Max ran his finger over the details I mentioned. It was distracting, so much so I had trouble keeping to the script. Max might not be an artist, but he definitely had an artist’s soul. His fingers were gently stroking my soul as well as the pages.
The diners at the other tables seemed to be trying to see what had Max so enthralled. I wanted to stand up and announce, “This is a private showing. Go back to your meals.” I didn’t, but still, sweat had started to drip from my pits.
Finally I closed the book and passed it to Max. It was hard to stay on task with Max so focused on the drawings and the diners seemingly intent on us.
“I want you to take this book and really study the pages. Take notes in the margins. Circle things you don’t like or have questions about. Go to the cabin with the book and try to imagine every room looking like the sketch. What would you change to make the sketch more you?”
When I peered up at Max, I was surprised to see glistening eyes looking back at me. Was Max crying? Oh hell no. God, I hoped not. I don’t do crying people. Ever.
“Thank you.” Max’s voice was gravelly low. “Think we should just get started.”
“Well, I’m glad you like the mirage and I hope you’ll like the finished product just as much when it’s completed,” I said briskly, backing away from Max’s obvious breakdown. “Just go and think about all this. I’ll shoot you some estimates in a couple of days.”
4
TWO DAYS later, without making any changes to the design, Max signed a contract for work to start immediately. I had another million-dollar remodel to supervise.
“We’re going to start in the kitchen and living room,” I told Max. “You need to clean out everything you want to keep and have it put in storage for the time being.”
We’d met again for lunch, this time at Monique’s Bakery and Café, one of the places I loved and had to hold myself back from. As I often told friends, I could gain ten pounds just walking by the cafe and taking a deep bre
ath.
While I craved Monique’s baked goods, I twitched every time I stepped into the place. It sat at the end of a tiny group of stores built during the 1980s. Someone had told me the bakery and cafe had originally been a pharmacy with a tiny soda counter. Gradually the soda counter had expanded into a cafe and the pharmacy was pushed out. Unfortunately, Monique’s retained every one of the tables and chairs from its origins. I itched to redecorate.
Since it was a brilliantly beautiful day, we were sitting on the patio—a space cordoned off from the scraggly bushes and trees of the back lot by a line of wrought iron grillwork—with spiced iced tea and apple cinnamon bread in front of us. God, the food here was orgasmic. I picked up a piece of bread and smelled it before slathering it with butter.
My body shook slightly as I took a bite. “To die for,” I murmured after washing the bite down with tea. “You really should smell it before you take a bite. Go ahead. Smell. Smell. It makes the bread taste so much better.”
Again, the natives seemed to be covertly watching us. It was unnerving being the center of attention like this.
Max picked up a piece of bread as if trying to lift it without actually touching it. He brought it to his nose slowly and took a tiny sniff.
“No, no, no. Pick it up like this,” I chided. I held up another piece between my fingers and thrust it toward Max as he put his piece down on his plate. I shoved the bread under his nose. “Now take a deep breath. Close your eyes if you want.”
I watched Max close his eyes and exhale, ready to take a real smell of the bread. I hoped my body mist didn’t get in the way. I was used to it, so I had no problem smelling the bread around the musk and old rose. Would it distract Max from getting the aroma of Granny Smith apples and cinnamon, almost like apple pie, but different with the flour and other ingredients?
Max was lovely, so macho-man and lost-little-boy encased in a fuckable body. When I was with him, I had to keep reminding myself he wasn’t gay. If there were a gay pill, I wouldn’t even hesitate to slip it into his iced tea.
As Max took a smell of the bread, I laughed at myself. Lusting over a straight man. What was wrong with me? Had I learned nothing in my nearly thirty years on Earth? Dear God, was I ever pathetic.
Max taking a tiny bite of the bread snapped me out of my thoughts. Max chewed. Then his tongue stole out and lapped up the crumbs sticking to my fingers. Without thinking, I thrust the last pieces of the bread toward Max’s mouth and his lips rounded over my fingers.
The world seemed to stop around us. Even the other diners seemed to pause.
We looked at each other in surprise. Slowly Max pulled back against his chair, his eyes boring into mine, his face red-hot. Just as slowly, I lowered my hand to the table. I couldn’t think. I, Frederick Zimmer, for the first time in my life, was stunned silent.
“How you boys doing over here?” the drive-by waitress asked. She plopped our meals in front of us and then looked each of us in the face, smirked, shook her head, and muttered, “All righty, then. All good at this table.”
I blinked. The world around us came slowly back into view.
“What were we talking about?” I asked softly. Another first for me. I was still recovering from whatever had happened between us.
Usually I was the glib one of any group, the man who could smooth over any faux pas the rest of us committed. As a rule, I just turned on my ultragay and blathered about a random topic. But here I was flummoxed. I was just as stunned as he looked.
Max took a long, deep breath and let it out, not quite a sigh, but more a resetting of his essential self. I wanted to jump across the table and kiss him senseless.
“Food,” he said, his eyes piercing me. “Sorry. Don’t know what….” He gave another sigh and shook his head. “We were talkin’ about food.” His eyes begged me for something, but I had no idea what.
“Right,” I answered. I wasn’t sure what was going on. In fact, I was still at sea with what had just happened. I wasn’t going to turn tail and run, but I couldn’t quite get myself back to square one. Had he just made a pass at me? Wouldn’t it be nice if he had? I couldn’t be sure.
“So do you cook?” I asked Max as I picked up my fork and took a tiny bite of my lunch. I was nervous and reaching.
“Yeah.” Max seemed to be making an effort. Or at least that’s what I took his slight grin to mean.
“Oh? What do you cook?” I refused to be rattled. What was I letting myself in for? Was the earth going to move every time we were together like this? It hadn’t before, much, had it? “I like to bake. So what kind of cooking do you do?”
What had just happened? Was Max a tease who bashed when he got a response? I’d met a few of them, and they weren’t fun. My attraction to him had blurred the lines. Was he attracted to me? Or was this a game to him? I was so confused.
I surreptitiously looked around the cafe. Was everyone staring at us? Eavesdropping? Oh my God, did I have a huge target on my back?
“No, no baking.” Max smiled at me with a cute upturn of his lips. He seemed to be trying as hard as I was to get back on track, but I couldn’t smile back. “More of a hunt it down, clean it up, and grill it kind of guy.”
With any of my friends, I would have replied “Well, aren’t we a match made in heaven, then, sugar?” With Max, I was wary. My track record was for shit, and I didn’t want it showing its ugly little head again. No wash. No rinse. Definitely no repeat.
“So you’ve got a bunch of grilling equipment?” I asked.
Max shrugged, looking a little shy. “Yeah.”
More than anything, after the finger sucking, I just wanted to get back to Old Town and talk to Jimmy and Felicity. I was finding it difficult to sit there and come up with banter. Fuck chitchat about food and cooking.
“Okay, well, the cabin work will start day after tomorrow if you can get the kitchen cleared out, or on Monday if you need the weekend.” I couldn’t quite look directly at Max, but kept peeking at him. He could pay for lunch. We didn’t have anything else to talk about, did we?
“Day after tomorrow’s fine,” Max answered, a puzzled look on his face.
“Great.” I scooted back my chair, stood, dropped a couple of bills on the table, then turned to Max, who seemed to be following my lead. “I’ll e-mail you a copy of the master schedule so you know what the crew will be tearing down next. Just be sure the rooms are cleared of anything you want to keep before they get there. Whatever you leave will be tossed.”
Max put a hand on my arm, stopping me.
“Are you mad at me? Did I do somethin’ wrong?” he asked softly as I backed away from him.
“Uh, no. No, I’m fine. I just need to get to work.”
Right then, four guys stood up from their table and walked toward us. The leader was staring at us, his face twisted in disgust and disdain. The cafe was deathly silent suddenly.
“What the hell, Max?” he asked, stomping up to Max. “What you doing here with this fairy? You turning fag or something?”
Many gay men would have cringed and slunk away, but not me. I’d been through this one too many times. Instead I set my feet, just as Max did next to me.
I didn’t know what Max was planning, but I knew how to defend myself.
I stood my ground as the gang leader marched up to me, and even though I had to look up, I stared him in the eye. I could feel Max behind me, now scrambling to get in front of me.
“Would I be the fairy to whom you were referring, honey?” I glared at the thug. I hoped my face reflected the hatred and anger I had for all the bullies and haters I’d met through the years. I put my hand in my pocket and grabbed on to my switchblade, Boner.
“Outta the way, fruitcake,” the taller, stouter man said, his arm shooting forward as if he were about to swat me.
Quickly I evaded his arm, staying in the man’s face.
A sharp metal click accompanied my move. I was ready to retaliate. Nobody, and I mean nobody, pushed me around these days.
/> I held Boner at eye level in front of me.
“I think you’re overstepping here,” I said, my tone as menacing and loud as I could make it. “You insulted me and now you’re threatening me. If you touch me, I’m acting in self-defense.”
The thug’s expression changed. He looked down. Looked up. Grimaced.
“Why you pissant little….” His hand flew past my face as I swerved.
The hand holding Boner went to his groin and I nicked his fly. Just a tiny slit to let him know I meant business. He’d attacked me, after all.
He looked down in surprise at the way his jeans had been so swiftly and cleanly cut. He started to move forward, but took one look in my eyes and backed away. This was no idle threat from any little gay man.
The thug stopped moving and everyone could see a ripple of hard-won restraint run through him. One meaty hand ran over his face, then both hands went into the air. He took a step back.
“I don’t know who you are, fruitcake,” he said, menace dripping from his voice, “but you win this time. From now on, you better be watching your back. I’m gonna get you good.”
In the hand not holding the switchblade, I held up my phone. “Today is….” I started my report, giving my name, the date, the time, the place, and the fact that my life had been threatened.
“Should I send this to the sheriff or not?” I murmured as if talking to myself. “If I turn up dead or even hurt, it’s nice knowing you have sealed your own prison time.” As I took a picture of him, I breathed in. “I don’t know who you are, honey, but this isn’t about winning or losing. For me, it’s about living. For you, it seems to be about asking to be castrated like so many other bulls.”
I pushed Boner toward the bully, who suddenly tried to bat the blade out of my hand. In the process, the man managed to get cut, both in the groin and across his palm.
As he dropped back, I lunged toward him, and he jumped farther away in surprise.
“Better get yourself cleaned up before you bleed on everyone,” I said. I could hear someone moving behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at one of his pals. “Do you really want to see your friend become a dickless wonder?”
