tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88255752553572311432024-03-14T00:23:32.214-07:00...This Is My New OrleansUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-4747225893650172772016-06-12T13:01:00.000-07:002016-06-12T13:01:32.694-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran, Part 30: Bruce Halloran stares disdainfully at the drive-in movie screen of a television that dominates his living room. He sits on the expansive chocolate brown sofa, Miss Sara Joy clinging to his right hand, and the remains of a full go-cup of expensive neat bourbon. The images from Orlando are, sadly, all too familiar. People screaming, young gay boys running for cover, tear-streaked faces of young sorrow. The death of innocence and altruism. He's seen it before.<br />
He flips between channels, each one broadcasting a steady stream of repeated images and news tickers abalze.<br />
<br />
"...we have a lot of information at this hour on this individual. Who he is...he held his weapon legally, we're just now learning. It would appear that the suspect worked as a security guard..."<br />
<br />
*click*<br />
<br />
"--pick-up truck, racing to the scene of that incident, trying to get life-saving aid to...to-ah, to the victims of this massacre. Again, we don't know if this person actually survived the shooting..."<br />
<br />
*click*<br />
<br />
"...you know, uh, never is that kind of firearm standard issue for a security guard. We know that between two and nine am, he made a 911 call, gave his full name, and made a pledge of allegiance to ISIS--"<br />
<br />
"--we do know, from the shooter's father, that he was angered several days ago in Miami when he saw two men kissing. His father says that was the motivation for him to go into this nightclub, Pulse, uh, a well-known gay club in Orlando, uh, and begin shooting his way into this club--"<br />
<br />
*click*<br />
<br />
"We are now getting word of an incident in Santa Barbara. A man has been taken into custody after explosives were allegedly found in the man's car, ahead of the LA Gay Pride Parade. Authorities are saying they have not yet found any connection to the incidents in Orlando last night and early this mornin--"<br />
<br />
*click*<br />
<br />
"And, what they have found, is that there are people, disenfranchised people, uh, troubled people out there who are susceptible to this--to the message that an, an action like this sends. Authorities have known for years about so-called "copycat" attacks. There are people out there who will see this attack, this massacre, and think seriously about doing the same thing."<br />
<br />
Mute.<br />
<br />
Just then, the tinny strains of Blondie slurring "I Know What Boys Like" oozes from his cellphone, causing Miss Sara Joy to leap down onto the carpet and take up his usual place beneath the coffee table. The screen is filled with an unattractive picture of Ambrosia, the drag queen he's recently befriended. It usually makes him smile. He taps the screen.<br />
<br />
"Hello Ambrosia, whom are you under today?"<br />
<br />
"Nobody you've done. Are you watching the news?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. When I said I was feeling nostalgic, this wasn't what I had in mind."<br />
<br />
Ambrosia snorts a little in response.<br />
<br />
Bruce takes another swig of his bourbon, and says with a slight gulp,<br />
"Ah, yes, the good old days. When shooting faggots was all the rage. Better spruce up your closest, ladies. We're goin' back in."<br />
<br />
"I've seen your closets. In Japan, that's a boutique hotel."<br />
<br />
"HA!" guffaws Halloran, startling Miss Sara Joy. "Give me liberty, or give me closet space! Patricia Henry. What about you, Ambrosia? Got enough room in your closet?"<br />
<br />
"Excuse me?" she trills. "I have never had any problems passing."<br />
<br />
"I know several barstools that beg to differ."<br />
<br />
Ambrosia laughs shrilly, forcing Bruce to pull the phone away from his ear. She calms down. There is a silence that goes on a little too long before Bruce says,<br />
"At least this time around, it's not the cops coming after us."<br />
<br />
Stunned by this unexpected moment of sincerity, Ambrosia takes a moment before speaking.<br />
<br />
"Well...that's true. But, let's be honest. They're coming for everyone."<br />
<br />
"But it's always us. Always! It is always pissy, self-important, soulless zealots that come for us. That hurt us, and kill us. And they always have the same excuse. 'It was God's will.' Leviticus whatever-whatever...blah, blah, blah. pow! Dead. At least now, the funeral homes will take a dead fruit...goddamnit...they've always hated us because we dare to exist. And it's always the same goddamned question--who were they hurting? Who was being harmed by a bunch of gay boys and fag hags in a dance club, ferchrissakes--"<br />
<br />
"Halloran! They're terrorists! This is what they do!!"<br />
<br />
"Then why weren't they terrorists when they were killing us back then?!?"<br />
<br />
He trails off, finishing the rest of the bourbon in a large gulp. He sits for a moment, feeling the burn all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He's gone further than he wanted to go. The hollow of his chest tightens as he remembers all the times he's seen his friends beaten and shot. Things he's kept buried for decades, now demanding to be present. He bites the inside of his lip until the taste of copper begins to fill his tongue. Taking a deep breath, he brings the phone back to his ear.<br />
<br />
"...sorry, I...I had to--"<br />
<br />
"I know, I know. You had to drink, you old sponge." Ambrosia says, brassily. "Tell ya what, let's make a strike for democracy and fighting ISIS by stepping out tonight for a cocktail. If we don't drink, the terrorists win. My treat."<br />
<br />
Now it's Bruce's turn to be momentarily stunned.<br />
<br />
"Did I just hear the words "my treat" come out of that filthy mouth of yours?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Virginia, there is a bar tab. Where shall we meet?"<br />
<br />
"I'm a lazy queen, just come over to Kajun's. What time were you planning from rising from your crypt?"<br />
<br />
"I refuse to be seen before 7pm."<br />
<br />
"I'll see you then. And bring your big girl purse, I'm thirsty!"<br />
<br />
Bruce stabs the screen triumphantly, ending the call with the last word. He looks back to the screen, still flashing the same footage ad infinitum. He brings up the sound again.<br />
<br />
"--but they have focused on the report that he was enraged by gay men recently. We spoke to one of the neighbors in the housing complex where Omar Mateen lived. She told us that there was an apartment where a group of gay men lived, and in recent weeks, the shooter, Mateen, had spent time in that apartment, he was seen coming and going from that apartment in recent days. So, authorities are not certain yet if this is a hate crime or a terrorist act."<br />
<br />
*click*<br />
<br />
Across the city, Avalena Beasley turns off her burner cellphone, and drops it into her purse. Looking up, she stares at herself in the mirror. Right now, she's a middle-aged woman in a middle management position, who works with a hateful, vicious old queen named Bruce Halloran. In four hours, she will be Ambrosia Delight, drag queen of indeterminate age, who's best friend and biggest fan is Bruce Halloran. Carelessly, she pulls a loose strand of graying hair from her face and replaces it behind her ear...This Is My New Orleans.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-62954507448698322842016-02-02T15:04:00.000-08:002016-02-02T15:37:51.529-08:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran, Part 28: Arriving at his condominium with a snoot-full of liquor from work and a high dudgeon usually reserved for the holiday proper, Bruce Halloran enters the structure on Elysian Fields and St. Claude Avenues with the intent of total chemical inebriation. Carnival is here and Halloran cannot be bothered with any of it. He's too invested in the Carnivals and Mardi Gras of his past to be bothered with the "new" Carnival of the young. He thinks it out loud everytime he looks down upon the youthful revelers on St. Claude beneath his luxurious rooftop garden. Why should he be concerned? He spend his heydays in the bars and other evirons of the city long before these zygotes were even born.<br />
Let them catch up with his memories. Of wild orgies and unexpected encounters with the young men willing to learn. Of the many, many years he marched with the original Society of St. Ann and all those supple, willing young men. Of the Mardi Gras' he had to run from the NOPD when they decided to go after the faggots to "make an example." Gritty, dangerous, lusty, and thoroughly satisfying. Until the world became politically correct and ruined everything.<br />
Halloran sits down in front of his computer to check his email, Facebook, and Twitter accounts. Something may have happened during his 46 minute trek from the Westbank to home. Might have been important.<br />
Nothing.<br />
"Shit" he says loudly, turning from the computer monitor and walking over to one of the five bars his benefactor Sara Joy left him in his will. Of course the rub of having five bars is that you have to keep them stocked for whenever you feel like drinking. Fortunately he's been diligent in his ministrations and a fresh bottle of Bulleit Bourbon awaits his grasping fingers. Deftly he opens the plastic security wrap on the bottle and withdraws the cork in one fell swoop. Within seconds the gentle but distinctive *splish-splish* of newly decanted alcohol fills the copious rocks glass and is downed in the blinking of an eye. No amateur, Halloran drains the glass of all remnants of Kentucky's Finest and pours a second before the ice can melt to the point of dilution.<br />
Satiated for now, Halloran wanders into the living room and stares inexplicably at the photographs and documents on the ill-fated romance of Phil Tupperman and the good Doctor. Suddenly, the house telephone rings shocking Pitts to his very core. No one calls him in the condo. The only reason he has the number is so he won't have to deal with anyone's calls. Halloran stares inexplicably at the dusty caller ID to discover who's calling him here.<br />
It bears the secret number of his law firm. Specifically the extension of the prickly Master Tschantz. On the third ring he picks up.<br />
"Morty's Mortuary. You stab 'em, we slab 'em" Halloran intones into the receiver, hoping for an incensed reply. In exchange he receives the pained but direct response he should have expected all along.<br />
"Mister Halloran, this is Mr. Tschantz. It's been a very long time since I heard from you."<br />
The boy thinks he's reached a messaging machine. All the better. He listens closely.<br />
"I'm calling you to inform you that the firm has reviewed your case, along with my grandfather. They have decided, after long deliberation that you will require more time to fulfill your commitment to Mr. Pitts' will, according to the laws of the state. In all fairness I do have to say that I and my grandfather were more than happy to cut you off after Carnival, as per the mandates of Mr. Pitts. Still, there is precedent and the firm if following through. I will be contacting you directly on Ash Wednesday."<br />
Bruce sits back, more than a modicum of safety and frustration setting upon him. He's happy to have the reprieve but struck by the fact that he's had to be told. He both loves and hates young Mr.Tschantz but realizes that he's between a rock and a hard-place.<br />
He goes back to the living room bar and pours himself another drink...This is My New Orleans!<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-11102689226708642892015-11-26T09:42:00.001-08:002015-11-26T09:42:33.273-08:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-The Death of Sara Joy<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Arial;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; white-space: pre-wrap;">26 November 2012</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.6560000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: 3am. Elysian Fields is nearly deserted from the river down past Claiborne Avenue. No one out now except delivery trucks and the lanky, chemical soaked figure of Sara Joy slowly oozing out of the darkened doorway of a little cottage up from The Phoenix as quietly as possible. With an almost imperceptible click he's out the door and down the steps leaving a wake of stale Marlboros, free pot, Ancient Age, and poppers. He skips across the coral-lit expanse of blacktop and crosses to the Vieux Carre side, his wallet bulging with the $140 he lifted after the trick passed out choking himself to completion with a mouth full of Fruit of the Looms and a dirty necktie. He spits on the banquette again and again, uncertain on the origin of that awful taste in his mouth. Passing into the darkness next to a sparsely appointed tenement he can hear the sound of a couple going at it full out, screaming and slapping and calling out to God. It could be murder, it could be sex, or it could be basic cable. The event fades into the distance, supplanted by the clack of well-rounded heels on indifferent concrete. Needing coffee and more than a morsel, the vicious old queen stalks up Dauphine St. towards La Peniche with evil and eggs on his mind. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.6560000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3:43am. Crossing Frenchmen Street, the smell of hashish catches his nostrils, leading him to a tangle in the shadows of a recessed driveway. In the triangle of comfortably sleazy darkness a small orange light hisses to life, illuminating fiery glimpses of prurience and the taut inked flesh of gutterpunk. Drawn to the filth of the situation Gary "Sara Joy" Pitts slides into the darkness and the musky embrace of unwashed limbs.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He only barely realizes that he's been hit when the lead pipe opens up his skull. The scream in his throat is deeply muffled, choking on his attacker. He clutches wildly at anything in reach, hearing a pleasured moan before the silence. The only other sounds are the hollow thump of lifeless flesh falling into gravel and the quick taps of running feet fading into the night.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">6:43am. Walking up Dauphine with her incontinent chihuahua, a 23 year old actress/waitress/pole dancer scours Facebook for pictures of that guy she saw at her friend Pinnacle's vegan harvest feast, paying no attention as her mutt pulls her along, unguided. She stumbles over the curb and the obligatory cracks in the pavement, her attention focused on the screen. Glad that the dog has finally stopped, she digs in for several minutes before finding the shot. Yeah, that's the guy...oh wait...no, no...butter face. Nope. Don't want to have to explain him to her friends...what's that noise?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking down, she sees her dog muzzle deep, devouring a bumpy red sauce that looks like marinara, but smells like sourdough bread and copper wire. It must have spilled out of--</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-98142413-44d8-d344-187a-092acd72c8a5"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her screaming can be heard on Esplanade Avenue...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-36189119731500927062015-11-21T10:16:00.000-08:002016-02-02T15:38:41.393-08:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-28BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!<br />
<br />
The sudden pounding on the front door causes Phil Tupperman to nearly jump out of his skin. He had been going about his daily routine. Thankfully it's a Tuesday. If he'd have been dusting the figurines he'd have broken an entire shelf. He pads fearfully to the door, hearing a muffled voice outside calling him.<br />
"Philsy, it's Halloran. Let me in."<br />
He rushes to the door and undoes all the locks. Finally getting the door open, he sees Bruce Halloran filling the doorway, a six-pack of Abita Turbo Dogs in his thick grip. Thrown off by the sight of alcohol, he looks from the six-pack to Halloran, who says<br />
"Are you going to invite me in, or am I porch people now?"<br />
Phil hastily steps aside, stammering "y-yes, yes--come-come in."<br />
Halloran breezes past Phil and off into the kitchen. Trying to quickly relock the door, Phil nearly dislocates a thumb before he can go running after his guest. Inside Halloran is shifting through the drawers. Phil can only stand and watch, completely uncertain of what to do. He asks,<br />
"W-what...what are you looking f--" He stops, and then says dryly, "the bottle opener is on the side of the refrigerator."<br />
Halloran reaches out his arm, which seems to pull the rest of him to where the opener was magnetically stuck for several years. He wrenches it away from it's perch and puts it to use. The bottle top goes flying into the air, landing exactly on the lip of the Moderne light fixture above the Formica table. He takes a deep, long swig from the longnecked bottle, nearly draining it entirely. He comes up for air and lets out a sonic boom of a belch that startles Phil to the point of blanching.<br />
In the next house, Phil's as-yet-unmet neighbor is sitting in her own kitchen reading the newspaper. She hears a deep, low rumble go through her house and looks up for a moment. Nothing. She goes back to reading.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-7996270451127198552015-11-16T07:24:00.002-08:002015-11-16T07:24:43.424-08:00A Visit with Tunie Dufour après les attaques sur Paris: A cool, breezy weekend in the Jewel of the Crescent has given way to a warm and sunny Monday morning. The kind of morning that defines a day in New Orleans. Just enough humidity to be warm but not so much as to cause a person to sweat unduly just walking to the car. The sun is bright and clear, but not so clear as to be sharp. Like the city herself just enough light is diffused in the air to make almost anything look pretty.<br />
But inside the double shotgun on the corner of Dauphine and St. Roch, Tunie Dufour sits in her front room with the shutters closed against the bright. In her hand she holds the television remote, occasionally flipping the channels between the various morning news broadcasts.<br />
*click*<br />
"...several counterattacks in dozens of locations around France yesterday, following on the French air attacks in Syria on the ISIS strongholds in Raqqa. French president Hollande has now said that the raid in Belgium in search of one of the terrorists has now become an international manhunt--"<br />
*click*<br />
"...after Gov. Bobby Jindal demanded that President Obama's administration give him an exact count of the Syrian refugees relocated to Louisiana, stating the he wished to 'avoid a situation like what happened in Paris.' The Obama administration has put that number at 14 across the state, six of those here in the New Orleans area..."<br />
*click*<br />
"...with social media blowing up with backlash against the support shown online for the victims of the Paris attacks on Friday. 'Decolonized Scientist' on Twitter posted 'Those comparing Mizzou to events in Paris today are doing so to delegitimize black students, not honor victims in Paris.' At-Doctor-Stacey-Patterson also posted 'look at all the racists on Twitter using the Paris tragedy to discredit the Black Lives Matter movement at home. So predictable.'..."<br />
*click*<br />
"...has caused concern across the nation. Alabama Governor Robert Bentley said he would not accept Syrian refugees into his state, saying he 'would not stand complicit to a policy that places the citizens of Alabama in harm's way.' Michigan Governor Rick Snyder said that his state was 'putting on hold' receiving any new refugees from the war-torn..."<br />
*click*<br />
"...candidate Donald Trump came out against the administration at a rally in Beaumont, Texas, calling it 'insane' that the US is taking in 250,000 Syrian refugees. As of this report, the Obama administration has only agreed to take in 10,000 refugees..."<br />
*click*<br />
"...didn't take long for the conspiracy theorists. Within hours of the attacks YouTube lit up with videos like this one from a user called 'redsilve' who claims the attacks are an elaborately-plotted hoax by the illuminati to institute a quote 'new world order.' Another user claims this video shows what they call 'terror actors' milling around outside the Bataclan proves..."<br />
"Tunie?"<br />
In the loft above, Harold stands in his pajamas looking down on her. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and grumbles, "you still watching that stuff? Let it go, woman."<br />
Tunie turns down the sound and says plainly, "they want a war, Harold."<br />
"Hell. Ain't never known a time when some damned fool someplace didn't want a war," Harold yawns, scratching his sides to get the blood moving. "We done seen all this, bebe."<br />
"It's different this time, Harold!"<br />
He knows that tone. She's genuinely concerned. Nothin' for it, best to head on down and get it out of her system. Otherwise there will be no peace in his day. He steps carefully down the impossibly narrow and shallow staircase. More like a carpeted ladder than anything else. He gets down to the kitchen, pours himself a cup of CDM and walks into the front parlor. He sits down on the sofa next to her chair. She's staring at one of the talking heads on the news. Some protest someplace. He takes a long sip, then says<br />
"All right. Tell me."<br />
"We're heading for another world war."<br />
"Been headin' that way since the Cold War, 'Pie." Harold takes another swig. "What's different now?"<br />
"Because...because now..." Tunie reaches her hand out towards Harold, who dutifully places his mug of coffee in her waiting hand. She takes a few sips from the aromatic black liquid and says intently,<br />
"Before now, it's always been the government who wanted to go to war. But now, it's the young people who want to go to war. Against each other, against the older generations, against...everybody. You can see it in their eyes, in what they say now."<br />
"Tunie-Pie, calm down," Harold says, trying to sound reassuring.<br />
"It's not like it was when we were growin' up. It's not even like it was when the grandbabies were growing up. It's different now. Look," she says, handing the cup back to Harold and picking up the remote. She flips through the channels with lightning speed until she finds an example.<br />
"Look at that. That's a rally in Germany against the Syrian refugees coming into their country. They want them out. Look at the faces. All of 'em in their 20s and 30s. Now, look at this."<br />
She flips again to another channel showing pictures of the victims in Paris and their attackers.<br />
"Look, Harold. All of 'em children. Including those crazy bastards who killed them. Now look at the survivors. Same ages. Look here."<br />
She flips again. Harold takes another sip and asks, "how many damn channels do you have, woman?"<br />
"Shuddup" she mutters, landing on one of the inane national morning news programs. "Now look. All these children bitching and complaining that they aren't being taken seriously because Paris took all their publicity. The children are organizing protest marches, they're promising to be violent if they aren't being paid enough attention, they're saying it's all a plot to take whatever it is they want the world to notice. We marched for civil rights. Our kids marched against Vietnam. These kids are marching and yelling against the world and each other. And you know just as well as I. All it takes is one damned jackass who can get their attention to turn them into an army. Blind, impotent anger. That's all I see, Harold. And if they get the wars they want, you know who's going first, don't you? Auguste and Jerrelle. They're both conscription age."<br />
Tunie blinks hard, fighting back a persistent tear. Harold stares down into his cup, searching for something to say that will make his 'Pie feel better.<br />
But he's not a talker. He's a side man. He plays what he feels. OK.<br />
He rises, takes the remote from Tunie's hand and switches the TV off. Extending his hand, he pulls her from her treasured Barcalounger and putting his arm around her shoulders, walks her back through the house and out into the courtyard. He sets her down with his coffee and says firmly,<br />
"Drink your coffee. I'll be back."<br />
He retreats back into the house, leaving her alone beneath the banana trees rustling in the breeze, making patterns of sun and shadows on the concrete. The air is nice, but Tunie can't enjoy it. She's seen the hatred, the ignorance, the anger from all the children. It reminds her of when segregation was still in force. She and Harold both had endured insults, fights, blatant refusal, and terrorism. Though they didn't call it that back then. Back then, it was just the white people that looked like that. But not anymore. Now all the children have that look. She keeps hearing the old rhyme in her head, but with new words she can't erase.<br />
Red and yellow, black and white. All are hateful, want to fight.<br />
Just then, the sound of Coltrane's "Sentimental Mood" oozes from the outdoor speakers as Patrick and Jerry emerge from their back door, carrying plates of eggs and bacon. Harold emerges from the house with four glasses of Tunie's version of a mimosa; muscadine wine and pineapple juice. They assemble around Tunie for a special breakfast. On the river just a few blocks away, a freighter sounds it's whistle. The long, sonorous tone reverberating through the Marigny, sending the starlings into flights of dotted swiss across the azure sky...This Is My New Orleans.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-24315163586462624322015-11-01T17:02:00.002-08:002015-11-01T17:02:08.113-08:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-27<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Unable to sleep and perturbed by Miss Sara Joy’s constant snoring (seriously, how can a dog that small make a noise that loud?) Bruce Halloran sits up in his emperor-sized bed and thinks over the events of the last several months. There’s ol’ Philsy Tupperman, wasting away in that farmhouse in Old Metairie. Still following in his dead mother’s footsteps, keeping her shrine as spotless as she demanded but was never able. Then there’s the prickly Dr. Youngblood, holed up in his mahogany paneled cocoon. Straightjacketed by his public persona. The mention of his former love sends him into tighter constrictures. Frankly, he’d be surprised if the good doctor didn’t shit twine.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What the hell is he going to do? It’s not like he can just show up on either of their doorsteps with the other in tow and force them to talk. Philsy would probably crawl underneath the house and Youngblood most likely has a hotline to the NOPD on his keychain. As much fun as both those scenarios would usually be, neither one solves the problem of fixing what Gary Pitts engineered three decades ago.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At least the depressing spectacle of Hallowe’en is now ended. Looking out from his third story perch upon the hipsters going about their tragically fabulous costumes, all Halloran can do is lament the loss of true originality and innovation this city once took immense pride in presenting. He is whisked back to the 80s once more and the brilliant, cutting-edge costumes that amazed everyone fortunate enough to see. The political commentary, the blatant-yet-distinguished sexuality, the sheer force of the abandon. It was a marvelous time.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unfortunately, Bruce isn’t so ingrained to his past that he cannot see the world as it is. If he were, he wouldn’t have the same feeling of malaise that has troubled him since happy hour started at 4:20pm yesterday. As much as he would like to shuffle off the world around him and happily cocoon himself in the musty patinas of yesterday, he can’t.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You see, for all his faults Bruce Halloran does have at least one timelessly redeeming feature; he is, has always been, and will always be current. It’s a trait he both shares with and abhorred in his late mother. Until the end of her days, Mother Halloran was as fresh as wet paint. She embraced the modern. Just not the modernity her son enjoyed. While he was listening intently to Fleetwood Mac and Steely Dan, Mother was embracing Juice Newton and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. When she suffered a sudden heart attack at a Kathy Mattea concert, Bruce attended the funeral in a mauve Nudie suit embroidered with blue roses. A nod to her favorite color and the only part she ever played on stage.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The family wasn’t pleased, but the undertaker was happy to show his appreciation.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being so afflicted, Bruce cannot ignore how the current world thinks. Anything can be what they now freely call “slutty.” Cartoon character, crayon, crudite, you name it there’s a tramp version out there for you. The depressing trend of young men actually participating in costuming has led to a new version of tramp yet to be widely identified. But it will in another year or so. The phrase “boy tramp” leaps to mind. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But more importantly the forms of protest are now more nuanced and more blunt. Cases in point: The beautiful young straight couple at dusk holding court on the banquette directly below his patio. Both of them are painfully young, each with washboard abs on full display in the well-aerated judges robes they were barely wearing. She was a slutty Ruth Bader Ginsburg in a halter robe, patent leather jet beaded bustier, fishnets and high-heeled platform mid-thigh black latex lace-up boots. He was Antonin Scalia, only in the exact same outfit. They both had gavels. Hers was branded with the GE logo, his with the NRA.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Later that same night another somewhat less fit couple arrived. Both were barely dressed, only more disturbingly matched. She was barely containing a pair of silicone surprises and a matching pair of hips beneath a repurposed Stars and Bars, while her bohunk boyfriend managed to carve out a wife beater and cut-offs for himself from the backup flag at Klan headquarters. They didn’t stay long, but while they were there they enjoyed a lot of popularity.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The modern. The current…...one desperately trying to move on...one who’s never known a day that wasn’t long forgotten by the world…...wait a minute.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran runs back into his condo, startling the sleeping Miss Sara Joy into paroxysms of surprise. Landing in the rolling chair of his office, he grabs hold of all his notes on the matter, tossing page after page until he comes to his scribbled notes on one of young Mr. Tschantz’s emails. Reading the cryptic scrawl his 6th grade writing teacher once called “a pharmacist’s nightmare,” Bruce finally comes to the two little identical notes in different colored inks about Youngblood and Philsy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Chained to the past.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next thing Miss Sara Joy sees is his Master walking slowly over to the shiny glass thing where the happy water comes from. He knows what that means. Nothing else happening tonight except a narrow window for cuddle time. Miss Sara Joy jumps up onto his pillow on the leather sofa and makes himself comfortable. He’s gonna be there a while.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-a270910c-c5b6-6018-873f-22557023bb8d"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Outside, the cold, damp winds off the river filter through the Crescent City with a slow persistence. Autumn is growing older and the weather has grown tired of warm and dry. Throughout the city windows either draw to narrow slits or close entirely to the outside world...This is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-8325689273728652552015-10-12T09:35:00.001-07:002015-10-12T09:35:16.548-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-26<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Jeremy Youngblood’s Uptown home is much like his office. Classic lines, masculine colors of burgundy, hunter green, and brown leather. Every sofa and chair purchased in the late 1908s, each menacingly inviting clad in lots and lots of handtooled overstuffed leather polished to a high sheen. As if they had never been sat upon. Classic persian rugs from the same era, each regularly cleaned and preserved. Walls of rare books encased in vacuformed polarized plastic rebuking the afternoon sun in its slow descent towards the horizon. The study is filled with an auburn glow. But not the hazy macrocosm that defines a New Orleans home, filled with all the little swirling particles of dust and skin and a hundred other airborne bits. The filtration in the climate control is top of the line.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Almost no unwanted bits of old history floating about. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood wanders down the ebony paneled walls of the former carriageway of the 1857 home. He bought the house in 1990, beating out a trust that wanted the place on the National Registry. No way that was going to happen, the property was too prime. With the assistance of his architect, patient, and occasional trick he carved out five luxury condos that made it into Architectural Digest. All of which are now empty except for one. He is the only person living in the building.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He’s considered restoring the house but his accountant says “that’s not good business sense. Better to have property you can sell or rent, eventually.” He cannot argue with the logic of the statement. But something still deep inside him keeps saying “take it, make use of it. What about everything you wanted to do when you were young?” He turns the corner and sees the Magritte pencil sketch he bought right before...well, before. Called Fumeur, the sketch was intended to be a gift for--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He cannot bring himself to even think Phil Tupperman’s name. But it is there. Unspoken, always waiting. Taking another glance at the picture his mind flits for the briefest memory of how he thought Phil would react when he saw it. The memory is quelled, buried deeply into the good Doctor’s psyche where it continues to burn with all the other neglected embers.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Old Metairie, Phil Tupperman goes about his regular routine; dust the living room, vacuum the rugs, sweep, and a good coating of Lysol to finish. He follows the same patterns throughout the house as he has always done since his mother brought him here. He buys the same cleaners, the same laundry soap and fabric softener, everything that his mother used.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But today? Today is somehow...different. Because today, he’s suddenly thinking about Bruce Halloran. He hasn’t seen or heard from Mr. Halloran in weeks. And yet, today...today.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He finds himself in front of the telephone in the living room, holding the receiver and punching in the number on Bruce Halloran’s card. He’s on the next to last digit when his hand stops. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if he’s busy? What if he’s angry? What if he decides to never come back?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Slolwy, Phil lowers the receiver into the cradle. It’s for the best, he tells himself. Don’t pester the man. Just...be patient. He’ll call again, he’ll come by….when he’s ready. It’s...for the best.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My, how dusty these tables get during the week…</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Luxuriating in the mercifully dehumidified shade of her faithful banana trees, Tunie Dufour takes the time to enjoy the arrival of autumn in the Jewel of the Crescent. At her side, an octagonal plastic throw cup emblazoned in chipped gold lettering "Krewe of Juno & Jupiter 1985" filled with her beloved muscadine wine. Above her, the tattered banana leaves flip and crackle in the breeze, keeping time with the enormous wind chimes installed by Jerry & Patrick. Their sonorous baritones are calming but always remind Tunie of a monastery. Taking a deep breath, she exhales and closes her eyes to listen. The air is clean, not a trace of exhaust. It's nearly perfect. The only thing missing is the hint of Hubig's pies being made just up the street. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was a time when every neighborhood had it's own morning smells. When the Crystal Preserves plant was still working in Mid-City, you could drive by there around 6am and it would smell like the most wonderful breakfast you could imagine. The same was true for Hubig's. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But now, they're both gone, like so many others. How many times has she seen this old place change? And yet somehow, here in her little courtyard beneath the trees, everything is as it has always been.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just inside the open door to the laundry room, she hears the shrill pounding ring of the doorbell.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rushing into the front parlor, Tunie unlocks the French doors to reveal a thin young man snappily dressed in a shirt, tie, and vest and barely taller than Tunie herself. A pleasant little smile emerges across his smooth face and he says cheerfully,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Good morning. You must be Miss Dufour."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Yes," she replies, watching his hand reach into the breast pocket of his vest.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"My card," he says, handing her the thick linen vellum card. "My name is Mr. Tschantz. I represent the firm of DiNotto, Tschantz, and Asino."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"How nice for you," Tunie drawls, slipping the card inside her bra. "What brings you to my door, young man?"</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Tschanz grins wider and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I'm looking for your fiancee Mr. Harold Amos. Is he in today?"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tunie peers at the pale pencil on her stoop. An errant breeze sweeps up between them and for a moment they both smell...pie.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-3d7c008b-5ce6-e3a8-b57a-6d5cc05775ce"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Come in, young man. I’ll see if Harold is around. Can I offer you a muscadine?”...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-90197594289208708882015-09-25T06:30:00.000-07:002016-02-02T15:38:41.448-08:00Meanwhile, back at Tunie's Place...: It happened suddenly.<br />
Tunie Dufour was sitting downstairs in the living room watching the 6 o'clock Eyewitness News on WWL. The report was 15 seconds away from starting when Harold Amos suddenly appeared in the loft, shouting,<br />
"Woman! You've got some explainin' to do. Now."<br />
Tunie's lips purse into a tight, nearly perfect circle. She's never responded to idle commands from men. But then again, there hasn't been a man in her life like Harold since her late husband died in 1975.<br />
So...what else is there to do but trek upstairs?<br />
Making her way up the incredibly narrow staircase encased in the matching barge boards taken from the last Dutch-African emigre ship to made port in New Orleans, she meets Harold on the landing with a traditionally distrustful sneer.<br />
"Woman," Harold exhales with ferocity. "I've seen the worst of humanity. I've seen horror, terror, starvation, want, greed, and evil in my time."<br />
Tunie adjusts herself so as to not give the appearance of impertinence. She's spent a few years with this man. She knows when he is serious. Intentionally crossing her hands in front of herself, she widens her eyes and looks to him with the closest approximation of innocence she can muster. She didn't grow up with her sisters and brothers for nothing.<br />
"But." Harold intones with the ferocity of a Piney Woods preacher. "I. Have never. Seen anything. Like. This!"<br />
At the word "this" Harold pulls an aged binder from behind his back. Tunie knows in a heartbeat what he is holding. and it fills her nearly to overflowing with the curious mixture of pride and shame that only a native New Orleanian can fully understand. She bolts for the kitchen, her only thought a full glass of her treasured muscadine wine.<br />
A slight grin crosses his thin, wizened lips. With the alacrity of a man a quarter of his age (a situation which causes him a world of disgust,) he goes after her. He clutches the ornately-inscribed leather book as if his life depended upon it. Reaching the bottom a step and a half behind her. Harold lands on the linoleum-clad hardwood floor and nearly shouts,<br />
"Petunia! What have I found in the book?"<br />
Tunie freezes. She is taken over with alternating feeling of rage, familiarity, violation, consummation, and revenge. None of which particularly appeal to her. Still. He's crossed a line. He's gone someplace he shouldn't have. He's--<br />
"I found your scrapbooks in the attic while I was putting up the digital antenna."<br />
Tunie bristles, half expecting what she's gotten in the past.<br />
Damn it. Why does he always, ALWAYS have the exact right answer??<br />
"You......why?" he asks, blinking back his emotions. "Why would...I mean...why not?"<br />
Tunie doesn't know what to say. She has never known what do to in this situation. Her siblings had always denigrated her for being so forward. Yet the friends she made were so incredibly supportive. Tunie intentionally freezes her face. She's learned over the years to keep her emotions to herself.<br />
"Petunia, I'm talking to you!" Harold bellows like the musician that he is; easily heard over a twelve-piece combo. Next door, Jerry and Patrick rouse for a moment from their reverie on the davenport.<br />
They will realize in a fortnight when Tunie relays the story that they felt the sound through the ground and floorboards.<br />
"FINE!" she caws, throwing herself against the upstairs railing, trying her best to look like Dorothy Dandridge. "I...I wa...s hoping. YES! Hoping! That you would...deeeeee.... cipher my...ah...uhm--intentions.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-43364473964692047622015-09-20T10:58:00.000-07:002015-09-20T10:58:02.449-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-25<b id="docs-internal-guid-764974a5-ebde-e364-a637-aa877c5dbc0c" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Walking Miss Sara Joy around the neighborhood with a Bermuda shorts pocket full of wadded plastic grocery bags, a wide straw hat and cat’s eye sunglasses, Bruce Halloran is still waiting for his little boy to crap. He’s marked every available vertical surface in the neutral ground on Elysian Fields from the river to St. Claude Avenue, but as to the rest there is sadly no sign of development. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Which really chaps Halloran’s ass because it’s hot outside. Not as hot as it had been just a few weeks ago, but hot enough to break a sweat. Back toward the river again.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Walking back toward the river they pass the Phoenix. Former site of his and Gary Pitts’ numerous licentious encounters. Usually far to many to remember. But today he suddenly recalls one particular incident with ringing clarity. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sara Joy had taken up a stool at the 'all new' and 'improved' Phoenix after Katrina. In their day the Phoenix was the palace of fleshly perversion, the place to find any position or persuasion, chemical, hormonal, or otherwise. When Sara Joy and Halloran ruled the roost here, the joke around town was The Phoenix had the only pool table made by Sealy Posturpedic. The courtyard with the barber's chair so perfect for leather worship. The upstairs bar with just enough light to make out sizes and directions and the darkened cage in the corner providing the necessary hardware to create the soundtrack for the night. Sara Joy’s memories were the remnants of sweat, bourbon, cigarettes, and poppers, and he loved it. There wasn't a square inch of the building where he didn't do somebody, just in 1984 alone. But after Katrina it stood as a sterile parody of its blanching filthy glory, clogged with foreign faces and overpriced cocktails. None of those people knew him.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So technically he was 'new meat.'</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taking up a perch at the far end of the bar, he’d cruised the dismal pickings, ordering a bourbon and coke from the overly ingratiating bar bear. After about 15 minutes of bland club music and no other prospects for entertainment he was about to leave when a couple of thirtysomething cubs took up the stools next to him, obviously having an argument. The dreck on the sound system made it hard to hear everything, but he heard enough.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"...saw you looking at him...", "...nothing happened...", "...because of you, Trevor...", "...you always do this...", "...do you want Billy now...", "...have to tell you again, its you...", "...prove it!"</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A thought crossed Sara Joy's malicious mind. Reaching for a nearby pen, he slipped a dollar out of his wallet and wrote in bold black letters;</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">'I want U now! Call whn U ditch the bitch. Billy'</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Watching from the corner of his eye, he watched Trevor pay the bill while his whiny boy-toy demanded attention. Bar bear drops the change unseen by the quarreling couple. Sara Joy slipped the marked dollar into the pile of change and walked away. The couple stormed out, Trevor in tow. Reliving the story again, Halloran can see the wide smile crosses Sara Joy's cruelly thin lips, revealing that weathered fence of teeth only seen at the Preakness or royal functions.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And he waited with the patience of one who knows the joy of anticipation.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">43 minutes later Whiny Cub returned with grudgefuck in his tear-riddled eyes and a crumpled dollar bill held like a shiv in his hand. Pitts watched his prey make his way past the gossip gauntlet and march upstairs. Bruce can hear Pitts describing himself with “the leisurely stroll of Lauren Bacall”, positioning himself at the bottom of the steps, arranging for maximum impact, then "ascending to descend."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran continues to follow along automatically behind Miss Sara Joy as he mulls the story over again in his head. Why would he remember this now? Granted, it’s another example of the dirty little tricks Gary Pitts lived by and adored. But what isn’t? There must be something to make that one episode leap out at him. There must be something he’s not seeing.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*swkl-plitch* Halloran’s right foot slips slightly ahead of him before halting.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like her namesake, Miss Sara Joy has crapped on everything again...This is My New Orleans.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-26174034736228480882015-09-03T18:28:00.002-07:002015-09-03T18:28:45.448-07:00A Stopover at The L Household<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">: Running in from the backyard with Rex, The Wonder Dog at her grubby, blinking heels, Erica L lets the screen door slam again. They stop instantly, awaiting the onslaught from Mom lurking somewhere nearby. Don't slam the stupid door, she'll scream for the umpteenth time. Only there's no scream this time. Erica looks down at Rex's glossy black face and they stare at one another in amazement. Erica leaves the kitchen and walks into the living room. No Mom. She walks down the hall to the den and finds her dusting the room while deep in conversation with someone. Erica and Rex walk over to the big easy chair while Mom's back is turned, and jump in, Rex turning himself into His Girl so he can perch his top half on her lap. The news is on TV, but the sound is down. On the screen is a shot of an unattractive woman with long, limp brown hair, glasses, and a sweater her grandmother wouldn't wear. The crawl at the bottom of the screen says something about being arrested and put in jail.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I know, it's amazing in this day and age," Mom says, her earpiece blinking blue as she talks. "...yep...yeah, she--...yeah..." She's stuck in a loop and begins dusting the tops of the books on the shelves, standing on her tiptoes to reach the top. "...yep... Well, that's what I was---yep....yep.."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She turns around and sees Erica & Rex in the chair and jumps a little. Erica mimes "who is it" and gets back the signal for Uncle Jerry. They both smile. Mom cuts in and says,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Jerry, hold on. Erica just came in, she wants to say hi--" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Erica rolls her eyes and frowns, pointing to Rex looking expectantly saddened.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"...a-and Rex. They both wanna say hi, hold on." She pulls her phone from her jeans pocket and taps the screen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Jerry, can you hear us?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Of course I can hear you! Hello sweetie. Hi Rex." Uncle Jerry's voice fairly booms from the speaker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Hi Uncle Jerry!" Erica shouts. Rex barks once. He's not really sure why, but everybody else was making noise, so it seemed like a good idea. He's glad he took the risk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Can you believe that crazy broad in Rowan County? Gawd, I hope somebody does a made-for-TV movie about her so I can watch something else!" Jerry caws, forcing Mom to put him back on her earpiece. She turns and goes out of the room mumbling. Erica grabs the TV remote and turns up the sound.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"...ordered her to jail when Davis refused to allow any of her deputies to hand out marriage licenses. Clashes ensued outside the court when the decision was announced. with one group of Davis supporters attacking a group of LGBT protesters on the courthouse steps. Televangelist Pat Robertson expressed his displeasure with the ruling, saying 'gays want all Christians thrown in jail, get used to it.' Presidential candidate Ted Cruz also came out in support saying he stands with Kim Davis, and that '<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">the government arrested a Christian woman for living according to her faith.' Donald Trump--"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">*click*</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Erica mutes the TV instantly. Some names aren't allowed in the house. That was five of them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Mom comes back in, her earpiece in her hand.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Is Uncle Jerry coming over?" Erica asks excitedly. "I've been working on my Tallulah Bankhead, tell me what you think!" She jumps up, throws her hair in front of her right shoulder, extends her face and says "Dahling. I call ev'rybody dahling because I can never remember their names! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahahahah!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"If I catch you with a cigarette and a martini before you're 50, I'll murder your Uncle Jerry. Why couldn't he have turned you on to Shirley Temple?" </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Still in her Tallulah phase, Erica croaks"Louise Brooks said Shirley Temple was a swaggering, tough little slut."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Erica!" Mom's eyes and nostrils flare. "Jerry?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Uncle Patrick, dahling. He also said you caaaan't get a maaaaan in a Peter Pan collar, dahling."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Mom closes her eyes and sighs deeply. She's having a flashback to growing up with Jerry. 12 years old and spewing one-liners from all the old movies he forced her to watch over and over again. And now she's raising another one. She's beginning to understand the murderer mentality.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Erica smiles. Obviously her La Bankhead is spot-on. She asks again.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Are Uncle Jerry and Uncle Patrick coming over or not?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Not," Mom says, expecting what she gets; Erica throwing herself melodramatically into the chair, Rex barely able to vacate the space before splashdown. "He and Patrick have dinner plans for tonight with Miss Tunie and Mr. Harold."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Foop!" she sneers. " What did he want, then?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"He was going on about that clerk in Kentucky again."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"They sent her to jail!" Erica exclaims, pointing to the TV. "Isn't that what they wanted?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"It's not that simple, sweetheart." Mom walks over and turns off the TV. "There's a lot of people who are still very upset that gays have won the right to marry. And this woman in Kentucky has become a symbol, on both sides. Do you know why she went to jail?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Erica and Rex look at one another knowingly. Mom's decided to have what Dad calls a "Huxtable Moment." Rex lays down at her feet as His Girl gets comfortable.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"They said on TV that she wouldn't let anybody else give out licenses. Which means she didn't do her job, so they sent her to jail. But I don't understand why she went to jail. Why didn't they just fire her?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"Well," Mom says, sitting down on the sofa. "They can't just fire her. She was elected. Only the state of Kentucky can fire her, even if she's in jail."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Erica thinks for a minute, then asks "why are they saying that she was arrested because she's a Christian?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"That's the complicated part. She says the reason she's not doing her job is because her religion won't let her let gay people get married."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">Erica frowns as she thinks, and slowly asks "sooo...if I say that homework is agai--"</span><br /><span style="line-height: 21px;">"No." Mom says firmly, suppressing a smile. "Doesn't work that way, especially here. And that's why I wanted to talk to you about this before you go back to school tomorrow."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">She's put on her serious voice. Oops. This can't be good.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">"Because she made the decision to defy the judge and go to jail, a lot of people are upset about it. Because people think that it affects their religion. We've talked about this before, remember?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">"Yeah, I remember." Jeez Mom, it was only a couple of months ago. I'm not stupid, Erica thinks.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">"So I want you to promise me that you won't get into it with people about this in school, all right? It's late summer, people get crazy this time of year. And this whole thing? Well, it's...it's just a little too much." Mom leans in to Erica, very seriously.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">"No matter what anybody says tomorrow, promise me you won't get into a debate or a fight, OK? Promise me!"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">"I promise, I promise. When is Dad coming home?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Mom leans back and stands up, turning on the lamp next to the sofa.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"He's said he'll be home by nine, if not sooner. It's inventory at the store tonight. We'll eat when he gets home. Now go upstairs and take your bath, take Rex with you--"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">Erica and Rex break for the stairs as Mom yells after them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">"--and tonight can we please keep the water in the tub?!?" The pair galumph up the stairs as Mom walks back over to the TV and taps it back to life. They're still covering the brouhaha over Kim Davis, and all the people protesting and shouting into the cameras. If they can all just get to cooler weather in October in one piece...This is My New Orleans.</span></span><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-57995940547359731372015-08-20T14:24:00.003-07:002015-08-20T14:24:57.096-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-24<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: “Ladies, Gentlemen, and...well, the rest of you know what you’re called these days,” quips Princess Stephaney to a modicum of laughter. “Get ready for our main event. You’ve seen her at OZ, the Golden Lantern, and right here at MAGS. So pull your hands out of wherever they may be and put ‘em together for The! Ambrosia! Delight!!!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All around Bruce Halloran, sitting alone right next to the stage, the crowd erupts in adoration for their newest fixation. The flavor of the month. Whilst the masses cheer, a distinctly Broadway staccato rhythm belches out through the speakers. In five notes, he knows what it is and his eyes roll around in his head. Is she kidding? Jerry Herman? In this day and age? He takes up his cocktail just as Ambrosia Delight appears onstage in perfect time. She brings along a microphone and an old suitcase, the kind they called a valise in the day. She looks as if she’s standing in the middle of her wardrobe. She drops the valise on the stage, where it opens automatically. She sings.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-f528e630-4cfe-7af1-4764-1577cbd6c6ba" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I gotta give my life some sparkle and fizz</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And think a thought that isn't wrapped up in his</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The place that I consider paradise is</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wherever he ain't! Wherever he ain't!”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Belting it out, she proceeds to defiantly strip away the extra clothing, tossing it into the open valise. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No more to wither when he's grouchy and gruff</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No more to listen to him bellow and bluff</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tomorrow morning I'll be strutting my stuff</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wherever he ain't! Wherever he ain't!”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She fairly growls the song in places, but she’s filling the room. Looking around, Bruce sees all eyes on the stage. Even in the very back they’re paying attention. He turns to see Ambrosia getting down to the bottom of her costume rack. Yet, even as she sheds away what has to be the most interesting thing about her, the intensity of her performance is...well, it’s just so...no. He can’t think it...it’s so out of character…</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“My little love nest was a terrible trap</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With me behaving like a simpering sap</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so I'm looking for a spot on the map</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If he's going south--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She rips away the last of the facade, revealing a form-fitting unitard in her exact skin tone, covered in a sheen of aurora borealis rhinestones and sequins. The lights seem to instantly grow brighter. Every breath creates a light show all over the room, preparing them all for her to blow the roof off the joint.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I'm going north</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If he's going back</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm going forth--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ambrosia takes in a huge breath to finish off the song just as she lays eyes on her worst nightmare. Sitting six feet away from her was the fat, doughy, pasty-pink, face of Bruce Halloran. Without thinking she lets go every awful, horrible, dreadful thought she’s ever had concerning him.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Wherever heeeeeeeeeeeee aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin't!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The force of her voice blows Halloran’s eyelashes back and for a brief, precious moment makes him look 10 years younger. The collective eyes of the audience widen to capacity before giving way to tumultuous applause, wolf whistles, and the pounding fists out front and backstage. Onstage, Ambrosia Delight begins to feel a little faint. She loves the applause, but...Halloran. Oh dear God. Halloran! Before she can gather herself, she rushes off. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the audience, Halloran still can’t believe what he’s seen. He refuses to call it “talent.” At least, not right now. Not until he’s seen more. Besides, what else is there to do? It’s not like he has a schedule for a while. But if he did, first thing on the agenda would be getting another cocktail.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Backstage, Ambrosia has left and only Avalena in some very uncomfortable clothing is left. The older queens congratulate her and go about their business, while the younger ones are less impressed but congenial. It doesn’t matter. Avalena needs to get out of here. If that sonofabitch Halloran recognized her, it’s all over. And she’s not strong enough to survive that. Not after...not after what that other sonofabitch Gary Pitts did all those years ago.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She has to get out. Now! Grabbing her things and shoving them into her bag, she pushes past Tammi Tarmac with a hollered “sorry Tammi” and rushes out the side door just as Princess Stephaney emerges from the hallway curtain. Seeing Ambrosia rushing off, Stephaney follows her down the alleyway, calling out,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“‘Brosia honey. What happened? Where are you going? You’ve got two more numbers to--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The slamming of the metal gate cuts her off cold. Left in the mid-evening August heat, she turns back towards the bleach-scented, air conditioned air inside the bar. As she enters and closes the door behind her, she announces to the room,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Morganza Spillway. Congratulations, you’ve got another two numbers tonight. Hope you're prepared.”</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the very end of the makeup counter, a young, lithe boy with dark chocolate skin and childbearing lips stares back at the Princess through the mirror. Naked from the waist up, the waist down is pink lame and organza ballgown with matching satin mules...This Is My New Orleans. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-16367320381005031762015-08-17T10:06:00.002-07:002015-08-17T10:06:17.339-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-23<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Bending down to adjust her hosiery covered with sequined fishnet stockings, Avalena Beasley is nearly there. In the dirty, sordid little back room of MAGS on Elysian Fields, she’s trying to get her head together before she sets foot onstage as Ambrosia Delight. The tiny room is small and hot, perpetually stinking of beer, old bleach from the grubby concrete floor, and MAC cosmetics going slowly to pot in the heat. Around her, a host of younger queens and fading stars jostle for position at the two door mirrors installed above the makeshift countertop, each one determined that they are the main attraction tonight.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But Avalena knows better. The main attraction tonight is Ambrosia Delight. She’s the only one of these queens who performs with her own voice, still a rarity in New Orleans drag. She avoids the hustle and bustle at the makeup table by arriving in makeup, ready to perform. She has to. None of these queens knows that she’s a biological woman. Graced with a naturally deep speaking voice, she’s forever having to correct people over the phone when they call her “sir.” But when she sings. Ambrosia has been compared to Odetta, Nina Simone, and most recently Duffy and Adelle. It’s what drags them in, to hear the drag queen who sings like an actual woman. They haven’t had that in New Orleans since the early days of Varla Jean Merman. But Varla’s voice is more classically trained. Ambrosia’s voice (for Avalena cannot sing as herself,) is firmly rooted in classic Motown. And if the bar rags are to be believed, they love her.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just then, her savior and best friend in the drag scene, Princess Stephaney emerges from the narrow hallway to the room with a double shot of Jameson. She’s not like the other drag artists in New Orleans. She is sassy, confident, and most importantly, mature. Ready to hand you your ass with a slice of her rapier tongue and salve your wounds with an immediate cocktail, she has become Ambrosia’s most ardent supporter. Though she’s not likely to let you know it. No reason to inflate a queen’s ego. None at all.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Here ya go, “Brosia,” she says, handing the filled glass over. “It’s a full house out there.” Leaning in to Ambrosia’s ear, she says as softly as she can, “everybody’s talking about you, baby.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ambrosia smiles, and says a bit more deeply than normally, “thanks, Princess. As long as everybody’s happy, I’m happy. Any problems with the DJ? Last week I had to sing acapella.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, I checked,” Princess Stephaney replies, her characteristic good-hearted sneer taking up it’s accustomed position on her exquisite lips. “He’s been cut off until after the shows are over.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Thanks, Steph,” Ambrosia smiles, downing the Jameson in a single gulp. She hands the empty glass back to the Princess, then goes to her back to pull out a compact to check her lipstick. Perfect. Not a smudge.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-f528e630-3c9c-e525-e664-60b22a77de29" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Deciding he needs to get out of the condo, Bruce Halloran darkens the door of MAGS, packed to the gills with pliant young flesh. He forcibly pushes his way through the pond of twenty-thirtysomethings all standing around trying to score time with the others of their ilk. Just like Mardi Gras on St. Charles Avenue; push your way through and get out of it. He makes it to the bar, where there is no bartender. Big surprise, he thinks. He looks around the room for a familiar face. Or at least one that will respond to a customer waiting to place his cocktail order. Finally, he sees Princess Stephaney emerge from the back room. She sees Halloran with that constipated look on his doughy face, and slows her pace to a saunter. Just to keep him waiting a little longer. Finally she makes her way back behind the bar and, taking up a bartowel, starts wiping things down as she asks without looking in his direction,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Whadday want, Halloran?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Double shot of Maker’s, neat,” he barks over the din.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She goes about making the drink with a studied efficiency, doing her best to avoid actually having to look at him. Carelessly, she slides the drink to him on the bar and slaps her hand down on the twenty laying limp upon the bar. She makes the change and is just about to hand it back to him when Halloran barks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You sloshed half of it over onto the bar!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally taking a good, long look at Halloran, her free hand closes the till as her other reaches over the tip jar. “You’re lucky it wasn’t in your lap, you bastard.” She drops the change into the jar and smiles acidly as she begins to walk away.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hold on, SssssssTEPH” he hisses. She turns back to him. “Who’s on tonight? It isn’t you, is it?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I don’t perform on off nights, asshole. And that’s any night you’re here. It’s Persana, Tammi, a new girl called Morganza Spillway, and Ambrosia Delight.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran sneers at the lineup, giving Princess Stephaney the opportunity to walk away without having to murder him. Halloran takes up his drink and searches for a table to watch this shitshow. Besides, he can always stick around later. Just to see what the dregs are like, maybe pick up a trick. There's some eligible talent in the room. Specifically the fratboy wannabe's in the corner. They're all knocking back shots like it's going out of style. Have to keep an eye on them. Easy pick'ns. He finds a place down front, an area that quickly empties out upon his arrival. </span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Backstage, Avalena is completing her transition to Ambrosia when she hears Stephaney’s voice on the mic. She’s announcing the lineup for tonight. When she reaches Ambrosia’s name, the room erupts into cheers. A shy little smile crosses her lips. It soon spreads to a wide, incandescent smile. A sparkle appears in each of her eyes, and she fairly glows in the ongoing acclaim. Ambrosia Delight is finally here, and she’s ready to lay waste to the city...This Is My New Orleans.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-26215597516841980452015-08-14T14:01:00.001-07:002015-08-14T14:15:08.438-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-22<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">: The midday sun streams through the louvered windows of Jeremy Youngblood’s Uptown condo, creating vivid stripes of light and shadow upon the good doctor sitting silently in the easy chair facing the windows. From this perch on Benjamin Street, he can see nearly the whole of Audubon Park. He’s recovering from a week of...indulgences, of which he is not proud. His excesses have once again caught up with him, and he is paying the price for the extravagance. Dehydrated, over exerted, and taken with a powerful malaise, he sits like a wax figure at Musee Conti; unmoving, slightly pained, and unaware of the outside world. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He’s been a bad boy of late, immersing himself in the bar life yet again. Only it’s very different now. He’s well over 40, though still remarkably fit. Even that detestable Bruce Halloran said so. ‘I never forget an ass,’ he said. He’s certainly paid for it. In his twenties he spent maybe two hours top at the gym. Now, it takes over four hours with diminishing returns. But this past week? No time for the gym. He was too busy stalking the old stomping grounds in the Quarter and the Marigny.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What a creature of habit I am, he thinks. More than a decade removed and he still haunts the same places. At least the ones that are still open. Golden Lantern, Good Friends...The Corner Pocket. It also used to cost him much less. But nowadays the young blonde hustlers are more concerned with cash than with gifts and attention. Still, he spent the cash. Chasing. Chasing, chasing after…</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Old Metairie, Phil Tupperman pads quietly through the sprawling farmhouse, going about his daily chores. Today, he’s dusting, and finally trying one of these new “dust collection systems” from the grocery store. Mainly because he hasn’t been able to locate a store that still carries feather dusters. Even that old neon green nightmare he found six years ago was more convincing at the end than these frilly fabric pads in the box. And what’s this fork-thingy for anyway? Fortunately, the instructions on the box aren’t entirely undecipherable, and he is soon on his way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He has to admit it. These things certainly do the job. Though it is unnerving to be able to actually see the dust as it accumulates on the fabric. Seems accusatory somehow. Running the duster over the telephone desk, he spies Bruce Halloran’s card. It’s been a few days since he entered Phil’s life. He’s beginning to wonder why he hasn’t called since he...he...since he forced him to remember. He should have called by now. But maybe there’s a good reason why he hasn’t called yet. He did say he would call when he knew more. But more about what? He told Mr. Halloran everything he could remember…</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The porcelain cats need dusting…</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Enjoying the solitude of her office without Halloran’s pernicious smell, Avalena Beasley fairly hums through her work and his with an alacrity usually reserved for the young and unjaded. In the past weeks since he took his extended vacation, the office has thrived. Not one complaint from the call center, human resources, or any customers. All she has to do is deal with the paperwork, which is just fine with her. She prefers it. Now if she can only find some way of convincing the higher ups that she can do this on her own and have them get rid of Halloran.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reconsidering her limited options, a knocking sounds at the door. Before she can grant entry, Myrtle Mae sticks her head in and coos,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Aaaaavaleeeeenaaaaah?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She pushes aside the door and enters, carrying a large white box. She looks like the last snowman of spring, just about two days away from being a puddle. She’s a nosy old biddie who has to know everyone’s business.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This was just delivered for you, so I rushed it right over!” Myrtle Mae fairly gushes the words, settling the box on Halloran’s empty desk. “It’s heavy. I wonder what it is? Oh, there’s a note.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She produces a folded sheet of paper and hands it to Avalena. She takes it and opens it up, turning your back on the squat, fawning turnip with a henna rinse. Opening the paper, she reads;</span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-f528e630-2e03-56d3-101a-08d460c7861f" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Miss Beasley,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I signed for this, but I’m leaving town today for my vacation. I asked a friend to drop this off so you wouldn’t have to wait for me to come back. See you in two weeks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr. Dalloway”</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Avalena inspects the shipping label, and her heart sinks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Thank you Myrtle. I appreciate you bringing this by.” She takes Myrtle by the arm and begins escorting her out, but Myrtle won’t be deterred. She turns her way out of Avalena’s grip and heads back towards the desk.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s just so heavy,” coos Myrtle, her heavily lined doe eyes rolling uncontrollably in their sockets. “And I did carry it all the way up here from the lobby.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We’re on the second floor, Myrtle.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, the elevators were busy, so I took the stairs.” Myrtle oozes, flashing her lashes like pennants. “What is it?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Avalena smiles a broad, false grin and says evenly, “I’m sure I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting anything.” She takes Myrtle once more by the arm, this time a bit more forcefully and says as they walk towards the door, “And I won’t know until after we close up, because like you I have a lot of very important work to do. Thanks for stopping by, goodbye Myrt!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She slams the door for emphasis.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Avalena knows exactly what is inside this box. She recognized the postmark instantly. Damn you, Dalloway, she thinks. You could have kept the damned thing for two weeks! Still, it’s not a total loss. Halloran wasn’t here when it arrived. And Myrtle Mae is no bother. She thinks no one notices when she skips lunch and takes off from work a half-hour earlier than everyone else. Locking the office door, she walks over to the desk. Using her ring, she slices through the packing tape, the overpacked box springing open. Inside is a white and mauve miasma of real chiffon, satin, and rhinestones. Ambrosia Delight’s new gown. Afraid to pull it from the box for fear of never repacking it properly, she stares at the intricately beaded bodice now puffing up from the cardboard. She wants desperately to put in on but instead retapes the box closed, effectively emptying Halloran’s tape dispenser. She shoves the box under her desk and returns to her work. Just a few more hours until she can get this beauty home...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-27614522625609013362015-08-13T13:30:00.002-07:002015-08-13T13:30:08.737-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-21<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Back in his condominium on St. Claude Avenue, Bruce Halloran lowers the central air to 70 degrees and closes the heavy floor-length drapes against the afternoon onslaught of roasting sun directly into the living room. The room falls into complete darkness, lit only by the nighlight that burps to life automatically. He goes to the floor lamps on either side of the large overstuffed black leather sofa, twisting the knobs to illuminate the room in a bright halogen glow. On the sofa, directly in the middle is Miss Sara Joy, slowly licking himself clean. Halloran stares for a moment at this scene, then picks up a throw pillow and lobs it on top of the tiny dog with a casual, “you’re too comfortable, dog.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miss Sara Joy retreats from the expanse of the pillow, and runs over to the matching leather chair, jumping into the center of the seat and returning to his daily ablutions. Halloran flops his corpulence onto the sofa and picks up young Mr. Tschantz’s folder from the glass and iron coffee table. The boy is certainly efficient. Every passage he needs to see is highlighted with clinical precision. They tell a story of Dr. Youngblood he’d probably want everyone to ignore.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Guidry Stone was the first to file suit. He says in his deposition that “Jeremy had started seeing this young man named Jackson Harris. He was a psychology student at Tulane working on his graduate studies. At first, the other partners and I looked forward to the young man’s visits. Jeremy had been single for so long, he needed someone like Jackson. Then things began to change between them. Jackson started dressing differently, Jeremy started correcting him on every little thing. They both became irritable, sullen. Eventually the young man stopped coming around. We learned later that he had disappeared. Literally disappeared. They had a fight and Jackson just up and left town. Dropped out of Tulane, cut off ties with his family and friends. Just disappeared. For months afterwards, Jeremy (subject pauses) He just couldn’t function. We had to pick up his casework. It caused a serious strain on our working relationship.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few years later, the other two partners, Drs. Alberghetti and Pierce both talk about Jackson. As well as the others who had the same fate. Only with different results.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Alberghetti states “(H)is love life, it got in the way, every time. I most remember what happened with one man, Ellis Cambre. Medical student, I forget which area. What struck me was how much he looked like the first one, Jackson. They could have been brothers.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The deposition veers off into financial jargon, blah blah blah, missing money, blah blah, here we go.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It was because of the review of the books that I noticed the pattern happening again with Ellis. He changed the way he dressed, how he behaved. Dr. Youngblood was obviously controlling the fellow. When he first started coming around the offices, he was a bright, gregarious young man. But by the end he was quiet, moody, and nothing like the young man we originally met. I don’t know the details, but after they broke up, Dr. Youngblood once again stopped taking patients and started attending charity events professionally. Shortly before we started these legal proceedings we learned that Ellis’ body was found out in New Orleans East, near Michoud. Overdose. I can’t help but think that if he hadn’t gotten involved with Jeremy Youngblood, he would still be alive.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A little over a month later, Dr. Pierce was also giving deposition, this time for his suit. His deposition is more direct and to the point than the others. By a lot.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I finally had enough of Jeremy and his mind games with those men. The money I could have overlooked. It’s not like any of us are starving, and it was going to charity. A skilled book keeper would have found a way to write it all off and get a tidy tax credit on top. But I couldn’t take Jeremy’s hypocrisy any more. This last one was the final straw. Martin Collins, but for everything about him, you couldn’t tell him from Jackson or Ellis. Jeremy obviously has a type. Young, blonde, wide-eyed, and wanting someone to take care of them. But Martin was different from the others. He took to everything Jeremy told him to do like it was gospel. He became whatever it was that Jeremy was trying to create. And then, one day while he was doing some filing for the office, he snapped. Just broke. I had to leave a session to walk out and see Martin babbling incoherently, throwing the files all over the office, scaring the patients. Youngblood came out of his office and said something to the kid, and that was it. He became deranged. He attacked Youngblood, bloodying his lip and nose before he started breaking and smashing whatever he could get his hands on. The outer office was trashed, I had to call the police. After that, I knew there wasn’t any way to save the partnership.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce drops the pages across the open folder and stares at the wallpaper, a campy crimson flocked pattern Gary Pitts thought was too ugly not to have in his home. That was Sara Joy, finding little humors in the aesthetically awful. But at least he told you up front he was a bad person. Youngblood’s been masquerading behind his public image, racking up plaques and honors while he robbed his company and played Dr. Frankenstein with a line of Aryan medical students. How Mengele of him, thinks Halloran.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But it doesn’t make sense. According to the all the depositions, none of the partners were that upset with Youngblood making donations out of the company kitty. They all made a point of saying it. And he apparently struggled to pay back the company. So it’s not like he was making money out of the deal. All he literally got was personalized wall art for his office. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, why the Patty Hearst routine on those men?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This guy’s business card is gay mental health. He’s made his name and career on it. He attracts three young, eager, one assumes bright young men with futures. And inside a just a few years he sends one packing, one to pills, and one to the parish prison. That’s a lot of P’s. P. Like Philsy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Philsy. Like...Philsy. Of course. Dr. Youngblood was trying to build him a new Phil Tupperman. And I don’t think he was smart enough to realize he was doing it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Doctor, heal thyself,” Bruce grins, suddenly deciding that it’s time for a cocktail. He rises and walks to the bar, rather impressed with himself. As he pours himself a drink, Miss Sara Joy leaps down from the chair, his long, flowing fur giving him the look of a fashionable dustmop. With a single bound, he plops himself back up onto the sofa, where he walks to the very center of the open folder of papers, curls up, and makes himself at home.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-f528e630-28c0-a1e9-5836-93ecaf2facf6"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If his Master won’t pay attention to him now, he’s prepared to pee on this later...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-78700424972851211362015-08-12T11:15:00.002-07:002015-08-12T11:15:52.423-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-20<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: The morning sun on this mid August morning in Metairie is brilliant and brutal. Not even 9 am and the temperature is hovering just below 95</span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">°, the humidity levels keeping up in kind. Having just endured nearly 20 minutes of creeping morning traffic along a single block of 17th Street, Bruce Halloran finally manages to break free of the molasses train and pulls into the parking lot of Morning Call. Having to take a spot nearly on the opposite end of little strip mall, he is not at all happy having to walk over to the coffee stand. He is nearly as wet as the glass panes in the French doors at Morning Call, now opaque with condensation from the machine-cooled air inside. Halloran enters Morning Call, which is crawling with people as old or older than he, many of which seem to have no where else to go. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Looks like coffee break on the set of Cocoon, he thinks to himself. Navigating around the Metairites, his sweat-soaked shirt is now ice-cold and sticking to his pale, pasty pink skin. Perfect. He’s about to approach the counter when he sees a young, lithe arm begin waving to him from the opposite side of the room. It is the young Mr. Tschantz, conspicuously smooth in a sea of wrinkles and liver spots. He walks over to where the young man has saved him a stool and apparently taken the liberty of ordering Bruce beignets and a cafe au lait. He sits down next to Quentin Tschantz and sneers,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Really, Q-Balls? You thought you’d be unnoticed at the retirement home?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Quentin sips his cafe au lait and replies loudly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I have my reasons, Mr. Halloran.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce cringes. They’re supposed to be meeting in private so the partners at the firm won’t know the kid’s giving him more help than they’d like. Halloran peers around him and quickly takes notice...no one here has heard them. Peering closer at the folks surrounding them, Halloran sees a lot of hearing aids. Testing his theory, he drops his silverware on the counter next to an older man with his tits tucked into his shorts. Nothing. They’re all deaf as posts.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I take it back, kid,” smirks Halloran. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Quentin looks directly into Bruce’s eyes and says loudly again,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Remember that, Mr. Halloran. Shall we begin?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce smirks a bit, and nods his ascension. Young Mr. Tschantz produces a thick manilla envelope from his briefcase with his right hand. His left automatically takes up a bunch of paper napkins and wipes the counter clear of powdered sugar, old cafe au lait, and water before placing the open folder between them. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Your Dr. Youngblood has an exemplary public life,” Quentin starts, “but his private life is apparently a shambles. According to these depositions Grandfather was able to locate in the records, Mr. Youngblood is only just barely holding on to his practice. His three other partners have all filed lawsuits against Dr. Youngblood and their own practice for their fair share of revenues in the business. It seems Dr. Youngblood’s charitable works come with a rather high price. He has nearly bankrupted the practice on four separate occasions in the past, making donations to a veritable alphabet soup of charities. I’m certain you recognize some of these organizations.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’d hardly call some of them organizations. More like loose assemblages.” Halloran sneers his way down the list, his eyes widening slightly at some of the fly-by-night scams at which Youngblood fairly threw money. “There’s a little framed plaque from everyone on this list in his office. All of them read Youngblood.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He’d have done better investing in an awards company,” quips young Mr. Tschantz, much to Bruce’s surprise. He didn’t think the kid owned a sense of humor, much less a slightly bitchy one. He nods to himself as Quentin continues.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“There was also...Mr. Halloran, I hesitate to tell you this.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce smiles, saying “it must be good, then. Spill, Q-Balls.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Please don’t call me that,” Quentin sighs, his smooth young brow knitted into a frown. “It seems that in the depositions, there were several references to Dr. Youngblood’s romantic life.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He’s a slut! I knew it!” Bruce hisses with glee. “Nobody with an ass that perfect doesn’t work it--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Halloran, please!” Quentin says emphatically, causing an elderly gentleman three seats away to turn in their direction for a scant moment. “Dr. Youngblood was not a ‘slut.’ He has had three long-term relationships, all of which caused problems with the doctor and his partners.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s what happens when you bring the trash home”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Quentin pinches the skin between his eyes and says painfully, “disregarding that unfortunate analogy, you’re not far off. But it was less about social position and more about...malleability. Malleable means--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I know what malleable means, you zygote,” Halloran huffs. “It’s what you’ll be if you condescend to me again. I put up with that crap out of Gary Pitts, I’ll be damned if I take it from you.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Quentin thinks for a moment and merely says “understood.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good. Go on.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“As I was saying, in the depositions the partners all describe, in one way or another how Dr. Youngblood would find these young men. all of a particular type, and try to...well, mold them into what he wanted. The dichotomy struck one of them, saying it was so strange to see the doctor dedicating himself and everything else to the cause of gay mental health, and yet he steadily manipulated his boyfriends into the same kinds of behaviours he was working to eradicate.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran wolfs down a beignet in one breath, hardly a speck of powdered sugar to be found in its wake. He washes it down with a swig of now-tepid cafe au lait, and burps.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Let me guess. All these guys kinda look like our friend Philsy, right?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That would seem to be the case, Mr. Halloran.” Young Mr. Tschantz closes up the folder and slides it towards Halloran, and rises to leave. Before he can go, Halloran stops him.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So Q-Balls, I’ve gotta question. Your name. Tschantz. You act like you’ve been here forever, but I’d never heard the name until I met your firm, and I’ve lived here for nearly 40 years. Where are you from?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Young Mr. Tschantz stands to his full height and says calmly and clearly, “I’m not surprised, Mr. Halloran. The Tschantz name is not commonly known. It is well known. Very well known. Good day, Mr. Halloran.”</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-231f-5b5a-356a-b1b947022f3f"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With that, the young man breezes out of Morning Call, leaving Bruce Halloran to ponder what he’s learned. Outside, the heat and humidity are now rising towards the triple digits. The air is clogged with the sounds of heavy machinery attempting to keep the shopping centers in the area a nice, icy 68 degrees as the glut of cars continue to spew out greenhouse gasses...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-53423405181446693582015-08-07T10:44:00.003-07:002015-08-07T10:44:38.227-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-19<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Blessedly alone in the office she ordinarily shares with her much-hated enemy Bruce Halloran, Avalena Beasley zips through her workday with ease. Unencumbered by Halloran’s annoying presence, she is actually enjoying the work. Even handling Halloran’s workload is a joy. Because he’s nowhere to be heard or seen. The only downside of the whole arrangement is that he will be back next Monday from his extended vacation. So she had better enjoy every moment of peace while she can.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A knock at the door. It’s their problem child, Myrtle-Anne. She’s the neediest worker in the customer care call center. Not a day goes by where she doesn’t come up with some reason to interrupt and get some specialized attention. Ordinarily Avalena would have verbally ripped her head off for even daring to knock on the office door. But without Satan making life miserable, Avalena is positively happy to accomodate Myrtle-Anne.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes dear? What can I help you with?” she asks brightly.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This show of happiness is completely foreign to Myrtle-Anne. She’s used to being shrieked and cursed at when she comes by. Without that familiar barrage, she’s remarkably uncomfortable. So much so that she contains a panicked squeal before running back to her cubicle to hide in fear.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Avalena is genuinely confused at this reaction, but takes it as another bullet dodged while Halloran is off the shooting range.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Going back to the data entry she’s been tackling for several days, a notification pops up on her screen. She’s received an email from Human Resources. Clicking over to company email, she opens the email and finds the following missive:</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-0943-9e49-41c1-458daf82ad4f" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Dear Avalena,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is to notify you that your co-manager Bruce Halloran has elected to take the remainder of his accrued vacation days, and will not be returning to work until late October. In view of these developments, your options are…”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Avalena didn’t care what her options are. Halloran will be gone for another two months at least! True, she will have to continue doing his work, but what of that? She’s been doing it for weeks now, and happily! He’s not here! Whatever she needs to do to keep him away, she’ll do. Besides, she can very well use the extra money. She has wigs, dresses, makeup, and supplies she wants to get for her alter ego Ambrosia DeLight. Because being Ambrosia in the bars every</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">night that keeps her going. It’s the only time she feels like she can be...herself...This Is My New Orleans.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-68993265207995828052015-08-07T10:44:00.000-07:002015-08-07T10:44:00.844-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-18<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Left alone with his own thoughts after Bruce Halloran’s dramatic visit, Jeremy Youngblood sits alone in his empty office now filled with ghosts of the past. Barely able to form cohesive sentences, he gently raises his left hand to the office intercom and makes the following order to his receptionist.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Estelle? I need you to cancel all my appointments for...for the next two days.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a short pause before Estelle comes back,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Are you sure, Dr. Youngblood? You’ve got that big meeting with the Association of--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Cancel it, Estelle!” He bellows into the receiver. Shocked by the noise, Estelle throws her fingers onto the intercom and blusters,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes sir! It’s taken care of, Doctor!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Relieved of his duties, Jeremy Youngblood retreats from the intercom with reluctance and forces himself to recline back into his desk chair to assimilate what has just happened to him. This...grotesquerie Bruce Halloran has just invaded his office to...well, to ruin his life, basically. By raising the spectre of Phil Tupperman. Philip. ‘Philsy’, as Halloran called him. The phrase cuts Jeremy down to the quick. He hadn’t been able to tell Halloran that Philsy was his pet name for Phil all those years ago. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The intoxicating influence of Chivas is now beginning to work itself upon Jeremy. He doesn’t like being drunk. He’s always hated it, in fact. But having Halloran in his office, demanding alcohol...he found himself giving in to those demands. Just as he did when….</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">...when Gary Pitts had gotten him drunk all those years ago.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When it had happened.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The very thought of it filled Jeremy with a kind of revulsion usually reserved for the war-weary and those hapless, powerless souls whom life always seems to abuse. Those poor, deluded people who were willing to believe anything they were told. He had been one of those people.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disquieted by this train of thought, He thinks first of those grand halcyon days of his early practice, sharing it with his former partners Ignacio Alberghetti and Pierce Young. Old friends from school, and just as committed to ending anti-gay treatments and the mental health of the community. And Guidry Sloane, the smartest and richest partner in their venture. Sloane had retired first after creating a mental health evaluation department for one of the oil companies. His 6 figure paycheck had given old Sloane everything he had ever wanted; a free and easy life without the constraints of accountability. He left that burden to everyone else in the firm. Fortunately, they had all been young enough to handle the crap. Then ‘Nacio and Pierce decided they wanted to start a new practice in Florida. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, he was the only partner left running the entire firm. Everyone else content with big package deals and ongoing revenues from the practice that still bears their names. Only Jeremy remained working. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And now he has a headache.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And he’ll have it again next week at this time.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back at his condo, Bruce Halloran breezes past the ecstatic Miss Sara Joy and goes instantly to his computer to pull up his email. At the top of the list is an email from the firm of DiNotto, Tschantz, & Asino. “The partners in the firm,” blah blah blah, “enacting full review,” blah blah, “all requests for assistance will be reviewed and answered within 48 hours--” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“WHAT??” Bruce’s sudden exclamation startles Miss Sara Joy, who runs back to his hidey-hole underneath the ottoman, peering out in fear. Halloran doesn’t see this, focused on these new restrictions. 48 hours? I can’t wait two days for information or supplies, or even two days before I find out if they’re gonna give anything to me at all. Before he can challenge these pantywaists he sees another email from an address he doesn’t recognize. The subject line reads,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Halloran: IMPORTANT! OPEN IMMEDIATELY!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Deciding to take the risk of his computer being infected with yet another virus, he chooses to open the mysterious email. What greets him is the following:</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-0943-0683-14cd-e8251be39efd" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Dear Mr. Halloran,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is Mr. Tschantz. I’m contacting you via a private email account. You may have already received an email from our firm. In our weekly meeting today, the senior partners made the decision to personally research and review any and all requests you make for my services before they may be filled. My grandfather was the sole dissenting vote. He and I believe that this is being done to prevent you from fulfilling the requirements of Mr. Pitts’ will. According to the terms of the contract, they are well within their legal rights to enact review procedures. But it is unethical.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After consulting with Grandfather, we have agreed that you and I will now communicate through this email, and through my private phone (number below.) The stipulations of the will remain in force. However, because of the nature of this arrangement I will now be personally assisting you with many of your supply requests. There will be times when I will need you to send formal requests to my company email. You must comply instantly when that request is made. It is imperative that the partners see your requests on a regular basis to prevent detection.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Any and all information I can give you will be sent in a separate file to be downloaded to your phone or computer. Because of the delicate nature of the situation I advise that you thoroughly read all messages and download any and all attachments as soon as you can. 10 minutes after these emails are opened, they will disappear from the servers. This is not only for our protection but for yours as well. Also, all text messages should be deleted as soon as possible.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please text my number below with the word “confirmed” to let me know you’ve received this message and understand the arrangement. It is imperative that you keep this information private. If the partners discover us, they will have grounds to terminate the contract and invalidate the terms of the will. At which point they will take possession of everything.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Regards,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Q. Tschantz”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hmm, thinks Halloran. Shoulda seen this coming with the head shysters. Certainly didn’t expect this kind of chutzpah out of Tschantz. The kid’s got a set on him. Good to know. Grabbing his phone, he puts in the new number and sends the text “Confirmed, Q Balls!” He looks forward to explaining the new nickname when kid asks.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He stares at the screen, rereading the email. Obviously the firm plans on putting up every roadblock they can think of to kill off his time. They probably put dibs on everything before he took possession. He imagines them as salivating demons in painfully tailored pinstripes. Their bloody claws grasping for everything they can grab, slowly moving toward him, their eyes wide with hunger. Then, they take his cocktail and--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No, wait. That was a show at The AllWays Lounge.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A tiny whimper at his side makes Bruce turn away from the computer to see Miss Sara Joy looking up at him like an orphan in a Dickens novel. His long tail is a flurry of thrashing fur, waiting for his master to tell him everything is OK now. Bruce bends down and picks him up, his long brown and black fur spilling over Halloran’s hand like a furry waterfall. He plants Miss Sara Joy in his lap, where he curls up and goes instantly to sleep again. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran looks back to the email and begins rereading it once more when his browser suddenly refreshes, and he’s back in his mailbox. Only there’s something missing. The email from young Mr. Tschantz has disappeared. He checks in every folder, but there is nothing to be found.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sonofabitch,” he mutters. “It self-destructed. I feel like Barbara Bain!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Amusing himself, he affects some of her poses from Mission: Impossible when he turns and catches sight of himself in the floor mirror. To his reflection, he sneers and quips,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, but’cha still look like Martin Landau. Today!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He chuckles a bit at the ridiculousness of reading himself in the mirror. But that’s what you do when you live alone and like it. You talk to yourself. And you insult yourself. And you play with the dog and watch a lot of internet porn. Not necessarily in that order. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And you drink, which is exactly what Bruce is going to do now. He has to figure a few more things out before he can decide what to do.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Preparing to close up the office after a long day, Quentin Tschantz begins packing up briefs in his satchel when he hears a muffled ring coming from his desk. He quickly crosses the expanse of his tiny office and closes the door. He rushes back to his desk and opens the center drawer. There, his personal phone jangles away, a familiar number visible on the screen. He picks it up and swipes the screen efficiently, saying</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes sir?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He listens intently to the caller, his eyes darting back and forth as his analytical mind assembles a flood of new information into neat little colored boxes, coded for maximum efficiency. It’s how he thinks. Ideas and concepts appear as geometric shapes of colors. He continues to listen to a greenish-blue circular line of thought, and says respectfully,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes sir. Yes, I sent the information...not as far as I know...he hasn’t said anything…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He continues to listen, standing at attention like a cadet. The room turns to purple hexagons and orange rectangles and then Quentin speaks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think th--” The words die on his lips. Black and blue rhomboids. With resignation, he says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes sir. Everything will be in place by tomorrow morning...I know what to do, sir. Good night.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tapping the screen, he places the phone in the pocket of his blazer hanging over the back of his desk chair. Looking toward the tiny louvered window, he sees the late afternoon sun blazing through in thin, bright shafts. And in the light, a trillion tiny bits of dust and whatnot, bobbling along on the waves of heat, each little particle a minute inferno. Unconsciously, the middle finger on his left hand begins picking at the cuticle of his thumb, pulling the skin away from the nail bit by bit. Quentin’s job just got a lot tougher. And he really dislikes it when everything goes black and blue.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Q-Balls?!?"...This Is My New Orleans.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-44687485804506287282015-08-07T10:43:00.000-07:002015-08-07T10:43:00.491-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-17<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: The rarified air of Dr. Jeremy Youngblood’s office is tense, thanks to the unexpected visit of Bruch Halloran and the musty air of old remembrances he brought in as he arrived. Cowed into hearing Halloran out, the good doctor folds his hands over his crossed knees and says bluntly.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You have my attention, Mr. Halloran. Do something with it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Out of habit, Halloran smacks his tongue and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Before I do, I need to know a few things from you. What happened to make you dump Phil?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s none of your business,” comes the abrupt reply. “I will ask you one more time before I throw you out of my practice. Why. Are. You. Here?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Okay,” drawls Halloran in his office manager voice, “we’re playing it that way. Fine.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He rises and begins to pace as he tells the tale, only to be stopped by Dr. Youngblood’s stentorian tones.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sit down, Mr. Halloran. I will not be intimidated in my own office.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce is momentarily thrown by being called out so blatantly. He can respect that, he does it all the time. He returns to his chair and drops all pretense.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Here’s what happened back then, tell me if I’m wrong. Just before you broke up with Philsy, you met a guy named Gary Pitts, probably called himself Sara Joy. He started off with buying you drinks whenever he saw you, which coincidentally was whenever Phil wasn’t around. As he got you progressively drunker, he began telling you a bunch of crap about your boyfriend, only he doesn’t ‘know’ he’s your boyfriend. And you never said anything because you wanted to know what your new buddy had heard. And I’m sure there were some other random barfags who echoed what you were hearing from Sara Joy. You know, for corroboration. The night of the Lesbian Avengers rally at Charlene’s you saw some drunken guy slobbering all over Phil, and decided to split. Anything about that you wanna correct, Doctor?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood is silent, unmoving.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll assume that means I’m on track. Let’s keep going.” Halloran sits on the edge of his seat and leans across the coffee table to make eye contact with Youngblood. “So, you threw a sissy fit and stormed off to lick your wounds. Several weeks later you heard that Philsy had been committed to Charity and they were trying to get all the gay out of him. Somewhere deep down you felt responsible for what happened to Tupperman and switched your major to psychology. And here we are, in this lavish office with your humanitarian reputation and your walls full of awards, and everybody thinks you’re the greatest. And then I walk in to remind you that it’s all built on guilt. Did I do enough with that attention?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood stares at Halloran, who returns the favor. The doctor stands, and walks over to his desk, his back to Halloran. Picking up a black tube, he raises it to his mouth and exhales a misty white cloud of water vapor. Still facing away from Bruce, Jeremy says clearly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I never felt responsible for Phil’s situation.” He turns to face Bruce, taking another hit from the vapor pen. Another cloud of mist. “But I did think that what they were doing to him and the other men trapped in that program was inherently wrong. That is why I decided to make a difference.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce sits back into the davenport, crosses his arms and legs, and says a bit snidely,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s the only thing I got wrong, then?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood looks away from Halloran, taking another drag. Another cloud of white, this time shooting through the doctor’s aquiline nose. His brow knits, and he asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“How do you know all of this? Did Phil tell you all o--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Are you kidding?” Halloran chortles. “It took poor ol’ Philsy years to piece things together. No, it was Sara Joy. He left...extensive notes.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Left?” Youngblood asks. “Is he dead?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“For years now.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good,” comes the doctor’s instant reply. A wry little smile curls the corner of Bruce’s mouth. Seems that’s the general consensus. Youngblood takes a final drag, drops the pen in his jacket pocket, a considered look of contemplation on his handsome features.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I still don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Halloran.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Call me Bruce. After all of this, it seems stupid to be so formal. And I’m here...because I’m trying to fix what Gary Pitts screwed up.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You don’t strike me as the philanthropic type, Bruce.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran laughs, and sits back on the edge of the seat, resting his arms on his knees. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You’re right. I’m not. But I have to do this.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why is that, Bruce?” Youngblood’s demeanor shifts effortlessly into psychologist mode, his voice smooth and understated. Oh shit, thinks Halloran. He’s trying to finesse me into telling him why I’m really here. Not good enough, Doc. A genial smile cracks the crust of his face and he looks directly into Youngblood’s eyes and says in matching tones.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You know, I remember you from back then.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The doctor’s face again sits flat and unmoving. Bruce is back on footing he can work with. He rises and slowly walks over to Youngblood, still standing at his desk.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh yeah. I never forget an ass, and then...as now, your ass is spectacularly memorable. Used to see you in all the bars back then. Mississippi River Bottom...Bourbon Pub...the Corner Pocket...Jewel’s--”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I never went to Jewel’s!” Youngblood barks indignantly in Halloran’s smug face.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran smiles. He’s struck a nerve. “Must have been someone else getting pissed on in that tub.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes, it’s good to be an old bar fag.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The vapor pen has returned, and with it a thick, vaguely vanilla smog. He’s gone far enough. If he pushes any more buttons, the good doctor will have him thrown out and then he’s really screwed. Time to dial it back. He retreats back to the opposite side of the sitting area, surveying the framed collection of awards, degrees, and citations awarded to Dr. Jeremy T. Youngblood over the decades.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Quite a career, Doctor. Lots of these organizations don’t exist anymore.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“They outlived their usefulness,” Youngblood replies, a little calmer. “Most of them in the last five years. As we gained more equality, there was no longer a need for them to exist. I attended each and every one of their ‘going out of business’ parties. One of the few times in life when something important ends and you feel a sense of accomplishment and completion.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Very impressive,” Halloran sighs earnestly. “Do you know who it was that kissed Philsy in front of you that night?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood exhales another scented cloud and says flatly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I have the feeling I’m about to know.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With total seriousness Halloran turns to face Youngblood.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It was Gary Pitts. It was the first time you had ever seen him as Sara Joy so you wouldn’t recognize him. That way, if for some reason Philsy didn’t fall into his waiting arms of comfort, he could still go after you as the supportive friend with easy access to booze and drugs.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood is visibly stunned at this information. “That’s...that’s diabolical. How could...wow.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s nothing,” Halloran says ruefully. “I think we’d better sit down for this next bit.” Youngblood begins to put his vapor pen back into his pocket but Halloran stops him. “You’re gonna wanna keep that out. And have you got any bourbon?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Umn...there’s a bottle of Chivas in the bookcase cabinet.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Close enough. Sit down, Doctor. I’ll get you a cocktail.” As he pours out four fingers of Chivas in each glass, Doctor Youngblood resettles himself on the antique davenport. Bruce hands him his drink as he takes his seat.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Here’s lookin’ up your old address,” quips Halloran, and the men take a good, stiff snort.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You never saw Gary Pitts again after that, did you?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, not really,” replies Youngblood. “I remember seeing him one other time, a few years afterwards. It was the night I got that commendation from Cox Cable for a public access show I did on mental health for a couple of years. I almost didn’t recognize him. I didn’t realize it was him until we made eye contact. He got this look of disgust on his face and left the banquet hall. That was the last time I saw him.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran takes another swig of liquor, and swallows it hard.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“With you gone, Gary Pitts pounced on Philsy and tricked him into moving in with him. They were together for a few months. That was longer than most of his other tricks. But Phil was...well, he was depressed. Because he was in love with you. He turned to Pitts for comfort...and Pitts turned his attention to his next trick. So Philsy decided to off himself.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood’s face is furrowed. He takes a drink, closes his eyes for a moment, then nods slightly to Halloran. Bruce goes on, surprised at himself for having this much trouble.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He...he poisoned himself. Pitts found him just in time. He put Phil into a cab...told the driver to take him to Charity and forget his address, put Phil’s things on the street...and claimed not to know Phil when the hospital called. I assume you know the rest.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood listens to all of this intently, his eyes blinking repeatedly as he processes this information.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But...Phil committed himself. He put himself int--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No, he didn’t. He wasn’t aware of what he was signing or why. The Doctors Mengele knew what they were doing up there. He was trapped the instant Gary Pitts told them he’d never heard of Phil Tupperman.” Halloran drains the rest of his drink, and rises. “I guess you don’t know about his mother coming to take over, either.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran begins to walk back to the half-full bottle of Chivas in the bookcase when a wry smile crosses the doctor’s face.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Now I’ve got you, Mr. Halloran. Phil didn’t have a mother. His parents died before he came t--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Wrong again, Shrinker Man!” bellows Halloran, prepared for this dissention. “Ol’ Philsy’s parents were alive and well, and kicked their faggot son to the curb and disowned him. Told him to get out of Kansas City and never come back.” He grabs the bottle and walks back towards the sitting area with a somewhat cocky demeanor. “And no one would have ever known if those vultures at Charity hadn’t given Phil sodium pentathol as part of his ‘treatment.’ Once the truth came out, the doctors called up the old bitch and told her to come get her son. She jumped at the chance to leave Kansas City. The old man died of a heart attack and she was just too embarrassed to show her face in town because everybody knew she had a faggot for a son. So, she came down here, took possession of poor Philsy, locked him away in an old farmhouse in Metairie, and set to playing society matron with the Carnival krewes until she dropped dead of terminal symbolism.” Bruce’s eyes spy a familiar symbol on Dr. Youngblood’s wall of accolades. “In fact…” he says as he rises and goes to the specific symbol on the wall. Another recognition for services rendered to a ball krewe he’s recently heard of. “She was the Queen of this krewe, Ayesha.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He grins bitterly as he inspects the certificate, then turns to face the good doctor directly.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This is her signature. Edith Agnes. Mama Tupperman presented you with this little gem, Doctor. And you never knew.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood slams his glass down on the antique coffee table, rattling the neatly arranged magazines out of their formation. He leaps up to inspect the document as Bruce walks back to his place on the davenport, refilling both their glasses nearly to the top, emptying the rest of the bottle. He sits and takes a deep, satisfied sip while Youngblood stares at Edith Agnes’ signature.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You...you have to be lying. I knew Edie. We were friends. She was--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Very supportive?” opines Bruce, holding his half-full rocks glass like Lady Liberty at a dive bar. “I’ve seen her coronation portraits. There’s an entire hallway devoted to it at the Tupperman compound. Her dress was white with handset aurora borealis crystals, blonde helmet hair, and a wraparound bosom. Wanna know what she wore to the Queen’s Luncheon?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once again, the pallid blankness settles in on Youngblood’s face. Bruce has to say something quickly while he’s contemplating. The only way to get through this is to keep him off balance. For a scant moment, he appreciates how well Jeremy has aged. He retains his masculine beauty, enhanced by his uniquely slow aging process. He’s still the incredibly hot young stud Bruce first took notice of all those years ago. Yet, despite his physical perfection he’s a broken toy. Unwilling to admit that he’s been chasing after the spectral innocence of the young Phil Tupperman yet defiant in all he’s achieved on the back of that guilt. The reverie lasts for a single second before he realizes how he’s screwed up yet again.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...because...oh Halloran, what a stupid fuck you are! Mama never, ever used her married name here!” He tears over to the framed document, right next to Youngblood who is momentarily disturbed by Halloran’s sudden approach. Bruce glares at the parchment under glass, then turns and seizes the Doctor by the shoulders.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m sorry, Youngblood. There’s no way you could have…” he trails off, releasing the Doctor from his grip. Bruce’s gaze moves toward the floor as his eyelids narrow. He realizes that he’s come here without all the information he should have.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shit.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce stalls for a moment, unsure of what to do now. He needs to contact young Mr. Tschantz again, ASAP. He needs to go back to Philsy’s house and do some more research. He needs...he needs...more. He bolts towards the davenport and seizes the remainder of liquor in Youngblood’s glass, slamming it down in a single, audible gulp. Fondling his pocket fronts for his keys, he fairly jogs towards the pocket doors and throws them open with great drama. Before he can exit, Jeremy Youngblood calls out,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Where are you going? You can’t leave yet!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce stops on a dime and turns to face Youngblood, the pocket doors slamming against their boundaries with a loud alarum. In direct contrast to the din, Bruce says softly but directly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do nothing. Don’t even think about this meeting today. I will contact you within the week. Until then...this didn’t happen.” Halloran turns to go, then stops himself and turns back on his heel.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I need to schedule an appointment for next week.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood instantly perks up and says a little too quickly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Let’s meet at my private office instead. I can g--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No,” says Halloran with a definite air. “I’d prefer we meet here. Less chance of something...undocumentable happening. Don’t you agree...Doctor?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood freezes in his spot, unable to conjure a response. Without much else to do, he simply nods. Halloran takes full advantage and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Great. Say next week? Same time? Of course same time,” he gloats. “I’ll tell the girl up front to clear your calendar. Oh! Dr. Youngblood?”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The doctor regards Halloran with a mixture of deference and dread.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-0941-f5c7-9939-7354b9b03f21"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...next week, have some decent bourbon on hand. I’m partial to Bulleit these days,”...This Is My New Orleans.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-91557030841599490292015-08-07T10:41:00.003-07:002015-08-07T10:41:53.096-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-16<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Pulling up into the less than spacious parking lot of the practice of Youngblood, Palmisano, Alberghetti, & Sloane, Bruce Halloran squeezes into a horribly narrow spot at the end, thankful to have the space to exit his car through the begonia infested, narrow strip of soil between customer parking and the reserved spaces for the doctors. He’s lucky to have what he’s secured. It took nearly 14 minutes of Halloran’s time circling the Garden District to get a parking space closer than a five-block walk. Bruce doesn’t walk. That’s what cars are for, to keep him in perfect air-conditioned comfort for the longest possible stretch. Walking more than two blocks in the heat of the season is his definition of Hell. With him flirting with sixty and the heat index flirting with 117°, he will take whatever comforts he can procure. He’s not more than six steps from the front door, so he puts up the sun reflectors, turns off the motor, and hurries in quickly, the chirp of the car alarm system wishing him goodbye. Inside, he’s barely broken a sweat, which pleases him more than it should. It’s a tasteful decorating job in what had been an enormous old Greek Revival-style home. He checks in with the receptionist, who gives him a sheaf of paperwork on a clipboard and a pen and tells him to have a seat, the doctor will be with him soon. Halloran walks over to the waiting area in what he’s guessing was originally the dining room, given the fireplace and antique crystal chandelier. There are a few unlovely souls cluttering up the place. A streaky-haired woman older than Bruce with a young boy who looks like he’s been kicked out of his home, another fella with long dreads buried in his phone. Over by the big bay window a couple of guys, little younger than Halloran, holding hands and looking nervous. He sits down, and looks through the paperwork. Boilerplate stuff, he thinks. Screw it, I’m not here to be treated. Why not have some fun? Mother’s maiden name...’Hymen,’...father’s first name...’according to my mother, Goddammit,’...siblings...’Anything’s possible,’--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Halloran? Follow me, please.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce rises and follows the nurse into the back of the building, towards a set of enormous pocket doors, the right of which bears the plaque “Dr. J.T. Youngblood.” The nurse takes the paperwork from Halloran and glides efficiently away down the long Persian rug, her high heels quietly stabbing the piling as she goes. Pulling aside the door, Halloran enters the room as closes it behind him like Susan Hayward in everything. This had to have been the parlor. All the original details remain. Picture and chair railings, wainscoting, plaster medallion over the modern chandelier. The doctor’s desk is a sleek, stylish affair of chrome, fine wood, and glass. Yet the sitting area is exclusively leather-bound antique davenports and a glorious carved wood coffee table polished to a high glow. He takes a seat facing both the pocket doors and a smaller door on the opposite side of the room and waits. In his gut, right below his diaphragm he feels a twinge of uneasiness. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not that Halloran hates doctors. Some of his most memorable tricks have been members of the medical community. What he doesn’t like are headshrinkers. Never has. Goes back to the days of forced treatment like the one Philsy underwent. Still, he has to be here if he wants to keep his lovely condo. So he takes his own advice and sucks it up, Princess.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The smaller door opens and a handsome, well-preserved man in a tailored blue serge suit enters. The man turns to close the door behind him, giving Halloran the view he always wants. It’s him. It’s Youngblood. He recognizes that ass instantly. Still looks like a couple of softballs in a tight sock. Simply asstastic--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good morning, Mister...Halloran.” Dr. Youngblood’s baritone fills the room with a warm, officious tone and instantly seizes Bruce’s attention. “My name is Dr. Youngblood, how do you do?” He approaches Halloran and shakes his hand like a politician. Halloran responds in kind and the two take their seats on opposite sides of the really beautiful coffee table. Up close, Bruce can still see the handsome young man in the picture with Phil Tupperman. His temples are graying just right, his face is lined, but not deeply. Just enough to give him character. His neatly-trimmed salt and pepper beard only highlights his features. Easy to see why Philsy was so head over heels in love with this guy. Hell, for half a chance Bruce would--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What brings you to see me today, Mr. Halloran?” Youngblood asks, flipping through the papers. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well Doctor,” Halloran exhales, trying not to stare directly at Youngblood’s crotch, “I’m not here for myself. I’m here to...well, get some information for a friend.”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I see,” replies Youngblood, looking up from Halloran’s paperwork. “And what kind of ‘information’ were you looking for?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you remem--...er, let me...do...does the year 1987 mean anything to you?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood’s face doesn’t move. Unnerving. Why didn’t he think this part through, thinks Halloran. He presses on, flying by the seat of his considerable pants.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Do you remember Phil Tupperman?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood’s handsome features soften, but his face remains nearly immobile. He neatly drops Halloran’s paperwork in the basket next to the davenport, sits back and crosses his legs, and tenting his fingers across his chest, he asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What about Phil Tupperman?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ah...well. He’s...alive. Living in Metairie, if you call that livin’. And, he...well, for lack of a better word...he needs you.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Youngblood continues to stare unerringly at Halloran, no sense of emotion at all. Except for the tension in his fingers. Each perfectly manicured finger strains against its opposite, the little chevrons trembling above his chest in desperate battle. The doctor’s lips part and a new tone fills his voice.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Does he? I find that hard to believe. But then again, maybe I should have expected this.” Dr. Youngblood stands to his full height, and walks over to his desk. He sits, opens a drawer, and takes out a checkbook, flopping it down onto the glass surface. “How much does he want?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce is instantly confused, the emotion conveyed in his furrowed brow. He sits up on the edge of his seat and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Uh...no. Dr. Youngblood, I don’t think you--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“How...much?” the good doctor intones, making his intention to have Halloran and this matter over with instantly. Halloran’s ire rises instantly in his throat. His kneejerk reaction to haughtiness. He swallows his indignation and stands up to his full height, about an inch or so taller than Youngblood, and says in a matching tone,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Look here shrinker man, I don’t want your money. Neither does Phil. In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m here or that I know who you are, so why don’t you sit down and listen? That is what you do, isn’t it? Listen?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dr. Youngblood and Halloran stand in defiance of each other for what seems like an hour. Seeing that Youngblood won’t back down in his own office, Halloran finally decides to return to his seat, maintaining eye contact with the doctor. Finally, Youngblood capitulates and returns to his seat.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-0941-1c9e-aed4-21272e18db29"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“All right. Why are you here and what business is it of yours, Mr. Halloran?”...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-20473997219024936052015-08-07T10:41:00.000-07:002015-08-07T10:41:02.657-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-15<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Arriving back at the condo to the excited yapping of Miss Sara Joy, Bruce Halloran drops his keys on the hall table, reaches down to scoop up the little furball directly onto his right shoulder, and continues walking to the bar in the living room to pour himself a stiff snort of bourbon. Miss Sara Joy navigates his perch on Bruce’s shoulder, licking his Master’s ear and face with reckless abandon. Knocking back the first shot of several, Halloran drops the dog off on the back of the black leather sofa, and walks directly into the bathroom for a much-needed piss. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Outside the bathroom, Miss Sara Joy reaches down to clean himself as he listens to the distinctive sound of water hitting porcelain...a lot. The sounds continue as the little dog rises, walks around in a circle, and flops down on the black leather, splayed out like a ragdoll and very comfortable. At last the whooshing sounds of the plumbing signal an end and his Master emerges triumphant. Miss Sara Joy’s tail sweeps the sofa back furiously.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran tops off his cocktail and walks around to the new computer. Pitts had a $2K Mac that Halloran just hated because he couldn’t use it like the computers at work. So he sold it and bought one from Cox during the last upgrade. The OS is clunky, the interface is straight out of Windows 98, and he has it rigged to play the old AOL “you’ve got mail!” soundfile. But it works for him. He pulls up the email from young Mr. Tschantz.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-0940-510a-f49d-2bf574249231" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“DiNotto, Tschantz, & Asino</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Testamentary Law-Estate Administration</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Mr. Halloran,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The partners are happy to hear you’ve made contact with Mr. Tupperman. They wish you the best of luck in completing your tasks. With the help of the photograph you sent, we were able to locate Mr. Youngblood. Please find attached all information pertinent to your request.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Best regards,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Q. Tschantz III</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Estate Administrator”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Q, thinks Halloran. What the hell could his first name be? He sorta resembles a koala, maybe it’s Quantas? Bruce opens the attachments, which take over the screen. The first place to look is the photo of a very handsome man. Youngblood certainly lives up to his surname, thinks Bruce. The guy looks like he’s hardly aged a day. The photo comes from an article in City Business published three years ago. Dr. Youngblood isn’t only a celebrated psychotherapist, he’s now got one of the largest psychology practices in the Gulf South. That could be useful. If I can make this all work.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Clicking over to the PDF, Halloran reads up on the fellow he first noticed in the bars back in 1986. The privileged Mr. Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood has had quite the cushy existence. Born to Miss Millicent Tollivar and Jerome Youngblood in 1965, he was raised in a formerly exclusive part of the Garden District, near the corner of Coliseum and Fourth Streets. Educated at Isadore Newman, head of his class until graduation. Waited until the spring session of 1988 to enter Tulane as a psychiatricl researcher. Changed his major a year in to psychologist. Earned his degree and salutatorian of his class in 1991, went directly to Charity Hospital as a therapist...award, award, award, blah blah bla--hold up! What’s that?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce scrolls back up to find the reference that has caught his eye---here it is. He clicks on the link to reveal details of an award from an organization called Artists Against AIDS. Dr. Youngblood was recognized in 1996 for his “substantial contributions to the gay & lesbian community in New Orleans, providing free counseling services and actively fighting against so-called ‘reparative therapy’ in the greater New Orleans area. Someboy named T. Varnadore and Kathy Something-Scribbled signed the declaration. There’s also a link to one of the performers that evening; “</span><a href="https://youtu.be/McN3RIxWgHE" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://youtu.be/McN3RIxWgHE</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay, thinks Halloran. Youngblood scores points. Lots of bastards do.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce has a habit of assuming that anyone who makes a name in the gay community is automatically out for a buck. Such is his viewpoint on Youngblood, initially. Until his name starts showing up in charities to which Halloran himself has contributed. Then it just gets weird. Youngblood’s credits definitely turn towards the radical for a few years. The Lesbian Avengers pop up, as do several efforts for the NO/AIDS Task Force, what he can only assume is the final year of Artists Against AIDS. and a handful of awards at the end of the file from an organization called Doctors Against Toxic Therapies, or DATT. As far as he can figure out from what he’s been given, DATT still continues today. The last award given to Dr. Youngblood was last year for “Outstanding Outreach Program, NORC-SSP Division” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">NORC-SSP? What the hell did that mean, exactly? He punches up the anagram into his phone, pulling up “Naturally Occurring Retirement Community-Special Services Program. Philsy is the definition of a NORC-SSP….</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Focus, thinks Halloran. Is it possible? Has Youngblood been...no, it can’t be that easy. He’s looking for Tupperman. But...the evidence is there. He’s built his career on helping people like Phil...naw, it can’t be...can it? It must be. You’ve managed to figure it all out. Find Youngblood, set them up again, let nature take it’s course, get the signature and he’s on to the next case. Simple! Simple!!...This Is My New Orleans.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-34962226864676686162015-08-07T10:40:00.000-07:002015-08-07T10:40:16.886-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-14<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Bruce Halloran sits motionless in front of his TV watching WDSU's live coverage of the ruling from the Supreme Court. Gay marriage is...legal. He's having problems believing it has finally happened, mainly because it goes against everything he ever knew. He was never really ashamed of the fact he was gay. He liked the fact that he was illegal and immoral in the eyes of the Church. It was what made being a faggot fun. But this? Marriage? Fruits gettin' hitched, for real? It just doesn't make sense to Halloran. It goes against everything he used to love about being gay. He continues to watch, his little dog Miss Sara Joy happy to snuggle up with his owner on the bed. He just can't...</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Angrily, he jumps up and turns off the TV, deposing Miss Sara Joy to the floor. What difference does it make anyway, he thinks. I'm not getting married anytime soon. Just another way to collect taxes and make us pay out even more. I see what's goin' on here. It's all about money. Besides, he has more important things to worry about...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Erica L is playing in the backyard with Rex, The Wonder Dog and a brand-new Frisbee. She's learned how to bounce the Frisbee off the pavement and still fly, how to buzz low to the grass, and how to make it go all the way to the far end of the yard. All Rex knows is that His Girl is playing with him outside...where he can keep an eye on those evil squirrels. Suddenly, Mom sticks her head out the window and calls,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Erica, you and Rex come inside right now! Your Dad and I want you to see something! C'mon!"</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Erica obeys, and rushes back inside with Rex on her tail. The Frisbee remains behind. They gallop through the kitchen door and into the living room, where Mom and Dad are watching the President.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Come sit down, honey," Dad says, shuffling over to make a place on the sofa. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"What's going on?" Erica asks, uncertain as to why she's inside.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"The Supreme Court just ruled that same-sex marriage is legal, sweetie. This is history being made. We wanted you to see it."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Erica and her family listen to the President speaking on the ruling. He calls the ruling "a victory for America," and that we are now a place where "you can write your own destiny." Erica thinks for a moment, and asks quietly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Does that mean that Uncle Tommy and Unka Tim can be married here instead of just in New York?"</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mom looks at Dad, both of them a little misty. In unison, they say "yes."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Erica jumps up, yelling, "Flower Girl Time!!!" and dances into the kitchen for a lemonade. Dad looks at Mom and asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Family moment over?"</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Nope," says Mom, shifting over to him and throwing her arms around his chest.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Not just yet."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">----------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the shared courtyards between Tunie DuFour and Her Boys Jerry Laufrey and Patrick Cook, the three meet and fall into a hug filled with tears of joy and relief. Though Patrick and Jerry have been together for nearly 25 years and like so many others were married in New York, their union has never been recognized here. Years and years of living in fear of hospitalization and closed-minded staff refusing to allow them to see each other because they weren't related. Years of being treated as second-class citizens and having to pay more than their married friends for the privilege. They had endured it all together. And now, all that is over. They didn't even have to call each other. They knew they had to be together. The trio stand and hold each other for dear life, the tears flowing without shame. From Tunie's back door emerges Harold Amos, carrying a tray with four glasses of Tunie's beloved muscadine wine. Setting the tray down, he says jovially,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"All right now. Can't nobody have a drink to celebrate if y'all are gonna stand there like a tree trunk. Come on, this is a happy day."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They laugh, and wipe away the tears as they walk over to the table. Taking up their glasses, Harold takes Tunie under his arm and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Fellas...I know we had our problems when I first started comin' 'round here to see my Tunie. And I know I said some things about your k--about...two fellas gettin' married. But I want to say today...I was wrong. After gettin' to know both of ya, I realized that you're more married than anybody I ever met! So congratulations, fellas. I mean it."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Deep inside the remote house in Old Metairie, Oskar Hammar, his mother and sister sit watching the television in shock. Guertrid rocks back and forth on the sofa, her stubby hands furiously working a rosary. With tears in her eyes, she mutters her prayers in German, begging God's forgiveness and mercy. Oskar looks blankly at his mother and her hysterics. He is numb. What will happen now? Will God strike down the nation with plagues, or fire? Will he simply flood the world again, as he did before? Or maybe something worse. He doesn't know, not like his mother knows. Her faith has never wavered. She has always lived by her Bible and the Church. It's what has gotten the family through so many bad times. He's always respected that in his mother, depended upon it. She was so certain it wouldn't happen.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sister Katrinka rises from her chair and goes to Guertrid, kneeling at her feet.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Mama, it's OK. Don't get so worked up, Mama."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Gott ist wütend! Sie machten es legal!" Guertrid screams at Katrinka, forcing her back onto the carpeting. "Don't you see, girl? It's not OK! They have spit in the eye of The Almighty. They have made this horrible, horrible sin legal! Sie haben Scheiße auf die Bibel!" She throws her hands up to her mouth, ashamed she has said something so blasphemous. But it's true. She can see no other truth but this. And it galls her to the core. Unable to stay seated any longer, Guertrid runs to her bedroom, takes out her Bible, and begins reciting Scriptures to herself, looking for comfort against the end of the world.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the living room, Katrinka watches the television from the floor, just as stunned as her brother. Oskar rises and walks to the door, taking down his house key and a pair of old sunglasses.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Where are you going, Oskar?"</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I'm going to work, 'Trinka. It's Friday."</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Katrinka looks to the floor and says earnestly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I forgot."</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-093f-a56a-2642-aa10427d6669"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I didn't," he replies, and walks out the door. On the sidewalk outside, he can hear his mother's wails through the bedroom window. No, thinks Oskar as he walks along, I won't forget this Friday...This Is My New Orleans.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-14254410434881426152015-08-07T10:39:00.000-07:002015-08-07T10:39:31.891-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-13<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Slowly walking down the hallway in the Tupperman manse in Old Metairie, Bruce Halloran takes a few moments to really look at the orderly, neatly hung gilt-framed portraits lining the walls. A tasteful frosted lead crystal dome hugs the ceiling light, making the inferior light bulb within seem even cheaper. Apparently, this hallway is a shrine to Mother Tupperman’s time as the queen of a krewe he’s never heard of, the Krewe of Ayesha. Her bal masque gown is gorgeous. Just not on her. An otherwise stunning white gown dripping in crystals and aurora borealis rhinestones, each handset on the material. Strapless, held in place by the sheer gravitational force of her wraparound bosom. The only way to tell her back cleavage from her front cleavage was the crown and bottle blonde hair facing you. That, and the enormous scarlet A applique on what he assumed was her right breast. Hester Prynne at Carnival. In another photo with her court at what looks like the Queen’s Luncheon, she’s wearing a blue-gray suit that makes her look like a linebacker with a fetching hat. The makeup that day was a bit slapdash. All around black eyeliner, rouge for eyes and cheeks, and a lip color known best as Spitty Red Jellybean. Augustus Gloop in drag. On the opposite wall is a portrait of her testing the weight restrictions on her throne with a man old enough to be her great-grandfather as her King. Bruce reminds himself to ask Phil if he lived out the night or if his mother just ate him whole after the pictures. The other is her royal portrait, in the dress, but with a matching cape and train, towering tiara, and enormous mantlepiece collar emblazoned with another, much larger scarlet A. I take it back, Bruce thinks. Hester Prynne in Vegas. He’s about to walk back into the living room when he notices a small, cheaply framed Polaroid wedged in between Her Majesty and the end of the wall. It’s a little fuzzy, and the shadow from the gilt frame keeps it mostly in shadow, but he can make out that same cheesy moustache in it’s youth. It’s Phil and what has to be this Youngblood character. They’re dressed in some old krewe costumes that they hooched up to make it grander. He takes out his phone, turns on the light and shines it onto the picture. He was a good looking man, this Jeremy Youngblood. Big shoulders, narrow waist, perfect ass--wait a minute.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite the many years of alcohol and drugs, despite the many, many years that have passed since it all happened, when it came to men he noticed in the bars, he had an eidetic memory. He remembered this guy. He was hot. And together, they were kind of cute. Both of ‘em grinning like happy idiots. Lantern Jaw and Lip Brow. On the bottom of the shot is a neatly printed line that reads “St. Ann Parade ‘88.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran takes a few pictures of the shot from different angles, and texts them to young Mr. Tschantz with the message “Youngblood’s on the right.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Returning to his chair, he looks at Phil, who’s once again lost in his mind. Bruce tops off his tea, grabs a cookie, and sits back down before snapping his fingers loudly. Phil comes to, and smiles politely.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You were gone for...quite a while.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah,” Halloran belches. “Sorry. So. Where did we leave off?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil bites his lower lip, his eyes going pouty. He looks at the floor and blinks furiously, trying to stave off the tears. Finally he looks up again and asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why do we have to discuss all this? Why do you need to know...know everything they did to me-to us?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Phil. We talked about this. I have to know everything so I can...so I can make things right somehow. Look, I know it’s hard to look back at a traumatic past. There’s a reason I won’t look at pictures of me from the early 90s. But I have to know. It’s the only way I can help.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil stares back at him, a hint each of resentment and resignation in his glare. Bruce stares back at him in full barfly glower, insisting on capitulation. It works. The soft, vague features of Phil’s face return. Struggling not to sneer, Halloran shoves the rest of the cookie in his mouth and nods to Tupperman to go on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...well...like I said, I was in there for years. Longer than the others. Kendall was the first to break. When they got inside his head, he caved in. Big time. He sobbed for two days. When he wasn’t praying or beating himself up--and I don’t mean just berating himself. He’d have these fits where he would punch and slap himself as hard as he could. When we weren’t in therapy he would stare at the rest of us with hatred in his eyes...but not as much as the hatred he gave himself in the mirror every morning. In a week or so, the doctors decided he was cured and moved him to a halfway house somewhere in Treme--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A halfway house?” Bruce exclaims. “That’s where they send alcoholics and drug addicts.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil looks into his eyes and says solemnly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s how we were treated. It’s what we were told. ‘Taking drugs is an unnatural behavior. It puts your brain into an unnatural state. That state is called addiction. Engaging in homosexual behavior is an unnatural state. You are addicted to the homosexual lifestyle. People choose to take drugs and people can choose to give up taking drugs. You must choose to give up homosexuality before you can be cured.’”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The robotic way Phil recites the poisonous words chills a little part of Halloran’s heart. You didn’t talk about it with anybody. But back then, every fag was deep-down frightened of being sent to the brainwashers. Sure, occasionally you got the ones who spent two or three years laying everything in the bars then suddenly “found Jesus” and rushed off to impregnate some broad and pass for straight. Them you could handle. But when you ran into one who’d undergone “reparative therapy,” you knew it instantly by the look on their faces. Drawn, defeated, and numb. Until they found out you were still “in the bar life.” Then the faces either became masks of judgement or pity. Didn’t matter which, they all said the same thing before walking away.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll be praying for you.” Exasperating.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Carlson got out just before I did,” Phil continues. “But they didn’t get to him. He was strong, stronger than the rest of us. Certainly stronger than me...he figured out that all he had to do was fake it. He was smart enough not to try it right away. He waited and watched. He watched Kendall melt down and go hateful. He watched Bobby crack up suddenly in the middle of the night, screaming ‘sorry! Sorry!’ at the top of his lungs until they took him out. Even Reuben. Reuben jumped up in therapy one day, grabbed one of the Playboys which were part of our therapy, and starts beating off to Miss August in front of the psychiatrists. He was out the next day. Carlson watched, and he made them believe that he was cured. The last thing he said to me was ‘just tell ‘em what they want to hear. See you at The Phoenix when you get out!’</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I wouldn’t see Carlson again for years…” Phil trails off, taking a deep breath. We’re moving into deeper territory, Halloran thinks. Better grab another cookie.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“After Carlson got out, they tried a new therapy on the rest of us. It was some drug that would make it easier for us to find the root cause of our disorder. That’s how they found out my family was still alive. A few days later, the doctors come in and...t-there’s my...mother. I’m to be placed in her custody--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The house phone rings, startling them both. Phil rushes to the phone on the opposite side of the room. Bruce turns around to look at the enormous portrait of Mama Tupperman. He thought it when he first saw the face. Bitch.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil mutters an absent “thank you” into the receiver, and walks back to his chair.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sorry. Sales call. I have no need for a timeshare in Orlando. Where was I?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mama’s back,” Halloran drones, his voice dripping with contempt already.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s shoulders slump and he resignedly continues.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“They had called her in KC. All the papers were already signed and what possessions I had packed up and ready to leave. I was wheeled to the door, put into her car...and brought here. And after listening to her tell me about what an embarrassment I was to her a-and...th-the rest of the family...she told me my Dad was dead. Had a heart attack a week after I left...of course, I caused it to happen. So, since she couldn’t hold her head up in public anymore, when the doctors finally called her, she moved my sister and her family into the house, packed up, headed to New Orleans and got this place. Said at least here nobody has to know who she is...then she’d say how lucky I was to have her give up her life to take care of me.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, I’ll bet!” Halloran barks, rising from his chair and walking to the matron’s portrait over the fireplace. He stares up at her. He can see the intent; wisdom and benevolence. But the artist was too good for that. You can see the pettiness and disappointment in the little lines around the mouth and the eyes. Even in the way she’s sitting. Snorting a bit, he says not looking at Phil,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I think I can fill in the blanks on this one, Philsy. Stop me if I’m wrong.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He begins pacing deliberately, stabbing and mangling the air with his hands for emphasis. “She moves you into this place and takes over your entire life. Because she can. She’s got papers that says she owns you. So...you become her servant, only leaving the house when she needs you to run to the store. She’s now got money, she’s a free woman, and she’s got live-in help. What else to do but enter Metairie society and work her way up to Carnival queen. She could afford to do it with the money she got from the state to care for you, and the insurance money as well. And I’m guessing it all happened without you being around to see it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s not true.” Phil replies. “She needed me to help her get ready. No one asked who I was.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Of course,” Bruce sighs. “I’m gonna save you some grief here Philsy. I already know this part. Where’s Lady Tremaine now?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mount Moriah Cemetery, in KC. Next to my father. And the plots for my sister and her husband. I was supposed to be buried there...but, well...I couldn’t provide them with grandchildren.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Phil--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil holds up his hand. “I’ve told you everything else. I’ll tell you this. For Katrina, we evacuated back to the family house in KC with my sister and family, two daughters. Mother and I had to share a room for months. Lacey, my sister and her husband weren’t happy with me being in the house, especially around the girls. So when everyone was home, I was in that room. When they were all gone, I could come out. But I wasn’t allowed to go into any of the bedrooms or outside to use the pool. I did anyway, but not often. If I got too dark in the sun, it started a fight. The worst part was, Mother was trapped there with me. Because apparently everyone in KC knew that her only son was not only a faggot, but had been committed to a mental institution because of it. But she could still run down to Cosentino’s for groceries, or go get her hair done. I couldn’t even do that. They didn’t want to have to explain me to the neighbors.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Eight months later, we came back here. Mother was looking forward to resuming her krewe duties and seeing all her friends. I was looking forward to never seeing Lacey or her horrible family ever again. We weren’t back here more than two weeks when it happened. She’d told me to go walk over to Majoria to get some aspirins and a tube of violet mints. When I came back, I found her. In the hallway, flat on her back. Her eyes were open...I remember thinking how...surprised she looked. I had to call Lacey. She kept...shrieking into the phone, ‘you did this. You killed them. You’re the reason.’ Eventually her husband Leon took the phone and told me to never come back. I wasn’t welcome at the funeral. And if he saw me, he’d kill me. Oh, and throw my body under an overpass. The funeral was had. The will was read. My in-laws contested it and lost. All without me. One day a lawyer shows up with papers saying I own the house and there’s a trust fund that will pay the bills and give me a small allowance for food and whatever. Lacey didn’t even think I deserved that.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran continues to pace, looking around the room at all the knick-knacks and doodads, figurines, lamps, rugs, everything. “So, you’ve been living in this place for the last decade alone?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Not entirely,” Phil mutters, looking down at the carpeting again. “I tried to rent out to a lodger a few years back. Seemed like a nice guy, was a cook at Oscar’s, I think. He was only here for a few weeks before he decided to move out. Said he was getting a place closer to work. But...yeah, just me otherwise.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce stops, puts his hand on his hip, and smacks his lips.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why? Why are you still living here?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil blinks oddly at Bruce, not answering. Halloran keeps going,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Seriously Philsy, what the hell? Why are you still in this house, with all this--crap! Why haven’t you sold it all and moved away, started life anew somewhere else?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil blinks again. “...where would I go?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Anywhere! Everywhere! Nowhere, just go. This joint’s gotta be worth, what? An easy $200K? And there’s gotta be some cash in all these statuettes cluttering up everything, even if you sold ‘em off by weight. You’d have enough money to do whatever you like.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s demeanor becomes more studied. In fact, he kinda resembles his mother. He looks Bruce in the eye and says evenly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I have nowhere to go, Bruce. I have nothing left but this house and my memories. Don’t you think I want to leave? Don’t you think I’ve tried. I can’t. I can’t hold a job, my mind is too scattered. I can’t concentrate on anything long enough to finish it. Everything I eat comes from the microwave because I can’t cook anymore. I nearly burned down the house after Mother died because I forgot I put food on the fire. I turned off the gas to stove in case I turn on a burner and forget about it. Mother’s lawyers pay all the bills. I won’t remember. And if I sell the house...I lose the trust fund and everything it provides. I have to stay here. It’s the only place I can survive.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce is about to argue with Phil when his cellphone starts going off on the coffee table. He grabs the phone, and sees a text message from young Mr. Tschantz.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Please check your email, Mr. Halloran. The photograph was most helpful. We’ve located Dr. Youngblood.”</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-093e-f0c3-f41b-106405a62024"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce looks over his cellphone at Phil, still sitting there. Still gently wringing his hands, still looking like a defeated nothing of a man alone in a desert of porcelain and matronly aggrandizement. And right now, he really wants another Salem...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-25243880007605644842015-08-07T10:38:00.002-07:002015-08-07T10:38:34.409-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-12<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Pulling up once more in front of the Tupperman home in Old Metairie, Bruce Halloran unbuckles his seat belt, turns down the radio, turns up the AC, and proceeds to go through the motions of extricating his cellphone from his jeans pocket from a seated position. After a few moments of otherwise comical contortions, he succeeds in rescuing his phone and calls his new “friend” Young Mr. Tschantz. On the first ring, it picks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good morning Mr. Halloran. What can I do for you today?” The preternaturally young voice chirps away once more, crawling under Halloran’s skin like a determined chigger. A practiced sneer emerges on his almost non-existent lips. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, yeah, g’mornin’.” He excretes the words deliberately. “I need your help.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I will do all I can for you, Mr. Halloran. What is your request?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I need for you to find out everything you can about a guy named Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood. Where he is now, what he’s doing, that kind of thing.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a moment of silence on the line before Tschantz chirps once more.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Halloran, I’m not certain if that is in my power. According to the rules of Mr. Pitts’ will--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey!” Bruce exclaims tersely. “You said you could rent me the car, you just can’t drive it. Right?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another pause.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I...I believe those were your words Mr. Halloran. But ostensibly...yes.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce smacks his lips, a snide grin behind his sugared words. “Well then, I need you to rent me the car named Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood. I need specs on the vehicle, age, mileage...damage to the vehicle. I need all that before we can ‘rent.’ Got it?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...very good, Mr. Halloran,” comes the young Mr. Tschantz’s reply. “I will have that information for you as soon as possible. Shall I call or text?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Text,” says Bruce, looking towards the house with a strange mix of excitement and dread. “I don’t think I’ll be available to talk until tonight.” He hangs up quickly, and shuts off the engine.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back inside the odd living room of the Tupperman home, Phil Tupperman seems to be more interested in telling Bruce his story. He’s certainly more alert than the yesterday. Today, the single pitcher of iced tea has grown into a two pitchers, one each of tea and lemonade, and a platter of cold cuts, cheeses, cookies, and crackers. There’s also a newly opened pack of Salems on the table, along with a matching antique ashtray and lighter proudly displaying the legend “Krewe of Cleopatra.” Quizzically, Halloran asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Did somebody else come by since yesterday?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“O-oh, no!” Phil exclaims, suddenly concerned. “I...well, occasionally I still like to have a cigarette. When I’m in the mood. And you seemed...well, I was just trying to be...a good host.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce looks at Phil, now looking at the pack of cigs as some kind of failure. This guy is really out of the loop, he thinks to himself. He hasn’t smoked in years. Funny. Salems were Pitts’ brand. Come to think of it, when he still smoked it was Salems. Because Sara Joy smoked them too. Sonofabitch. Without knowing quite why, Halloran decides to take out two cigs and light them simultaneously. He hands one to Phil, who looks at it like manna and takes it gingerly, uttering a genuine “thank you” as he does. Both men take deep drags. Instantly there’s a communal feeling between them, but for different reasons. For Phil, it is the experience of having a smoke with someone who has a shared history with him. Even though he’s still not certain of why this stranger has come into his home and made him recall the past. Still, he slept better last night than he can remember.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For Halloran, it’s an act of charity. On the smallest scale imaginable, but an act of charity nonetheless. So what if he hasn’t had a cigarette in years? One drag of that sweet mentholated smoke into his lungs and he’s back again better than before. At least for a little while. The familiar burn in his chest brings back all the wonderfully tawdry memories of his heyday. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aww yeah, Halloran thinks as he inhales. That takes me back to when all this crap happened. Yeah...better to be in that headspace. And I’d forgotten the nicotine tingle. Yeah…</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">OK, time to get back to work.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pouring himself a glass of lemonade, Halloran sits his fat ass into his chair, takes another puff and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Now. Where were we yesterday?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil takes another drag, knocking his ash into the tray. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I...w-we…” He bites his lower lip. “T-the therapy.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran remains silent, taking a long drag in the interim. He waits for Phil to start on his own. Another management trick he learned at the cable company. Give them all the silence they want and eventually they will fill it. Again, the axiom works.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...at first, I wasn’t sure what has happening. Every morning we had a...they called it group session. We were supposed to...we were supposed to tell each other about any and all gay feelings we had experienced during the previous day. A couple of them...wait a minute...wait...I remember...two guys, Kendall and...Carlson! Yes. Kendall and Carlson, they were always the first ones to talk every morning. They were...they were...they liked to shock people. Some of the things they said they thought about...stuff I had never even heard Gary Pitts talk about. The things they concocted. And it was all just to get some kind of rise out of the psychiatrist. I mean, sure...some of it was kinda funny. I remember one time Kendall and Carlson started demonstrating what they were talking about on each other. The other guys and I thought the psychiatrist was gonna explode…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil takes another drag, deeply. Exhaling and gushing cloud of smoke with satisfaction, he continues.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I mean...they were practically going down on each other. And it was funny. For a little while, it was funny to see this...uptight jackass set on his ear by a couple of bar fags...we’re not supposed to say that anymore, are we?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Fag, fruit, cocksucker, ass bandit, who really gives a shit?” Halloran exclaims, taking another puff. “Don’t worry about being politically correct. Just spill.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tupperman grins a bit. It’s been a very, very long time since anyone has been so up front with him. He likes the familiarity. Emboldened he continues.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It was fine. For a few days. Kendall and Carlson kept trying to push the guy’s buttons every morning in session...then...then it all went bad.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil takes one more long drag then savagely crushes the half-smoked Salem in the tray. He takes great pains to be certain he has crushed every burning ember out with malice aforethought. Without thinking he reaches for the pack and lights another. This cigarette will burn down to the filter in the ashtray.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“After about a week,” Phil says, hugging his knees into his chest, “we came to group and found ourselves hooked up to IV’s and strapped to gurneys. I don’t...know exactly...what they...pumped into us. But whatever it was...it was horrible. A-all...all I can remember is...wanting to throw up. And not being able to...dry heaving...for hours. And while w...we were strapped down...the doctor...he...he’s holding up pictures of...of hardcore gay pornos...I was so sick...everytime one of us would wretch, he’d switch to a different picture. And every time, that gut-wrenching feeling would get worse. When we couldn’t take any more he would stop and we would be wheeled back to our room to ride out the rest of whatever it was they put into our veins. And the next morning it was a different psychiatrist but the same treatment.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran takes another final drag before crushing out the butt. He’s heard similar stories before, but only third-hand at best. He’s never heard it from someone who’s actually experienced it firsthand. He’s morbidly fascinated by the tale.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Go on, Phil. Keep talking. You’re doing fine.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil casts his gaze down on the carpeting, as if looking for an escape route. Taking another deep breath, he composes himself. After all...this guy asked.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This went on for...what, nearly two, maybe three years? Every morning, hours of group. Every afternoon, fighting to recover after the drugs and the slide show...every evening...the ‘cocktail.’”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran perks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Cocktails??? What hospital in town served cocktails? </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s what they called it, a medication ‘cocktail,’ Phil sighs. “It knocked you out within minutes, but it gave you horrible dreams. I remember one dream I had over and over again nearly every night. I was...I was in the woods. Someplace I’d never been before...every night...I’d hear Jeremy’s voice calling to me from the woods. And I’d run to find him through the trees, dodging in and out between them in the twilight...and then…” Phil trails off, his face contorting into a state of confusion, shame, and longing. Taking a few halting breaths, he goes on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I--I’d find myself back in group. With a needle in my arm. strapped down on a bed. And...and the monsters would come.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tears jump out of his eyes, which grow red and angry very quickly. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...they...the monsters...would tear into my skin...into my muscles, my bones...they would slowl--slowly...consume me. There wasn’t anything I could do...except let them eat me all up...then it was morning again. And it started all over.”</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-093d-b2ae-3a69-ccdce93e9940"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s face has drooped into an achingly sad frown. Bruce can hardly look at him like this. So sad--so...vulnerable. It makes him incredibly uncomfortable...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-11719338287701769442015-08-07T10:38:00.000-07:002015-08-07T10:38:12.711-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-11<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: Pulling up once more in front of the Tupperman home in Old Metairie, Bruce Halloran unbuckles his seat belt, turns down the radio, turns up the AC, and proceeds to go through the motions of extricating his cellphone from his jeans pocket from a seated position. After a few moments of otherwise comical contortions, he succeeds in rescuing his phone and calls his new “friend” Young Mr. Tschantz. On the first ring, it picks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good morning Mr. Halloran. What can I do for you today?” The preternaturally young voice chirps away once more, crawling under Halloran’s skin like a determined chigger. A practiced sneer emerges on his almost non-existent lips. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, yeah, g’mornin’.” He excretes the words deliberately. “I need your help.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I will do all I can for you, Mr. Halloran. What is your request?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I need for you to find out everything you can about a guy named Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood. Where he is now, what he’s doing, that kind of thing.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is a moment of silence on the line before Tschantz chirps once more.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Halloran, I’m not certain if that is in my power. According to the rules of Mr. Pitts’ will--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey!” Bruce exclaims tersely. “You said you could rent me the car, you just can’t drive it. Right?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Another pause.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I...I believe those were your words Mr. Halloran. But ostensibly...yes.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce smacks his lips, a snide grin behind his sugared words. “Well then, I need you to rent me the car named Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood. I need specs on the vehicle, age, mileage...damage to the vehicle. I need all that before we can ‘rent.’ Got it?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...very good, Mr. Halloran,” comes the young Mr. Tschantz’s reply. “I will have that information for you as soon as possible. Shall I call or text?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Text,” says Bruce, looking towards the house with a strange mix of excitement and dread. “I don’t think I’ll be available to talk until tonight.” He hangs up quickly, and shuts off the engine.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-----------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back inside the odd living room of the Tupperman home, Phil Tupperman seems to be more interested in telling Bruce his story. He’s certainly more alert than the yesterday. Today, the single pitcher of iced tea has grown into a two pitchers, one each of tea and lemonade, and a platter of cold cuts, cheeses, cookies, and crackers. There’s also a newly opened pack of Salems on the table, along with a matching antique ashtray and lighter proudly displaying the legend “Krewe of Cleopatra.” Quizzically, Halloran asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Did somebody else come by since yesterday?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“O-oh, no!” Phil exclaims, suddenly concerned. “I...well, occasionally I still like to have a cigarette. When I’m in the mood. And you seemed...well, I was just trying to be...a good host.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce looks at Phil, now looking at the pack of cigs as some kind of failure. This guy is really out of the loop, he thinks to himself. He hasn’t smoked in years. Funny. Salems were Pitts’ brand. Come to think of it, when he still smoked it was Salems. Because Sara Joy smoked them too. Sonofabitch. Without knowing quite why, Halloran decides to take out two cigs and light them simultaneously. He hands one to Phil, who looks at it like manna and takes it gingerly, uttering a genuine “thank you” as he does. Both men take deep drags. Instantly there’s a communal feeling between them, but for different reasons. For Phil, it is the experience of having a smoke with someone who has a shared history with him. Even though he’s still not certain of why this stranger has come into his home and made him recall the past. Still, he slept better last night than he can remember.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For Halloran, it’s an act of charity. On the smallest scale imaginable, but an act of charity nonetheless. So what if he hasn’t had a cigarette in years? One drag of that sweet mentholated smoke into his lungs and he’s back again better than before. At least for a little while. The familiar burn in his chest brings back all the wonderfully tawdry memories of his heyday. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aww yeah, Halloran thinks as he inhales. That takes me back to when all this crap happened. Yeah...better to be in that headspace. And I’d forgotten the nicotine tingle. Yeah…</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">OK, time to get back to work.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pouring himself a glass of lemonade, Halloran sits his fat ass into his chair, takes another puff and says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Now. Where were we yesterday?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil takes another drag, knocking his ash into the tray. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I...w-we…” He bites his lower lip. “T-the therapy.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran remains silent, taking a long drag in the interim. He waits for Phil to start on his own. Another management trick he learned at the cable company. Give them all the silence they want and eventually they will fill it. Again, the axiom works.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...at first, I wasn’t sure what has happening. Every morning we had a...they called it group session. We were supposed to...we were supposed to tell each other about any and all gay feelings we had experienced during the previous day. A couple of them...wait a minute...wait...I remember...two guys, Kendall and...Carlson! Yes. Kendall and Carlson, they were always the first ones to talk every morning. They were...they were...they liked to shock people. Some of the things they said they thought about...stuff I had never even heard Gary Pitts talk about. The things they concocted. And it was all just to get some kind of rise out of the psychiatrist. I mean, sure...some of it was kinda funny. I remember one time Kendall and Carlson started demonstrating what they were talking about on each other. The other guys and I thought the psychiatrist was gonna explode…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil takes another drag, deeply. Exhaling and gushing cloud of smoke with satisfaction, he continues.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I mean...they were practically going down on each other. And it was funny. For a little while, it was funny to see this...uptight jackass set on his ear by a couple of bar fags...we’re not supposed to say that anymore, are we?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Fag, fruit, cocksucker, ass bandit, who really gives a shit?” Halloran exclaims, taking another puff. “Don’t worry about being politically correct. Just spill.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tupperman grins a bit. It’s been a very, very long time since anyone has been so up front with him. He likes the familiarity. Emboldened he continues.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It was fine. For a few days. Kendall and Carlson kept trying to push the guy’s buttons every morning in session...then...then it all went bad.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil takes one more long drag then savagely crushes the half-smoked Salem in the tray. He takes great pains to be certain he has crushed every burning ember out with malice aforethought. Without thinking he reaches for the pack and lights another. This cigarette will burn down to the filter in the ashtray.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“After about a week,” Phil says, hugging his knees into his chest, “we came to group and found ourselves hooked up to IV’s and strapped to gurneys. I don’t...know exactly...what they...pumped into us. But whatever it was...it was horrible. A-all...all I can remember is...wanting to throw up. And not being able to...dry heaving...for hours. And while w...we were strapped down...the doctor...he...he’s holding up pictures of...of hardcore gay pornos...I was so sick...everytime one of us would wretch, he’d switch to a different picture. And every time, that gut-wrenching feeling would get worse. When we couldn’t take any more he would stop and we would be wheeled back to our room to ride out the rest of whatever it was they put into our veins. And the next morning it was a different psychiatrist but the same treatment.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran takes another final drag before crushing out the butt. He’s heard similar stories before, but only third-hand at best. He’s never heard it from someone who’s actually experienced it firsthand. He’s morbidly fascinated by the tale.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Go on, Phil. Keep talking. You’re doing fine.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil casts his gaze down on the carpeting, as if looking for an escape route. Taking another deep breath, he composes himself. After all...this guy asked.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This went on for...what, nearly two, maybe three years? Every morning, hours of group. Every afternoon, fighting to recover after the drugs and the slide show...every evening...the ‘cocktail.’”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran perks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Cocktails??? What hospital in town served cocktails? </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That’s what they called it, a medication ‘cocktail,’ Phil sighs. “It knocked you out within minutes, but it gave you horrible dreams. I remember one dream I had over and over again nearly every night. I was...I was in the woods. Someplace I’d never been before...every night...I’d hear Jeremy’s voice calling to me from the woods. And I’d run to find him through the trees, dodging in and out between them in the twilight...and then…” Phil trails off, his face contorting into a state of confusion, shame, and longing. Taking a few halting breaths, he goes on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I--I’d find myself back in group. With a needle in my arm. strapped down on a bed. And...and the monsters would come.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tears jump out of his eyes, which grow red and angry very quickly. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...they...the monsters...would tear into my skin...into my muscles, my bones...they would slowl--slowly...consume me. There wasn’t anything I could do...except let them eat me all up...then it was morning again. And it started all over.”</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-093d-b2ae-3a69-ccdce93e9940"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s face has drooped into an achingly sad frown. Bruce can hardly look at him like this. So sad--so...vulnerable. It makes him incredibly uncomfortable...This Is My New Orleans.</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8825575255357231143.post-16757135072314846942015-08-07T10:37:00.002-07:002015-08-07T10:37:22.479-07:00The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-10<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: The waning afternoon sun has all but abandoned the Tupperman house in Old Metairie. Cloaked beneath two old cypresses, the first floor parlor is almost dark, save for the white light reflecting off the painted barn door outside. Still, there was enough light to see. In a beige chair sits Phil Tupperman, caught in the path of the light. Opposite him in the shadows is Bruce Halloran, sipping tea and waiting for some revelations. At last, Phil begins.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-42dfce33-093c-6885-45b7-e5a94ff7cbf7" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I came here during spring break of 1985 and decided right then. The day I graduate I was going to leave Kansas City forever and live here. Which is exactly what I did. I graduated that morning and by that afternoon I was on a bus out of town. Three busses and 27 hours later I was here with a single suitcase, $500 in graduation money, and an edict from my parents never to come back. For the first time in my life I was completely alone. I realize now...that’s what attracted him to me. Gary Pitts. Gary Pitts, isn’t that funny? With anyone else it would have been just Gary, or Pitts. Or bastard. But with him it was always both names said like one, Garypitts. Like a condition. I’m sorry, I can’t come in to work today, I have a terrible case of Garypitts--”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Phil. Stay focused.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sorry,” Phil says automatically. “Sorry. Where was I? Oh...so I was the flavor of the month that summer, I suppose. It was all new to me and I wanted to do everything. And for a few months, I did. And I kept running into this guy Gary Pitts, sometimes two, three times a night. But he was kind of nice to me, bought me lots of drinks. He was funny, always had a joke and a smoke, if you know what I mean. And he kept telling me how much he wanted me. Everytime we met he was trying to get me into bed. And...I admit it. It was flattering. I was right out of Kansas City, where the gayest thing in town was the Mayor’s wife’s wig. Do you know what it was like to live in Kansas City, Missouri in the mid 80s? If you didn’t have a job with Hallmark, a house, and a wife by the time you were 25, you were either a failure or a fruit. And either way, people would shun you. And the gay guys in the underground bar scene weren’t the kind of guys I wanted to be around. They were just like every other guy in Kansas City, except when they were in the bars they became screaming nellie queens. I didn’t want that.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce leans forward and takes another long sip of now-formerly iced tea, the cubes of ice long ago dissolved. Pitts was himself a screaming queen when he was Sara Joy. Phil looks like he’s getting lost in his reveries again, so Bruce clears his throat pointedly.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh!” mutters Phil, brought back from the garden path. “Like I said, it was flattering. But then I met Jeremy.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Other Guy,” Halloran mumbles under his breath unconsciously. Phil hears this, and looks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Excuse me? What did you say?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Momentarily startled into realizing he was using his outside voice, Halloran tries to recover.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What? No...what? Sorry, I...said...another...ice cube? Yes. Could I trouble you for another ice cube. The others mel--never mind.”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s dull green eyes seem to flirt with the idea of analyzing this, but choose instead to carry on as if nothing has happened.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I met Jeremy. Mr. Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood of Biloxi and New Orleans.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Internally, Bruce snickers as he repeats the name. Jeremy Tollivar Youngblood?!? Are you kidding me? Oh dear Lord, who’s writing this dreck?? In his mind Pitts imagines a large cartoon of a man, somewhere between Tom Dover and Roger Ramjet. Phil continues on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll never forget it. No matter how much they tried to make me do it, I still remember. We first met in Mid-City, at a place called China Imperial. Arguably the second or third best Chinese restaurant in town. But what set the place apart was it was the only place in town to get decent rumaki. Do you know what rumaki is, Mr. Halloran?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah,” Bruce says, thinking back to those days. “Yeah, I remember China Imperial because they had rumaki...friend of mine used to love the place.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He decided it was best not to mention that the friend was Sara Joy. Why put up another fence? Tupperman perks up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So, you know,” Phil bleats, out of a sense of commonality. “You remember. That’s nice. I haven’t talked about any of this for so long. It’s good to tell this to someone who remembers...who…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil trails off. Halloran is about to snap him back on-track, but he does it on his own.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It was late May of ‘87. I’d been in town for about two years. I remember that there was still a lot of World’s Fair stuff around, three years after the fact. Seems like everybody I knew back then had at least one room painted with the blue, gold, and white World’s Fair colors...back on track, Phil, I know...I can’t remember why I was in Mid-City that day. I was living at 4043 Ulloa then. Making a trek into Mid-City required somebody with a car or bus fare and a lot of extra time. Somebody had to have gotten me down there for some reason. I remember I wound up by myself at China Imperial, picking up a to-go order. I was kind of surprised when I walked in. The place was in a strip mall on Carrollton, and didn’t look like much from the outside. But when you went in, there was this--”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce finishes the sentence in unison.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“--big red and gold lacquered archway!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“--yes! With all the carved animals,” Bruce laughs.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“--and it was painted to look like it had ebony inlays, but you knew it was whatever paint they had left over at the TG&Y a few doors down!!” Phil fairly gushes with laughter over 27 year old dish. It’s the first real human emotion Halloran has seen out of him since they met. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil continues to giggle as he tries to get himself back on track. The laughter will prove to be very beneficial to his focus. But at the moment it’s a hindrance.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So…*giggle*...stop it. So. There I am picking up a couple of orders of sweet and sour chicken when I realize I don’t have enough cash. I thought I had a $20 in there that didn’t exist.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran sneers a bit, knowing instantly where the money went. Sara Joy was famous for lifting exactly $20 from his and many other people’s wallets whenever he could. He thought it was fun to hear about his friend’s coming up short. Again, not the right time to broadcast this information. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And as I’m tearing apart my wallet trying to come up with money that isn’t there, this man comes up out of nowhere and drops a $50 on the counter. And...I’ll never forget this...he says aloud, ‘Honey...you gave me the money tonight, remember? You handed me this fifty and told me “take care of everything.” Remember?’” Phil hangs his head for a moment. “A total stranger being concerned that I would be embarrassed in public. I don’t remember where I left the food, but I remember every moment we spent together afterwards. We went back to his apartment, half of a double shotgun somewhere in Mid-City. I don’t remember the street but I’d recognize the house if I saw it again. We sat up all night talking. About...everything. Politics. We both hated it. Art. We both liked Degas, Magritte, and William Singer Sargent. Books. We both loved the Bridge to Terebithia growing up. Restaurants. We both adored Restaurant Johnathan. We connected on every level. And...and we kissed. Slowly at first, then as the night went on it got more heated. By dawn we...well…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A wave of demureness washes over Phil. It’s the kind of shame Bruce saw so often growing up. Without thinking, he blurts out,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You were screwin’, I get it. Good for you. Go on.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s addled demeanor is shaken into immediate concern at Halloran’s outburst. But it has the desired effect. Phil pushes past the years of guilt and continues on, trying to remember it as it all happened. Before the therapy.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Uhhhmm...uh, well...yes. Yes. We ended up...in bed. And it was...it was...the most amazing thing that ever happened to me. It wasn’t like it had been in Kansas City. Grabbing a quickie in the barn only when you were certain that no one was home to see your shame...seeing movies you hate the first weekend so you know when everybody’s glued to the best part. Then you can time your meet up with another closet case and get off as quickly as possible. ‘Walking the dog’ at all hours, praying that some drunken redneck will make you an offer you can’t refuse...yeah. Things were different in New Orleans. Until I met Jeremy, I didn’t know how good life could be.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran finds himself taken with Tupperman’s story. He thought his generation of gays were the last who had to hide themselves away like that. But in his mind, it is only as effective as the plot of a Shirley Temple film. Bruce has never had any of the existential angst that this guy endured. But, he’s not entirely without sympathy. Before he has to say anything supportive, Phil goes on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“From then on, everything becomes a blur for me. I don’t recall how everything happened in order. But I still remember that I found a job in Mid-City at a tamale place. I was seeing both Jeremy and Gary every day. And I was...I...I was...I remember...I was falling in love with Jeremy. No. Not just falling in love...I was giving myself to him...because I wanted to.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s dull green eyes sparkle for a moment, and a huge tear traces its way down his sullen cheek. It disappears inside the confines of the copious lip-brow, which soaks up the moisture like a miniature rainforest. He forges on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...but I didn’t want to hurt Gary. He had been so sweet and kind to me. I never wanted to hurt him. Then the ‘do at Charlene’s happened. The only reason I was there was because Jeremy had a neighbor who was into the Lesbian Avengers. He said...he said we would go to show face for a half an hour, then we would sneak off into the Quarter. Because he had a surprise for me…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran knows the stink of Pitts as well as he knows his own. And he’s smelling it now. Careful not to incite anything, he says softly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I...I understand. What happened next?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil swallows hard. He’s run these events over and over in his mind for decades. Every time he comes back here, he finds the same grief and regret. Still, he pushes on.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...I got a call from Gary just before I was heading out to the rally. He told me to meet him over at the Smokey Mary. I didn’t want to go, but I thought I owed it to him to tell him...I was in love with Jeremy. When I got there, I remember he hustled me outside before I could even say hello to anyone, and made me pose for some pictures. He kept saying he wanted to remember this day. I guess he meant it more than I thought.” Phil licks his lips without thinking, and continues on like nothing has happened.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Next thing I know I’m having drinks poured down my throat and a bottle of poppers shoved up my nose. I remember we wound up upstairs I’m not certain what happened but I remember seeing Gary with a big guy I knew only as Daddy in the cage, and some other guy pawing all over me. I found my clothes and ran downstairs to meet Jeremy across Elysian Fields. By that time...it was already dark and the rally was going on... I got across the road, Gary Pitts had caught up with me. I never did figure out how he got into his clothes so quickly. In the middle of the crowd he grabbed me, turned me around and slurred ‘Ah love ya, baby!’ and held me into a soul kiss I couldn’t get away from. When I finally broke free I turned,,,I...I turned to...see Jeremy. Wearing the most pained look I’ve ever seen.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He stops to wipe away the tears before they can stream down the old familiar furrows on his face. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...I...I had Gary Pitts all over me. And he wouldn’t let go of me, no matter how hard I tried to push him away. An...and then...J-Jeremy was...gone.” Phil takes a deep breath, holding onto it for a moment before he exhales. “I tore myself away from Gary Pitts and took off after Jeremy up Elysian Fields. I ended up walking every street in the Marigny until dawn, looking for his car...I...I never found it. I couldn’t find…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran drains his glass with one final slurp, comparing what Phil’s saying with what he was able to get out of Pitts’ drunken ramblings. He feels a touch of familiarity with what Phil’s undergone at the hands of Sara Joy. He’s seen it many times before. He remembers his mantra at such times; as long as it’s not me, I’m fine with it. But now it was affecting him. His time, his effort, his energy. Left again to clean up your messes, Bruce mutters in his mind. If you weren’t already dead, I’d--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Halloran?” Phil asks with earnest concern.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran snaps to, replying,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah! Yeah...go on.” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“After I finally got back to my apartment...I fell into bed, totally exhausted. I don’t remember how long I slept, but it was dark again when I woke up. The first thing I did when I got awake was call Jeremy. I got his answering machine. I must have left 20 messages the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that, and that, and that, and that. For nearly a month I tried to call him. I was at his apartment in the Quarter every morning and night, trying to catch him...trying to explain to him and tell him...I loved him. I never got the chance.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tupperman takes a moment to swallow hard and compose himself as Halloran realizes he has to pee after all that tea. Standing, he says,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sorry, Phil. But where’s your bathroom?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhat surprised at the interruption, Phil can only point in the general direction of the hallway. Halloran takes advantage of the silence to mutter a quick “thanks,” as he trots down the carpeted hallway. He guesses correctly and enters the second doorway on the left to find a classic 60s pink tiled bathroom with the stereotypical white toilet with black seat and lid.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Class, thinks Bruce as he lifts the seat, unzips his fly and allows nature to take it’s course. Taking advantage of the solitude, Bruce gazes around the room with interest. This house couldn’t have had any major work since the 70s. The parlor looks like Aunt Bee’s if the old gal was on coke, and what’s going on with this bathroom? Any moment Jan Brady is gonna come out of the shower and club me to death with her retainer. Still, there’s something to be said for the kitsch factor. Finding himself at the end, Halloran adjusts himself and makes himself a little more presentable in the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink. Somebody back then knew how to work people into buying a bathroom like this. With all the pink in the room, anybody standing in front of the mirror is going to be bathed in so much colored light they won’t have any other choice but to look spectacular. Recomposed, Halloran makes his way back into the parlor. Phil is right where he was before, just waiting for someone to push “play.” Bruce notices that there’s a fresh pot of iced tea, new ice cubes in his glass, and a plate of Lorna Doone’s on the coffee table. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s nice, he thinks absently to himself as he pours another glass of tea while mugging the cookie plate. Once settled, Phil asks,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Where was I?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shoving two cookies into his mouth, he says crummily,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You didn’t get the chance to tell Jeremy you loved him.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh yes, “ Phil says, hanging his head a bit. “Well...afterwards I was so...upset, I turned to Gary Pitts. And at first, it was what I needed. He got my mind off Jeremy for a while. We started making the rounds at the bars every night. It did the job. I was drunk every night in a different place with Gary Pitts...and a lot of other guys. After a month or so, I ended up moving in. Had to sell off all my stuff because there wasn’t any room, but I didn’t mind. I still didn’t have much. But you can only drink your troubles away so long before they come back. And they did a couple of months later. I woke up one morning and all I could feel...was sadness. It got so bad I lost my job. I just couldn’t get up and go. I tried to turn to Gary Pitts, trying to get him to listen to me. But he wouldn’t. He kept telling me I was interfering with his busy bar schedule.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Halloran looks up. It’s a phrase he remembers from Sara Joy’s notes. Verbatim.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Gradually,” Phil continues, unaware of Halloran’s jolt of recognition. “We started drifting apart. He started going out earlier, and eventually stopped coming back until 1 or 2 in the morning, and usually with somebody else. Which would lead to a fight, and him threatening to throw me out if I didn’t get my shit together...said he didn’t want an emotional cripple around. So, I finally heard it enough that I...I decided he was right…”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil bites his upper lip hard enough to draw blood. Reaching for a napkin, Halloran becomes very uncomfortable. He can’t stand the sight of blood, anybody’s. He decides to try and finish this another day, rising as he says,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Look, maybe we should continue this tomorrow or--”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You wanted to know the facts, didn’t you?” Phil demands. Frozen in his tracks by the severity of Phil’s voice, he slowly descends back into his chair. Phil finishes wiping his lip, and takes a reassuring breath before sitting down once more.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“...I...I made the decision to do it. I have to own that. Gary Pitts hadn’t come back between work and the bars again, so I had plenty of time. I started with vodka, full bottle. I was a cheap drunk, so I figured it would numb me enough for the second part. And an hour or so later...it did. Brand new bottle of Windex. I bought it earlier that day at the Time Saver. The last thing I remember was thinking how easily it went down...next thing I knew I was waking up in Charity with a tube down my throat, hooked up to machines, and completely alone. It scared me so badly I passed out again. After that…” Phil trails off, his face furrowed and worrisome.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bruce asks not ungently, “The therapy?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Phil’s eyes flash up at Halloran’s, then retreat into consideration for a moment. Clearing his throat and licking his thin lips, he manages to go on.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“N-not right away,” he sighs, passing his hand over his face as if to wipe away the past. “For the first several days all I could do was lay in the bed, surrounded by curtains. The tubes kept me in place. After a while they finally removed the tubes and told me what happened. I had been dropped off by a cab driver outside the emergency room door. They also said they found my wallet with $500 in it, all in hundreds, but no ID. I gave them Gary Pitts’ number and told them to call him, I lived with him. They came back later and told me the people at that residence had never heard of me. That’s when they asked if I was a prostitute. And if I was gay. Did I have a pimp, was I poisoned by a trick, they kept pestering me with all these questions. And I shut down. I started saying ‘yes’ to everything they asked me just to get them to go away. Except one. They asked me if I had any family. My mother and father told me as I was leaving to move to New Orleans to never speak to them again or to come back to Kansas City to embarrass them in front of their friends. So I told them ‘no’... There were all these papers to be signed, one after another...the next thing I knew I was on the fourth floor. Somehow, in all the paperwork I had given the state power of attorney and committed myself to the mental ward at Charity. I was theirs. For almost four years. I was placed in a group of six other gay guys. We were the test group for a new, experimental therapy designed to cure homosexuality...they called it therapy. For me, it was torture”...This Is My New Orleans.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0