He sat up now, his hair shimmering in the muddled
moonlight that filtered through the curtains.
“A Jersey Sparrow? I’m a Texas Bullfrog.”
“I heard you humming in tune. I heard you.” It was a
bit like a bullfrog, but it
was
in tune.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. And I can name that tune in three
notes. It was
Dixie.”
“Shoot. I was just buzzing around. It wasn’t
anything musical.”
I shook him. He laughed, and then stood over me, his
nakedness swept by the breeze.
“Sing it, cowboy,” I shouted, with little care about
my neighbors . . . then.
“Well, you asked for it.” He cleared his throat and
closed his eyes as if he needed darkness to recall the words.
“I wish I were in the lan’ o’ cotton,
Ol’ times there are soon forgotten,
Look away,
Look away,
Look away . . .”
Silence.
Suddenly, his eyes opened. I thought maybe he had a
bad memory — a vibration of Luis, but he was suddenly animated.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “I got you a Christmas
present.”
“A Christmas present?” I grasped at his legs. He had
already given me a Christmas present and I could have used a second
helping. He jumped off the bed. “How the fuck could you get me a
present?”
He disappeared into the living room, returning
immediately with an A&S bag. He fished around inside, popping
out the tie box.
“Sorry, I didn’t get it wrapped. The guy who sold it
to me said I could get it gift wrapped.”
I roared. The joke was on me. However, I decided to
play it through. The man had planned this while stalking me
over-the-counter from the jacket rack. I owed him that much.
“You fucker,” I said. I opened the box. There it was
— that the ugly, purple tie. That awful shackle of my life wrapped
in tissue paper by my own hand. Joke or noose, not sure which . . .
now. But there it was.
“But you picked it out,” he said, laughing.
“You said it was for a special friend.”
He kissed me on the forehead, the sweetest kiss I
ever had — the kiss of friendship and benediction.
“And it is,” he said.
“But I was jealous of that special friend,” I said,
chattering. “I figured this shit tie would be what he
deserved.”
“And so he does.”
I stood and let Matt come behind me, knotting that
shackle cloth around my neck. It was done with great tenderness. I
can still feel his touch on my shoulder and the tip of his fingers
as he slipped the knot up to my throat, the silk tickling my bare
chest. I turned and kissed him, and not on the forehead. Suddenly,
he was animated — a real jitterbug.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s snowing! Snowing!”
It had been snowing while we whiled away the time in
each other’s arms. I had felt an occasional flake pout though the
window and pucker on my forehead. Evidently, Matt hadn’t noticed
until now. He shot to the window, his head pushing out into the
frigid air. His eyes seemed twice as blue, his smile wider than
Kansas.
“Oh, my,” he sighed.
There was at least three inches in the courtyard
already, enough to make the crap patio furniture glisten with fairy
magic.
“It’s wonderful,” he said, and then turning to me,
he beamed. “How did you know this is what I wanted for
Christmas?”
“Snow?” I said. “It’s just the weather. No one has
control of . . .”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Never?” I pulled him back into the room, because he
was nearly through the window, bare ass to the world. “Who’s never
seen snow before?”
“Me. That’s who.”
He darted for his socks and shoes, which he had
managed to shuck after the passion. Mine were lost somewhere under
the sheets.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s frolic. I want to feel it.”
He pulled me to his side. “I want to feel it in my hair and on my
lips.”
“You’re going out? Now?”
“Why not?”
He stood erect, footwear only, still pulling me
toward the living room door. I remember having mixed feelings about
this. I was drunk enough to roll about in the snow naked, but sober
enough to know I’d regret it in the morning, with frost bitten
balls and a need to survive the scandalous looks from the
neighbors. I was sure that Mrs. Sanmartini (second floor front)
kept vigil over the courtyard at all hours of the day and
night.
“No way,” I said. “I’ve seen the stuff since I was a
babe. I’m not getting a cold making fucking snow angels in the
middle of the night with a crazy . . . Texan.”
“I’m nuts,” he said, laughing. “It’s new to me. I’ve
seen it in pictures, sure; and we once had an ice storm, which was
none so pretty. C’mon.”
I was adamant. I swooped up his jacket.
“At least put this on. I have neighbors.”
Matt snapped it up, wrapping it around his
shoulders. Scarcely an improvement as it only came to his waist. He
did a little dance — a sort of inebriated hoedown, and then
unlatched the door. He was gone. Not far — just over the threshold,
his snappy laugh betrayed with cold.
“Close the door,” I yelled. “It’s cold.” However, he
was beyond hearing, doing his hoedown through the accumulation. It
was the weirdest shaker ball I had ever seen — this cowboy, without
his hat, but with the brightest of blue eyes, humming his song and
dancing through the drifts as naked as a chicken, only a
half-wrapped chicken in danger of falling on its ass. I watched as
the lights in Mrs. Sanmartini’s apartment flipped on. I knew I
would see her scrawny face poking out her window. She might even
call the cops. Then I realized that I was on the threshold and wore
less than my cowboy wore. He began to warble
a la
bullfrog.
“I wish I were in the lan’ o’ cotton,
Ol’ times there are soon forgotten,
Look away,
Look away,
Look away . . .”
“Matt,” I called, in a semi whisper. “Matt, better
get in now. We’ll do something tomorrow. Build a snowman, or
something.”
He ignored me, so I moved onto the patio.
Brrrr
. The snow covered my toes.
Was anyone worth
this?
Suddenly, a snowball whizzed passed me, hitting the door
lintel.
“Damn,” I squealed.
A barrage of snowballs whooshed, one hitting me in
the belly. It didn’t hurt. I was that drunk, but I knew it would
leave a mark. I slipped, nearly falling. That was it. I marched
inside, hovering on the threshold. I hoped that Sanmartini hadn’t
called the cops. That’s all I needed. Another snowball whizzed by,
this time landing near the Christmas tree. I closed my eyes. The
images, however, persisted. The man — the beautiful man, with the
precious, tender heart — a fragile heart, dancing like a child in a
new element, defying the cold and the world of prying eyes.
O, my God. The man’s mad.
I glanced out again, knowing that Matthew Kieler
would be embracing the snow, because the missiles had stopped. He
was on his knees, catching the new flakes in his mouth, licking the
melt from his chin. His eyebrows were crusted white, his hair
matted. Mrs. Sanmartini extinguished her lamp. I closed my eyes
again.
God, let this one be a keeper. Please, oh God.
Please.
I raised the ugly, purple tie to my nose, inhaling
Matt’s gift, as much as he drank down mine.
Please, please, let this one be a keeper!
“I wish I were in the lan’ o’ cotton,
Ol’ times there are soon forgotten,
Look away,
Look away,
Look away . . .”
Silence.
I’m not one for sleeping in late, even on the
weekends and even when hung over. However, that Christmas morning,
with my cowboy wrapped in my arms and the wintry light pouring
through the window across the snowy sill was too rich to waste with
stirring. I wondered if I could stay here all day — no visitations
or afternoon holiday cheers at
The Cavern.
Suddenly, Matt
stirred. He swung out of bed, quite destroying the mood.
“Must we get up?”
“Got to pee,” he said, standing and then stretching.
He was as delicious in sunlight as he was in moonlight.
“Do you know where it is?”
His hands went to his crotch.
“I should hope so.”
“I mean the bathroom, you twit.”
“I think I know one when I see one.”
He chuckled, moseying over the threshold, hanging a
right. I guess he
did
know, because a left would get him to
the closet and kitchen. I settled back deciding that if I stayed in
bed, Matt would return here — an arrow to my gracious and not too
subtle target. Unfortunately, while my computer programmer was
taking his morning aim, I heard a key rattling my
front
door. Now that door never rattled except when I went to get the
mail and . . . well, I knew why it rattled now.
“Shit.” I sat up. “Viv.”
The locks snapped. Knob turned, and then the clunk
of boots and the rustling of paper — shopping bags. You don’t work
in retail and not know the sound of shopping bags.
“Hey, shithead,” she bellowed. “Merry
Christmas!”
I reached for my robe and nearly fell out of bed. In
fact, I did a little twisty dance trying to keep my balance, but it
was too late. Viv had settled in.
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Take your time, Shithead. I gotta pee.”
Nice. As surely as you could count to ten between
the flash of the lightning and the rattle of the thunder, there
came a gasp from the bathroom. I was into the living room faster
than that lightning. There she stood in all her wintry glory. Pot
hatted. Drawn face overly rouged. Straight black hair down to her
waist. Leather jacket, fringe and boots that would make Ru Paul
jealous. Behind her stood a somewhat dazed and totally naked Matt.
He sought a towel, but I guess my pretty lace hand linens would
have been insufficient to cover . . . well, to make a difference.
Viv turned about, her hands poised in a
hallelujah
.
“Quite an upgrade from the last one.” She reverted
to Matt. “Nice to meet you. I’m Martin’s mother.”
“Hi, Martin’s mother,” Matt stammered — funny thing
when a drawl is stammered.
“You can call me Viv. Shit, did I scare you?”
Matt didn’t looked scared, just puzzled. I guessed
that his family life was a bit different from mine. I scanned the
shopping bags looking for something long. It didn’t look
promising.
“You should have called first,” I said.
“If you want me to call, don’t give me a key. And if
you take away my key, I’ll leave you as fast as that motherfucker
who fathered you, my little queen.”
She gave me one of her Viv embraces — a tacky clasp
followed by a head rub. Then, she pinched my nose.
“What’s that for?” I said.
“That’s for holding me up from peeing.” She turned
to Martin, who was stifling a laugh. “You find it funny . . .”
“Matt.”
“I hope not. My little shithead is usually the
doormat for half the Jersey shore. I brought him up right. If
you’re finished, I still need . . .”
Matt stepped aside.
“I hope you sprayed, ‘cause I don’t smell the
queen’s best in there.”
“I didn’t do . . . I mean . . .”
“You didn’t give a shit.” She roared, and then
jigged. In she went, leather coat, fringe and all. “I like your new
shower curtain, shithead,” she caroled.
I sighed, rolled my eyes, pulled Matt away and
probably exhibited body language for ten to expunge the scene from
my cowboy’s bright blue eyes. He didn’t buy it.
“It’s Christmas,” he said. “She’s your family. I
probably should leave.”
“Nonsense.”
He tagged back to the bedroom, gathering his shoes,
shirt, and BVDs.
“Well, you need to visit with your Mom,” he said. “I
see she’s brought gifts. It would be a bit awkward.”
I stopped him mid-tuck, taking him into my arms,
seeking those lips and that five o’clock shadow that was now well
past nine. Our foreheads met.
“You stay put.”
“But I have family too, you know. They’ll be looking
for me.”
I kissed him again. Of course, he was a family guy.
He would want to spend Christmas with his military Dad and his
homespun Mom and Mary . . . let’s not forget sister Mary.
“I’m being selfish,” I said. “I want you all to
myself today.”
“But you know that’s not going to happen.”
I pushed him a little. It wasn’t a nasty push, but
he pushed back. So I gave him a friskier shove until he let me have
it full force pinning me to the bed.
“Looks serious,” came a voice.
Viv slouched on the threshold.
“Shit, Viv. You’re like a cat.”
I pushed her into the living room like any son
would. Well, I guess most sons don’t push their mothers, but I’ve
toted her across thresholds while she hung on to the empty hooch
bottle, so pushing her was so much kinder.
“You’re always sneaking around,” I scolded.
“Matt,” she said. “Do I look like I could sneak
around?” Matt was dazed. He continued dressing as he followed us
into the living room. “Listen, I got work today, so let’s do this
present shit and be done with it.”
“Work?” Matt asked. “But it’s Christmas. Who works
on Christmas?”
She flashed her beautifully sculpted
fingernails.
“She does nails,” I said.
“And it’s just for the morning. Old customers in
need. Paying customers. I’m off tonight, but you won’t find me
here, I’ll tell ya that.”
“Does nails?”
“Not just
does nails,
smart ass,” she said.
She grabbed Matt’s hand and presented her work for show as if they
were her calling card, and, I guess, they were. “Do these look like
just any nails you’ve ever seen? I’m an artiste. In demand. My
clientele keep me hopping, even on Christmas day.” She turned to
me, a general, mustering my time. “Since tonight’s out, I brought
your crap over this morning. You can open them or not. I don’t
care.”