The Handyman's Dream

by Nick Poff

  “Well,” said Ed, admiring Rick in the jacket, “you can’t really wear it too much for a few months.”

  “Who cares? I’ll wear it anyway. The hell with the cold!. I’ll look too great to care.”

  Rick buttoned up the jacket, then headed for the bedroom to see himself in the mirror.

  “It’s great,” he said, walking back into the living room. “Thanks, baby. I really love it. But now it’s your turn.”

  He stooped by the tree and shoved the box he’d brought with him over to Ed.

  Ed slowly unwrapped the box, trying to make the suspense last as long as possible. He uncovered a box so tightly sealed he had to get the scissors to open it. Once he had it open, he pulled out a deluxe toolbox, just the kind he wanted, but hadn’t allowed himself to buy.

  “What do you think, baby?” Rick asked softly.

  “It’s . . . it’s wonderful.” Ed looked at the toolbox in his lap. “Green too. My favorite color.”

  “Hey, you think that was some kinda coincidence?” Rick hugged him. “But you need to open it. See what’s inside.”

  Ed frowned, shaking the toolbox. It sure seemed empty to him. But he unfastened the lid anyway. It was empty. He looked up at Rick questioningly.

  “Look inside the lid,” Rick commanded with a smile.

  Ed did, and his mouth fell open in surprise. Attached to the inside of the lid was a gold plate, the sort used on trophies. It read:

  FOR THE CUTEST HANDYMAN

  IN PORTERFIELD, INDIANA

  LOVE, RICK

  Ed looked up at Rick. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Rick wiped a few tears away from Ed’s eyes. “You don’t have to cry about it,” he said softly, stroking Ed’s face. “But”—Ed heard a catch in Rick’s voice—“I just might join you.”

  Ed reached out to Rick’s face and wiped away a few tears himself. “Hell, if we’re so happy, why are we crying?”

  “I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.” Rick gathered Ed in his arms, and they sat quietly for a moment, enjoying their first Christmas together.

  “How’d I get so lucky?” asked Ed, his gaze moving from Frosty on the tree to Rick. “How did we get so lucky?”

  Rick was quiet for a long time, then he smiled. “Beats me. I guess sometimes you just get lucky.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ed, finishing the dinner dishes, lip-synched to “Lady Willpower,” which was blasting from the stereo in the living room. Using a spatula as a microphone, he silently belted the lyrics to the kitchen window, wishing for the millionth time that he had Gary Puckett’s voice. As the song faded out he hollered into the living room, “Hey, play that one again.”

  “No,” Rick yelled back. “I’m making a tape, remember?”

  “Aw, crud. I swear for a moment there I really was Gary Puckett.”

  Ed walked into the living room. He looked at Rick, who was fiddling with the cassette player/recorder on Ed’s stereo, then at the mess on the floor.

  “Geez, it looks like a record store exploded in here.”

  Almost all of his 45s, it seemed, were scattered across the carpet. Rick was recording the ones he liked best onto a cassette for an Indianapolis road trip they had planned for the next day.

  When Rick returned on Christmas Eve with the message that his mother wanted to meet the man who had stolen her son’s heart, Ed had known they’d be making the drive soon. With Norma for a mother, Ed was used to obeying a mother’s commands, so on this Sunday between Christmas and New Year’s, they were preparing for the visit, Rick’s third round trip to Indianapolis in less than a week.

  “After this one, I think I’ll be able to drive I-69 blindfolded,” Rick had said.

  Normally Ed would be thrilled with the idea of a spending an entire day with Rick, and the idea of getting out of town for a day had its own appeal. However, Ed had to admit he felt more dread than anticipation about this trip.

  “They’re going to love you, maybe not as much as I do, but it’s going to be fine. I promise,” Rick had reassured him over and over, but Ed was nervous, and knew he would be until it was over.

  Trying to shove the impending trip from his mind, Ed bent over and began stacking the records.

  “Okay, if I can’t hear Gary Puckett and the Union Gap again, what are you going to play?” he asked.

  “Ah,” Rick said, settling a record on the turntable. “Perfect.” He clicked the recorder on just before the song began to play. “And this one,” he said, turning to Ed, “is dedicated to you, from me.”

  Ed recognized the opening chords of “This Guy’s in Love with You” by Herb Alpert.

  “May I have this dance, sir?” Rick asked, standing up and opening his arms.

  Ed stepped into Rick’s arms. Moving away from the records on the floor, they swayed slowly to the rhythm of the song, holding each other close.

  “I haven’t heard this song in years,” Rick murmured into Ed’s ear. “It sure says what I feel about you, though.”

  Rick began singing along with Herb, and Ed had to admit that Rick couldn’t sing any better than Ed himself could. Still, having the man he loved sing a mushy song into his ear, off-key or not, was something he’d only dreamed about until Rick came along.

  “Why don’t they play this stuff on the radio anymore?” Rick whispered.

  “Probably ’cause we’re the only ones who want to hear them,” Ed answered, giggling.

  “We just have better taste than the average radio listener. That’s why I’m making a tape for this trip. I am going to drive triumphantly into Indianapolis, with the cutest handyman in Porterfield, Indiana, by my side, and the music I heard when I dreamed about finding someone like him will be playing. Loudly. I may even blow the speakers in my car. I want everybody on East Fifty-seventh Street to know the kid with the zits finally got lucky.”

  “So are we at the senior prom right now?” Ed asked, imagining Rick and himself dancing across the Porterfield High gym floor.

  “Sure! Let’s pretend there’s a mirror ball right over us.”

  “The Christmas tree lights help.”

  “Yeah, they do. We need crepe paper streamers across the ceiling, though.”

  The song ended, and Ed regretfully let Rick go to pause the recorder.

  “I remember hearing that song on the radio back then, summer of ’68, right before my senior year,” Rick said, taking the record off the turntable. “And, oh, I didn’t want to admit it, but I didn’t think about singing it to some girl. I wanted some guy to sing it to me.” Rick sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. “I wish someone could have told that gawky, pimply-faced kid that twelve years later he’d meet this incredible guy in Porterfield, Indiana, and he’d get to dance with him to that song.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ed said, reaching for Rick’s hand. “I remember the senior prom and dancing with Cathy Carroll. The prom committee had hired this awful band from Marion, and they were playing the worst rendition of ‘Something’ I’ve ever heard. Cathy was looking over my shoulder at Troy Williams, and I was looking over her shoulder at some guy Debbie Crocker was dating from Fort Wayne. I couldn’t get over how cute he was, and all of a sudden, all those thoughts I’d been trying to avoid about liking boys instead of girls came crashing down on me. I even got a hard-on. I all but dumped Cathy on the dance floor, then ran to the restroom. I hid in there till I thought I could face everyone again, but I knew, right then and there, that I’d never date another girl, even if it meant being alone for the rest of my life.”

  Rick squeezed Ed’s hand. “I didn’t even go to my senior prom.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I had dated a few girls in high school, but by the end of senior year I’d pretty much given up on the whole thing. When I told my mom I wasn’t going, she threw a fit, saying I’d regret it all my life if I missed my prom.

  “So I lied about it. Rented a tux and told her I had a date with a girl named Paula, who was a friend of a friend and
lived across town. I left home, all dressed up, corsage box in hand, and spent the evening driving around town in my beat-up Ford Falcon. I finally ended up in some all-night coffee shop near downtown, drinking coffee and talking with this waitress, who told me not to worry about it, that I’d be so handsome in a few years I’d be beating the girls off with a stick. I was tempted to tell her I didn’t care about the girls, but hoped the boys would feel that way about me. I gave her the corsage, and she wore it through her whole shift.

  “I finally drove home about five in the morning, totally wired on coffee, wishing so bad that there was a guy in the car with me. I think that’s the first time I heard ‘Baby, I Love You’ on the radio. Remember when I sang that song to you?”

  “I’ll never forget that as long as live,” Ed promised, his arms around Rick.

  “When I saw that record I remembered that night and how alone I felt, wondering if I’d ever get to fall in love like other people. Being able to tell you I loved you, and with that song . . . I don’t know . . . it healed something in me, I guess.” Rick shrugged. “High school really sucked, no two ways about it.”

  Ed nodded, remembering other high school horrors. “Isn’t it funny, though, how good these songs sound now? You’d think we’d just hate ’em, thinking back on those days, but I like them even more now.”

  Rick thought about that. “That is strange, isn’t it? I don’t know. Maybe it’s ’cause we survived all that, and listening to them is . . . healing, like I said.” He shrugged helplessly, looking up at Ed. “You got me. All I know is I love hearing them again, especially with you.”

  Ed got on the floor next to Rick and began pawing through the scattered 45s.

  “Here,” he said, handing one to Rick. “Now this is a song I always wished I could dance to with another man.”

  Rick looked at it and smiled. He put it on the turntable, and soon the sounds of the Association’s “Everything That Touches You” were coming out of the speakers.

  “The hell with that tape for right now,” he said, grabbing Ed. “Let’s just dance.”

  Holding each other close once again, they moved together, the romantic lyrics of the song weaving a spell that turned two lonely, unhappy teenage boys into two grown men who had finally found the love they had dreamed about.

  “I love you so much, baby. Thanks for coming into my life. These old songs, thinking about going home tomorrow, well, I’m just so glad you’re going with me.”

  “Do me a favor. Tell that gawky kid with the zits that he became the handsomest man in the world, and that I’m very, very much in love with him.”

  “He knows, baby,” Rick said, pulling Ed closer. “And he’s very, very grateful.”

  * * * * *

  Rick was still stacking 45s on the turntable the next morning while they prepared to leave for Indianapolis. Half-dressed, he was bouncing around the living room, playing air guitar to Deep Purple’s “Hush.”

  “Nope,” he said, bounding toward the bathroom, where Ed was shaving. “I never wanted to play basketball, like everyone thought I should. I wanted to be Jimi Hendrix, or maybe Eric Clapton.”

  Ed glanced at him. “The way you’re hangin’ out there, darlin’, you remind me more of Jim Morrison.”

  “Oh, God,” Rick moaned. “I wanted him so bad. Shit, I think that’s when I knew I liked boys.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can light my fire anytime.”

  Rick laughed as he headed to the bedroom to finish dressing. “Who’d you wanna be, baby?” he called out.

  Ed wiped the lather off his face. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I was more queeny than you. I used to lock the door to my room and lip-synch with all my Supremes records. I thought Diana Ross was the greatest. Still do, for that matter.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Rick, pulling up his pants. “I did that, too: The Shangri-Las, Lesley Gore, Dusty Springfield. God, I loved ‘Son-of-a Preacher Man.’ It’s no wonder we both turned out queer.”

  “Actually,” Ed said, joining Rick in the bedroom, “I wanted to be Neil Armstrong. I thought the moon landing was so cool. But when I found out how hard it was to become an astronaut, I gave up that idea in a hurry.”

  “Hmm. From astronaut to handyman. Oh, well. I’d say you turned out okay.”

  “Yeah. And Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison are dead. I guess you turned out okay, too,” Ed said, trying to decide what shirt to wear. He frowned, pushing clothes back and forth in the closet.

  Rick came up behind. “Are you worrying about what to wear? Shit, don’t make this into a bigger deal than it is. Here.” He pulled a shirt off a hanger. “I like this one. Now, get dressed already. We need to hit the road.”

  The record changer clicked in the living room, and the Guess Who’s “Undun” began to play. Ed sighed. He couldn’t help it. He was feeling a little undone himself at the moment. He so wanted to make a good impression on Rick’s parents, but as usual, he didn’t have enough confidence in himself to think he could pull it off.

  “You’d better strap my seat belt on me,” he said to Rick, who was putting on his shoes. “Just in case I try to bail out of the car halfway there.”

  Rick rolled his eyes at him. “If it wasn’t seven-thirty in the morning, I’d probably throw a couple shots of vodka down your throat. Maybe that would calm you down.” He got up from the bed and put his arms around Ed. “I told you. They’re just a couple of nice, middle-aged, middle-class, liberal teacher types who want to see the man their son is so crazy about. Hell, for all I know, they’re nervous, too. They survived Jack,” he said, referring to his ex-lover, “and he survived them with no problem. Considering that you’re twice, no, three times the man he is, I know they’re going to like you.”

  The mere mention of the name of Rick’s ex sent a pain through Ed. He knew the guy was still somewhere in Indianapolis, and in his gloomier moments he pictured this Jack guy swooping down out of the sky to reclaim Rick.

  “Did they like Jack?” Ed asked.

  Rick looked undecided about what to say. “Well,” he said hesitantly. “They did and they didn’t. Jack was handsome and charming, and he knew how to behave around someone’s parents, but I don’t think Mom ever really trusted him.” His mouth hardened. “Turned out she was right.”

  “Oh, great,” Ed wailed. “Your mom’s gonna hate me, then you’ll think I’m a creep like your ex.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you that,” Rick said with disgust. “It just upset you. Now look, Jack was a creep. So, okay, I didn’t see it until it was too late. I was young and stupid, and I thought he loved me. Turned out he couldn’t love me without loving half the other men in Indy. And he couldn’t keep a job, and he totaled my damned car one night and lied about it. I could go on, believe me, but does that sound like you for even one minute?”

  Ed buried his face in Rick’s neck. “No.”

  “Well, then,” Rick said, stroking Ed’s back. “Sometimes I just wanna paddle you. Just once I wish you’d realize what an incredible guy you are. Everybody likes you. And your clients? I was telling you just a few weeks ago how great they think you are. If you can handle a bunch of cranky old folks, my parents are not going to be a problem.” He gave Ed’s ass a good whack. “Now, do I go get that vodka, or what?”

  Ed sighed again. “No. I don’t think I’d make too good of an impression with booze on my breath. But how about a Pepsi for the road, huh? I probably don’t need the caffeine, but it sure would taste good.”

  Rick let Ed go with a shake. “Okay. I’ll get us both one. I just wish I had a Valium to put in yours.”

  * * * * *

  Once they were on the interstate, heading south, Rick put on the cruise control and settled more comfortably in his seat.

  “Getting tired of this drive, darlin’?” Ed asked, watching the scenery with interest. He hadn’t been south of Porterfield in quite a while.

  Rick shook his head. “Oh, not really. I’m just so glad to be away from work today, on the open road wit
h you, that I don’t really care where we’re going.”

  “How’s your back?”

  Rick shifted from side to side, as though testing it. “It’s not bad at all. A twinge now and then, but that’s it. I wish I could go back to walking a route, but Don insists on me waiting at least a month. I don’t know why,” he grumbled. “The mail is lighter now, and I’ll certainly be a lot more careful. I hate being cooped up all day.”

  Ed turned his gaze from the gray December landscape to Rick. This was the first time he’d ever heard Rick come close to complaining about his job.

  “Is it that bad, working in the back of the post office? I suppose they could put you at the counter, selling stamps or something.”

  Rick sighed, steering the car into the left lane to pass a truck. “I’m just not used to being around people all day. Every time my mind drifts off to something pleasant to think about, someone calls my name or starts a conversation. Let’s face it, I don’t have a lot in common with most of those guys. I can’t tell you who’s playing in the Rose Bowl this week, and care even less. Some of them think that’s a little weird.”

  “Reminds me of the factory,” Ed said.

  “I’ll bet. Plus, I’m still the new guy around there. I haven’t really spent enough time around them to have been . . . initiated into their little fraternity. Most of them are okay, really, but there are a few I could do without. You know, the kind who gives you a look like you’re trespassing until you’ve been there for ten years.”

  “There were guys like that at Marsden,” Ed said, grateful for his self-employment. “They were the ones who gave me even more shit because my dad was a manager. They always seemed to know just how far they could push before they got in trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Rick grumbled. “I heard that. Oh, well. Don’s the boss, and he’s happy with me. I know, because he told me I’m the best hire he’s made in a long time. As long as he’s satisfied with my work there isn’t much anyone can do. And it’s temporary. I’ll be back on the street in a few weeks. There’s a rest stop coming up, baby,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “You need a pee break?”