by Jeff Mann
“Mommy told me you were from around here. What are you doing back? Oh, I’m sorry. I’m being rude. I didn’t mean to be snoopy. Where are my manners?” With a jerky gesture, she handed him back his driver’s license.
“Just back visiting family for the holidays,” Brice said, voice husky. “Going to be writing a new album.”
“Well, isn’t that nice? That’s just so nice to hear. Well, here you go,” she said, handing him the receipt before bagging up his purchases.
Brice transferred the bags to the cart. “Merry Christmas,” he rasped, tipping his cap before rolling the cart out into the parking lot. As he put the bags into the front seat of his truck, he could see the girl through the front window of the store. She was already on the phone, gesticulating wildly.
Brice pulled out fast, half-expecting the police, the fire department, and a van full of reporters and TV crews to materialize before he could leave the Rite Aid parking lot. “Shit, shit, shit,” he murmured, driving only another block past the old folks’ apartment building and parking in front of Kroger. “Let’s make this fast.”
Brice adjusted his cap and hood before hurrying into the grocery store. He grabbed a cart, bent his head as if he were a defensive back preparing to charge, and headed down the first aisle clutching a grocery list.
Okay, so I’m tired of eating junk food or relying on Leigh for meals. She’s busy enough without having to cater to me. You’re from a long line of country cooks, Brice. You can feed yourself. So. Canned collards. Barbeque sauce. Chips and dip. More brown beans. Eggs and bacon. Pork chops. Cube steak, since Leigh said she’d come over and make me country-fried steak with milk gravy and mashed potatoes sometime before Christmas. Chipped beef, ‘cause I love SOS. Vienna sausages. Underwood deviled ham. Bread. Bologna. Cheddar cheese. And hell, yes, why the hell not? More Hostess pies and Pop-Tarts, and a German chocolate cake. No more damn diets for this ole boy.
After heaping his cart with goodies, Brice got into the shortest checkout line, behind a very old woman with purple-rimmed cat-eye spectacles who was chatting with the clerk, an acne-faced high-school girl, about a church supper they were both planning to attend.
Shit, hurry up, Brice thought, seeing the same issue of the Star displayed to his right and cursing beneath his breath. Somebody figures out who I am, and I might just get stoned to death. Talk about an untimely end.
The old lady pulled out her checkbook and began scrawling in it with agonizing slowness. Brice cleared his throat and scanned the other checkout lines. Don’t know any of these folks, thank God. Except…. Shit, is that Randy Doyle? We used to trade comic books back in junior high. Goddamn, it is him. We shot the shit in front of the courthouse the last time I was in town. He’s liable to recognize me, despite my big beard and beer-gut, if I don’t get out of here fast.
“Hello, sir. Did you find everything you needed?” the checkout clerk asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I did.” Throat dry, Brice turned his back on Doyle, gave the girl a curt smile and a nod, and stonily watched his purchases inching one by one down the automated runner. Hurry up, hurry up. Surely she ain’t gonna ask for an ID too, Brice thought, gritting his teeth. They never do here. My luck, she’ll not only wanna see my driver’s license, she’ll announce my name to the whole damn store.
The total came up and he swiped his card, then signed the receipt. The cashier gave his signature no notice. The young man bagging Brice’s groceries was too busy looking at the clerk’s breasts to give him much mind.
Great. Let’s get outta here. “Thanks, man,” he said to the mammary-mesmerized bag boy, pushing past him into the front of the store. He was nearly to the automatic door when he heard a loud voice behind him.
“Brice? Brice Brown? That you, Brice?”
Fuck! Brice was tempted to leave his groceries behind and simply dart out the door, but instead he turned and sighed. Here we go. Bound to happen sooner or later, small as this town is. Maybe I should have stayed in Nashville.
Randy Doyle stood there, looking Brice up and down with a sour grin. “Well, well, well. The big Nashville star. I hardly recognized you. What you doing back in town?” Thirty-some years ago, Randy had been an awkward kid who shared Brice’s passion for Superman, Batman, The X-Men, and The Avengers. Now, Brice knew, he was a corpulent guidance counselor at the local high school, as well as a part-time minister out Wolf Creek.
“Howdy, Randy. I’m just back to see my kin,” Brice said. He mustered a smile, trying to appear as if everything were normal. That was especially difficult, since Doyle’s stentorian voice had broadcast Brice’s name through half the store. To Brice’s profound unease, just about everybody in sight was staring at him. Several folks were even pointing and whispering.
“So how you been?” Brice said, offering his hand. Doyle pointedly declined to shake, though his grin grew broader.
“Question is, how you been? That secret must have been an awful burden to carry all these years.” Randy shook his head, wrinkled his nose, and pulled a copy of the Star from his grocery bag.
“Lord, you and I used to play football together. I just can’t believe it. You? A big ole boy like you homosexual? When I think about how we used to take showers in the same locker room, it gives me the creeps. Now you’ve broke the heart of that pretty wife of yours and broke the laws of God too.”
Doyle held up the magazine for all to see. The expression on his face was so aggrieved that he looked as if Brice had cheated on him instead of Shelly. “What a nasty scandal. You shouldn’t have come back here. You don’t belong here no more, after all that godless behavior we’ve all read about.”
“Oh, hell, Randy,” Brice groaned. “Really? You gotta kick a guy when he’s down? Asshole.” He shook his head, turned, and pushed his cart out through the electronic door.
“God help you,” Randy shouted after him. “You’re a hell-bound sinner, that’s for sure. You’re a blot on the good name of this town!”
“Fuck off!” Brice yelled back, barging past a trio of old ladies whose pursed lips indicated that they disapproved of his trashy speech. He hurried across the parking lot toward his truck, hoping that his masculine dignity wasn’t entirely compromised by the speed of his retreat.
THAT NIGHT, SNUGLY DRESSED IN sweats and contentedly buzzed on the second whiskey sour, Brice was sliding a foil-covered baking dish full of pork chops, onions, and barbecue sauce into the oven when the doorbell rang.
His brow creased. Who the hell could that be in this weather? Night was falling. Sleet pecked the windows, and wind buffeted the eaves. It couldn’t be Leigh, he knew. She had left the office next door hours ago, determined to get back to her Forest Hill house before the expected storm hit. Probably Randy Doyle, come to deliver a sermon on the sins of Sodom. Or a goddamn reporter. Or a lynch mob. Brice took a long sip of his drink, strolled to the front door, and flipped on the porch light.
A short, stocky man was standing on the porch, bundled in an army jacket and wearing a black toboggan. By now, the news that I’m back must be all over town. Probably some asshole from The Hinton Daily News, The Beckley Register-Herald, or The Charleston Gazette wanting to interview the sad, disgraced faggot now that he’s fled home with his tail between his legs. Brice threw open the door, ready to lob a string of vulgarities at the stranger. “What the hell do you want?” he shouted.
“Hey! Hey, relax.” The man pulled off his toboggan and stepped closer so that Brice could better see the features of his face. “It’s me, man. Relax. I was in town and Hope Lily told me you were here.”
The stranger’s voice was rich and deep and somehow familiar. Dumbfounded, Brice studied the man’s features. Short dark hair gone gray at the temples. Close-cropped black beard, as silver-stippled as Brice’s own whiskers were.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Brice said. “Wayne Meador?”
“Yep. Guess we’ve both changed some. Can I come in?” He rubbed his upper arms and stamped his foot. “Cold as a witch’s tit out here
.”
“Oh, shit. Sure!” Brice stepped aside and Wayne entered the foyer. “Nice place,” he said, looking around. “Looks about the same as it did when we were in high school. Sweet fire you got going too.”
“This place is about all I got left,” Brice said, locking the door and flipping off the porch light. “I guess you’ve heard about all the Nashville bullshit, huh?”
“Sure have,” Wayne replied, brushing sleet-wet off his shoulders. “My stepmother has most of the magazine and newspaper articles.”
“Not the kind of celebrity I dreamed of, as you can imagine. So you know about all that and you come to say Hi anyway?”
“You bet I have.” Wayne gave Brice one of those white catfish grins that used to make Brice’s chest tighten up back in high school.
“Well, good.” Brice offered his hand. “Thanks for dropping by then.”
“Hell, man, I know we ain’t laid eyes on each other for decades, but there’s no need to be formal. Y’ain’t gonna bite me, are you?” Wayne’s grin broadened.
Brice grinned back. “Naw. Naw, I promise.”
“Okay then.” Wayne stepped forward, locking Brice in a bear hug so tight it was momentarily hard to breathe. To feel such warmth and affection from a man he’d been so passionately attached to, albeit decades ago, made Brice nearly choke up.
Wayne gave Brice’s back a couple of hard pats before releasing him. “You’ve been through some shit, old friend.”
“You’re telling me,” Brice said, studying the shorter man as Wayne peeled off his jacket and hung it on the hall tree. As Leigh had said, Wayne was broader and grayer, but his face was still handsome and his torso and arms still powerfully built. He was dressed in work boots, jeans, and a red plaid flannel shirt atop a black turtleneck.
“So how long you in town?” Brice asked.
“Till the day after Christmas. Staying with my folks on Fifth Avenue. Gail—that’s my wife—she’s back in Charlotte ‘cause her mother’s real sick, so I came up here alone. Ole Roy—my dad—he’s really slowing down. In fact, I’m thinking this might be his last Christmas. So here I am.”
“God, it’s good to see you. Say, I’m making dinner. Can you stay?”
“You bet your sweet ass I can. I remember what good cooks your kin were. Smells great. Whatcha got cooking?”
Brice led the way into the kitchen. “Barbecued pork chops. Cole slaw. Cornbread. Canned collards. Plus a store-bought German chocolate cake.”
“Sounds like a fine meal for an icy night. And whatcha got there?” Wayne nodded toward Brice’s highball glass.
“Whiskey sour. You want one? Or a hot toddy?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Wayne wiped wet from his whiskers. “How about a hot toddy? I about froze my nuts off walking down here. The sidewalks are slippery as hell.”
“Toddy sounds good. Two of ‘em coming up.”
Wayne took a seat at the kitchen table, watching as Brice heated water in the kettle, cut lemon wedges, and poured out bourbon and sugar. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the slosh of liquor and the tick of sleet on the windows.
“You’re looking pretty good, Brice. Big arms, big beard. You were a skinny kid when we first met, way back in ninth grade. But now you’re the solid kinda guy I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with.”
“Thanks. Years of weightlifting…and eating.”
Wayne grinned again, pinching his gut. “I get that. Aging sucks.”
Brice took a long look at Wayne. You ain’t the porn star you were in high school, but I’d still climb all over you. “That’s for damn sure. You’re looking good yourself. I’d say we’re both holding up pretty well for forty, huh?”
“Guess so. Gail says she likes the gray in my hair. Me, I ain’t so sure.”
Brice poured hot water into their mugs and stirred. “Remember when that massive bastard Billy Holt got wind of the fact that I’d asked his ex out on a date and punched me in the face in front of the hardware store? I would’ve gotten my ass whipped mighty bad if you hadn’t shown up and driven him off. Even five inches shorter than me, you were more intimidating than I ever was.”
Wayne shrugged. “I filled out early, I guess. Besides, you were my friend. I wasn’t going to let that goddamn gorilla beat on my friend.”
“Yeah. Well. I just wanted you to know that I’ve never forgotten that. It meant a lot that you stood up for me. It still does.”
Wayne shrugged again. “You would have done the same for me.”
“Yes. Yes, I would have. But I wouldn’t have been half as effective. Here you go.”
Brice handed Wayne his drink. They clinked mugs and both men took sips.
“Tasty,” Wayne declared. “When’ll dinner be ready?”
“A while. Chops cook another forty minutes, cornbread another thirty-five or so.”
“Good. That means we got time for another one of these.” Wayne winked and grinned. When he rolled up the sleeves of his layered shirts, Brice could see the dark hair coating his forearms.
God, you still got that smile. You still got those charms. “Count on it. How about we head on in to the fire?”
“Sounds good.” Wayne nodded, rising. Soon, the two old friends were sitting side by side on the couch watching oak logs spark and flame behind the fireplace screen.
“I can’t believe you got married,” Brice said, angling a thumb at Wayne’s wedding band. “Congrats! I’m surprised, though. You always swore you weren’t the marrying kind.”
“Yeah, I was kind of a rounder in high school, huh?”
“Yep. Everybody called you ‘Pooch,’ remember?”
Wayne snickered. “ ‘Cause I was such a pussyhound. Yep. Well, I continued in that vein for quite a few years. Had some grand affairs with some gorgeous women. Paid for some abortions. Caught the clap a few times. But that kind of life gets old, y’know? Especially when you get old. Or older, at any rate.”
“Yeah, I do kinda know that. So how’d you meet your wife?”
“She’s an accountant at a construction firm I work for near Charlotte. We’ve only been married a couple of years, but so far it’s great. She’s strong, beautiful, no-nonsense. Won’t tolerate my shit.”
Brice grinned. “Sounds like you met your match, Pooch. ‘Bout time. I’m glad you’re happy.”
“Yeah. Took long enough. So how long you owned this place? It’s real cozy,” Wayne said, settling back with a contented sigh.
“Since Daddy died in ‘94. Heart attack, just like his father.”
“I heard about that. I still remember your mother. She was always so sweet to me.”
Brice nodded. “I miss her. She died about ten years before Daddy. Damn cigarettes. You still smoke?”
Wayne shook his head. “Naw. Quit while I was in Basic Training. They slowed me down. With all that fucking exercise, climbing over things and hauling shit, I couldn’t afford to be hacking and wheezing and gasping for breath. So when’s the last time we saw one another? Must have been….”
The night we stood by the river and your shirt fell open. “Summer of 1975. August, it must have been. I was about to head off to college, and you….”
“And I was heading off to the Marines, relieved as hell that the war in Vietnam had just ended.”
“Yeah. We drove around some that night, had a few beers….”
“And a little pot, as I recall.”
“Yeah.” Brice nodded. “We pulled over by the river and you skipped stones.”
“Really? You remember all that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Man, my memory’s going fast. Seems like fucking forever since we drove these Summers County back roads in that broke-down ole Plymouth of mine. But now here we are.” Wayne gave Brice’s shoulder a gentle jab. “Man, it’s good to see you. You’ve come a long way. I’ve been listening to your music since you first started recording.”
“Really?”
“Shit, sure. I have all your CDs. I was always telling gu
ys I worked with that I went to high school with Brice Brown, that we used to hunt and fish and drink together.” Wayne paused, sipping on his mug. “So, Brice….”
“Uh, oh,” Brice groaned. “That tone of voice. Let me guess. Are all the newspaper and magazine stories true? That’s what you want to ask.”
“Yeah. You got it. But you know me, man. We were real buddies back then. I know twenty years have come and gone, but that doesn’t change anything, as far as I’m concerned. You can tell me anything.”
Brice rose. He opened up the hearth screen long enough to add another log to the fire. Then he sat back beside Wayne, took a big drink of his toddy, and looked his friend in the face. “Yep. It’s all true. More or less.”
“Okay. Wow. Never would have guessed. How long have you known you’re gay?”
“Well, I’m not exactly….” Brice began, but then he remembered Doctor Zucker and his insistence that Brice claim his identity as ex-gay and announce it to the world. “Oh, well, fuck it. Yeah. Gay. I’ve known since a few years before I met you.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Wayne rubbed his whiskered jaw.
“Naw. Put yourself in my place. It was the mid-seventies. We were living in this little backwoods town in this little backwoods county with a damned preacher up every holler shouting about sin. You were…important to me, Wayne. Real important. And you were a big, macho, rough-edged stud and had girlfriends out the wazoo. I was afraid if I told you that you’d freak out. That you’d turn on me.”
Brice stood up. He stepped over to the window and looked out into the park. In the gleam of the sole streetlight, the grass was going gray with ice.
“I’d never have done that, Brice. We were rabble-rousers and rule-breakers, remember? We were always talking about bucking the system and to hell with authority. Why would I have given a shit about what some retard preachers were saying?”
Brice rubbed his forehead hard, then resumed his seat.
“I was afraid you’d think I wasn’t…a man. Wasn’t worth running with.”
“A man?” Wayne rolled his eyes. “You weren’t a man. Neither was I. We were both boys. You’re a man now. A big powerful man who’s accomplished a lot. I was proud to call you my friend then, and despite all the years apart and all the media horseshit lately, I’m proud to call you my friend now. When guys at work who know you and me were friends start ragging on you, I tell them to kiss my lily-white ass.”
