It was Christmas and it was always about presents.
My mood changed as I scouted the shopping bag again.
“Enough drama,” I said. “Give them here.”
Viv plunked the shopping bag in front of me, tipping
it, packages spreading across the floor, ill assorted. She wrapped
them herself — a minute spent on each. Square things looked round.
Round things square. Viv lacked a penchant for detail.
I was disappointed. There wasn’t a long one in the
mess. I poked around randomly, opened one and was not surprised. A
shirt — black with little pink hearts on the pocket.
“You don’t like it,” she declared.
“I love it,” I said, passing it to Matt, who smiled
dimly at it, and then set it aside.
There was also a pen, which when turned upside down
contained a naked California surfer. I appreciated that one better.
Then, there was a brass talisman with a peculiar symbol on it, half
satyr, half centaur — a remnant of Viv’s hippie days and a clear
index to her hippie tastes. In fact, the rest of the packages were
much the same — three packages of incense, which would go with last
year’s three packages of incense in the back of the kitchen utility
drawer; a crystal smoke rock, which was good for God knows what,
but Viv proclaimed it to be lucky; and finally, an assortment of
press-on tattoos. Those got Matt laughing.
“So, shithead,” Viv snapped. “Where’s mine?”
I sighed. No vacuum broom.
“Well, if I knew you were coming?”
“You mean . . .”
“No.” I tickled her. She loved to be tickled. “I
have it. But it’s not wrapped yet, and you know I don’t give
unwrapped gifts, like some people I know.”
“Well, wrap the fucker and give it here,” she
said.
I retreated to the kitchen, where I had my store of
wrapping paper and bows. As I farted around with tape and scissors,
I listened first to the silence in the living room and then to
—
“So, Matt, how long have you been fucking my
son?”
I hastened the operation. I hoped that Matt would be
there when I returned.
“I don’t kiss and tell, Mrs. Powers,” I heard him
say, always the gentleman.
“Viv. Call me Viv or don’t speak to me at all. Lemme
hear you!”
“Aw . . . Viv.”
“That’s right. Viv, and nothing else. Now, I’m
telling you, so hear me straight. If this is just a
jabberhoo
fuckeroo any man I see I screw
, let him know now. My shithead
tends to fall in love; and I don’t have time to put the pieces back
together again But if you intend to stay a while, or longer, you
have a mighty big obligation, buster.”
I almost stopped wrapping to intercede here. Some
mothers embarrass their children by toting out the naked baby
pictures. Mine just revealed the warts of my soul. The package was
wrapped, but I hesitated to interrupt. I know it wasn’t fair, but I
was interested in what Matt would say beyond my earshot and with
the toughest inquisitor he’d ever have on my behalf. It might well
ruin my Christmas, but it might just save my New Year’s Eve.
“I don’t follow,” Matt said.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “No man puts his shoes
under anyone’s bed without considering the big obligation, buster.
So don’t screw with me. Screw him. That’s fine. That’s what you
guys were born to do. But don’t screw with me, unless you’re . . .
bi. You’re not bi are you?”
“No chance,” Matt said. I heard a nervous laugh.
Well, not so nervous now.
Did the elegant Mr. Kieler suddenly
warm up to the blunt Mrs. Powers?
It was time for me to return with a perfectly gift
wrapped present — a small box with a larger than life bow. I was
always good with the ribbons. It was a shame it would stay in place
for just a moment.
“Merry Christmas, Viv,” I said.
She raised it to her eye, and then gulped.
“Shit. All that time to wrap such a little
fucker.”
She ripped the bow off, and then slaughtered the
paper. Her eyes beamed. A tarot deck. She was genuinely moved. I
could tell real from
faux.
I had hit the spot.
Zing
.
“The Aquarian Deck,” she said, the tears running
down her eyes. “You know I’ve wanted this deck for . . . how long?
Give me a big hug and kiss, shithead.”
She wrapped herself around me, losing me in her
fringe.
“Well,” she said, recovering as fast as she emoted.
“Gotta go! Glad to meet you, Matt. Hope to see you again.”
“My pleasure . . . Viv.”
“There you go!”
Since she never decloaked (I think she peed with her
coat on), she gathered her loot and headed for the door. Another
Christmas completed — like clockwork.
Tick tock.
She opened
the door and took a step over the threshold. Suddenly, she
stopped.
“What’s this?”
She bent over a long unwrapped box. My heart
jumped.
“Will you take this thing,” she said. “It’s
unwrapped, but I guess Santa’s elves had too much moonshine to get
their arms around it.”
I ran to her and planted a big kiss on her
kabuki
face. She came through and I had my long, luxurious
vacuum broom with all the attachments.
“Hasta la Vista, sissies,” she said, her voice
trailing down the hallway.
After Viv disappeared through the door, waving
good-bye with the back of her hand, her long nails pointing to the
heavens, and after Matt helped me open the box and examine my
Bissell 1046A Featherweight broom, I tried to apologize for my
mother’s behavior. There was no need, because Viv was Viv and if
Matt was to be seeing me, he had to know. However, she had come
upon him like
a midnight clear,
and that did deserve a
footnote.
“Sorry I didn’t warn you about her,” I said.
“She’s something, isn’t she,” Matt said. “Liberated,
I mean.”
“Some say crude. You can say it. She’s an old
hippie. But don’t ever call her old. I lie about my age when I’m
around her. Frankly, when they mistake us for brother and sister,
she comes alive and is even sassier.”
“She’s pretty frank, I’ll say that for her.” Matt
was trying to read the instructions that came with the broom. I had
a ginger thought. Here I was on Christmas morning with the most
gorgeous man of my acquaintance and we sat with a vacuum broom
betwixt us, discussing my mother.
“Frank is an understatement.”
“It’s funny,” Matt said.
I snapped the instruction manual away and tossed it
aside.
“What’s funny?”
“You don’t call her Mom. I could never think of
calling my mother anything but Mom.”
I had never thought of this. It was a fact of my
life. My mother had a name and it was Viv.
“Everyone calls her Viv.”
I sidled beside him, pinching his arm.
“I bet she gave you a little warning when I was out
of the room.”
“How did you know? Were you listening?”
“Maybe a bit. But even if I didn’t, I know the
script. Viv’s a buttinsky. She’d stay and critique our sex if we
gave her the chance.”
Matt giggled.
“Now that would be different, and I’d be out of here
before she got to first base. And why does she call you
shithead?”
I went back to the instructions.
“That’s as close as she can come to
I love
you
. I should have warned you.”
“No, I had to meet her some time.”
“Really?” I said.
That was magic. No one night stand, this.
“Does this mean that we’re engaged?”
“Well,” Matt said. “It could. Bear in mind that I do
believe in premarital sex.”
“Too late for that warning.”
“And my Mom and Dad call me
hon
.”
I kissed him.
“And what do I call
your
mother?”
“Mrs. Kieler, of course.”
I laughed. I knew that if I pressed Matt too quickly
I would make short work of this fantasy that I
had
a
boyfriend. I liked the sound of that already. But it was too soon.
Just words now and perhaps the promise of getting to Easter
unscathed. That would be worth a vacuum broom. Was God really
giving me the one thing I lacked — a steady Freddie rather than a
jabberhoo fuckeroo any man I see I screw?
So my little blue-eyed flower went home to his
parents (who called him
hon
) with the promise to return to
me that evening and the next and the next . . . and a faint hint
that New Years Eve would be cloaked beneath the Kieler banner, even
beside his sister Mary. It was a new road for me to tread — a
familiar one, but with new gardens beside the path and new vistas
beyond the hillock. It perhaps promised to save me from my lust for
major appliances and their inevitable attachments.
I have spent every New Years since age ten around
revelers of various kinds, and in my case, either solidly drunk or
hauling those who were back to their home fires. Viv comes to mind.
I even went to Times Square one year to watch that gaudy crystal
ball slide down the flagpole and burst into a nasty reminder that
we had killed another year and had another on tap to slaughter and
slay. Funny thing. I never did see the ball come down that year.
The guy I went with, Paulie . . . I think that was his name . . .
whatever. He pulled me across the police lines and into some dark
alley behind the Shubert Theater and there we . . . well, let’s
just say, I never saw the ball slide down, or at least the crystal
one.
It was a tradition with me. I spent the week between
Christmas and New Years working the post Holiday rush and shopping
for my own bargains. Then I would find a date or, in recent years,
gather lackluster with the New Jersey Gay Sparrows at
The
Cavern
. It was generally on New Year’s Eve that my life came
apart, realizing that my date was a shallow dipstick just, waiting
to plummet the oilcans of others. New Years day was a ritual of
hangover and depression. I shunned the world, except for Viv, who
would seek me out for her own sob story only to comfort me with
mine. I had concluded that if I maintained this pattern that my
last New Year would be less than a decade away. Fortunately, I met
Matt and the cycle was broken — split right down the middle like an
uncanny spare.
I did my post-Christmas sales hitch at A&S. It
was required. Then, instead of seeking out Russell and making the
rounds at the other stores, I hurried home and waited for my
cowboy. He came every night and it was more than just passion. He
brought me little gifts — a holly wreath (from a post-Christmas
sale, no doubt) and a little angel figurine. I guess he was working
himself up to the toaster oven. No more ugly purple ties, thank
God. He also did something that most of my former beaus did not. He
talked. He chatted about cars and planes and sunsets over Houston,
and he was clean too. Always showered before bed — brushed his
teeth even, which surprised me. The closest anyone did that before
was this guy named Fred, who carried around a spritz of
Binaca
. Then after three days, I was invited to his
place.
Matt Kieler lived in a garden apartment in Eatontown
called Wisteria Terrace, second floor, and neat as an ice cube. I
could imagine the summer blooms even in the dead of winter. He had
a porch and four rooms — large rooms. They were sparse compared
with my
fru fru
place. I wouldn’t call them sterile, but
unfortunately, I implied that when I first came across the
threshold.
“I’ll have to lend you a picture or two,” I
said.
He had nothing on the walls, which for a queen was
punishable by excommunication, but his couch was velveteen and
green. His kitchen was modern, with a small dining room —
uncluttered table, just a simple white tablecloth and an artificial
bucket of roses center stage.
“Stark, I know,” he said. “I haven’t been in here
that long to make it a home yet.”
He turned to me, his blue eyes pleading for
decorating tips.
“Well,” I said flipping my hand across the roses.”
These need to go. It’s Christmas time and they’re out of
season.”
“They never wilt.”
“You may not think so,” I said. “But you should
surround yourself with the seasons. The place should reflect your
soul.”
He frowned.
“Then I’m a sorry lot, then.”
“No,” I said. I never meant it as such. “I have seen
your soul, Mr. Kieler, and it has decorated me already. This place
just needs a little . . . a lot more of . . . you.”
He wrapped himself around my waist.
“Or you, Pumpkin.”
“Pumpkin? Wrong season again.” I kissed him.
I then got the privilege of seeing and trying out
the bedroom, which was even starker and more cluttered — sharing
residency with a cache of computer equipment and manuals. I felt
their cold breath on my back as if they were alive and spying on
us. I remember recovering in bed, both of us awake in the
aftermath.
“So am I the first man you’ve had in this bed?” I
asked, fresh smart-ass that I am.
“In fact, yes.”
I raised myself on my elbows.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me. It’s a new bed. Now if this were
Houston and the Melrose . . . “
“I don’t want to know.”
I really didn’t want to know, because the ghost of
Luis and his feather boas and falsies would soon loom over us, and
it was bad enough that he was always only an arms-length away . . .
or so I supposed. It’s funny how the shades of old love never fade.
They leave a trace in their wake. I wondered if ghosts lingered and
watched, like the computer equipment. Whether they became jealous
and extracted a revenge on new lovers. Well, I guess that’s a
question for another place and another time.
“It’s a Sealy,” he said.
I laughed. It was the first time a partner ever told
me the brand of the mattress. I wondered whether we’d commit the
most immoral and illegal act of all — tearing off the label and
hiding it in the cellar.