by Mathew Ortiz
“Did you stop drinking?” Izumi queried and I shook my head.
“I begged their forgiveness and promised not to drink anymore. They still didn’t realize how bad or how much I drank at that point. Only I didn’t stop. I cut down on the amount I consumed, straightened up and attended college in the fall, but I refused to follow my brothers into culinary school—even if I am a better cook than either of them. Instead, I got a degree in English and started workin’ for a publishin’ house as an editor in trainin’. Lookin’ back now, I realize I began to drink heavily again when I started to work full time. I switched from beer to vodka. Every night after work I’d put back a half, sometimes a whole bottle. In the beginnin’, the booze mellowed me out. Over time, it began to amplify my temper instead and that’s what led me here. I was in an altercation with a colleague. My hangover was poundin’ that day and he said sumthin’ that ticked me off. Next thing I know, he’s on the floor with a black eye and I’m being questioned by the cops. For the first time, the realization that I’d lost all control hit home and now it had affected my work. My boss didn’t have to keep me and it ended with me either agreein’ to rehab or gettin’ fired. She could have tossed me aside, instead she gave me a second chance. I came clean with my brothers. Neither knew how much I was drinkin’. Slick Willy, that’s me. I went to rehab in Raleigh to keep my momma and mawmaw from knowin’. I couldn’t disappoint them more than I already had.”
Oh hell, who am I kidding? Telling them had nearly killed me. I remember walking into their house with Avery and Boone bringing up the rear, and never being so nervous in my entire life. Setting down my bag, I hung my head and confessed the whole sordid story. My voice cracked more than once and I would have bolted if not for Avery’s hand on my left shoulder and Boone wrapping his arm around my waist from the right. The emotions that played across their faces would haunt me for years: disappointment, grief, anger and betrayal. In the end, I sagged against Boone as the tears fell down my cheeks. I was such a failure. An utter and complete failure. How could they love me after all the shit I’d pulled over the years? I sucked in a lungful of air and had turned to leave when warm arms came around my neck. My momma hugged me so hard, it tore me to my core. Mawmaw walked over, slipped her bony arms around me and all we did was cry. Hiccupping, I’d asked hoarsely.
“How can you still love me?”
Momma pulled back and palmed my left check. Her big brown eyes damp with tears as she gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m your momma. I’ll love you forever.”
“But I lied and-and was so awful and—”
“All forgiven, Cottonball. We love you,” Mawmaw said and the sob broke through my throat. That was it. That was all I needed. Love. Their unconditional love.
I blinked the memory away and came back to the here and now. I straightened and finished my story. “Anyway, my family supports me completely and I’m goin’ back to work in two weeks.”
“What happened to the colleague you hit?” another woman asked.
“I hit him because he called me an AIDS carryin’ faggot. It would seem he had issues with gay people and he targeted me. He’d been makin’ nasty comments for over a year and I’d reported him to human resources more than once. The last complaint must have pushed him over the edge because he screamed all sorts of hateful names at me in front of a large group of employees. He could have had me arrested for assault and I countered that I would sue him for hate speech and harassment. In the end, I went to rehab and he had to go to cultural sensitivity. I completed mine… he didn’t. He doesn’t work for the company anymore. Prob’ly for the best.” I took a long breath and smiled. “I guess that’s it. Me in a nut shell. Thank you for listening.”
A smattering of applause followed me to my seat and I sat back to listen to my fellow AA members tell their stories. So many sounded like mine. Unrealistic expectations. Escapism through drinking or drugs. Hitting rock bottom. Again and again the words washed over me as I lived each of their lives and felt their pain. It humbled me. I thought I was the only one and that, once more, I’d made it all about me when, in fact, it was about all of us. Trying to stay sober, living with the consequences of our actions, forging a new life and desperately trying not to fail. My sponsor’s words echoed in my head. “Take one day at a time, Cotton. That’s all you can do.”
When the group finished, I checked my phone and saw it was only 1.00 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon. I really wasn’t ready to go home. Any other time I’d go visit my family, but Avery and Martin had gone to see Martin’s kin in Tatesville and Boone was busy making some guy named Robbie crazy, in his own whackadoodle way. Momma would be working and Mawmaw would be watching ‘Wheel’ and, since that appealed to me about as much as having my nuts shaved with a cheese grater, I decided to get something to eat.
I stood up and made my way out of the classroom of the local junior high where the meeting had been held. Several rooms were rented out by various groups on a Saturday and mine had been located at the end of the hall. I strolled past door after door on my way to the exit, when one opened a few feet ahead of me and I froze when I a man walked out—Caleb.
His laughter rang out and butterflies in the pit of my stomach fluttered. I stood stock still even as others from AA milled past me. He must have sensed me staring, because he turned to look at me, his eyes widening in disbelief.
“Cotton?”
“Caleb?” I parroted and whoa! Deja vu. Had we met this way before? No, we met on a pl—oh, wait… this was how Avery and Martin met. Crazy deja vu triplet shit. He stood in the doorway and my gaze flitted to the sign on an easel by the door; ‘Abuse Survivors’. He saw me, blushed scarlet and fidgeted. But dang it, it only made him cuter. He was decked out like a librarian in a blue button-up top, lightweight cream cardigan and chinos. Penny loafers covered surprisingly large feet. His light, gold-streaked blond hair fell across his pale, smooth forehead and light brown brows framed his ice blue eyes, above a pert little nose. The cupid’s bow mouth twisted into a frown and I had to admit his heart-shaped face was freaking adorable. Slim, lean body with long legs completed the total package. He was… well, pretty. Very pretty and sexy and smooth jawed and—Stop rambling, Cotton!
“How are you doing?” We both blurted it at the same time, clapping our mouths shut. We stared at each other for another moment, embarrassed, then both laughed.
“Sorry. I-I planned to call you. I really did,” I tried to explain.
“Quite alright. I didn’t expect you to,” he mumbled. He obviously hadn’t wanted to see me and now I felt like a big doofus.
I knew I was fishing for a world of hurt but for some reason I couldn’t leave it at that, so I added on a rush. “I didn’t know if I was ready yet.”
“Not really sure if I was either,” he admitted, his smile rueful. “I’m sure you noticed what room I just came out of.” His right hand came up and gripped his left arm. It made him look even more vulnerable and I sucked in a deep breath, steadying my racing nerves.
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t. I mean, I walked into you, remember?” He chuffed out a breath. “Let’s just get it out of the way. My last relationship… he hit me. A lot. After we broke up, I came to the support group on my therapist’s recommendation.” He sighed heavily. “Well, bollocks, that’s the cat well and truly out of the bag.”
I snorted and ran my hand through my hair. “Okay, iffen we’re bein’ honest. I just came from my AA meetin’.” He blinked and I explained in more detail. “When we met, I was on my way to rehab for treatment.”
We just stared at each other as members of both groups filed out and we waited for them to move out of earshot. I tugged my beard in frustration. I hadn’t expected this. Hell, even if I’d called and we’d gone out, I hadn’t figured out how I was going to tell him. I mean, I’m a good guy. I love my family, love my job, love restoring old bikes and I’m an alcoholic. Hell, each one of us boys have issues.
Avery lost his wife to an a
ccident and nearly drowned in his grief, but we helped him and supported him through it. Boone’s diabetes, however, took us all by surprise. First, he nearly died of the illness that turned him diabetic and a few times since then he’d had a close call or two… or three. But we held him and told him we were there for him. And me? My sorry surly ass grew up into a functioning alcoholic, or so I thought. So, who was I to judge?
“Look, Caleb. I cain’t say this is the way I wanted us to meet again. I wanted to take you out for a coffee, talk, impress you and maybe even flirt a little, ‘cause I think you’re cute as a button—”
“As a button?” His gaze narrowed and he huffed in outrage. “As a button?”
“Well yeah and—”
“Not dashing or handsome or striking? I’m cute as a button?” Caleb flapped his hands outward and I took a step back. “How the hell is a button cute?”
“Well, uh, it’s a sayin’ in the south,” I stammered and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Didn’t mean to offend ya.”
He dismissed my concern with a wave of his hand. “Oh, don’t mind me. It’s a pet peeve of mine. I always wanted to be handsome and gorgeous and sexy—”
“You are!” I countered quickly and he stopped, blushing again.
“Oh… well, thank you,” he mumbled. I seized my opportunity.
“Listen, Caleb. This ain’t exactly how I imagined this, but I’d like to take you out for that coffee… if-iffen you’re still interested?” I shuffled my feet nervously and held my breath.
“Well, you have me between a rock and hard place.” He smirked. “If I say no, I’m a huge prat and tease. I mean, I pretty much threw myself at you on the plane. And if I say yes, well who knows what will happen. Maybe you won’t like me. Maybe I won’t like you. Maybe you slurp your coffee or-or-or—”
“Is that a yes or no?”
He paused mid-rant, which was completely adorable. “Yes. Let’s get coffee. Lead the way o’ bearded bad boy.”
I laughed as he realized what he had said and tugged at my beard. “Bearded bad boy… I like it. C’mon, cardigan boy. Let’s get coffee.”
He walked in front of me and out the door. “It’s a jumper, not a cardigan! Cardigans have buttons. Cute little buttons and… oh bugger! You planned that!” he accused and I guffawed.
“Nope. Just a happy accident.” I walked in front of him, pointed to a decorative button at the collar of his top and flicked it. “See, cute.”
Caleb rolled his eyes and smacked my hand away. “Ass.”
I chuckled. This was going to be an interesting day.
*
The Waffle House is a staple in the south. Every red-blooded American man and woman has, at one time in their life, come here after a night of drinking to fill up on the food of the gods. Eggs, grits, bacon, ham, hash browns, pancakes and, yes, waffles, all served with a helping of grease and a cheery smile. The waitresses never seemed to change. Big hair, thick makeup and deep southern twangs. Sweet Jesus, it was home away from home. I can’t remember how many times I’d dragged my sorry drunk ass in here and filled up with coffee, greasy eggs and taters. Nothing cured a hangover like a plate of bacon. Hell, the mere miasma of fried food caressed your nose and said to your brain, ‘C’mon in sugah, sit a spell. Yaount sum coffee?’
I don’t think Caleb had ever been in one from the deer in the headlights look plastered all over his face. Kind of odd for a guy who lived in Atlanta and was of drinking age. One of the waitresses, who I knew from my drinking days, all platinum blonde swirled hair and bright blue eye shadow came over and greeted us with a snap of gum and a grin.
“Hey baby boys. Names’ Merlene. Table for two?” Her voice, nasal and southern, tickled my inner redneck.
“Two please, Ma’am,” I said and she nabbed two menus, indicating for us to follow her. At three in the afternoon, the noon rush had passed and the counter had a small smattering of patrons eating and nursing coffee. I spotted two truckers at the counter. In the far corner sat three couples. Merlene waved us to a booth/chair combo and Caleb glided into the booth side, looking awesomely uncomfortable. I inwardly cursed. I should have taken him someplace nicer. I plopped down in the chair and hiked it forward.
“Hain’t seen you in ages, Cotton,” Merlene offered and I gave her a wan smile.
“Been takin’ care of some things.”
“Your momma and mamaw doin’ gud?” Her voice dripped like honey from a spoon.
“Yessum, Avery and Boone, too.” Caleb watched intently as we spoke and my nerves jumped.
“God bless ‘em,” she praised and took out her pad. “The usual?”
“Nah. Just a cup of coffee.” I looked over at Caleb and he ordered.
“Make that two, please.”
“Oooh. Love your accent, sweetie. You English?”
“Yes, and thank you.” He gave her a bright smile and I swear she prit near swooned.
“Oh, you sound like them Beatles when they came over. I saw ’em in concert. Whooeee, I durn near fell over my own feet gettin’ an autograph. Threw my panties at ’em!” Her cackle made us both smile. “I’ll git you two your coffees.” She turned then added over her shoulder to Caleb. “You’re cuter than a bug in a rug.” She sashayed away and I chuckled as his cheeks pinked.
“A bug in a rug?” He huffed and I chuckled.
“You should be used to that, livin’ in Atlanta,” I chided and he actually giggled.
“My mother kept us isolated from and I quote ‘the colonial riffraff’.” He sounded so snooty, I lost it and laughed out loud.
“Colonial riffraff?” I wheezed and wiped a tear from my left eye. “Are you serious? And isn’t Caleb a more American name?”
“My father liked the name Caleb. It was one of the few battles he won with my mother, after a fashion. My full name is Alistair Caleb James Jaspers,” he admitted and I continued laughing.
“Wow. That is some mouthful. And how did you end up being called Caleb and not Alistair?”
“Thanks… I think? And my father insisted on it. He called me Caleb from day one. Mater acquiesced, grudgingly,” Caleb replied with a quirky grin. “How did you get the name Cotton?”
I leaned back in the booth and sucked in a deep breath. “Well, I’m the third of triplets. All boys.” I loved watching his mouth drop. “Baby A, B and C. Momma named the first baby ‘A’ Avery, for her great-aunt Avery. Avery don’t like lettin’ people know that he was named after a woman. Boone or baby ‘B’, was named for Pat Boone, the singer. Momma loves his music. And when she got to me, she was stumped. It was my mawmaw, my grandmother, who gave me the name Cotton. Supposedly we all had light blond hair when we were born but I had more and she said I looked like a cotton ball. So, that’s how the Myer boys got their names.” I pulled out my wallet and showed him a picture of the three of us, taken only last month. “I’m on the far right.” I flipped through a few more and he scanned them intently.
“Amazing! Oh! What’s your middle name?” He asked after digesting all the information and I frowned.
“Not sayin’.”
“Oh, are you going all growly on me?” His cheeks flushed and he leaned forward on his elbows. “Come on, give.”
“No.”
“Please,” he wheedled and my resolve started to crack.
“No.”
“Pretty please?” I relented… a little.
“It’ll cost you a kiss,” I challenged. He blinked owlishly, contemplated it for a moment and stuck his hand out.
“Deal.”
I rolled my eyes and huffed out a long breath. “It’s… Francis.”
I expected him to laugh, snicker or smirk. All my life people had. Francis is not the most masculine name out there and I’d been on the receiving end of teasing about it most of my life. Except from my brothers, whose own middle names were just as bad.
“Francis… hmm.” Caleb tapped his lips with a slender finger. “I like it.”
Now my jaw dropped. “You do?” Was
he fucking with me?
“Sure. Good solid English name.” His lips quirked and he was saved from my rebuttal by the arrival of our coffee. Merlene set each cup down and I watched as he added a healthy dollop of creamer and a landslide of sugar.
“Like it sweet, huh?” I teased, adding only cream to mine. Shrugging, Caleb stirred and then sipped his light tan cup of joe.
“Yes. I have a terrible sweet tooth. My parents spent a fortune on braces and dental work for me. I’m a fool for pastries, biscuits, pies and cakes.”
“You ever go to 350 Degrees Bakery?”
His gaze widened and I swear a drop of drool appeared in the corner of his mouth. “I love that place! I stop by at least twice a week for a nibble.”
“My brother Boone owns it.” Pride tinged my voice. Boone had worked so hard to make his bakery a success and it had paid off. He did all of it and managed to maintain his diabetes. I don’t know how he did it. The main reason was that he was the only one out of the three of us who exercised on a regular basis. We’re all lanky, naturally thin and ass-less. Boone is the only one with a butt and he worked hard for it. I think he got those Bryan Hawn butt workout videos and it shows. Me, I’m happy with how I am. I have more ink than my brothers, and I have the sloppy, floppy hair that drives men crazy and makes Momma’s want to push it out of my face. Funny how each of us have the same face but different looks. Avery has the Jesus Christ Superstar look, Boone has the spiked, bearded, gay stereotype look and I’m the hipster. Of course, today I’d worn my baseball cap because I didn’t wash my hair this morning.