by Chase Connor
“Why don’t you let me do that?” I didn’t want to, but I would. “Or we can go rent a tiller or something and…”
“You aren’t fit to dig a hole right now.” She cast an appraising glance at me. “And you don’t have to be so goddamn fancy all the time, ya’ know. I’ve been doing my garden this way since before your dad made the mistake of dragging your mom home and making you.”
“That wasn’t hurtful at all.”
“It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”
“Yeah.” I snorted. “I got that.”
“Go in there and eat something.” She stopped and leaned against the hoe. “You still look like death.”
I looked at her for a few moments, wondering if I should push back on my Oma not. Having not been back for more than a handful of days, I didn’t know if it was my place to tell my grandmother how to live her life and run her household. However, it worried me to see her, going on seventy-years-old, using a hoe to break up her garden in early spring. The ground still had to be hard and resistant to her efforts. Though, she looked much more physically capable than I was currently.
“Why don’t we both get ready and go into town?” I suggested gently. “I’ll buy us breakfast and then we’ll go rent a tiller from…somewhere.”
“Barkley’s, ya’ asshole.” She growled. “It’s still the goddamn hardware store that’s been here since you were too short to piss in a toilet. How could you forget that?”
“Could you maybe just get over the fact that I ran off at sixteen?” I sighed. “Cursing me out every chance you get is not going to take that back, ya’ know.”
“Well, you’re getting at least a full day for every year you’ve been gone.” She glowered. “So, fuck you, you still have nine days of me acting however the Hell I want.”
“I’ve been here for four days.”
“You were asleep for three of ‘em, ya’ prick.”
That was a new one.
“Fine.” I held my hands up in defeat. “Cuss me out for nine more days if it makes you happy.”
“I will!” She stomped her foot.
Obviously, I was still up shit creek for having upset my grandmother a decade prior.
“What’s your fucking plan anyway, Robbie?” She went back to chopping at the ground. “You planning to sleep it off, eat all my food, tell me how to live my life, then in a couple weeks you’ll leave in the middle of the night again? Because, if so, you can just stick to your damn self now that you’re on your own two damn feet again.”
“Jesus, Oma!” I growled back. “Could you stop giving me grief when I can’t take back a thing I’ve done?!?”
“Would you?!” She was shaking the hoe at me. “Do you even feel a bit bad for acting like a little shit?”
“I said I was sorry right after I got here.”
“Just because I told you about yourself, ya’ little shit.” She stabbed the hoe into the ground. “That’s no damn apology.”
“I’m sorry!” I bellowed for the world to hear. “I’m so fucking sorry that I went off to live my life and it ruined yours, okay?!? I’m a complete fucking asshole and should be shot in the goddamn face with rock salt for being such a horrible grandson!”
“That’d be a good goddamn start.” She was leaning on the hoe again.
I cleared my throat and collected myself. I never lost my cool.
“What do you want from me, Oma?” I held my hands out helplessly. “I left to live my life. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first, but we both know you would’ve tried to stop me. I had an opportunity and I took it. And it worked out incredibly well, so…”
“Worked out well?” She cackled angrily. “Look atchu! You look like you’ve been on that stuff. Surprised you still have your goddamn teeth. Probably veneers anyway!”
“They’re my own teeth.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you got the receipt.” She was shaking the hoe at me.
“And I was never ‘on that stuff’ you mean old…I’ve used drugs, but I’ve never had a drug problem. At least, not the way you mean it.”
“Then why are you so damned skinny?!”
“Because!” I threw my hands up. “Because I’ve been working nonstop on movies, tours, T.V. shows, press junkets…I’ve been around the world a dozen times in the last year. Caught Dengue Fever when we were filming in the Philippines even though I got the vaccine—for all the good that did me. I’ve been getting three hours of sleep a night for two solid goddamn years and living on cigarettes and Red Bull and coffee…and until I came here I hadn’t had a real meal in at least six months. And no matter how skinny or sick or exhausted I am, my agent and manager keep shoving projects at me. That’s why! It’s not because of any bad choices!”
She turned her nose up at me, but she looked less angry with me.
“Skipping meals isn’t exactly a good choice.” She snorted. “And them cigarettes and Red Bulls will give you the cancer—if not a heart attack. You gotta take care of yourself, Robbie. You need your three squares, water…exercise…sleep. You’re not making good choices.”
“For the record, I’m not the one with the ‘sugars’, okay?”
“I don’t have the goddamn diabetes.” She shook the hoe at me. “Sugar just makes me have trouble sleeping.”
“Then why don’t you just say it hypes you up?”
“I’m old. Old people are folksy.” She snarled. “Fuck off.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“What the Hell are you laughing at?” She picked up a dirt clod and lobbed it at me, a smile on her face.
I managed to side step it.
“I’m just tired, Oma.” My eyes were watery. “I’m so goddamn tired.”
“Well, you look it.” She didn’t cuss at me, she looked sad.
“I know.” I shrugged pitifully.
“Well, I’m glad you’re home, I guess.” She sighed, looking at me like a grandmother for once. “Just wish I knew how long to expect you is all. Your record for sticking around ain’t great.”
“I’ll give you plenty of notice when the time comes, okay?” I negotiated. “But, I don’t have a plan right now. I don’t have any projects lined up…I’m…I’m just wanting to rest.”
“I guess we can manage that.” She gave a sharp nod. “But you start acting uppity and I’ll kick your bony ass.”
“Okay.” I relented.
“Carlos is a women’s size 41eu—whatever the Hell that means.”
“What? Who?”
“Carlos. The drag queen.” She snarled. “He-she wears a size 41eu—that’s what he said in her text the other day. You said you’d order him some of those fancy shoes.”
“Oh, right.” I finally remembered. “Yeah, okay. And it’s ‘she’ when she’s in drag and ‘he’ when he’s not. Or whatever they prefer. And I didn’t know you texted.”
“Maybe if you’d try it once in a while you’d know.”
“I’m sorry for not texting you, then, Oma.”
She waggled her head and started chopping at the earth again.
“Are we going to breakfast and to rent that tiller or what?”
“Barkley’s doesn’t rent them.” She said.
“Then we’ll buy one. You can use it every year for your garden.”
“They cost a couple of hundred dollars.”
“Louboutins cost more than a tiller.” I snorted. “So, if you can ask me to spend that on a pair of shoes for a stranger just so you can start to forgive me, I can get you a tiller.”
“Fancy, fancy, fancy.”
“Look, old lady, I’m really trying here.” I growled. “Could you try, too?”
“How much goddamn money you got anyway?” She wasn’t angry, she was curious. “I saw those pictures on the T.V. of that house you bought.”
“What T.V. show was that?” I snorted. “I’ve never bought a house in my life.”
“That house in Bel-Air?” She waved her hand in the air vaguely. “Fancy as Hell and probably cost more th
an all the homes here in Point Worth put together.”
“I didn’t buy a house.” I rolled my eyes. “I have a small condo in L.A. but I’ve never bought a house because I’ve never stayed still long enough to bother.”
“You can’t even afford a house—you probably shouldn’t be throwing money around here.”
“I can afford a house, Oma.” I rolled my eyes.
“You ever been to Bel-Air?” She asked, genuinely just making conversation. “It looks really nice.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I’ve been to parties at some…friends’…houses there. It’s…it’s okay I guess.”
“Okay?” She snorted. “Not uppity enough for you?”
“Exact opposite.”
“Mmm.” She considered me. “I saw this T.V. program the other day about this really fancy and exclusive private resort in Antigua. You ever been there?”
“Jumby Bay Island.” I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”
“Where the Hell is Antigua?” She frowned.
“The West Indies.” I answered, then saw that she was still waiting. “Down by Puerto Rico, high north of Venezuela. I flew down from Miami. You have to jump a lot of islands—even flying private.”
Another head waggle.
“I was just explaining because you asked.” I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t trying to show how fancy I am, all right?”
“Fine.” She relented.
“So…breakfast?” I prodded. “A tiller?”
“I suppose.” She leaned against the hoe like she was posing for an updated American Gothic. “Of course, if we buy a tiller, we may as well just have them deliver it tomorrow with the manure. Then you can drive me in that fancy car of yours instead of taking the pickup. We can till and throw down cow shit all in one morning.”
I just nodded, knowing the car wasn’t all that fancy.
“That the only car you got?” She asked another prying question.
“No.”
“You got a boyfriend? A husband?”
“Neither.”
“Well, you can say whatever you like, but that’s just fucking fancy.” She snorted. “Why does a single man need more than one vehicle?”
“You have a pickup and a car.”
“That truck belonged to your Opa.” She snarled. “You ain’t ever been married so you don’t have an excuse.”
“Thanks for opening a wound, Oma.” I rolled my eyes.
“How’s a handsome movie star like you never found a man?” She frowned. “The boys down at the center go through partner after partner. Well, some of them. The others couple up and stayed that way. Hell, even the lesbians are playing house down there. Surely, you have found some guy that could put up with your particular brand of bullshit.”
“Wow.”
“It’s an honest question, Robbie.” She frowned. “Why don’t you have a man yet?”
“That’s just…it’s a big question, okay?” I shrugged. “Can we have breakfast first?”
“Fine.” She shrugged back and walked over to push her way through the garden gate. “You can’t be too damn picky. I saw that damn outfit you arrived in.”
“That’s designer clothing.” I didn’t mean for it to, but it came out as a whine that could only be described as fussy.
“The cardigan was nice, but that sweater and jeans looked like the moths got after ‘em.” She continued. “I hope you didn’t pay much for that shit. Take me down to the Goodwill. I’ll buy some secondhand shit and tear it up for you for ten bucks if you think it’s so goddamn cute. I’ll make you a whole goddamn year’s worth of clothes and be able to retire in Bermuda.”
“Breakfast.” I groaned as we walked towards the house. “Please.”
Together, we washed and dried the hoe that Oma had been using, then returned it to its place in the shed. Once inside the house again, where it was actually warm, I indicated that I’d get cleaned up and be ready within twenty minutes. Oma cocked an eyebrow at me, as though being clean before going to breakfast was “fancy” as well. However, she kept her mouth shut and followed me up the stairs. She zipped into her room and closed the door, obviously deciding that she could use a quick wash up and change.
I went down to the bedroom I was using and did the same. Shutting the door behind me. As soon as the door was closed, I noticed the old iron clothes hook in front of me. It was empty. I frowned to myself. Had Oma taken my clothes to a dry cleaner while I was sleeping over the last few days? There was momentary panic at first, but then I realized that a dry cleaner, even in Toledo would know how to handle cashmere, virgin wool, and silk. Probably.
Walking into the bathroom, I found myself frowning again. My cardigan was hanging over the shower curtain rod. I walked over and pulled it down. It looked well cleaned and it was dry. I spun around, looking for the sweater and jeans, but they were nowhere in sight. Had the crazy old lady handwashed the cardigan and hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry? I held the cardigan to my face and breathed in deeply. It smelled of lavender soap, fresh and clean. I shrugged to myself and walked into the bedroom to toss it onto the bed.
When I was freshly bathed and clean, I dug a pair of fresh jeans—without holes—out of my bag, a plain white t-shirt, fresh underwear and socks, and got dressed. I threw my cardigan on over the less ostentatious outfit and dug a pair of regular white Chuck’s out of my bag. Other than the cardigan, I couldn’t see Oma having anything to say about the outfit—and even she had admitted that the cardigan was nice. So, I was hoping that we’d avoid any insults for at least a few minutes.
Out in the hallway, Oma was standing in the hallway by her door, her arms cross, tapping a foot. She was in a sweater, bib overalls, and a pair of old boots. But she looked freshly bathed and her clothes were all spotless, so I guessed it was as good as anything else. Apparently, my need to not smell was just too much for her to have to put up with. However, I ignored her impatient demeanor and walked down the hallway to greet her. She just rolled her eyes and lead the way down the stairs.
We exited the house, which she didn’t lock behind us—and which gave me anxiety—but I did my best to not say anything. When Oma saw the look on my face, she rolled her eyes and got her keys out of her bag to lock the place up. Finally, we hopped into my car. When I started the car with a push of a button and then turned on the heated seats, Oma waggled her head in response again. I ignored her.
“You remember how to get into town?” She asked, trying to figure out the seatbelt, as though, that too, were too fancy for her tastes. “It’s still where it was ten years ago if you can remember that far back.”
“I remember where the freaking town is.” I sighed, basically to myself. “But you’ll have to show me where we’re going to eat.”
“Let’s go to Barkley’s first.” Oma said. “Get that shit over with.”
“Are they open at seven-thirty?” I frowned.
“Of course, they’re open at seven-thirty, Robbie.” She snorted. “This is Point Worth, not Europe where no one gets out of bed before ten in the goddamn morning.”
“You watch too much television.” I mumbled.
“How do people take you being queer out in Hollywood doing all that you do?” Oma asked as I backed up in the driveway.
“Queer?” I frowned at her as I turned around.
“All the boys at the center say it’s coming back into style to refer to oneself as queer.” She replied nonchalantly.
“I think that’s if you actually belong to the LGBTQIA community, Oma.” I explained as I turned around and started down the driveway. “A little old white lady from Ohio probably shouldn’t use it.”
“I’m an ally ain’t I? But fine.” She sighed. “What do they think of you being a big ole homosexual, ya’ little shit?”
“I don’t know if that’s better.” I rolled my eyes as I drove. “No one seems to care much. I can’t really work in or perform in countries like Russia without security concerns—but that’s a pretty damn small price to pay for
being out, really.”
“Who wants to go over there anyway?” She snorted. “I haven’t seen any of your movies. They never play them at the theater here.”
The theater at Point Worth only played movies that were older than a decade, so that wasn’t too much of an insult. I found it hard to believe that Oma had never watched one of them on DVD or on cable in the last ten years, though. However, it didn’t matter to me if my grandmother had chosen to go out of her way to watch one of my movies or not. I knew that she had seen my Royal Albert Hall concert on T.V., so at least I knew she cared.
“You’re not missing much.” I shrugged.
“What kinds of movies have you been in?”
“The kinds that made lots of money.”
“You being fancy again or is that just your way of saying that you don’t give a shit about your movies either?”
“I haven’t won an Oscar or anything, so I’ll let you take that however you want.” I laughed.
“But do you care?” She leaned over conspiratorially. “Do you want an Oscar, Robbie?”
“Between you and me?” I answered. “I don’t really give a shit. But don’t tell anyone else that.”
“You ever win any awards?”
“You seriously haven’t kept up with any of my work?” I frowned.
“I saw your concert on T.V.!” She proclaimed. “And I saw you on that episode of Unsolved Criminal Files when you first started.”
I had played the suspect in a horribly written police procedural television show when I first got to Hollywood—before I made it big. It was not my best work. But, it got me in the door of other auditions, and soon, I was off and running. Academy Awards be damned—I may not have won one, but I’d attended and presented before. And I made money, so who really gave a shit?
“I’ve been in a few things since then.” I laughed.
“Your guitar playing seems to have gotten better since you were plucking away upstairs in your old room.” She changed the subject. “Your singing has definitely improved.”
“Thanks, I guess.” I chuckled as I pulled onto Main Street.
“You write all those songs yourself?”
“Some. Some I wrote with producers and song writers.”
