FAST FORWARD
Part 7: Dickery-Dock
Friday, November 28, 2003
Justin
"So whoop-de-doo, and dickery-dock, and don't forget to hang up your sock,
'cause just exactly at twelve o'clock…."
Brian impatiently rattles his newspaper and raises his voice to interrupt, "Just
exactly at twelve o'clock, my dickery-dock is gonna be so far up your ass you'll
be singing soprano."
"Don’t be crabby, I'm happy, I'm in high spirits, can't you let me enjoy
Christmas?"
"Justin." He looks up from the newspaper - he's sprawled on the sofa while I'm
busy peeling apples in the kitchen, "It's still November. Are you going to spend
the next three weeks singing Christmas carols?"
"Yeah. Probably. Want to borrow my earphones?"
Brian folds the paper and lays it on the coffee table, then pads barefoot across
the polished floorboards into the kitchen. He slips his arms around me from
behind and leans down to lick my neck. "I'm going to the office, what are you
doing today?"
"Oh no," I put down the knife and turn around, turn into his arms. "Nobody works
today, you said you gave Cynthia the day off."
"Believe it or not I can actually work without Cynthia being there. Most people
will be gone, it's a good quiet time to get stuff done."
"It's a good time for us to do stuff too."
"Like what?" He leans back and gives me one of his suspicious looks.
"Well, as soon as I finish making this apple pie - "
"Apple pie? You're making PIE? It's the day after Thanksgiving, I'm practically
waddling from overeating, we've got all that leftover shit Debbie sent home with
us - pumpkin pie and pecan pie and a chunk of chocolate cake that would kill a
horse if he ate it, and you're making apple pie?"
"I'm practicing for Christmas dinner."
Brian pulls away and turns to the fridge, opens the door and looks inside. "If
you're going to be practice-cooking Christmas dinner for the next three weeks,
I'm going to gain fifty pounds."
"Then you can wear the Santa suit without padding."
"Santa suit?" Brian jerks around to stare at me.
"Wouldn't it be fun for Gus to have Santa visit him? We could - "
"Don't even think about it.” He closes the fridge and grabs my shoulders, gives
me a shake. “Don’t. Or I'll have to kill you."
"Well," I sigh, "I knew you wouldn’t go for that. But let's decide on our
decorations, okay? Do you want a real tree or a fake tree?"
"No tree." He lets me go, leans back against the sink and crosses his arms.
“Justin, no fucking tree.”
"Just a simple nice green tree with white lights. Very, very minimalistic and
beautiful. And I'm going to hang little white lights around the window, and - "
"Fuck no."
"Do you want to see our Christmas cards?"
"Our what?"
"I've come up with three designs for our Christmas cards, you can tell me which
one you like best."
"You're really pushing this Christmas shit, you know that? No Santa, no cards,
and no fucking tree."
“Okay,” I agree, turning back to my apples and picking up the paring knife. “I’m
willing to compromise. No Santa, no lights on the window. But yes for cards. And
a very small tree. And a few poinsettias - you liked them last year."
Brian huffs, "I didn't throw them in the garbage, that doesn't mean I liked
them."
"We’re compromising." I glance at him over my shoulder.
He stares at me balefully, shaking his head. "Why do I feel like I've been had?"
"Huh?"
"Why do I feel like I've been screwed? Why do I feel like I've been fucked
over?"
"Brian, I'll just do cards and a few poinsettias for the loft. And just a very,
very small tree. Nothing gaudy. I promise. I'll give up all the other stuff.
Come on, I'm bending over backwards for you."
"Bend over frontwards instead, because I'm going to fuck your manipulative
little ass."
"Okay I will, if you don't go to the office."
"I'm going to the office."
I let him see the disappointment in my face, and he sighs. "Just for a couple
hours."
"Then come home for turkey sandwiches, and you can look at the designs for our
cards."
"Jesus Christ." He turns away then and goes to the bedroom to change his
clothes.
Brian
I've always hated Christmas. Since I left home, I've managed to avoid all the
holiday bullshit. Most of it anyway. If I ever needed any fucking good cheer,
I'd drop in to Deb's for a brief visit. Last year it was easy enough to say no
to Justin when he wanted to decorate the loft and do other celebratory kinds of
crap, but it's not so easy this year. The loft is now officially Justin's home
too, so how can I totally blow him off? Well I can, of course, but it's not
worth the whining and pouting.
All right, so Justin doesn't whine and pout. But he does his best to make me
feel guilty, though I'm virtually immune to guilt.
I'd had this really brilliant idea that we'd go away on vacation during
Christmas, then I wouldn't have to deal with everyone's expectations, with
family commitments, with Christmas carols, with the whole gift-giving blackmail
scheme. That backfired on me though when Justin insisted that I compromise with
his own ideas for the holiday. It's been push-pull ever since I sort of agreed,
and I realize that I'm dreading it.
Nobody knows better than an advertising man what a rip-off the holidays are.
There's a feeding frenzy for profits and every last drop of sentimentality is
squeezed out of people with ad campaigns specially designed to play on the
so-called heartstrings. Everything builds to a crescendo of greed on Christmas
eve, a night when I used to be dragged kicking and screaming to midnight mass.
That was long ago before Mom tried out a bunch of different churches till she
found one she liked. She wasn't born Catholic so she said she wasn't required to
die Catholic. Clare and I had to keep going to mass, Mom said she signed us over
when she married Pop. Of course I skipped out whenever I could, but the church
has a good tracking system and someone always knows when you’re missing. Pop
didn’t give a flying fuck about church, but if a nun called our house to report
me, he was glad to have an excuse to teach me a lesson.
Just thinking about the holidays brings back a million fucking memories I’d sure
as shit rather forget. I can’t wait to get to the office and bury myself in
distracting paperwork.
Friday, December 19, 2003
Justin
“That’s a small tree? That’s a very small tree?”
“Yeah,” I answer, a bit defensively. “Well, it’s seven feet tall. But with this
high ceiling, that’s pretty small really.”
“It smells like a forest in here.” Brian makes a face as he sets down his
briefcase by the desk.
“Nice, isn’t it?
“I’m gonna wake up in the night and think I’ve gone camping. I’ll probably walk
into the living room and piss on your tree.”
“Brian, have you ever gone camping in your life?”
“Yeah, once, it’s highly over-rated.” He’s lost interest in the tree, he heads
up the steps to the bedroom, so I follow him.
“I need you to help put the lights on.”
He’s pulling off his jacket. “I didn’t even agree to the tree, I’m not going to
put lights on the fucking thing.”
“Hey.” I grab his arm and he turns around to look at me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t spoil it. Please?”
He stares at me for a moment, I can’t read his face. Then he sighs deeply, pulls
away from my hand and hangs his jacket in the closet. “After dinner. Assuming
there’s something here to eat?”
“Leftover quiche from last night, is that okay?”
“Sure,” he shrugs.
"I thought you liked my quiche."
"Justin," Brian gives me a look as he pulls loose his tie and unbuttons his
shirt, "I'll help with the lights if you promise to stop acting like a
housewife."
I stand still for a minute, keeping my face blank. We're staring at each other,
then he pulls off his shirt and throws it on the floor.
That's a test. If I pick up the shirt, I'm a housewife. Fingers twitching,
instead I turn away and go down to the kitchen. And though I won't let him see
my face, I can't help smiling when I hear his quiet laugh behind me. Brian's
such an asshole sometimes.
So I heat up the quiche and in a few minutes he joins me in the kitchen, even
helps make a salad, then we sit on the stools and eat at the counter.
“Tomorrow we have to go shopping for Christmas presents.”
“You know I don’t do presents.” Brian spears a cherry tomato and plops it in his
mouth, then leans over to kiss me and shoves it into my mouth with his tongue.
“There’s your cherry back.”
After I’ve chewed and swallowed, I insist, “This year’s different. The presents
will be from both of us. That won’t fuck with your Scrooge image, you can blame
it all on me.”
“I’ll give you my card, buy whatever you want.”
“Brian, I want you to come with me. Besides, you love shopping.”
“I love shopping for myself. Armani, Hugo Boss. Hey, that’s it – we’ll give
everybody a leather jacket.”
“Maybe we can find a baby leather jacket for Gus!”
“And a baby motorcycle. He can scare the crap out of the other kids at
preschool.”
I laugh but say, “I can’t see Debbie in a leather jacket. Or your mom.”
“My mom?”
“What do you think she’d like for Christmas?”
“If I gave my mother a Christmas present, the shock would kill her.” Brian turns
his head and looks down his nose at me. “Do you want to be responsible for my
mother’s death?”
“It could be from Gus.”
Brian lays down his fork and stares at his plate. “Don’t push so hard, Justin.”
“On our way to Deb’s on Christmas eve, we could stop by Clare’s – I know she
invited you to come over, your mom will be there, and – “
“No.”
“Brian – “
“I am not going near those people on Christmas. And if you don’t want me to
leave town, you’ll stop pushing.” He waits a moment, still not looking at me,
then repeats, “Stop pushing.”
“I’ve stopped.”
He waits to see if I’m going to argue any more, then he picks up his fork and
takes a bite of quiche.
“I was going to send her one of our cards. Can I do that?”
He turns to look at me then and says quietly, “No.”
“Okay.”
We’re silent for a few minutes while we finish eating, then Brian says, “You can
send her a card. But no presents and no visits.”
“Okay.”
After dinner Brian helps me put strings of lights on the tree – he turns out to
be very good at it, I remember my dad cursing and fuming because the light
strings always got tangled, but Brian’s very patient and efficient.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re so good at this,” I tell him, when the
last string is attached, “You’re good at everything.”
Brian stops before plugging in the final socket and admits, “I had a lot of
practice. I did it at home every year, Pop was always too plastered, he would’ve
electrocuted himself.” He pauses and adds, “Not that that would’ve been a bad
thing.”
I know he’s joking so I laugh. Or anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s joking. “Oh!” I
exclaim, when at last he plugs in the lights, “Oh, it’s beautiful!” It is too,
the tree’s in front of the window and I go to pull open the drapes.
“Oh Christ,” Brian moans, “People will see it from the street. Everyone will
know I’ve gone round the bend.”
“Probably they’ll just think you’ve moved.”
He laughs then, grabbing me and pulling me into his arms. After a loud smacking
kiss he says, “Let’s go out now, I haven’t been to Woody’s all fucking week.”
“Later,” I say, “Let’s finish decorating the tree first.”
Brian tilts back his head and regards me suspiciously. “You said minimalist.
Lights are minimal, decorations are maximal.”
“Just a few,” I promise, “Very simple and beautiful. Let me get the boxes from
the store room.”
“No.” He’s adamant, pulling away and heading for the bedroom. “That’s the end of
my patience, I want to go get drunk and shoot some pool. You coming?”
“Sure.” I know when to give in graciously. “Besides, if Michael’s there I can
tell him I won.”
Brian turns from the closet and asks, surprised, “Won what?”
Keeping my back to him while I pull on my jeans, I answer, “He lost a bet.”
“What bet?”
Reluctantly I answer, still without looking at him, “Michael bet a thousand
dollars that you wouldn’t let me put up a Christmas tree.”
Brian comes around the end of the bed and pulls me around to face him. “Is that
what this is about?” he asks, his voice harsh. “To prove something to Michael?”
“No! Christ, Brian, you know it’s not. Don’t you?” Now it’s my turn to be harsh.
“Don’t you?”
He pauses, staring hard at me, then he sighs, his body relaxes. “Yeah. Okay. But
why’d you make the bet?”
“He was being – umm.”
I stop right there, Brian doesn’t need to know how Michael treats me. We’d been
at the shop going over proofs, and we started talking about Christmas eve at
Deb’s. Michael had said Brian probably wouldn’t come, he said Brian never
celebrated Christmas and nothing and nobody could ever change that. So I told
him that it was going to be different this year, that we were going to do a lot
of Christmasy things, and that’s when Michael laughed and said, “I’ll bet a
thousand dollars Brian won’t let you have a tree in the loft.”
“He was being what?” Brian’s waiting.
“Oh nothing.”
Brian’s silent for a couple moments while he stares at me. “I won’t get in the
middle of you guys.”
“I know,” I nod at him, “I don’t need you to. Everything’s fine, I’ve told you a
billion times.” Still he hesitates, so I add, “Michael just said you’d never had
a Christmas tree in the loft and you never would, and I said I’ll bet we do this
year and he goes, ‘You’re on – a thousand bucks.’ So I said okay. That’s all.”
Brian lets go of my arms then, moves back toward the closet and hunkers down to
search through his shoe rack, selects a pair of boots and sits down on the bed
ledge to put them on. Over his shoulder he asks, “And if you lost the bet? Where
were you going to get a thousand bucks?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a real bet. Just kind of a – just sort of a joke.”
It wasn’t really a joke of course, but I had no intention of holding Michael to
it anyway. Naturally he doesn’t discuss his finances with me, but I know he’s
having a tough time making a go of it with the shop right now.
Brian lets the subject drop, we finish getting ready and head out the door. I
want to leave the tree lights on so we can see them from the street but Brian
refuses – there’s a lot of fires caused by Christmas lights he says; but he lets
me run on ahead and waits behind so I have a minute to see what the tree looks
like in the window. It’s beautiful, and when Brian joins me in the garage a few
minutes later, I throw myself into his arms and give him a big hug. “Thanks,” I
murmur, “I’m so happy!”
Brian
I told Justin I won’t get in the middle of him and Michael but I wonder how I’m
going to avoid it much longer. Justin won’t tell me anything – I don’t want him
to tell me anything – about his dealings with Michael. They’re business partners
not friends, their business has nothing to do with me, and if they don’t like
each other, hey, that’s life. Justin’s a man, he can hold his own with Michael.
And yet. And yet. . .
I push those thoughts aside and we head off to Woody’s, we see Michael at a
table in the corner with Vic. Ben’s not there – probably home working on his new
novel. Naturally we join them, they’re waiting for a pool table, Vic kisses
Justin and says, “Thanks for the Christmas card, Sunshine, we got it today, it’s
gorgeous!”
Justin’s beaming, and much as I hate to be a part of sending Christmas cards,
I’m proud of the card he made. It really is beautiful – and unsentimental - an
ink and watercolor drawing of the three poinsettia plants he bought and arranged
on the coffee table, with a simple calligraphy message ‘Happy Holidays from
Brian and Justin.’
“We got it too,” Michael says. “Is it cheaper to make your own cards?”
It’s dead silent for a moment, then Justin answers, with the merest edge to his
voice, “Yeah. I was saving money in case I had to pay up on our bet.”
“I won’t hold you to that,” Michael says with a laugh, “It was a foregone
conclusion that Brian would never have a Christmas tree.”
Leaning back in the chair and stretching out my legs, I smile at Michael and
tell him, “We put the lights on it tonight. And we put it in the window so
everyone can see.”
Michael has such an expressive face, his eyes almost bug out as he exclaims,
“Huh?”
“Our tree,” I explain, fixing my stare on him, “Our beautiful Christmas tree.”
“You’re not serious?”
I don’t answer, instead I ask casually, “What’s this about a bet?”
Justin jumps up and pulls on my hand. “Come on Brian, let’s go get drinks.”
I throw a glance at Vic, who’s quick as always. “I’ll go with you,” he says to
Justin, getting up and putting an arm around him, pulling him away from the
table. Justin throws a worried look over his shoulder but allows Vic to lead him
to the bar.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say quietly, “Michael, it’s time for you to
back off Justin.”
“What the fuck?” He leans forward to stare at me. “What has he been telling
you?”
“Nothing,” I shake my head, “He tells me nothing. He doesn’t need to – do you
think I’m blind and deaf? You treat him like shit, and I’m asking you to stop.”
Michael’s shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”
Ignoring the interruption I say earnestly, “Justin is my partner.” I’m surprised
that I don’t trip over the word but my voice doesn’t falter. “He’ll be with me
for a long time. Maybe – forever.” Christ, that word does make me falter, but I
forge ahead, “So get used to him being in my life and stop treating him like a –
“
“Like a what?” Michael’s face is contorted, “Like a lying, cheating, son of a
bitch?”
I leap up and grab the collar of Michael’s shirt, dragging him urgently to his
feet.
“If you ever say that again,” I hiss at him, shoving my face at him till we’re
nose to nose, “I’m going to – “
Before I can finish my threat Vic and Justin are back at the table, both of them
grabbing me and pulling me off Michael, who stumbles backwards and almost falls
over his chair.
I’m gasping for breath and so is Michael, we’re glaring at each other and
panting. Vic pushes me down into my chair and grabs Michael’s arm.
“We’re going to go now,” Vic announces calmly, “You boys can finish your
conversation when you’ve cooled down.” He pulls Michael’s jacket from the chair
and shoves it at him. Red-faced, Michael throws one last angry glance at me and
another at Justin, turns abruptly and stomps off toward the back door.
Justin puts a glass of JB into my hand, which I’m surprised to find is shaking.
I toss back the drink in one swallow and wait for the warmth to spread through
my body and calm me down.
“Brian, I’m sorry.”
“What?” I turn to look at Justin, who has dragged his chair close to mine. His
face reflects how upset he is and he’s grasping his own glass of JB so tight I’m
afraid the glass will shatter. “It’s okay,” I tell him, taking a couple deep
breaths. “It’s okay,” I repeat, “Stop worrying. It’ll blow over, we never stay
mad very long.” I don’t know if I’m comforting Justin, or myself.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Justin
I’d confided in Vic my worries about Christmas Eve but he assured me that
everything would have blown over by tonight. I don’t know if Brian has talked to
Michael since they almost got in a fight at Woody’s but I don’t dare to ask him,
and I don’t want to make things worse. Instead I decide to act like everything’s
normal.
Debbie greets us with open arms and loud kisses, Vic surges forward to take the
packages from our arms and we hang our coats in the hall closet. When we walk
into the living room, Michael and Ben stand up and there’s just the slightest
pause before Michael moves forward, takes my hand and gives me a sincere smile
as he says, “Merry Christmas, Justin.”
“Th- thanks,” I stammer, as he lets me go and I’m engulfed in Ben’s killer hug.
I peer around Ben’s massive shoulder and see Michael move into Brian’s arms for
a hug, and they kiss briefly.
“Hey-hey, none of that,” Ben jokes, “Not unless you want to watch me give Justin
a serious lip-lock.”
Everybody laughs then and I know it’s going to be all right. Brian throws
himself down in his favorite chair and pulls me onto his lap. “These lips are
ALL MINE,” he says, before pulling my face close to his and proving it with a
long and deep kiss that, despite everyone watching, leaves me shaky and
breathless.
“Hey Vic,” Debbie stage-whispers, “Better hide that damned mistletoe or we’ll
have an orgy in our living room!”
Vic chuckles. “You say that like it’s a BAD thing.”
Brian
I’d gone to see Michael at his shop a few nights ago, needing to clear the air.
When I walked in he was with two customers so I picked up a Captain America and
leafed through it until they left, then I approached the counter.
“Before you say anything,” Michael started right in, “I need to apologize for
the things I said about Justin. That was wrong of me and I don’t know why I said
it.”
We both know why he said it, we both know why he doesn’t like Justin, but
there’s no need to discuss it.
“I wouldn’t really have hit you,” I told him, and we both knew that that isn’t
true either. The open honesty that characterized our long friendship is not so
open any more.
“Brian, if you’d said stuff about Ben, I would have – “
“Let’s just forget it. Okay? Can we do that?”
“Sure,” Michael nodded, “Sure.”
There was an awkward pause, then the bell over the door tinkled as another
customer came in.
“See you Christmas eve at Mom’s?”
“Yes, we’ll be there. Both of us.”
“Good,” Michael said seriously, then he gave me a real smile. “Good!”
The bell tinkled as the door opened again, and I gave Michael a wave and went
out of the shop. I walked three blocks to the car park before I looked down and
realized that I’d walked out still holding the Captain America comic book. It
was too cold to go back so I stuffed the comic into a trash bin and resolved to
slip a few bucks into the cash register next time I was at the shop.
Justin
We’ve loaded up our gifts and the tinned fruitcake that Brian had warned me
Debbie would foist on us and buckled ourselves into the jeep.
“I want to make a stop on the way home,” Brian tells me, “But you have to
promise something.”
“What?”
“Don’t – talk about it. At all.”
“Brian, I don’t know what you – “
“I’m just saying, you can wait in the car and keep your mouth shut, or I can
drop you at home first. It’s your call.”
Mystified but picking up on the tension in Brian’s voice, I answer quietly,
“I’ll wait in the car and keep my mouth shut.” I hope that’s a promise I can
keep.
We drive along in silence for a while, in darkness the red and green traffic
lights reflect on snow and patches of ice on the roadway, it seems almost
unnaturally quiet. I want to put on some music but I’m afraid to intrude on the
silence that has overtaken Brian. We drive for a while and I realize that we’ve
reached the outskirts of town, I open my mouth to ask where we’re going and
quickly snap it shut just in time.
Away from the city lights the sky seems so dark, the stars multiplied a thousand
times. Brian turns down a road with far-apart street lights. After a few minutes
he slows down and pulls off the side of the road, driving slowly through an
arched metal gate on which a spotlight illuminates the words ‘St. Joseph’s
Catholic Cemetery.’ The narrow road has been plowed recently but the falling
snow is beginning to settle on the pavement, so Brian drives very slowly and
carefully, taking a lot of twists and turns till finally he stops the jeep and
puts it in park. He opens his door and murmurs, “Wait here,” then he reaches
behind the seat and grabs a brown paper bag. Leaving the car running, the heater
blasting me with its welcome warmth, Brian closes the door and I watch as he
trudges through rounded snowbanks, walking in the path of the jeep’s headlights
past headstones misshapen with mounded snow.
Then he stops and I see him take something from the paper bag, Brian’s about
thirty feet away from me so it’s hard to see clearly but it looks like a liquor
bottle. He opens it, takes a drink, and then pours the rest of the bottle into a
mound of snow – presumably on a grave. Presumably on his dad’s grave, though
I’ve never been to this cemetery, I don’t know where they buried his father, and
I know he won’t allow me to ask. He drops the empty bottle and stands there a
minute – maybe he’s talking to his dad – and then he squares his shoulders,
turns around and walks briskly back to the jeep.
Brian stomps his boots to dislodge clinging snow before he hoists himself
inside. Without looking at me he fastens his seatbelt and puts the car in gear,
then rolls out onto the roadway and drives us carefully and slowly to the
cemetery entrance. When we pull back out on the highway, I dare to slip my hand
across the seat and put it on top of Brian’s hand on the gearshift. He doesn’t
shake off my hand, and when we come to a red light, Brian leans over and kisses
my mouth, his face still cold from the night air and the taste of whiskey on his
tongue.
“Put some music on,” he suggests, “Anything but Christmas carols.”
Fumbling around in the glove compartment, I pick out a tape almost at random and
put it in, it’s soft jazz, very soothing and lyrical.
After a few minutes Brian asks, “What time are we supposed to be at the munchers’
tomorrow morning?”
“Eight.”
Brian groans so I remind him, “They won’t be able to make Gus wait any longer
than that. You do want to be there when he sees all his presents, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Brian answers. “Yes.”
This time it’s Brian who reaches across the seat and takes my hand in his. At
the next red light he stops and leans over to give me another kiss. He squeezes
my hand gently and murmurs, “Justin. . .”
“Hmm?”
“Justin - I’m glad you talked me into it. I want to be there for Gus. I want to
be there for my son.”
The light's green now and Brian turns the corner, heading the jeep for home
through the gently falling snow.
2/25/03