Home is a Fire

by Jordan Nasser

  “Wow. He’s done a nice job,” I said. “It’s totally different.”

  “Yep. All cleaned up,” she said with a smile. “Barry’s friends at the Bears’ Club put up a nice shed for me out in the back. All my things are there when I need them. You know, I’m going to start that quilt soon.”

  Mom has been “going to start that quilt” since I was ten. “Uh huh,” I muttered, as I slid open the closet doors.

  “Um… Mom? Why are there women’s clothes in here?”

  “Well, you know Barry. He loves his personal treasures just as much as I do. He says he just couldn’t part with Janey’s things.”

  I’ve had enough reminiscing, and the emotions are catching up with me. “Love ya, Mom, but I’m exhausted. I’m heading off to bed. Long trip.”

  I give her a kiss on the cheek and cross the hall to open the door to my room. Immediately I’m a teenager again. My comic books are still on the shelves, my Interview magazines stacked on the floor by the bed. There’s a giant blue Swatch watch wall clock, second hand silently ticking away, as if the 80s never ended.

  I sit quietly on my bed, staring at my Madonna Truth or Dare poster. This is all happening so fast. Leaving David, New York, my life. I’m in Tennessee?

  Fuck, I need a drink.

  3

  THE FIRELIGHT

  When I first started driving in Parkville at sixteen years old there were two red lights running the entire stretch of our main drag, Commodore Avenue. Now my frustration is mounting as the car is crawling along, catching every single light, past every chain restaurant known to man. When did my small town become the epicenter of gluttony?

  Thank God that the Firelight still exists. The Firelight has stood on this hallowed site for generations, and lives today to continue to serve the hordes of college football-loving students and returning graduates (and plenty of non-graduates) with an endless stream of beer on tap, pool tables for hire, and the best damn jukebox in the state. Where else on Earth can you queue up Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight,” followed by “Head Like a Hole,” by Nine Inch Nails? And don’t even get me started on the graffiti in the bathrooms: epic masterpieces in industrial black magic markers, with more of an emphasis on snark, rather than smut.

  I look back eagerly towards our favorite booth, and there are my friends Bammy, Kit and Tommy, waiting for me, surrounded by pitchers of beer. I can barely hold back the enormous grin as it spreads across my face and I have to consciously stop myself from letting out a girl scream.

  Rebecca “Bammy” Talbot was proudly raised by her Daughters of the Confederacy mother in Alabama, but moved to Tennessee when she was fourteen. We have been inseparable ever since. As freshman at our local state college, we were well under the legal drinking age, but Bammy figured out a way around that. She was a genius at subterfuge. With a surgeon’s precision, she would take a ripe watermelon, cut it into chunks, cover it all in vodka, and then place the bite sized vodka-soaked morsels in plastic sandwich bags. As eighteen year olds, the doorman would let us into the Firelight, but we weren’t allowed to drink. This was noted by a big black X drawn on the backs of our hands with a magic marker. “Yes, sir!” she’d say with a smile, as we headed towards a wagon wheel table, plastic bags magically appearing from her oversized purse. If anyone ever needed an excuse, a reason or an escape route, we asked Bammy. I have always said that if Harper Lee had ever met our girl, I’d venture to say she would have many more stories to tell.

  Bammy’s mother had insisted that her daughter pursue a “proper” education, so that when the approved suitor called on her, she would be well versed in the Liberal Arts. The French language was a must, and surprisingly, Bammy excelled. She said it had to something to do with her love of wine. She dated her fair share of Chips and Teddys and Parkers, but her mother’s efforts towards creating the perfect debutante fell flat. Bammy was just too smart for all of them. After a semester abroad in Paris, Bammy decided to become a self-supporting French teacher, rather than the woman behind the man. She taught at our local high school for a few years, but had recently been offered the job as vice principal, insuring that no man we graduated with would ever want her.

  Kit Lange and I met in college, and she was my everything. My twin, my mirrored other self, she understood me like no one else ever could or would. In college, Kit wrote stories about me set in New York, Paris and London and slipped them into my textbooks and coat pockets. She always dreamed bigger for me than I could ever imagine for myself. She had been unlucky in love, but she was now steadily dating a great guy named Shawn, a local guitar hero who played bass in a funky cover band called Shock the Monkey. A girl we went to school with recently asked her, “Did your parents freak out that you’re dating a black guy?” She responded by saying “Did your parents freak out that you’re a moron?” And that was the end of that conversation.

  I’d known Tommy Pruitt the longest. Memories of middle school field days and burlap sack races blended seamlessly into stories of drunken all-nighters and “remember whens.” Tommy was the best straight friend a gay guy could ever have. Period.

  “HEY! Derek!” Screams and squeals and hugs and kisses. I love New York. I really, really do. But there is truly something special about coming home to the people who have honestly known you since before you knew yourself.

  “Tell us everything!” Bammy is taking charge, as usual. “Did you really leave David?! Are you here for good? And why on Earth would you come back here?! Are you here to rescue us? Oh, my god! We need more drinks!”

  Kit is holding a Cruella de Vil cigarette holder, even though smoking is not allowed in the bar. She doesn’t care. The cigarette is unlit; it’s all for looks, and she’s pulling it off, as usual. Her bowling bag purse is parked by her side.

  “Baby,” said Kit, reaching out and touching my arm, “it’s so great to see you! We. Love. You. We can’t wait to hear everything. Tell us the story!”

  Tommy is just leaning back with a cold beer in his hand. He has a sweet, happy grin on his face, watching the craziness unfold.

  “What can I say?” I smiled. “I was craving a good biscuit.”

  ■ ■ ■

  “I know I gave up beer for my diet, but this whiskey is killing me, y’all!”

  Bammy is reaching for her third Jack and Diet Coke, and the rest of us are in Rolling Rock heaven. I forgot how cheap it is to drink in Tennessee. I keep going to the bar and ordering rounds for everyone, as if I’m Mr. Moneybags, and not Mr. Unemployed. But honestly, the rate of the Tennessee dollar to the New York dollar must have changed drastically in the last few years. Suddenly, I’m wealthy.

  “Remember your twenty-first birthday, Derek? Right before you deserted us for the Big City?” Kit dramatically exhales from her unlit cigarette and clutches my arm. “We came here for Animal Hour. They don’t even have that anymore. Apparently it’s now illegal to serve 3 for 1 drinks. Too many ‘trustafarians’ crashing their SUVs. Boring!”

  Trustafarians was Kit’s word for the trust fund hippies who extolled the virtues of Bob Marley while spending Daddy’s hard earned money. Kit and I knew, and slept with, our fair share of them.

  “What a crazy night!” I said. “Steve the bartender made us rainbow shooters. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet. I remember the purple one was Grape Nehi and vodka. Epic. Didn’t we break into that apartment complex on the hill and go skinny dipping?”

  “Oh, you had such a crush on that straight boy,” said Kit. “You made him come along. That frat boy. Whatshisname? Patrick Something the third. Everyone called him Trip, right?”

  “God, Kit. Please bring up every failed conquest.” I hid my face in my hands. “I’m not at my most wounded now, or anything. But honestly, I didn’t make him do anything. That boy came willingly. Trust me.” I grinned.

  “Oh, hush!” she said. “If you didn’t chase all the straight ones, we wouldn’t have this problem, now would we?”

  “Well, I learned my lesson with Trip,” I r
eminded them. “He and I spent weeks together. I was in love. I was just too stupid to realize that Trip just liked getting blow jobs.”

  “Too much information.” Tommy reached for his beer and laughed.

  “You know I called him once?” I said. “Years later. He pretended that he didn’t remember me.”

  “Why on Earth would you do that?” Bammy was not the emotional, hold-on-to-them type. She loved fast and hard, and if they ran, she turned her back and marched on to the next one.

  “Ah, you know me,” I said. “I’m emotional. I hold onto things, people, memories, experiences. I never let anyone go.”

  “Except for David,” said Bammy, to the point, as always. “You let that one go. And he was far from straight. What happened?” She stared right at me, intensely.

  “It wasn’t right,” I stammered. “It just… it wasn’t right.”

  “But what about New York?” said Kit. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be missing something? Missing out?”

  “I’m not missing anything,” I smiled. “Everything I need is right here.”

  And then, as if on cue, “Ring of Fire” filled the speakers, and everything I needed was indeed right there, including Johnny Cash.

  4

  UNCLE BARRY

  Tommy followed me home in his car, just to make sure I made it safely. I had been living in the land of taxis and subways for so long that I had forgotten what it meant to have a few drinks and then need to get home on your own. I reminded myself to find a good car service for occasions like these. We journeyed down the back roads of my youth, and I felt that I knew them better than any roads I had ever traveled. Each twist and turn was comforting, and as we slowly made our way out west, I could feel that homing beacon pulling me towards the woods.

  We pulled into Mom’s driveway and Tommy and I stepped out of his car and into the headlights. “You gonna be all right, man?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for following. I guess I forgot how stiff the pours were down South.”

  “You’ll get used to it, again,” he said. “There’s no place like home, right Dorothy?”

  “Really, dude? You went there?” I playfully punched him in the arm.

  “Haha! It’s good to have you back, Derek,” he said. “We missed ya, man. We all love ya, you know that, right?”

  “Shut up and get out of here before I kiss you,” I laughed.

  He threw me that Tommy smirk, tipped his forehead in a sign of respect and turned back to his car.

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow after I see Bammy at the school,” I called after him as I headed towards the house.

  “You really think that’s a good idea?” he asked. “Getting a job at the high school we graduated from?”

  “Hey, I need a job,” I said. “I may as well put that Theatre Arts major to work, since it didn’t get much action in New York. And now that Miss B. has retired, well, there’s a job opening. I promised Bammy that I’d consider it, at least. She can be damn convincing. Or maybe that was the whiskey talking.” We both smiled as he shut his car door and he waved.

  Tommy’s headlights became small fireflies blinking in the distance as I stumbled towards the house and headed towards the side door. As a true Southern family, we never used the front door. That was reserved for salesmen, Christmas carolers, and other assorted strangers.

  Mom left the light on for me in the kitchen, and as I crept towards the stairs I heard Uncle Barry call out in a stage whisper.

  “Hey, Mr. New York City!” He smiled at me. “Get over here and let me take a look at you.”

  Barry was seated at the dining room table, cupping a glass of brandy in his hands. He always had a flair for the dramatic.

  “Is that a kimono?” I asked.

  “What, this?” He held one hand up and looked himself up and down. “This is a dressing gown, kid. Some of us still know how to look stylish, you know. You will most certainly never see ‘Juicy’ spelled out across this ass.”

  He stood up and gave me a real bear hug. He felt soft and cushy and smelled of aftershave. Barry had been a real looker in his day: dark wavy hair, a barrel chest, skinny waist and big, strong legs. Jeans cuffed just the right way, with sturdy brown boots. Blue eyes you could swim in and a smile that would set girls’ hearts aflutter from fifty paces. Your average Tennessee Mountain Man. To hear my mom tell it, her younger brother was at the top of every girl’s Homecoming list, but Janey was the one who lassoed him. The story goes she asked him out for the Sadie Hawkins’ Dance their junior year, and the rest, as they say, is history. They were married straight out of high school.

  “Well, look at you,” he said, eyeing me up and down. “So damn skinny. Don’t they feed you up in New York?”

  “I’ve discovered the best diet, Uncle Barry,” I said. “Vodka and being poor.”

  “Cheers to that!” and he raised his glass.

  I pulled out a chair and sat next to him. “Mom said you were at a Bears’ Club meeting. How’s that going these days?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t talk about it too much with Audrey. I don’t think she’s that interested. But tonight was very exciting. Very. I don’t mean to brag,” he said as he placed his brandy on the table and looked down, as if he were acting humble, “but you are looking at the newly elected Supreme Grizzly of the Bears’ Club, local den 342.” A smile spread across his face and I could see how proud he was.

  “Congratulations! That’s pretty cool.” I clinked imaginary glasses with him, then stood up, walked in to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water to dampen the impending hangover. “You need anything before I head up to bed?” I asked.

  “No, I’m off to bed soon, too,” he said. “It was a very full day. Elections for Supreme Grizzly and Grizzly Court. We promoted a few Cubs to Brown Bears and some Browns to Black. Very exciting stuff. But that’s all I can say. Club secrets, you know,” and he winked at me as he lifted his glass to his lips, once again.

  “Of course,” I said. “Lips sealed,” and I made a show of locking them and throwing away the imaginary key.

  “I want to hear all about your adventures, Derek. But not tonight. This Grizzly needs his beauty rest.”

  He stood up and pulled his dressing gown tight. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slowly padded up the stairs, glass of water in hand.

  My mind was overthinking, as usual. That dressing gown really did look like a kimono, though. And cubs and bears? Did he even understand how that could be misconstrued? Now I know I’ve drunk too much. What I need is a good night’s sleep.

  After all, tomorrow I need to decide what to wear to school.

  5

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  The alarm went off at 7:00 am, and I was sure it was a mistake. Memories of Bammy, Kit, Tommy and the Firelight trudged their way towards my few remaining brain cells, alongside the lovely aftertaste of beer and whiskey. Must get out of bed. Must do it. Now.

  How stupid was I to get drunk the night before my big job interview? I guess I got caught up in the magic of being home, but it was a mistake I don’t plan on making again. I need to take this job seriously.

  A long hot shower can do a man wonders. Truly. I opened the bathroom door and popped back across the hall into my room. The contents of my suitcase had exploded across my old bedroom floor. Let’s see, what’s a respectable outfit for an interview as a high school theatre teacher? This felt too young, that too hip. All black feels so lovingly New York, but here it just comes across as Goth. Ah, yes. Here we go, the old stand by. Checked shirt and chinos. Should I wear a tie? I need to look respectable. I don’t have a tie. Do I have a tie? Oh, crap.

  I stepped out in the hall and noticed Barry had taken over the bathroom. “Barry,” I yelled through the bathroom door, “I need to look in your room for a tie. Is that okay?’’

  All I heard was a few bars from “There Ain’t Nothing Like a Dame” echoing from the shower stall, so I took that as a yes.

  Let’s see, where d
oes Barry keep his ties? Dresser? Top drawer socks, second drawer underwear. Wow. Lots of silky things in here. He really kept a lot of Janey’s bras. Maybe the closet? Dress shirts, trousers, dresses, more dresses. He really kept a lot of Janey’s heels. I don’t remember her having so many shoes, but then again, I didn’t really pay attention. Barry, where are your ties? Don’t you have a simple non-pattern… yes! This one will do.

  I threw the noose around my neck, ran down the stairs and out the door, with one of Mom’s homemade biscuits smeared with jelly in my hand. So much for my low carb, low sugar lifestyle. I really do need to start running regularly again and not just talk about it. I should go to the park at the lake this weekend.

  I pulled into the school parking lot, and everything felt as strange as I imagined. After ten minutes of circling the senior lot looking for a spot, I realized I wasn’t a senior anymore. My brain must have been on autopilot. I popped over to the visitors’ lot and voila, front row.

  I walked in through the front door and into the school office. “Good morning,” I said. “I’m here to see the vice principal? Rebecca Talbot?”

  “Derek Walter, you can call her Bammy ‘round these parts, don’t ya think?” Miss Mabel swung her chair around and took me in. “I’d recognize that voice blindfolded,” she said. “You done spent the better part of your four years here up on that stage in the auditorium. And oh my, but you did grow up, didn’t you?”

  Miss Mabel had been my Aunt Janey’s best friend. Even though she was older, they used to be inseparable. She had been the Parkville High School secretary since time began. Her hair was grayer now and pulled back into a low bun against her neck. She had swaddles of extra, loose skin, as if she was a Michelin Man who had spent a very long time in the sun and then suddenly deflated. It was rumored that she was at one time extremely overweight, and the ripples of skin were the result of a severe weight loss. When I went to Parkville High, it was also rumored that she was well into her sixties, which would place her in her late seventies or early eighties today. But she was not an easy one to figure out. We knew nothing about her personal life, but the “Miss” in front of her name told us more than enough. Either she was single by choice, or by accident. And very few people in the South are single by choice.