And you know I couldn’t bring myself to go inside that art supply store. Hell, what would I say? I’m leaving. Come to LA? Too much time had passed. I had let too much time lapse between us. Maybe the fat groundskeeper was right. Maybe I didn’t belong in her world. We had shared a ditch between two fences is all, and she was from somewhere else. With Mandy riding up front with me, lolling her tongue out the window, I drove away; still, I was hoping Jane might see me, come out of the art store, and tell me exactly what she wanted in life. As I kept on driving and got on the interstate for LA, “Wild World” ignited that Torino’s old speakers, and I wondered if Jane preferred Cat Stevens’s or Harry Chapin’s version. I wondered, too, how long my letter would sit in the mailbox in front of Jane’s art store. And if she had seen me out there. Or if she even cared. Or if she’d somehow get the letter and come find me.
* * *
Jane,
I’m going to Los Angeles and I still love you. Madly. I’ll look for you out there. Everywhere actually. In everything. You really defy logic. It would be almost stupid to tell you at this point, but I’ve been in love with you from before it was supposed to be possible. Nothing’s changed. I’ve outgrown nothing. The books are all wrong about love. Written by idiots. I never cared about their nonsense. Only yours. I knew I loved it all. You made sense. We agreed. With you, everything was right. You made me realize that this thing that the adult mind calls “puppy love” is just a taste of what we’ll be chasing for the rest of our lives, but unfortunately we’ll then be armed with a newfound adult logic and thus fatally ill-equipped to ever find it again. Because finding it requires a certain abandon from the same things that we must devour to become just that: grown-ups. It’s the “adult” things that preclude us from ever seeing what we’ve waited for adulthood to see. It was only ever limited to a taste because youth discourages the natural inclination to gulp. And with you I only ever wanted to gulp.
* * *
My memory of Jane remained my driving force. I still hoped maybe, someday, we would run into each other somewhere. I got a good job in LA and I loved it, but I never really fell in love with another person. I always hoped Jane would track me down somehow, but she never did. I just couldn’t cut Jane’s siren anchor loose. Work kept me busy, but I felt there were few people I could truly connect with. I had grown up in a time and place where people greeted you with “good morning,” courtesy was built in, bred in, compared to the Hollywood Hills, where even after a decade I had met only two neighbors on my street, one of which was the housekeeper to the first. I knew it was the transient nature of city life and industry, but I still wished for a place and a home like I’d known.
* * *
Grandaddy came to visit me one time in LA, Mamau at his side. Mandy and I picked them up from LAX in my dad’s vintage ’77 BMW 530i, Dad’s trophy when his small business finally took off. I had restored the Bimmer’s original silver paint, red leather interior, and even the meditating groan of that 3.0 liter in-line 6 that sounded like no other car on the road. Yelling over the throaty engine as we worked our way down La Cienega toward the famous Sunset Strip, I pointed out sights until we were forced to stop at a blockade at Santa Monica Boulevard. I had completely forgotten that it was parade weekend. As all the rainbows and dress—and lack of dress—passed in front of the car, I could see my Grandaddy’s face in the rearview mirror taking it all in. My Grandaddy just chuckled and shook his head as my Mamau got more and more excited by all the festivity that she clearly misunderstood. We all watched as a group of about five men in white boots, white Speedos, chef hats, and nothing else slowly approached holding giant silver platters of food that random paraders would occasionally approach and grab a snack.
“LGBT,” remarked Mamau, noticing a few paraders’ T-shirts. “Is that a type of sandwich they’s advertisin’?”
I explained to her what LGBT stood for, and Mamau gasped and clung to her large bosoms. My Grandaddy just watched as it all passed before him.
“Hell, every man like his own sandwich how he like it. And I reckon they can throw they trouser worm wherever they wanna, long as whoever where they’s throwin’ want ta get throwed at. Don’t know if it require a goddamn parade, though. BLT, that’s my favorite. Just plain old BLT,” said Grandaddy wryly, and he gave Mamau’s hand a squeeze. I could see he was thinking, but there was no familiar horizon for his gaze to rest on here. “All them official titles…and they offended if ya call ’em somethin’ different. Hell, I don’t wanna hurt no feelin’s. I’d call ’em nickel if they want, but then we gotta come up with somethin’ new for five cent. Ain’t nobody can live they life proper these days without worryin’ ’bout who they gon’ piss off. I tell ya, ya cain’t take a shit these days without people worryin’ ’bout hurtin’ the goddamn feelin’s of folks born without assholes, and when they feelin’s get hurt y’cain’t even tell ’em to go fuck theyselves ’cause then you’s offendin’ the goddamn self-sexuals!”
My Grandaddy never could come to understand what all the fuss was about what with the new distinctions publicly explaining sexual orientation. Just then the platter group in white passed right in front of my Mamau’s window, and I saw my Grandaddy’s face lose all hope for the future when he could clearly see that the platter that each of those chefs carried down by their groin displayed numerous sausages, the closest to them being their own. They had cut out holes in their Speedos and laid their own genitalia next to an assortment of wurst for all to see. Grandaddy quickly took my Mamau’s face in his hands and turned it toward his and away from the parade.
* * *
A year later, when I arrived at my Grandaddy’s wake in the Louisiana bayou where he had grown up, I was not surprised to see over a thousand people lined up to pay their respects. There I saw a rough-hewn wooden cross in the backyard out by the bayou that had been split in half by a pink-blossomed tree coming out of the ground beneath. Two men’s names were carved in it, but one was too scratched out to be legible, the other was James’s father. At Grandaddy’s wake, I saw a middle-aged black man crying his eyes out off to the side of my Grandaddy up in the front. After the service, as the sun was setting, the man approached me and asked me to take a ride with him. I recognized him from somewhere and he seemed to know everything about me, and my Mamau seemed to know his whole family, wife, kids, granbabbies and all. So I climbed into his brand-new Lincoln Town Car, and he drove me away. That man’s eyes wept the entire time we drove, until we arrived at a huge Ford dealership. He took another tissue out of a little plastic pouch, wiped his eyes one final time, and said, “C’mere, gotta show ya somethin’.” He got out and walked me up to the front door of that display room with a fleet of new Ford and Lincoln and Mercury cars, took a key out of his pocket, inserted it, and spun the lock what seemed like five full rotations until the giant glass door was free and he swung it open, motioning me in.
“Yer Grandaddy gimme somethin’ long time ago. Kept it in my pocket for years. He gone, and can’t see…so I wanna show it to you. Ain’t gonna live in my pocket no more.”
A huge white wall served as a backdrop for all the display cars in that front room. And when he switched on the lights they seemed to flicker on, one by one, all the way down the line until the very last one at the end of that wall. But when that wall lit up, I knew exactly who that man was.
“You was there when he give me this, but don’t know if you remember.”
But I remembered everything from that day. On that giant wall behind those brand-new cars was painted:
At Frank Ford, we show up early.
At Frank Ford, we stay late.
And at Frank Ford, we always volunteer for all the hard stuff that no other dealer is willing to provide.
And sure enough, there was the climber, as my Grandaddy had called it:
For every dollar you pay Frank Ford, we’ll give you 2 dollars of value.
—The Law
“You must be Mr. Frank, sir. Lenny, I believe. I met you a long time
ago at The Piccadilly Cafeteria.”
And with that he broke, and hugged me with enough tears for the both of us. It was Lenny who had sent all the Ford LTDs for Grandaddy’s cortege at no expense to the family. I thanked him—for everything. And I thanked him for having kept my Grandaddy alive in his dealership showroom. My Grandaddy was one of the best people I ever knew, and I miss him every single day. And that advice worked wonders for me. But I had no answer for Jane. The rules of love seemed to be different from anything I understood.
* * *
There’s no glamour in grief. While I never forgot Jane in LA, I found myself embedded in an industry in which a large majority of my coworkers credited misspent youth, absentee parents, drug abuse, child abuse, sexual abuse, and various other types of childhood turmoil to explain the brilliant origins of their craft. Some even wore these experiences like badges of honor, as if tragedy were necessary for the creation of any type of art. Grief is a hurdle to be leapt over, not bragged about.
I had absolutely every opportunity provided to me by a loving, caring, doting family, but was taught to leap, just in case. I owed everything I have ever achieved in my life to my mom and dad, Grandaddy and Mamau. Looking around me in LA, I realized that nothing of any value in my life could have been obtained without my family. Nothing. In Texas, growing up, I always thought it was my “right” to have good parents. I expected it, and thought everyone had a pair. But it’s not a right at all. And some just say it’s a kind of genetic luck of the draw. But rattlesnakes breed rattlesnakes, so there’s really no luck involved at all. My Grandaddy showed me that hard work, discipline, and good parenting is what promotes children who expect more of their parents, just as it promotes parents who expect more of their children. Well, I was given the world from my family. They all taught me that life was a continual demonstration of value to yourself and to the world around you, and I did not expect it to be some arbitrary definition of fairness. My family wanted me to have an unfair advantage by their definition. Their main objective was making sure that I was sent out into the world with an almost certain chance of survival and ultimately procreation, or at the very least creation. They put this in me, and unless there had been a design flaw, it would always be permanently encoded in my DNA. I did not want to let myself or them down. And I hoped I wouldn’t. But I knew I had a Boudin recipe.
My Mamau passed away only eight days after my Grandaddy. They were inseparable, and I don’t think she wanted to live without him. I grieved the double blow of their passing by immersing myself in work and wishing I could sip a cold pony with my Grandaddy on his porch, looking out at our horizon, listening to his stories, fried chicken diluting the smell of Grandaddy’s Pinaud on the porch back home…and Jane. The day my 187th letter was returned was the day a girl called me from Houston.
“Can you come home?”
“Uh…who’s calling, please?” My mind reeled.
“Lawrence is going to marry me, and I’ve heard so many stories about you two, I know he’d want you here,” she spoke gently into the receiver.
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
Shit, I hadn’t seen him since we both left for college—a decade at least. I flew home to Texas for Firefly’s wedding. I was excited to see him at his bachelor party inside the belly of a whale. His familiar Moby Dick living room was full of guys yelling “SURPRISE!” and offering congratulations, and two drunks perched up on one of the giant oak crossbeams, chanting Lor-ents, Lor-ents, one of whom I recognized to be Andy. I looked around the Tudor-style room at Firefly’s groomsmen, most I recognized: Trent, Eddy, Timmy, and Eduardo. Some were camouflaged by the pouchy pink doughiness of chronic alcohol consumption, and others, like Firefly, had a resilient glow.
“Holy fuckin’ shit! Is this pussy eyeballin’ me? Huh, fuckhole?” Firefly picked me up in a bear hug, then put a Miller into my hand. “Ha!! Mickey, you little sack of shit! What the hell’re you doin’ in my huge-ass nigger-cockin’ house all the way from LA?”
“I don’t know, somebody told me you’re gettin’ married?”
The front door opened, and my question was answered as the stable of groomsmen quieted down respectfully when a stunning blonde, years younger than any of us, stole center stage in her yoga outfit. She wrapped herself around Firefly.
“Mic, this is Felicia. My woman.” Firefly smirked.
“I bet my lucky seven that someone would get ahold of that cocksucker!” The freckled guy sitting up on the beam above me cackled, beside Andy. I did a double take.
Andy nodded in friendly recognition when I glanced up. I raised my hand just like that day on the golf course and he did, too, and a bolt of regret shot through me, wondering if he had forgiven or just forgotten.
“Okay, you found him,” said Felicia. “Did y’all get some pie? It’s pumpkin! Firefly tells me that’s yer favorite.” Firefly and I exchanged a laugh.
“Holy shit, I wondered why you made that nasty thing!” exclaimed Firefly. “Did YOU tell him I was get’n married, woman?” asked Firefly.
“WE! I told him we are getting married, shit head.” Felicia kissed Firefly very affectionately, and he lit up.
“Oh, you know what I mean, sugar britches. Come here ya little buttermilk doughnut.” He kissed her, then turned to me. “JEEZUS! I haven’t seen you in like…well, too long, damn it! So, you went to LA to become a faggit? Clatterbuck tried to tell me you’re gay!”
“BULLSHIT COCKSUCKER!” hollered Clatterbuck, lumbering down off the ladder from his seat up on the split-timber beam overhead, his eyes pouched and red from drink, and about seventy pounds heavier than when I had last seen him.
“Oh, don’t lie, ya little turd, Clatterbuck!” said Firefly, then turned to me. “I said to Clatterbuck, shit, Mic’s weird but he ain’t gay! You’re not are ya? HA! Just kidd’n!” Everyone laughed as Felicia stepped in.
“Mickey, I’m glad you could come. He never shuts up about you.” She smiled, delighted that Firefly was happy.
“Bullshit, I hardly even recognized him!” Firefly laughed, knuckling me in the ribs.
“Okay, I’m outta here, fellas. Mickey, make sure he behaves himself!” Felicia shook my hand and gave me a polite hug. “And, no sleazy lap dancers!”
“Only tasteful lap dancers!” bellowed Firefly. Felicia shook a finger at Firefly, no manicure, no makeup, just beautiful. She kissed him tenderly. “Oh, don’t you worry my little potato dumplin’. Tomorrow you’re my wife!” shouted Firefly as the door closed behind Felicia. “Okay, bring out the peelers!” Suddenly the door popped back open and Felicia stuck her head in. “HA! Just kidd’n, baby. I don’t even like peelers, can’t stand ’em. MAKE ’EM ALL LEAVE!…See there.”
Felicia broke into peals of laughter at Firefly. I hoped Firefly would always make her laugh like that, because he looked like he’d be lost without her and he’d never get another one so pretty and smart who could tolerate his nonsense.
“He’s an idiot, but I love him.” Felicia smiled at all of us and pulled her head back to close the door behind her.
“She makes me do frickin’ yoga,” said Firefly, staring after her. “But for her, I’d stick my head up my ass, if I could bend that far.”
The party migrated from Firefly’s turreted manse on the golf course, and we tailgated as close as we could park to the football practice field. I felt right at home as I read the sign, HOME OF THE BEARS. Everyone drank beer from kegs that were set up on the back of Clatterbuck’s pickup truck parked out on the mound near The Hole, right where Kevin used to park his Firebird. More guys accumulated, buddies from high school, and college friends of Firefly. I noticed the cement scar where The Hole had been filled in was now built over with a pop and burger vending station. I wondered if anyone knew that my friend had died underneath it.
I was having fun catching up with the guys, and roasting Firefly, until a black-and-white wool houndstooth cap appeared, and the air sucked right out of the atmosphere around me. Andy nudged m
e and gestured discreetly when Jonathan adjusted his Donegal tweed cap like he was an erudite book publisher. I tried to make eye contact, if only to indicate I didn’t give a fuck anymore how big of an asshole he was, but Jonathan looked away. Aside, Clatterbuck and Andy took turns filling me in that Jonathan had been Firefly’s college dorm proctor who permitted heavy-drinking parties, and was now on his way to replace his dad at Texas Instruments. Jonathan’s wife had left him, walking away with not only the Mottahedeh wedding porcelain but half of Jonathan’s inheritance plus the estate, a Bentley, and a kid.
“What the fuck’s he doing here?” Jonathan murmured under his breath, as Eduardo eyeballed him to back off. Hatred blistered in Jonathan’s eyes, and I actually felt compassion for him for a moment.
“There’s a Porta-Potty over by the bleachers,” Clatterbuck laughed. “Why don’t you two girls go powder yer noses?”
“Bathroom break, fellas!” Firefly saw where things were headed and stepped in, maybe 20/20 hindsight to right the Quik wrong he set in motion with Andy, once upon a time over my spilled chocolate milk. “Hey, you eyeballin’ Mic? Cut the shit, Jonathan, this is my day, this party’s about me, shit head. Me, me, me. And you gotta know by now that that boy will fuck you up while crying!”
Firefly tackled Jonathan and hugged him like a grizzly, laughing like a child.
“Get over it, Jonathan,” Clatterbuck echoed.
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